In the Dead of Night Page 4

  “We can talk in my office.” He motioned toward the wood-paneled door at the rear of the room.

  Sara headed toward Nick’s office. Nick glanced back at B.J. who was doing his best not to ogle her. His deputy raised his brows up and down like Groucho Marx and gave him a thumbs-up.

  “Cut it out,” Nick murmured.

  Walking inside, he closed the door behind them and settled behind his desk, all too aware of the faint scent of perfume on her wet skin.

  Sara took the visitor’s chair across from him and sipped her coffee. She’d toweled her hair, leaving it tousled and curling around her face, like wet brown silk against fine porcelain. Her brows were thin and dark and arched above big, gypsy eyes. But it was her mouth that arrested his attention and held it. Full lips the color of mulberries arched like a pretty bow. Twenty years ago he’d kissed that mouth. Even as a twelve-year-old kid, it had made one hell of an impression on him. As a man, he knew one kiss would never be enough….

  “I didn’t realize your mother would still harbor such intense ill feelings toward me over…what happened.”

  Realizing he was staring, Nick picked up his cup of coffee. “I wanted to apologize for what she did.” Taking in the mark on her cheek, he grimaced. “That was inexcusable.”

  “Thank you.” She lifted a hand as if to touch the small bruise, but let her hand drop to her lap instead.

  “If you want to press charges…”

  “I think everyone involved has already been hurt enough.”

  “Just don’t think that because she’s my mother I won’t do my job.”

  “Thank you for saying that.”

  Leaning over, Nick dumped his remaining coffee into the ficus tree’s pot. When he set the cup back on his desk, he noticed Sara watching him. “Tree doesn’t seem to mind.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask.”

  He smiled. “Just don’t tell B.J.”

  She didn’t smile back, but amusement glinted in her eyes.

  For an instant, the only sound came from the rain hitting the glass. Nick took that moment to ask the question that had been gnawing at him since the moment he’d seen the rental car parked outside his mother’s shop. “Was your visit to my mother part of the family business you’re taking care of while you’re here?”

  “One of the reasons.” She sipped coffee.

  Nick’s cop’s instinct had been telling him all along there was more to her appearance in Cape Darkwood than she was letting on. “So what’s the other reason?”

  “I want you to reopen the case.”

  An odd mix of disbelief and disappointment gripped Nick’s gut. She’d seemed so rational last night. As a cop, he appreciated rational people. Why did she have to go and spoil his opinion of her?

  “What case?” he asked, knowing full well which case she was referring to, hoping he was wrong.

  “The Douglas murder-suicide.” She said the words as if he were dense.

  “You mean the one that has been closed for twenty years?” he asked dryly.

  She pursed her lips as if he were trying her patience. The feeling was mutual. If she hadn’t been so damn good to look at in her snug jeans and lavender T-shirt, he might have already tossed her out of his office. But he’d always been drawn to her. A lifetime ago, the feeling had been innocent and vague. As a man there was nothing vague or innocent about what he felt for Sara Douglas. Attraction. Maybe with a hint of adult male lust mixed in.

  Setting her cup on the corner of his desk, she leaned forward. “Nick, I think the police may have been wrong.”

  “And you think that because…?”

  She hesitated, and for the first time Nick got the impression she wasn’t telling him everything. That she was keeping secrets. What secrets? What could possibly have been important enough to prompt her to fly all the way from San Diego to Cape Darkwood after all the terrible things that had happened here?

  “I have my reasons,” she said vaguely.

  “I guess it’s safe to assume you’re not going to make this easy and tell me what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Let’s just say I have reason to believe there was a fourth person involved.”

  “A fourth person?” Intrigued, he leaned forward. “Like who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then how can you be so sure there was one?”

  “I’m not.” Frustration tightened her mouth.

  “That doesn’t leave me with sufficient grounds to reopen the case.”

  “Maybe you could do it…unofficially.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re the cop. All I’m asking is for you to take a look at the file. See if all the loose ends were tied up.”

