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“I’m listening,” Tom murmured, watching as Joe and Heather disappeared into traffic.
Tom started to get irritated but then noticed how intently Daniel studied his computer. “You got something?” Tom finally asked.
“I do,” Daniel said. “There’s quite a few things to think about when it comes to this case. Let’s face it. The resemblance between Rachel and Heather, it’s uncanny.”
“They have to be related.” Tom walked over and stood behind the captain.
Daniel nodded. “That’s what we need to investigate.” He hit a few more buttons and Heather’s photo shrunk to half the page. Then, Daniel arranged the grainy shots of Rachel—the most recent they had, taken at the convenience store the day Max died—next to Heather. After a moment, he shrunk the two photos so they took up a third of the screen. Then, photo after photo appeared in the center box, hundreds, before finally, one froze in place. The woman was blonde, but it looked poorly dyed. Her hair was short and jaggedly cut, but there was something about the turn of the head, the way the older woman’s chin jutted out, the somewhat pointy eyebrows.
“This, my friend,” Daniel said, as if Tom needed a reminder, “is Rachel Ramsey’s mother.”
“Was,” Tom reminded him.
Diane Ramsey had a fairly extensive rap sheet and Tom had followed her through Sarasota Falls’s underbelly, sometimes to arrest her, but most often to keep an eye out for her daughter. Diane had changed her hair color weekly, wore wild clothes, although nothing cosmetic could hide her battle with drugs and alcohol.
Rachel Ramsey had been a pretty girl. It was anyone’s guess if she took after her mother.
Daniel worked his magic with the computer, going through dozens of photos of Heather Graves, who had a web presence. The officer enlarged, shrunk, stretched, sharpened. Then, he said, “This one.”
“Got it.”
“Yes!” And the image of an older woman appeared onscreen, again blonde, but not poorly dyed, this lady had a tired but happy smile on her face.
Finally, satisfied with his findings, Daniel said, “Heather’s mother, taken from her driver’s license. Now we have Heather’s photos and fingerprints, and I’m sure Diane’s DNA is still in the system. We should run a comparison.”
Tom agreed. “Anything to get us closer to catching a killer.”
CHAPTER SIX (#ua2a5596a-5edb-5c72-be84-cd057c3d561a)
A CATHOLIC PRIEST. She was sitting in the passenger seat of a big white truck being driven by a priest. She felt the need to confess but didn’t know for what or even how.
“Thank you so much for getting me out of there. Why did you do that? How did you know?” she finally asked.
“Miss Bianca asked me to.”
Heather nodded. She’d figured out the owner of the bed-and-breakfast liked to help her guests, but this went a bit beyond common courtesy.
“I want to know everything,” Father Joe McCoy said. “What happened?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Heather admitted. “One minute I was driving, taking a scenic tour, sort of looking for Turner’s farm.”
“It would be closed. The Turners had a honey booth in the festival.”
“That’s where I picked up their brochure with directions to their farm. I was a bit lost. Then, suddenly, I notice a cop behind me—the chief of police, no less—and soon he has his siren on and is motioning me to the side of the road.
“Were you speeding?”
“Maybe a little, which is unusual for me. I slow down for yellow lights.”
“As you should,” he agreed.
“He thought I was someone named Rachel Ramsey. Do I look a lot like her?”
Father Joe didn’t answer but clutched the steering wheel, white-knuckled, reminding her of the way Chief Riley had acted while driving her to the police station.
“Do you know her?”
For a moment, she didn’t think he would answer.
“Rachel,” he said, turning into Bart’s Auto Repair and Towing, “is a young woman born and bred in Sarasota Falls who is a few years younger than you, and who has made a few poor choices.” After a moment, he amended, “More than a few.”
“I look like her?”
“Yes, quite a bit. But anyone who knows the two of you, once they got close enough, could tell you apart.”
“So, you can tell us apart?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Quite easily.”
“Are we related?”
He didn’t so much as hesitate. “No one knows who Rachel’s father was. And her mother wasn’t born here in Sarasota Falls.”
He parked in the lot, choosing a spot by the door, and exited the vehicle. She followed him into a tiny office located next to a large repair shop.
