“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” he muttered, clutching his drink and trudging after her down an aisle that displayed wrapping paper and hundreds of greeting cards.
“Well, now, what can I do for you?” Thelma asked, her eyes lighting up. She was still an attractive woman, though she’d gained a little weight around her middle and her short dark hair was shot with gray. “You still like cherry cokes and banana splits?”
Rachelle’s stomach turned over at the thought, but she was in such a good mood that she wasn’t interested in counting calories, and if she had a stomachache later, so what.
“Give me a double,” she replied with a smile.
“Oooh, you’re a brave one.” Thelma worked quickly, scooping ice cream and adding dollops of strawberry, chocolate and pineapple sauce to a boat that was overflowing. She’d worked behind this counter for as long as Rachelle could remember, and Rachelle and Carlie had spent many a Saturday afternoon sitting on these worn stools, devouring French fries, hot-fudge sundaes and sodas until they were gorged.
“I heard you saw Weldon,” Thelma said as she set the drink and ice cream in front of Rachelle.
“He told you that I asked for Carlie’s address.”
“Mmm.” Thelma wiped her hands on a towel. “I’ll write it down for ya. She’s in Alaska, takin’ pictures.”
“So she really gave up modeling?”
“Quite a while ago.” Thelma’s lips tightened at the corners. “She ran into some trouble and she’s back on the other side of the camera now. Like she was in high school.”
“But she’s all right?” Rachelle asked, sensing that there was more to the story.
“She’s fine. Comin’ home later in the summer. She sure would love to see you.” Thelma scribbled Carlie’s address on the back of a receipt and ripped it off, handing the information to Rachelle.
“I’ll write her. Maybe we can get together,” Rachelle said. She wanted to ask more questions about Carlie, but didn’t get a chance. The counter started to fill up, and Thelma and the other waitress, a girl of about nineteen, were busy. Rachelle finished half her banana split and wondered how she could have eaten a whole one when she was a teenager.
She’d finished her drink and left money on the counter when Thelma spied her and took off her apron, announcing to the other waitress that she was taking a short break. She grabbed her sweater and walked with Rachelle through the old oak-and-glass door of the pharmacy. Outside, on the sidewalk, she said, “I know you’re getting a lot of flak from everyone around here, but I want you to know that I’m in your corner—and in Jackson Moore’s, as well. He got a bum rap way back—he didn’t have anything to do with killing that boy.”
“I think you’re the only person in town who feels that way.”
“It’s simple really. Jackson had nothing to gain by murdering Roy Fitzpatrick. If you ask me, and mind you no one around here wants my opinion, but I think it was someone else who held a grudge against him—someone with a bone to pick or a lot to gain.” She glanced nervously at the plate-glass window of the drugstore. “I know my opinion isn’t popular, but it’s the way I feel, the way Carlie feels.”
“Thanks. It’s good to know we’re not completely alone.”
“Yes, but you just be careful. You and Jackson bein’ here has stirred up a lot of folks who’d like to pretend that the whole mess never happened. And this town, God love it, can be vindictive. I’ve lived here all my life and I love Gold Creek, but sometimes…well, sometimes the town can turn on ya. It happened to Carlie, you know.”
Rachelle’s mother had once told her that Carlie had left town suddenly, after one of the Powell boys, Kevin, had committed suicide. Some people claimed he took his life because of her; others said he was depressed because of money problems. But Carlie’s name had been blackened, as had Jackson’s.
“When Carlie calls, tell her I want to see her,” Rachelle said, her fingers tightening over her package as she dashed across the street.
* * *
TIMMS WAS WAITING FOR HIM in the lobby of his hotel. The tiny man sat, eyeing the door. A cigarette was burning in the ashtray on the table next to his chair. He stood when Jackson swung through the lobby. “I thought we should talk in person.”
Something was up. Something big. The little man was nervous and he looked as if he wanted desperately to hide.
