Legacy of Lies

Hannah blinked, and her gaze went vague. She squinted toward Rich. “Chief? You? Aren’t you some kind of deputy? What happened to Chief Wilson?”

Rich sent her a gentle smile. “He retired six years ago.”

“Oh, that’s right.” She gave an airy wave. “Time has a way of flying, doesn’t it?”

“Thank you, Hannah.” Rich shut his notebook. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“Is it Sammy?” The older woman twisted her fingers together.

Nicole touched her arm. “Chief Hendricks won’t be able to say yet. They have to run DNA tests.”

Rich smiled toward Nicole. The gesture brought no thaw in her wary expression. He couldn’t fault her for being defensive about the investigation, but maybe he’d get a chance later to tell her how much he appreciated her discretion in not blurting that the infant’s remains had been clothed in red and that a blue-and-white rattle was buried with the body.

“I’d like to get a DNA sample from you, Simon.” He nodded toward the older man. “And one from Fern as soon as possible.”

Simon rose and set his snifter on the desk. “So basically you’re here to question us, collect evidence and offer next to no information in return.”

“I’m afraid that’s the way it works at this point.” And why wasn’t Simon falling all over himself to cooperate? Was it simply a power trip? His puzzling behavior nagged at Rich.

Simon crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll have to discuss this testing thing with Fern. We’ll get back to you.”

Rich’s mouth opened then he clamped his teeth together. He wasn’t surprised that the frail Mrs. Elling was indisposed, but this was the first time he ever heard of Simon needing to consult his wife about anything.

“I’ll do the test,” Hannah singsonged. “I’d love to give some DNA. Give generously. Isn’t that what they say at the blood drives?”

Simon whirled on his sister-in-law. “DNA testing isn’t like giving blood, you ninny.”

“Actually, it’s simpler.” Nicole glared at Simon. “Nothing to be squeamish about.”

Rich clicked his pen and swallowed a grin at the spunky woman’s implication that the town patriarch had a yellow streak. Simon’s eyes popped wide, and his color darkened. Rich opened his mouth to intervene.

“Then let’s do it!” Hannah stuck out her tongue at her brother-in-law like an overgrown toddler.

Nicole’s gaze met Rich’s. Amusement flickered between them, and his insides warmed. Maybe there was still a chance that they could be friends…or something more.

“I’m sorry.” Rich looked toward Hannah. “We need DNA from the mother and father for legal certainty of the child’s identity.”

Hannah’s shoulders wilted.

Simon waved her away. “Go polish your nails or something.”

Hannah shuffled to the door, Nicole in her wake. On the threshold, Nicole glanced back and their gazes collided. What did he see in her eyes? Pity toward Hannah? Anger toward Simon? Fear of the police investigation? Yes, all of those. Rich was pretty sure if there was any more information to be gleaned from Hannah, Nicole would get it.

But would she share it with him?

Nicole’s hands bunched into fists as she trailed Hannah up a dim hallway. The older woman’s head hung as if her scarf were a mantle of sorrow. Nicole didn’t blame Hannah for chronic depression. If human kindness had ever warmed these rooms, all trace had long since leached away. In Hannah’s place, she would have popped Simon one in the snoot—at least in her imagination—and packed her bags. Why did the woman stay around? Of course, at her age, the most likely move was an assisted-living facility, and those cost a lot of money that Hannah likely didn’t have. The poor woman was trapped.

Nicole moved up alongside her forlorn hostess. “I should be going now. I hadn’t intended to stay this long.”

“It’s all right.” Hannah patted Nicole’s shoulder. The ghost of a spark lit the older woman’s gaze.

Rebellion still lived in the wrinkled old heart, and Nicole silently rejoiced. “Can you show me to the door?”

“I have something I need to give you first.” Hannah crooked a finger and entered a small sitting room toward the back of the house “This is my little apartment.” She continued through the outer room and into a bedroom done in pale pink chintz. More like a child’s room than an adult’s with the frilly canopy over a twin bed and a ballerina theme.

Hannah stood on tiptoe and twirled, full skirt billowing. “You can see what I once dreamed of doing.”

