A Breath Away

Why was all this happening now? And why did she feel connected to each of these horrid things, but helpless to stop the chain of events from unfolding?

OVER COFFEE the next morning, Grady was still stewing over his father’s reaction to Baker’s confession. Or his lack of a reaction.

He’d simply turned back to his whittling with a vengeance, as if he wasn’t surprised at all to learn Baker had killed Darlene. Or maybe he was, and he couldn’t deal with it.

Or maybe he’d known Baker had killed Darlene, and he’d finally exacted his own vengeance.

Grady didn’t want to contemplate that possibility, but the argument he’d overheard between Baker and his dad gnawed at him. Determined to get to the truth, he sent the suicide note to the lab to see if it was legitimate. He’d have to get something Baker had written to compare the handwriting.

Rubbing at his aching neck, he poured himself a third cup of coffee and sat down to study the files. First, he pulled up the report of the crime scene and read the details of Darlene’s murder. The photograph of her lying in the bottom of that well still tore him to shreds. Her face was deathly pale. Her wild, curly hair frizzed around her face in a tangled mop. Her clothes were covered in dried dirt and sticks and…bugs. Her shorts were tattered, the white cotton shirt ripped, her sneakers caked in mud. Forcing the anguish at bay with deep-breathing exercises, he zeroed in on the ligature marks on her neck. Would they match the size of Baker’s hands and fingers? He’d make sure the coroner checked it out. Criminology techniques had changed a lot in twenty years.

Next, he read through the reports chronicling the search party’s efforts to find Darlene. Locals had combed the woods behind his family’s house, the hollow between the Monroes’ and the shack Violet Baker had lived in, all the way to Briar Ridge, where Baker had just been found dead on the overhang. When his father was questioned, a meeting with a town council member had served as his alibi. Baker had an alibi, as well—he’d been supposedly working as a mechanic at a garage that had since closed. The owner, Whitey Simms, had confirmed his presence. But Whitey had passed away ten years ago, meaning Grady couldn’t question him now. Not much help there.

He scratched his chin in thought. Had Whitey lied for Baker? If so, why?

A statement from a local citizen, Eula Petro, drew his eye. “Little Violet Baker claimed she heard Darlene’s voice calling to her, crying for help. Told her daddy where to look for Darlene.”

Grady chewed the inside of his cheek. If Violet claimed to have heard voices telling her where his sister was, had they followed up on what she’d told them? Had she been wrong? Or had the statement been pure gossip?

Ruby Floyd, the woman’s older sister, had stated, “The child’s not quite right. Might be touched in the head.”

Had Violet suffered from a mental condition? Had she ever been treated?

He’d have to do more research to find out.

He read further.

“Search parties explored the northern area of Crow’s Landing, covering a fifty-mile radius surrounding the Monroe house, 231 Sycamore Drive. No results. Call from Jed Baker, 2:45 p.m., June 15th. Suggested search parties check Crow’s Landing Elementary. Baker claimed his daughter, Violet, and Darlene Monroe were playmates. Search party B immediately dispatched to the area, but turned up nothing. At approximately 10:45 p.m., June 15th, received another call from Baker. Suggested search parties check Shanty Annie’s, 913 Flatbelly Hollow. Specifically mentioned the well house. Search party dispatched.

“One hour later, located body of Darlene Monroe in bottom of well. Coroner and sheriff lowered into well to establish death, photograph the body, examine evidence. Body lifted from well at approximately midnight. Transported to coroner’s office for autopsy.

“Official cause of death: manual strangulation.

“Noon, June 16th: official press conference revealing the girl’s murder.”

His gut clenched. Had Violet told them to look in the well? Or had her father known where to find Darlene’s body because he’d murdered her and put her there? He might have suggested alternative places to search in an effort to divert the authorities from finding Darlene before he had a chance to strangle her….

Grady grabbed his keys and headed to Baker’s house. Killers often kept a token of their victims. Maybe he’d find something inside Baker’s place that would give him some answers. At least he could get a sample of Jed’s handwriting for the lab.

AS VIOLET DROVE INTO Crow’s Landing, a small shudder ran through her at the sight of the big, black metal crow atop the town sign. There was some legend about the bird, but she couldn’t recall the story.

Pines, dogwoods and maples lined the country roads, the trees thinning out as she entered the small town. Dust-coated signs that needed painting bore the same names as before, with the exception that the dime store had become the Dollar General, and the Cut & Curl was now Sally’s Salon. Did Sally Orion, the chubby blonde she’d known in third grade, own the shop? It didn’t matter. Violet hadn’t come back to renew old acquaintances, good or bad.

She’d come home to find out the truth.

Uneasiness curled inside her as she passed the sheriff’s office and jail. She had always avoided walking past the intimidating adobe-colored, concrete structure. Now it looked old and outdated, but still foreboding. Had Grady called from there when he’d delivered the news about her father? Had he already told the town? Would she see the news plastered all over the Crow’s Landing newspaper tomorrow?