“Come on.” Jackson checked his messages and with Timms in tow, took the stairs. He couldn’t imagine what had set the P.I. on edge, but maybe this whole ordeal was coming to a close. He hoped so. Because, for the first time in twelve years, he really didn’t give a damn. Sure, he’d like to clear his name, but now he had another purpose in life, another reason to live.
Rachelle was going to be his wife. He couldn’t believe it. Jackson Moore, the self-confessed bachelor, the bad boy of Gold Creek was going to settle down with one woman. He couldn’t help smiling. No matter what Timms was going to tell him, it wouldn’t compare with the emotional high he’d been on since yesterday. They walked down the short hall, with Timms nervously looking over his shoulder as Jackson inserted the key in the door.
Once inside, Timms locked the door behind them, tossed his jacket over the back of a chair and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“What’s up?” Jackson asked.
The small man met his gaze. “Sit down, Moore,” he suggested, kicking out a chair. “I think I’ve found the key to the Fitzpatrick case.”
* * *
RACHELLE’S MOTHER COLLAPSED into a kitchen chair. “You’re not serious,” she said, disbelieving.
“Yes, Mom, I am. I’m going to marry Jackson.”
Heather smiled. “Well, I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
Ellen slashed her youngest daughter a horrified look. “You’ve certainly changed your tune.”
“I met Jackson,” Heather said, “and…well, I saw how Rachelle was around him. Mom, it’s so obvious they love each other.” She winked at her sister and Rachelle smothered a smile. “I think Rachelle should follow her heart, do what she feels is best.”
“You always were an incurable romantic,” Ellen whispered, reaching around the counter and pulling out the drawer where she kept her carton of cigarettes. “But you—” she looked at Rachelle beseechingly “—I always thought you had more sense.”
“I love him,” Rachelle said.
“Love,” Ellen muttered in a puff of blue smoke. “What’s love got to do with anything? I loved your father and he left me for a younger woman. And Harold… Well, love didn’t much enter into it.”
Heather touched their mother lightly on the shoulder. “You’re just feeling a little down, right now, Mom. Things’ll get better.”
Ellen managed a smile, and Adam climbed onto the chair next to hers, happily walking his toy dinosaur around a bowl of cut flowers. “Well, at least we’ve got you, eh, baby?” Ellen said, brightening a bit as she ruffled Adam’s hair.
He wrinkled his nose. “Am not a baby.”
“Oh, right.” Ellen laughed, and cocked her head in the boy’s direction as she looked at Rachelle. “Well, maybe if you and Jackson can give me a couple more grandkids, I’ll come around.”
Heather bit her lower lip and looked as if she were about to cry. She turned to the window quickly. “Sure. Rachelle and Jackson can have a dozen children,” she said with forced cheeriness.
Rachelle stared at her sister and was about to say something when the phone rang and Heather reached for the receiver.
She left a few minutes later. Climbing into her car and smiled inwardly, Rachelle let her thoughts wander.
* * *
WITHOUT REALLY THINKING, Rachelle turned north on the main road and headed toward Whitefire Lake, toward the Fitzpatrick summer estate. The last time she’d been there, with Jacks
on, she was walking an emotional tightrope, but today her mind was clear. Maybe she could sort out the truth by facing the past.
Knowing she couldn’t be defeated, she smiled as she passed the sawmill. The day shift was just getting off and she spied Erik Patton as he headed for his pickup. Erik Patton and Scott McDonald, Melanie Patton and Laura Chandler Fitzpatrick, Thomas and June Fitzpatrick, Amanda Gray and Brian Fitzpatrick; names and faces swam before her eyes. Someone, probably one of those closest to Roy, knew what had happened to him. And Rachelle was determined to find out the truth.
* * *
TIMMS LIT A CIGARETTE AND slid a slim manila folder across the small table in Jackson’s hotel room.
“Does this tell me who killed Roy?” he asked.
Timms drew hard on his cigarette. “I don’t think so.”
Jackson was irritated. “Then why’re you here?”
“Just read the material, man.”