  “Sara, the case was closed. I’m not real big on conspiracy theories.”

  “Neither am I,” she said firmly. “But if certain things didn’t come to light twenty years ago, don’t you want to know about it?”

  “Certain things like what?”

  He stared at her, vaguely aware of the din of rain, that his heart rate was up just a tad. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve remembered something about that night?”

  “No,” she replied quickly.

  The accepted supposition amongst the residents of Cape Darkwood was that seven-year-old Sara Douglas had witnessed the murders, but the experience had been so horrific, her young mind had blocked it. Had the memory finally resurfaced? Why wouldn’t she tell him?

  “If you want me to follow up, you’re going to have to give me something a little bit more concrete to go on.”

  “I don’t have anything concrete.”

  “Then at least level with me. Tell my why you’re here. Why you came back.”

  “There’s no hidden agenda, Nick. All I can tell you is that I came to find the truth.”

  “Are you telling me your father didn’t kill them?”

  “I’m telling you I’d like the police department to revisit the case and prove beyond a shadow of doubt that he did.”

  Nick thought of the words written in red on the rear window of her car and an uncharacteristic rise of concern went through him. “Have you told anyone else about your suspicions?”

  “No.” She hesitated just long enough for him to believe otherwise.

  “Any idea who vandalized your car?”

  “No. Kids.” She shrugged. “Someone who doesn’t want me poking around and asking questions.”

  Her answer gave him a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  She got to her feet. “Look, I’ve wasted enough of your time.”

  Nick rose. He knew it was silly, but he didn’t want her to leave. There was a part of him that wanted to help her. But was his need to do so because of her pretty brown eyes and the way she wore those blue jeans? Or because he thought there was merit to her suspicions?

  Standing behind his desk, he watched her cross to the door. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  She looked at him over her shoulder. “To get something concrete and bring it back to you.”

  He wanted to say more, but for the life of him the words wouldn’t come. Only when she’d reached the door and gone through it did he realize what he wanted to say.

  “Watch your back,” he whispered.

  SARA’S LEGS were still shaking when she yanked open the car door and slid behind the wheel. The words smeared on the rear window had been washed away by the rain, the same way her hope for help had been washed away by Nick’s words.

  …give me something a little bit more concrete to go on.

  His voice rang in her ears as she backed onto the street and put the car in gear. She wasn’t sure why she’d expected him to help her without question. He was a cop, after all. Cops tended to be cynical. Of course he would want something solid in order to reopen the case. Or did he have another reason for not wanting to help her?

  Trust no one….

  The anonymous caller’s words crept over her like a chill, and she reminded herself that
someone in this quaint little town could very well be a killer. If he or she knew Sara was sniffing around and asking questions, they might want to get her out of the way.

  “It’s going to take a lot more than some juvenile threat,” she muttered.

  There was one more place to go for answers. A place where secrets and emotions played no role. The Cape Darkwood Library was located just off the traffic circle in a turn-of-the-century Greek revival house that had been donated to the town by Sir Leonard Darkwood upon his death in 1926. It was a place Sara had spent many a Sunday afternoon, reading with her mom and browsing the hundreds of books.

  The rain had stopped by the time she parked on the street beneath a massive elm tree and made her way up the sidewalk to the wide beveled-glass doors. Inside, the library smelled exactly as she remembered. Old paper. Lemon oil. Heated air from antique steam registers that hissed and pinged. All laced with a pleasant hint of book dust.

  Though her mission wasn’t the least bit enjoyable, the memories made Sara smile as she crossed to the information desk. A tiny woman wearing a maroon print dress looked at her over the tops of cat’s-eye glasses. “May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for archived newspaper stories.”

  The woman removed her glasses, her eyes narrowing. “Do you have a date in mind?”

  Sara hesitated, not wanting to get too specific or else risk starting the tongues wagging in town. “I’m not sure exactly.”

