Chapter Four
Sam’s eyes popped open and he stared around the dark bedroom in confusion. Once again he heard the tones of his default ring, something chimey that he needed to change but never got around to, and levered himself off the bed. He was in his bed at his dad’s cabin—and he’d fallen asleep in the sweatshirt and pants he’d changed into after the long hot shower he’d taken when he got back from the hospital yesterday.
Ling-ling-llliiiinnnnnggg.
He ran his hand over the nightstand, knocking over a glass of water in the process, swearing to beat the band. It was early morning, by the time on the clock, but he’d drawn the blackout shades and it was still dark as a tomb inside the bedroom.
He switched on a bedside lamp, righted the water glass, only to realize he’d left his phone across the room on the dresser. Stumbling from the mattress, he lunged forward and grabbed up the cell. The house was a two-bedroom cabin with a loft where Joe, Gwen, and Gwen’s daughter, Georgie, had slept the times the Ford family had gathered for the holidays. When Joe’s first marriage broke up, he’d still shown up with Georgie, and then later with Jules. By that time Sam was with Martina and everyone being at the cabin together like one big, happy family was a no-go, though Donald acted like they should all get over it. Dad had always liked Jules and didn’t seem to mind or even notice that Sam’s onetime girlfriend was now with his oldest son. Donald’s cavalier attitude had angered Sam, until he’d recognized there was something else at play with his father’s mental faculties.
Now, whenever Sam visited his father they didn’t talk about Joe, Jules, Georgie, or anything besides how Donald was getting along and if he needed anything. Sometimes Donald still talked on the phone about would-be financial deals, but those deals never materialized; they were just dreams and memories from a fading past.
Now Sam read the screen of his cell as he answered the call. Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department. He steeled himself. “Hello?” He waited, then said, “Sam Ford,” but he’d missed the connection. Sighing, he looked around the room and ran his hand through his hair, which was sticking up all over the place. A soft ding told him the caller had left a message. He then listened to his voice mail, surprised to realize the caller was Sheriff Vandra.
“. . . come into the station this morning,” the sheriff was saying, “to go over further developments in the case. Detective Dunbar is with your sister-in-law now. If you come in around eleven she should be back. The guard that was posted outside your sister-in-law’s door . . . I want to talk about that, too.” There was a slight hesitation, then he added somberly, “I’m very sorry about your brother.”
Sam clicked off. Thought about Joe. Shook his head and concentrated on the here and now. So, Detective Dunbar was interviewing Jules. Well, maybe now they would let him see her. It kind of pissed him off that they were keeping him in the dark, even though he understood all the reasons. He was next of kin and therefore on a need-to-know basis only. But he was—or had been—a cop and he wanted to know everything that was going on. Every last goddamn detail.
He sopped up the spilled water then headed to the bathroom, stripped down, then stood under a hot, needle-sharp spray, needing to clear his head. After last night’s shower he’d thrown on sweats and dropped onto the bed, asleep instantly, almost in a comalike state.
He remembered the therapist he’d briefly seen after his mother’s death, the one he’d practically been forced to meet with by the Seaside Police Department after he’d beaten up a perp to an inch of his life after the man attacked him with a knife. “People handle grief in all sorts of ways,” the shrink had told him. “Lucky for most, they aren’t attacked, otherwise there could be a lot more tragedies.”
Sam had listened silently and never offered up much. Grief. He understood he was in the throes of it, though what he mostly felt right now was numb.
Half an hour later he stepped into morning sunshine and climbed into the pickup, aware that he needed to go see his father and let him know about Joe before someone else did. Sam had pushed thoughts of his old man aside yesterday, but now he pulled out of the fir needle–covered lane that led to the highway and turned north rather than south to head to Sea and Sunset Retirement Living.
He fiddled with the radio for a moment, then turned it off. His head felt heavy and achy—no surprise there—and his body seemed like a stranger’s. Definitely a disconnect going on inside him. His mind shied from thoughts of Joe, entirely. He felt guilty about being estranged from his brother, knowing a good percentage of the problem had been on his side.
Once more he went back to thinking about Jules. Far easier now, though it hadn’t been while Joe was alive.
While Joe was alive . . . Past tense.
He just couldn’t think about that now. Instead he thought of Jules. . . . Remembering. Whether he wanted to or not . . .
“We should get off the beach ASAP,” he’d told her that first night when they’d been standing in that embrace, shielding their faces from the blowing sand. Sam had glanced toward the nearby houses at the top of the dune. It wouldn’t be a terribly long walk up to the glass-fronted structures from here along the beach. From the homes they could take driveways to the highway, but the trek would be arduous with the fierce wind slinging gritty sand at them.
“I wish I hadn’t ruined my phone,” Jules said against his shoulder. “We could really use it now.”
His cell phone was likely to burn a hole in his pocket, but no way was he reaching for it now, not with her warm body pressed to his. “You have any brothers or sisters?” he’d asked, deliberately changing the subject.
“Not anymore.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I had a brother once, but he’s gone. . . .”