Grumbling, Jackson opened the file folder and saw his mother’s name on the first page. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, but the detective slid his gaze to the window.
“I didn’t ask you to check into my mom.”
“Read it.”
The dead tone in the little man’s voice convinced him that he had no choice, but as he read, Jackson felt as if red-hot coals had set fire to his gut; a burning sensation started in the pit of his stomach and seared his nerves. “No,” he mouthed, reading still further, learning the secrets of his birth and his mother’s betrayal. Before he was through, he crumpled the report in one huge fist and banged his hand on the table. “Where did you get this garbage?” he ground out, dropping the report and grabbing the investigator by his collar.
“It’s the truth, I swear.”
“Like hell. This is more of Fitzpatrick’s filthy lies. That’s all.” Jackson’s eyes burned with a cold fire. “Now, either you’ve been paid off, are lying or are the most pathetic excuse for a detective that I’ve ever seen!”
Timms’s eyes bulged, but he didn’t back down. “Thomas Fitzpatrick’s your old man.”
“Like hell!” Jackson gave the man a shake.
“Why would I lie?” Timms looked desperate.
“For money!”
“Why would Fitzpatrick pay me?”
“To get you off his case—”
“No way!” He reached to the table and fumbled for the file folder, turning it open to the last page. “It’s all here, Moore. See for yourself.”
Jackson, still holding Timms by the shirtfront, slid a glance at the open folder. A notarized copy of his birth certificate was there and the name under the slot for Father was listed as: Thomas Fitzpatrick.
“It’s a fake! I’ve seen my records! When I was in the navy…” he argued, though he felt his confidence begin to waver while his stomach roiled.
“This one is before the other was changed,” Timms said, his voice tight.
Jackson slowly let the other man go. His gaze was fixed to the old copy and the letters spelling out Thomas Fitzpatrick as his father. A thousand emotions screamed through him—hate, betrayal, disbelief…denial. No way would his mother have slept with Fitzpatrick! No damned way! He rubbed his forehead and felt the beads of sweat that had collected on his brow. Matt Belmont was his father! Matt Belmont! He’d died before he could marry Sandra! The checks from the navy…
His gaze dropped to the file again and Timms flipped the page. Another copy. This time of a check made payable to Sandra Moore for five thousand dollars. The signature on the check was flamboyant and belonged to Thomas Fitzpatrick.
“Your mom got one of these every six months,” Timms explained. “There are more copies—”
Jackson shoved the file off the desk. This couldn’t be happening! There had to be some mistake! No way could that monster, that vile, hypocritical excuse of a man, be his father! It just couldn’t be! “You made a mistake!”
“No way.”
“I won’t believe it!”
“Then don’t. You don’t have to believe me, but you can ask your mother. You know, she and Fitzpatrick went way back!”
Flashes of memory, like bolts of lightning, seared through his brain. Sandra Moore had gone to school with Thomas Fitzpatrick, she had been able to get a job at the logging company whenever she needed one and he had been at her side when Jackson had been involved in the accident while setting chokers for Fitzpatrick Logging. Was it possible? His head throbbed. Still he wouldn’t believe the damning evidence.
“Why do you think Roy hated you so much?” Timms asked, and the bottom of Jackson’s world fell away as the truth hit him with the force of an avalanche. “He knew. He found out when he was in his early teens and from that point on, he took it out on you.”
“Oh, God,” Jackson whispered, hating the truth, hating the fact that he was spawned by a man he detested, hating the world.
“Look, Fitzpatrick probably would’ve paid me big bucks to keep my mouth shut, but you’ve been straight with me and I figured you deserved the truth.” The private investigator reached for his jacket. “There are a lot of secrets in this town, Moore. I don’t know if you want to find out anything else.”
Jackson sat on the edge of the bed, his fists curled at his sides. “Who killed Roy?”
“I don’t know,” Timms admitted, “but if I were you, I’d start with the man with all the answers.”
“Fitzpatrick.”
“Bingo.”