  “Everything before June 1, 1989 is on microfiche. Everything after that date is on disk.” She looked pleased with herself. “I’ve been working on computerizing our archives.”

  “This would be on microfiche,” Sara said, keeping her answer purposefully vague.

  “Microfiche is in the basement.” She rounded the desk. “I’ll show you.”

  Sara followed her across the marble floor, past the children’s books section to a wide stairway that led to a low-ceilinged room with red carpet. A smattering of desks, a row of narrow file cabinets and a microfiche machine filled the room.

  “We only have one machine left,” the librarian said. “Other one went kaput last year and we didn’t have budget dollars for another.”

  “This one will be fine. Thank you.”

  The woman smiled the way a not-so-kind grandmother would smile at a child from the wrong side of the tracks. “Dear, you look familiar. Are you from around here?”

  Sara had never been a good liar. But for the time being she didn’t want anyone to know she was back. She scrambled for an answer. “I’m from L.A., actually, and researching an article for my boss.”

  “Any particular subject matter?”

  Murder. “History,” she answered.

  “I must be mistaken, then.” But from the glint in her eyes, Sara wasn’t sure the woman believed her. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

  The instant the librarian was out of sight, Sara crossed to the row of file cabinets. Anticipation of getting her hands on information that wasn’t rumor or hearsay bolstered her, and she scanned the labels. Each was marked with a date range. Midway down the row, she paused and pulled out the drawer she needed. Setting it on the desk, she paged through each film until she came to the dates she wanted.

  The day after the murders, the Cape Darkwood Press ran the first of many stories. Even now the headline made Sara shiver.

  Prominent Hollywood Producer, Wife, Local Author Found Murdered.

  Pulling out a small spiral notebook, Sara scanned the article, making notes as she went. The name of the lead detective who investigated the case. Possible witnesses. The journalist who reported it all.

  The following day the headlines read:

  Douglas Killings May Have Been Murder Suicide.

  Sara read the piece with care, noting the evidence listed by police. Richard Douglas’s fingerprints were on the gun, a .38 caliber revolver. The gun had fallen to the floor as if Douglas had shot himself, then dropped it.

  Richard Douglas May Have Killed in a Jealous Rage….

  She struggled not to let the words get to her. Though she’d only been seven years old at the time, Sara had spent enough time with her father to know he was a gentle man with a kind heart. A man who kissed her nose at bedtime and made her laugh. There was no way that same man had killed two people he’d cared for in cold blood.

  Working quickly now, she jotted down the name of a neighbor who’d witnessed an argument just a week before while out walking her dog. Emma Beasley. The newspaper reporter had evidently interviewed and quoted her.

  It was around 6:00 a.m. when I heard Mr. Douglas shouting at his wife. Nicholas Tyson’s car was there. The lights were on in the upstairs bedroom. Strange goings-on in that house. Pity with those two little girls. I guess you never know about people.

  Disgusted by the woman’s unfounded assumptions—and the journalist’s willingness to print them—Sara shook her head, hating it that gossip and hearsay may have had as much to do with the outcome of the case as the evidence itself.

  Hitting the print button, she went on to the next story.

  Love Triangle May Have Led to Douglas Murder Suicide.

  Below the headline, a photograph of her mother and Nicholas Tyson at an outdoor café covered half the page. They sat at a table, beneath a wide umbrella. The likeness between Nick and his father struck her. Same Pacific-blue eyes. Thick brows that gave both men a brooding expression. Strong square jaw.

  Something niggled at Sara as she stared at the photo. To the casual observer, they appeared to be friends enjoying a cold drink on a hot day. Upon closer inspection, Sara realized they were looking at an object on the table in front of them.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  She hit the magnification button. The photo swelled, becoming grainy and losing some detail. But the enlargement was enough for Sara to identify what was on the table in front of them.

  A manuscript.

