Chapter Nineteen
Silence filled the car on the drive to Pen Hollow. Addie glanced at Marc occasionally, longing to talk about what had happened between them, but she couldn’t find the words, because she wasn’t sure what had actually taken place or why she had responded the way she had, or why he was really here, or why . . . there were too many unanswered questions. His eyes remained steadfast on the traffic and the road, and she sensed that he wouldn’t be receptive to a discussion right now anyway, so she bit her tongue.
She did notice his attire for the day and inwardly approved. It was the first time since their initial meeting that she’d seen him out of uniform, and she decided she liked his casual look of denim and a T-shirt. He definitely could fill out a pair of jeans nicely—something his bulky police issue hid.
At the summit of the Pen Hollow Highway, he pulled his Jeep Cherokee to the side of the road at the switchback curve that had been the scene of her father’s accident. She started shaking. He turned to her, his eyes filled with tenderness.
“Do you still want to do this?”
She looked at him, took a deep breath, and nodded.
“Good.” He placed his hand gently over hers and squeezed.
His touch ran up her arm. She quivered and withdrew her hand.
His eyes dropped. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize. I’m . . . I’m just jumpy right now.”
He reached into the back seat. His hand grazed across her shoulder. Electricity raced through her, and she grasped her tightening chest.
“Are you okay?” He pulled a briefcase from the back.
She nodded. Her mouth went dry, and the hold on her chest twisted. His eyes narrowed and he studied her face.
“If this is too much, I understand.”
“No, it’s not . . . no . . . this is something I have to do.” She smiled weakly. How could she ever explain that she was reacting this way because of him, and not so much because of being at the scene of her dad’s death? Or, maybe it was all of it, mixed up together. She put her hand on the door handle. “I’ll be fine. Where do we start?”
He took the envelope of pictures out of his case. “Follow me,” he said. “We’ll try and retrace the accident as best we can based on the photos.”
She got out. Her eyes scanned the repaired guardrail, and her shoulders slumped. “Can you tell where his car actually went through?”
“I’m sure there are welding seams if we look close enough.” He came around to her side of the Jeep and kneeled in front of the barrier. He pulled a photo out of the envelope and placed it across his knee. He studied it, stood up, and stepped back. His eyes darted back and forth between the picture and the rail. He took a few steps to his right and stopped.
“This looks like the same angle, if I’m not mistaken.” His eyes narrowed, and he peered back at the photo, then at the guardrail. “Yes, I’m sure of it. What do you think?” He held out the photograph.
She leaned in for a look and nodded her head. “I’d say so. Where’s the one of the skid marks?”
“Here.” He pulled out another picture.
“So, this is where . . .” She stepped back and looked down at the asphalt. “The inside car skidded against his and sent him careening through the rail?”
“By my calculations, I’d say so.” Marc stroked his chin and gazed down the highway. “I’m going to try and re-create in my mind when this all started. I’ll be back in a minute.”
The top of his head quickly disappeared behind a ridge in the twisting decline of the narrow highway. Addie studied the photo she was still holding in her hand and tried to picture what exactly had occurred that night. Judging the point of impact by the calculations they’d made, she went over to the rail and peered down. Her head spun. It was a good three-hundred-foot drop down the side of a sheer cliff to the rocky bottom.
Her heart thudded against her chest wall, and she clutched at her collar. Her breaths came short and fast. Her knees buckled. She grabbed on to the guardrail for support. “Oh God, Dad, how horrible for you.” Sliding to the ground, she leaned her head against the cold metal railing, struggling to fill her lungs.
She didn’t hear Marc return, but when arms wrapped around her, she knew his feeling and the musky scent of his aftershave.
“Oh, Marc, it’s so awful. I can’t believe he ended up down there. He never stood a chance.”
He pushed strands of hair from her face and tucked them behind her ear. “I know. It must be rough on you to finally see this.”
She scrubbed her hands over her face. “It is, but I need to, because I had a hunch this wasn’t a single-vehicle accident, and I needed to see it with my own eyes.” She sat up straight and looked into his pinched face. “What did you find? . . . Is there anything of use back there?”
He took a deep breath. His eyes never wavered from hers.
“Well? What did you find? Were the state police right, or—”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think it’s just as you suspected from the beginning.” He turned away and stared off into the distance.
“You mean . . . he was
murdered?” The words caught in the back of her throat, and she leapt to her feet. “Crap! Now, six months later, how on earth are we supposed to catch this . . . this murderer? Why couldn’t they have just listened to me in the first place?” She pounded her fist against the top of the guardrail.
“I can’t and won’t make excuses for fellow officers, but my guess is that they had no evidence of foul play and filed their report based on his apparent speed and the road and visibility conditions at the time.”
“But the skid marks should have been enough proof that there was foul play, don’t you think?”
“Maybe, but as they said, it had been foggy, and the rubber marks could have happened anytime. There have been a lot of near misses on this curve, and . . . some that weren’t lucky, like your father.”