* * *
THE GATES TO THE FITZPATRICK summer house were locked and Rachelle wasn’t about to try to break them down or climb the wall surrounding the estate. Instead, she drove around the lake to the north shore marina and rented a boat. Clouds had gathered, blocking out the sun, and the wind had picked up, but she slid into the small craft, sat at the stern, her hand on the throttle. The little boat chugged across the choppy water and the Fitzpatrick home came into view, imposing and grand, though in need of some repair.
Rachelle’s heart began to knock as she pulled alongside the dock and threw the anchoring line over a post. She walked up the slippery pier and found the path leading to the gazebo. Her heart nearly stopped. This was where it all began, she realized, her throat suddenly like sandpaper. Here was where Roy used Laura, then attacked Rachelle.
She closed her eyes and imagined the laughter and music filtering from the house, smelled the fear that had held her captive.
She walked up the two short steps to the gazebo and gazed at the bench where Roy had attacked her. If it hadn’t been for Jackson coming to her rescue, what would have happened?
It took all her fortitude to sit on that bench, all her courage not to run back to the boat and leave this miserable place with its monstrous memories behind. But she, too, had to confront the past, just as did Jackson, in order that they could start over and find a future untarnished.
The wood felt rough beneath her fingers and the pine trees seemed dark and foreboding. What happened that night? What happened? Why had someone killed Roy? Was it because of her?
She didn’t think so.
Erik Patton held a grudge against his friend, and he’d been adamant about Rachelle leaving the past alone. But would he have killed Roy? Because of his sister?
And Melanie—could she harbor a grudge against the Fitzpatricks and then work for Thomas?
And what about Thomas and the whole Fitzpatrick clan? Surely they wouldn’t kill their firstborn son—the boy who was groomed to inherit everything, their favorite….
The thought hit her like a lightning bolt. Roy had been the golden boy—the crown prince. Brian and his sister, Toni, had been their other “children,” neither one better than the other, neither one coming close to Roy, neither one quite good enough in their father’s eyes.
Rachelle swallowe
d hard. The answer was Brian. He inherited everything when Roy died—including Laura. He became his father’s favorite. And it was rumored that he was running the logging company into the ground.
Rachelle with her reporter’s instincts guessed that if Brian hadn’t killed his brother, he had a good idea who had, at least better than anyone else.
So it was time to pay him a visit. She thought about being frightened, but wasn’t. She’d known Brian for most of her life and believed, that confronted with the truth, he’d either lie or break down. He wouldn’t resort to violence.
* * *
JACKSON’S FIST THUNDERED against the door of the Fitzpatrick house. “Fitzpatrick!” he yelled, pounding all the harder. His hand ached, probably bruised, but he didn’t care. The pain in his hand didn’t compare with the agony cutting his soul. “Fitzpatrick!”
The door opened suddenly and Thomas’s wife stood on the other side of the threshold. “What do you want?” she asked, her skin nearly translucent.
“To see the old man.”
“He’s not here.”
Jackson didn’t have time for games. “I checked at the office. Melanie Patton said he was at home. Now someone’s lying. I’m guessing it’s you.”
June’s lips compressed into a line of pure hatred. “Leave us alone! Haven’t you caused this family enough grief?”
“Not by a long shot.”
“My son’s dead—”
“And I didn’t do it,” Jackson said beneath his breath, “but you know that, don’t you?” He saw a flicker of fear in her cold blue eyes. “You just wanted to use me as a scapegoat, to make sure that I was out of your life.”
“Oh, God,” she whispered, her hand flying to her throat.
“That’s right, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. I know about your husband and my mother and if it makes you feel any better, I don’t like it any more than you do. But I think it’s time he and I had a chat.”
“He’s not here,” she said staunchly, and to her horror, Jackson brushed his way past her and walked through the house. “You have no right!” she screamed after him. “No right!” A maid, standing in the hallway, took one look at the situation and mumbled something in Spanish. “I’ll call the police!” June said, reaching for the phone.