The small square still looked the same, although oddly smaller, and some of the storefronts desperately needed a face-lift. Woody Butt’s gun shop was on the corner by the hardware store. A small bookstore had opened up, along with a place called the Fabric Hut, but the Redbud Café still stood in all its glory. Laney Longhorse’s stories had always fascinated Violet. Was Laney still running the diner?

In the center of the square, a small playground and park benches had been added, although a three-foot-tall statue of a black crow in the center spoiled the peaceful feeling. At least to Violet. What was it about the crows?

Across from the park, the old-fashioned soda shop on the corner remained a perfect diversion for a hot summer afternoon. She could almost smell the cinnamon sticks old Mr. Toots kept inside to hand out to children, and see the thick, old-fashioned root beer floats he decorated with whipping cream and cherries. RC Colas and Moon Pies, along with Nehi’s, homemade fudge and boiled peanuts, had been other local favorites. Unfortunately, Violet had never been able to afford the floats or fudge, not until Darlene had used her allowance money to buy both of them treats.

Suddenly Violet spotted the old street sign leading to her father’s house. Pine Needle Drive.

She’d thought she might have forgotten the way.

But the turn seemed natural, and she found herself leaving the safety of the town square and heading down the country road. She passed the run-down trailer park in the less cared for section of Crow’s Landing where rotting clapboard houses dotted the land, and overgrown weeds, battered bicycles and cars littered the front yards.

The road was bumpy and still unpaved. Although it was too late for kids to be outside playing, she could still picture the poor children who lived here—barefoot, with hand-me-down clothes two sizes too big hanging off their underfed bodies. She had been one of them. But not anymore, she reminded herself. She was strong, independent. She owned her own shop. She had a life ahead of her.

Her headlights flashed across the fronts of houses, and she grimaced, realizing things hadn’t changed at all on Pine Needle Drive. One out of three homes had a washing machine or threadbare sofa on the sagging front porch. The old water wells remained, a testament to the fact that some of the houses lacked indoor plumbing.

And then there was her father’s place, in much worse shape than she remembered. Overgrown bushes isolated it from the others. Two windowpanes in the front had been broken, the porch steps were missing boards, and some stray animal—most likely a mangy dog—had pawed the front door, scraping the dingy white paint. A cheap orange welcome mat graced the entrance, a mocking touch, while a caned-back chair that needed fixing was turned upside down in the corner. Three old cars that looked desperate for repairs sat to the side of the porch, weeds brushing at a rusty carburetor. Her father’s unfinished projects, obviously. As if death had claimed them just as it had him.

The woods beyond echoed with loneliness. But she could almost hear her and Darlene’s childhood laughter as they’d raced among the trees, building a playhouse in the pine straw.

Violet cut the engine and balled her hands into fists in her lap. Another, much newer car was parked sideways in the front drive—the sheriff’s car.

What was Grady Monroe doing at her father’s house?

CHAPTER SIX

VIOLET TWISTED the Best Friends necklace between her fingers as she stared at the door. Should she go inside or drive to the nearest hotel and spend the night, then return tomorrow when she wouldn’t have to face Grady? But she had been running from her past all her life.

It was time to stop.

Besides, the sooner she found some answers, the sooner she could return to Savannah and move on with her life. She needed to know that her father hadn’t killed her friend.

Gathering her courage, she opened the car door and climbed out, willing her legs to steady themselves as she ascended the steps. Honeysuckle sweetened the air, floating on the breeze. But the musty odor of the tattered welcome mat seeped upward as she stepped on it and raised her fist to knock. Then she caught herself. She didn’t need to knock. This house belonged to her. Or at least it had once been her home. In another lifetime.

Footsteps rumbled inside. Grady?

She turned the knob, bracing for his reaction.

GRADY HAD BARELY TOURED the house when footsteps sounded on the front porch. He’d thought he’d heard a car a minute or two before, and had headed toward the front. Who had driven all the way out here to Baker’s place?

Someone who knew about his death? Grady’s own father, maybe…

He waited for the knock, but it never came. Instead, the doorknob turned. He slid his hand to the gun holstered by his side, then drew his weapon just in case some troubled teen or vagrant had heard about Baker’s death and decided to rob him.

The door creaked open. Faint moonlight spilled in from the front porch, silhouetting a human form. Grady inched farther into the den. The low-wattage lightbulb in the foyer showed him it was a woman. She was slight, her pale face in shadows. A tangled web of dark hair floated around slender shoulders. The rattle of her breath broke the tense silence.

“Freeze! Police!”

She threw up her hands. “Please don’t shoot.”

He stepped forward just as she looked up, and he realized the face looked vaguely familiar. Her accent was familiar, too.