  Chapter Five

  Darkness had fallen by the time Sara left the library. She’d lost herself in research and somehow spent the entire afternoon reading and printing enough material to keep her busy for a week. The most important thing she’d discovered was the photograph of her mother and Nicholas Tyson looking at the manuscript. Had her mother carried on a relationship with the true-crime writer? Was there, indeed, a missing manuscript?

  Sara couldn’t get the questions out of her mind as she parked the rental car in the drive. The anonymous caller had mentioned a manuscript. Until this afternoon, she’d dismissed the notion. Now that she’d seen the photo, she wasn’t so sure. Nicholas Tyson had been a true-crime writer. He’d written several books, but had never become successful. Had he been working on a book? If so, what was it about? Did the book somehow involve her parents? Did Nick know anything about it? If so, why hadn’t he mentioned it when she asked him to reopen the case?

  Distant thunder rumbled as she lugged her notebook and oversized purse to the front door and let herself in. Turning on lights as she went, Sara made her way to the kitchen and set her things on the bar. Rain lashed the windows as she traversed the foyer and ascended the stairs. The long and narrow hall stood in darkness. She was midway to her parents’ bedroom when it struck her that the bathroom light was on. She was certain she’d turned out the lights before leaving…or had she?

  Sara’s heart jumped into a fast staccato. Someone was in the house. She hadn’t noticed anything out of place downstairs, but she hadn’t been paying attention. How did they get in? The front door had been locked. Of course, she hadn’t checked the back door….

  A clap of thunder made her jump. But the sound was nearly drowned out by the hard pound of her heart. She reached for her cell phone only to realize she’d left it on the counter downstairs. Never taking her eyes from the slash of light beneath the bathroom door, she backed away.

  The door swung open. A gasp escaped her when the dark figure of a man emerged. She got the impression of a rail-thin frame and a baseball cap before the flight instinc
t kicked in and sent her to the stairs. She was halfway down when recognition stopped her. Gripping the mahogany banister, she halted and looked back. A man with silver, shoulder-length hair stood in the hall, looking down at her. He wore gray coveralls, a cap and work boots. She knew his face. His clothes. She knew the way he moved.

  “Skeeter?” she ventured in a shaky voice.

  The caretaker grinned, his head bobbing vigorously. With the grace of a mime, he stepped back and motioned toward the bathroom. With deft hands he signed something to her. Sara didn’t understand sign language, but knew enough to realize this man didn’t mean her harm.

  Feeling like a fool, she climbed the steps, flipped on the hall light and crossed to him. “You scared me.”

  Skeeter spread his hands and gave her a giant shrug.

  “How did you get in?” she asked.

  Shoving his hand into the pocket of his coveralls, he pulled out a key ring with a single key.

  Sara didn’t like the idea of anyone having a key to the house, particularly in light of the anonymous calls and the message that had been written on her windshield. She held out her hand. “Thank you, but I’ll take that for now and return it when I leave.”

  He bobbed his head and dropped the key into her hand.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  He motioned toward the bathroom.

  Only then did Sara relax. “You fixed the leak.”

  He nodded, pleased she understood.

  “Thank you.” She extended her hand. “I guess I’m a little jumpy.”

  His gesture told her not to worry. He shook her hand gently, as if afraid he might break her fingers.

  She hadn’t seen Skeeter since she was a child. He hadn’t changed much in twenty years. He was still tall and wiry and moved with an odd shuffle. He still wore gray coveralls and work boots with his hair pulled back into a ponytail. But it had receded and turned gray. Her parents had hired him as caretaker over twenty years ago. Deaf and mute, he’d frightened Sara as a child. But with a child’s open mind, she’d quickly realized the man didn’t need a voice to communicate—or to be her friend. Because of his deafness, Skeeter dropped out of school and never received special education for his deafness. But over the years, though he was mostly illiterate, he learned to read lips. In the years she’d known him, he’d fixed swing sets, repaired bicycles and erected a basketball net over the garage. By the time that last summer rolled around, she didn’t even notice the strange way he moved or that he couldn’t speak.