“There is no Bart,” Father Joe said, pointing to the sign that read Bart’s Auto and Towing. “There is a man named Taylor Jacoby. He bought the business from Bart and didn’t bother to change the name.” Heather didn’t smile. Nothing felt funny, not after the day she’d had.
“I’ve no doubt,” Father Joe continued, “that he’s already got your vehicle here. If he tries to charge us, I’ll have him call the chief. Since you were brought in by mistake, the city will need to cover the cost.”
“How do you know all of this?”
“You’re not the first person I’ve picked up from the jail.” He grinned and added, “But I think you’re the first who claimed to be innocent who really was.”
Funny how good it felt to be believed. The reassurance erased some of the stress. Thank goodness she was no longer at the police station, no longer being questioned. And there were two people in town who believed her: Bianca and Father Joe.
She turned to thank him, but he was over by a candy machine talking to a little boy. Shaking her head at how surreal it was, she headed for the front desk and started the process to get her vehicle. It took all of ten minutes and two phone calls to the chief of police. Keys finally in hand, she went back to find Father Joe. Part of her just wanted human contact, someone to feel safe with. Another part of her wanted someone who would answer her questions. “You hungry?” she asked him.
Joe hesitated a bit, then nodded. “Quite. Have you been to the Station Diner? That’s train station, not police station.”
“No, but I’ve driven by it.”
“Let’s go there. It’s a staple around here and should be pretty empty since tonight’s big hooray for the Founder’s Day celebration is a chili cook-off. Unless you like chili?”
She loved chili but right now didn’t feel like being in a crowd. “The diner would be fine.”
She followed him away from Bart’s. The sun had almost disappeared behind grayish clouds. A slight wind swayed the trees that lined the fairly empty streets. The diner was two blocks from the well-lit high school, where the cook-off was being held. She remembered seeing a flyer for it. Faint lights chased each other in the sky. Heather rolled down her window, took a breath of fresh air—so different than the police station’s—and listened to the sound of cheering.
The Station Diner’s parking lot had three cars. She pulled into a spot and Father Joe positioned his car next to hers. Together they walked to the heavy wooden door and pushed it open.
She’d gone back in time. A waitress wearing a retro-looking blue uniform, complete with a conductor’s hat, guided Heather and Joe to a booth. “Hi, Joe,” she greeted.
“Good evening, Maureen. This is Heather Graves. She’s new to town, been here less than a week. Maureen’s been here almost a year now.”
“Nice to meet you,” Maureen said.
“Great place,” Heather said, looking around at the decor. She could well imagine that at one time this area had been where passengers waited for their trains, but the benches had been replaced with tables and booths. The window where tickets would have been sold now featured a cook dressed in white rather than an agent dressed in black with a cool hat. The walls and shelves had railroad paraphernalia. The only things out of place were the animal heads fastened right above the restroom signs and over the chalkboard menu.
Joe settled in and handed Heather a menu from behind the napkin holder.
“Are you going to eat?” Heather asked when he didn’t take a menu for himself.
“I’ve got their selection memorized.”
It took Heather a few minutes to order. Then, after taking a long drink of water, she said, “I got the idea from listening to the officers that Rachel was responsible for someone’s death. Is that true?”
Joe’s lips went together, his brow furrowed and his nostrils flared a little.
Heather almost wished she hadn’t asked. But she’d just spent the last few hours being interrogated and falsely accused. She’d never forget the way the cell walls seemed to close in on her.
“I’ll check online and find out on my own,” Heather said. “I’m sure the story’s there.”
“Many stories about what happened that day are online,” Joe agreed. “And much of what you read will be factual. But it’s what’s not said that makes a difference.”
It made her think about her parents, how close her father had kept to the truth, and how her trying to figure out what their secrets were had led her here.
His phone pinged then, and with an apologetic look, he answered. She didn’t hear much, just “Oh, I was hoping for better news” and “Not entirely unexpected” and “I’m so sorry you have to deal with this loss. I’ll be right there.” His expression changed from concern to distress to pure sorrow.
She recognized the sorrow as she’d worn the expression quite a bit since her parents’ accident.
Nodding the whole time, Father Joe paused, listened and then said, “Someday that young man will realize exactly what he’s done, and he’ll have to live with it.”
When he ended the call, he said, “Lucille Calloway just passed away. She was in a car accident last year and never got her full strength back. I’m heading over to be with the family.”
“What about the young man?”