“I know, but—”
“The best I can calculate, the other vehicle sped up behind him and followed side by side, nudging him onto the shoulder in a couple of spots where I found faint signs of skid marks. By the time they reached the top of the incline, here”—he pointed to the shoulder in front of the repaired guardrail—“they must have been traveling pretty fast. I’m guessing your father was trying to get in front of him but didn’t know about the switchback at the top. Then, right here, two skid marks appear to collide, and, well . . . that’s where it looks like your father’s car left the road.”
Her face crumbled, and tears stung her eyes.
“Come on, let’s head back. There’s nothing more we can find here. It’s been too long for any evidence of proof to survive. We’ll”—he cleared his throat—“I’ll
just have to do it the old-fashioned way.”
“What way is that?”
“Put in some footwork and find the evidence elsewhere.” He offered a weak smile and held her door open.
“You’re not getting rid of me that fast, mister.” She frowned up at him as she settled into her seat.
She heard him chuckling as he closed the door and walked around to his.
“Look, Marc. If you think for one minute that I’m going to let this go . . . well . . . well you’ve got anoth—What? What’s so funny?”
“The look on your face.” He snorted. “You are the most confusing and stubborn woman I’ve ever met.”
“Yes . . . so I’ve been told.” She folded her arms and glared at him.
He smirked and shook his head.
The return trip to Greyborne Harbor was quiet, but the air was no longer filled with uncomfortable tension. Addie stared out the window, lost in her thoughts, and tried to put all the pieces of her father’s death into perspective. Her mind darted from one recent occurrence to the other. When they pulled into her hotel parking lot, she turned to Marc.
He glanced sideways at her. “What?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but shut it.
“If you want to say something, then please just say it. The tension between us has been unbearable, and I can’t stand it anymore.” He parked and turned off the ignition.
“It’s just that . . .”
“Come on, you can spit it out. I’ve never known you to hold back before.”
“Okay . . . here goes. Tell me if I’m nuts.” She chewed her bottom lip.
He hung his head. “Not exactly the direction I was hoping this would go, but—go on.”
She took a deep breath. “Okay . . . how did my aunt Anita die?”
“Your aunt? Why?”
“’Cause . . . I’m wondering now if it’s all related.”
His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open.
“You know. My break-ins, Blain’s murder, my father’s?”
Marc leaned his head back and frowned but didn’t say a word.
“Well, what do you think?”
“I’m thinking, and I’m not sure what I think. I guess I haven’t thought your aunt’s death might be related.” He turned his head toward her. “What on earth made you think it could be?”
“It would make sense if it were.” She excitedly leaned toward him. “Think about it. My father had just left her place, and he was run off the road and killed. A week later, she dies. I inherit her complete estate and now I’m plagued with break-ins. So it appears that someone is looking for something they think I’m in possession of now.”
“But what? So far nothing’s been missing in these break-ins. It’s all so random.”
“I know, and at first I thought it was someone trying to run me out of town for . . . well, who knows what reason . . .” She waved her hand. “None of that matters now when you look at the whole picture.”
“What picture? Your dad dealt with some shady types. It could have been any of a hundred people. Your aunt was old and sick—”
“I know, I know.” She waved off his excuses. “But when you consider all the links and start connecting them, doesn’t that tell you there might be more to a few random break-ins than first thought?”
His eyes narrowed, and he straightened in his seat. “But are they connected?”
“I think so, yes. Everything that’s happened here . . . maybe isn’t as random as it appears. I think, given everything, someone is looking for something specific—and has been for a while now.”
His lips tightened into a thin line. “I don’t think I can agree, because as far as I know, your aunt died of natural causes. Her doctor was there. And after all, she’d been sick for years and was in her late eighties. That can’t be a link to anything else.”
Her cheeks puffed out, and a loud, exasperated sigh escaped her lips. “Was an autopsy done?”
“No, I don’t believe so. No need, given her age and declining health.”
“So no one looked for anything suspicious?”
“No, her physician just signed the death certificate. That’s usual in these cases.”
“Hmmm.”
“I know that look. You are nuts if you’re thinking what I think you are.” He sat upright and stared at her.
“I am her only surviving relative, and . . . yes . . . I guess I am.”
He slapped his palm to his forehead. “Really? You want me to get a court order to exhume her body and have an autopsy performed?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Addie, Addie, Addie, what am I getting int—”
She jumped when his cell phone rang.
He reached over and looked at the caller ID. “It’s the station. I have to get this, sorry.”
“I’d better go anyway. Thanks for today,” she murmured, then closed the door and headed for the hotel entrance.
“Addie, wait.” He called through his open window.
She turned around and he waved her back.
“What?” She leaned forward and gripped the partly open window edge. “What is it, Marc? Another break-in?”
He shook his head and looked up at her, his face ashen. “Raymond James was just found dead.”