Nicole nodded, mute. She understood squashed dreams. She and Glen had wanted children in the worst way, but—Nicole stuffed the pain back into its hidey-hole. Too raw to deal with at this inconvenient moment. But when would the convenient time come?

“This way.” Hannah waved her over to a gaily painted trunk at the foot of the bed. She rummaged inside and came out with a blue satin drawstring bag. “Here.” She held it out.

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

Hannah placed a pudgy finger over Nicole’s lips. “This was Sammy’s. My keepsake of him. Give it to Chief Wilson.”

Nicole swallowed the urge to correct her on the chief’s identity. What was the point? She peeped inside the bag. It contained an infant’s hair brush.

Her heart rate sprang into a jog-trot. “I’ll pass this along.”

“Good.” Hannah winked. “The back door is up the hall and to the left.” The woman stretched and yawned. “I’m very tired now. I think I’ll turn in.”

Nicole carried her small treasure toward the exit. Hannah must be sharper than anyone gave her credit for if she realized the hairs in the brush might positively identify her precious nephew, with or without parental DNA.

Nicole passed through a pristine, stainless-steel kitchen and shivered. Clean, cold and efficient. Like the people who lived here. Except she got the feeling that beneath the polish of prestige the filth ran deep. Sort of like the Pharisees Jesus called “white-washed tombs.” Maybe she’d found baby Samuel Elling’s remains beneath her grandparents’ rose garden, but what if the truth behind the death was buried within these brick walls?

Simon inhaled his last gulp of brandy. “Why don’t you come back another time, and we’ll see about that DNA.” The man’s eyes flashed a message that the interview was over.

Rich’s fingers itched to snatch the glass out of Simon’s hand. That item would do very nicely for DNA, but he had no choice except to leave. For now.

He jerked his chin toward the Elling patriarch. “I’ll stay in touch.”

“Be sure you do. Maybe I’ll give Judge Becker a call. Let him know you’re on top of a hot case and need your docket cleared.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll visit with the D.A. in the morning.” If Simon Elling could play the old-buddy card with his lifelong pal, Judge Becker, Rich could remind him that the prosecuting attorney was from a different era and not in his pocket. And it was the D.A. he’d report developments to, not to either of the judges that served the county, especially not Becker.

Rich saw himself to the door, footsteps echoing in the empty foyer. He’d known this family was strange, but why would Simon balk at the surest way to prove his son had been found? He needed to look at the case file from the time of the kidnapping and see how closely family had been looked at as suspects. The personal touches in the clandestine burial indicated some level of caring. Of course, he hadn’t seen any such thing in the hard eyes of Simon Elling.

Dusk had gripped the land when Rich stepped outside. He deeply inhaled the cooling air, relieved to be out of that house’s oppressive atmosphere. He went down the stairs and up the walk toward his vehicle. At the curb, Rich did a one-eighty observation of the property. As he turned toward the house, a curtain moved in a lit room upstairs. Fern or Melody?

The roar of a motor drew his attention. Headlights barreled up the driveway toward him, and a low-slung sports car rumbled to a halt behind his SUV. A male figure climbed out of the passenger side. Mason Wright. Now the gang’s all here. Rich hooked a thumb in his front jeans pocket and watched the young man move toward him, swaying as if he were a sailor at sea. Three sheets to the wind all right, and it wasn’t even 10:00 p.m.

If Mason had been behind the wheel, Rich could have arrested him. Maybe this third time would have been the charm, and the D.U.I. would stick. Or maybe not, if Judge Becker heard the case. The Elling fortunes might be in the tank, but their influence still loomed large.

Whip-slender and inches shorter than Rich’s six feet one, Melody’s son halted in front of Rich and snapped a sloppy salute. “If it ain’t the chief. Come to harash me again? Shorry to dishappoint you.” The twenty-six-year-old delinquent burped in Rich’s face.

“I think you’ve disappointed yourself enough for the both of us.” Rich went to the sports car and knocked on the window.

The glass whooshed down, and Taylor Mead, Dr. Sharla’s daughter and Mason’s newest girlfriend, stared up at him. “Don’t mind me, Chief, I’m clean and sober.” Her gaze fell away.