“Richard Welborn. I’m guessing Chief Riley was heading to the Welborn place to see if Richard had returned. He was driving drunk last Christmas and hit Lucille head-on. She was an amazing lady, in her eighties, and still going strong, at least back then. She went through many months of therapy and never really recovered. Depending on others made her miserable.” Father Joe smiled, looking a bit happier. It only lasted a moment before he added, “Richard was an amazing young man. People hereabouts forget that. He moved here with his mother, took care of her. I’m so surprised he was driving drunk. Still, can’t get past that he posted bond and disappeared. Never made restitution or apologized. Lucille’s family is angry at him although Lucille wasn’t.”
He stood, looked at the counter and said, “Maureen, I’ll take my food to go if you don’t mind.”
“Already packed. I heard your phone go off and figured you’d be leaving.”
Father Joe left, and Maureen put Heather’s meal on the table, asked if she needed anything and then walked over to another customer.
Heather had never felt so alone. For a few long seconds she just sat there, trying to get her bearings, and wondered what she should do next. Maybe leave Sarasota Falls? Some secrets were best left buried. Stay? Find out if she had family? Well, she didn’t have to decide tonight.
It had been a long time since breakfast. Heather stabbed a piece of chicken-fried steak and brought the fork halfway to her mouth before freezing.
Chief Tom Riley came through the restaurant’s front door, and his eyes honed in on hers. He said something to Maureen, and then made his way over to stand in front of her.
“I just lost my appetite,” she said, putting her fork down.
* * *
“MAY I SIT?” He didn’t like asking permission. He wanted to sit, question...yes, even press. Yet, he had to watch his step, do this the right way.
“I really don’t feel like company,” she said.
“And I won’t be good company,” he responded. “But, there are a few things I still need to know. This—” he looked around the diner “—is as good a place as any.”
She didn’t protest, so he sat across from her, so close he could reach out and brush a finger down her cheek if he wanted. He didn’t want to, but did struggle to accept that she wasn’t Rachel. Everything but his memory of a face proved she wasn’t Rachel.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-seven,” she responded.
“Born?”
“In Phoenix, Arizona.”
“I mean what year.”
She responded with the year and stared at him. In all the time he’d walked a beat, driven the streets, worked the desk and finally taken the job of chief, he’d never had a suspect so obviously wrong yet so right. He couldn’t stop looking at her, but he knew he needed to be professional, go with the idea that she indeed knew nothing.
Gain her trust.
Maureen bought over a cup of coffee, shot Heather a somewhat proprietary look and sweetly said to Tom, “Freshly made. I’ve already got Cook fixing your regular.”
He needed to talk to Maureen. He’d given her a ride home from work a few times when her car didn’t start. Seemed she was reading a bit more into the gesture than he’d intended. He should have noticed before.
“Thanks.” He took a long drink, closed his eyes and counted to ten. He was too close to this case, could blow it because of the kind of emotion he realized he had with respect to it. Opening his eyes, he said, “I’ve spent the last couple of hours investigating you, Heather Graves.”
She started to sputter her indignation, but he held up a hand, expecting her to stop. Most people would have, but she wasn’t most people. Freedom and an hour spent with Father Joe seemed to have loosened her tongue. “You have no right, no—”
He placed a folder on the table, opened it and withdrew two pictures. One, not flattering, was of her just a few hours ago. The other was of a woman, much younger, with darker blond hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones and a wide mouth. All similar to what Heather looked like, except she wore her hair short.
With two fingers, she drew the photos close to her, squinting as she studied both of them side by side. She started eating again, eliminating half her meal and saying nothing. His hamburger arrived and he took a bite, watching her brow furrow and a frown distort her features.
“I see the resemblance,” she admitted. “This could have been me when I was a teenager.”
“Rachel Ramsey was sixteen when this was taken nine years ago. It was her sophomore year at Sarasota Falls High School.”
“I would have been eighteen and finishing up high school. How come you’re not showing me her police photo?”
“We don’t have one. She was never arrested or charged with anything. She spent a year in foster care, but she was only seven.”
“Father Joe said she made a few poor choices. He didn’t get the chance to tell me what they were. Why don’t you tell me?”
Poor choices? Tom cleared his throat. “Father Joe likes to sugarcoat the truth.”