He’d waited for her to continue, but she just stopped. Vaguely, in a forgotten hallway in his mind, he remembered a rumor. Something about a kid who’d drowned when he was really little. Jules’s sister or brother. When she didn’t go on, he offered, “If you want to go somewhere, I have an older brother who’s in town who could come pick us up.”
“How’re you going to reach him?”
“Well, I have a cell phone,” he reluctantly confessed.
“What? You have a phone?” She pushed back from him at that and swiped at the hair escaping its ponytail and flying around her face.
“I was going to tell you. I just liked . . . like walking with you.” It was lame, but the truth.
Jules had bent her head to keep further sand from getting into her eyes. He’d been afraid she was about to stalk away from him, pissed that he’d played such a dumb game. But all she said was, “This sand sucks!” Then she’d cupped her hands over her eyes and staggered forward toward the houses, aiming for a path between the two nearest ones. Sam struggled to follow after her, swearing in his mind at his ungainly gait. He was somewhat gratified when he caught up with her near the road, both of them hugging the cedar-shingled house that was sheltering them from the blasting, wind-propelled sand.
“So call your brother,” she ordered. “Have him take us somewhere.”
Us. “Okay.”
“Let’s go somewhere and get something to eat,” she added, music to Sam’s ears. He’d thought the night was over, but maybe not. Unfortunately he was pretty sure Joe would resent playing chauffeur unless he was bringing Sam home, like his dad wanted. But if it meant extending a little time with Jules, Sam was sure going to give it a try.
“I’ll never get the sand out of my hair,” she declared.
“You can be prematurely gray.”
“Funny. You’re a funny guy.”
Sam was faintly embarrassed. It was a dumb line. He’d never been great with girls. He had no idea what they wanted to talk about.
“You got a lot of sand on your face,” she observed.
He put a hand up to his cheek and felt the grit. Jules swiped at her own face and said, “God, I’m starving. French fries, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Sam tried calling Joe but the cell rang and rang. “He’s not answering.”
“Then come on.” She tucked her head down and headed away from their sheltered spot and toward the street. The wind howled and flung sand at them as they moved between two of the big houses. What had started as a breeze was fast becoming a gale. “Geez,” Jules protested. “Wonder how Hap’s party’s going with all this.”
“They’ve gotta all be inside now, so maybe the cops won’t come.”
“The house is gonna be a wreck. I told him he was an idiot, but he doesn’t listen to me.”
“You told Hap he was an idiot?”
“Maybe not those exact words, but . . . yeah,” she said.
“You’re going with him, though, right?”
“No. Not right. We just hang out. Who told you that?” She shot him a look.
“Guys on the team know who the cheerleaders are,” he explained. “They talk about ’em and who they’ve hooked up with.”
“Yeah? They said I was with Hap?”
“You’re not?” he questioned.
“I don’t know. Not really. All we do is fight about stuff. What else do the guys on the team say?”
“Just stuff.”
“What stuff? About the cheerleaders?”
“Some.”
“Well, what? Come on. Tell me!”
“They talk about your looks mostly, I guess. This one’s cute. That one’s tall. That one’s got a great set of . . . she’s got a great smile, personality, that stuff.”
“A great set of . . . ?” she repeated.
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit, Ford.”
He was both delighted at the familiarity of his name on her lips, and worried that it sounded like she’d already relegated him to the friend zone. “A great set of legs.”
“Sure. That’s how guys talk. You were going to say ‘boobs’ or worse. . . .”
“No.” But he had been. He’d cut himself off at the last minute.
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Okay, fine. Great boobs.”
“They were talking about Jilly Dolittle or Tina Montgomery, I’ll bet.”
“Well . . . you got me.”
“Double-D?” she asked, eyeing him as if searching for the truth.
He was a little embarrassed that she knew Jilly’s nickname. “Well, you know how guys are.”
“Yes, I do.” Her tone was dry. “Do I have a nickname?”
He shook his head.
“Don’t make me pull it all out of you.”
“I’ve never heard a nickname for you,” he told her seriously.
“Then make one up for me,” she challenged.
“What?”
“Make one up for me. Right now. A good one. Not like Jilly’s.”
They were walking down the road, leaning into each other to keep the wind and sand out of their faces, yelling to be heard.
He looked into her eyes, dark, in the uncertain light, and watched her swipe hair from her face again. “Sandy,” he said after a moment.
She broke out laughing. “Because of this?” She threw an arm out and they were peppered with grit. “I could call you the same thing!”
“Okay.” He kinda liked it. “Glad to meet you, Sandy.”
“Back at ’cha, Sandy.” She grinned at him.
He was in love with that smile. He was in love with her.
“Try your brother again,” she said.
“Sure.”
He fumbled with getting his phone out of his pocket. When he put through the call it went directly to voice mail again. He tried once more with the same results. “He’s not picking up. Maybe there’s someone you can call?” he asked reluctantly, holding out the phone to her.
She considered for a moment, then shook her head. “Nah, let’s just go for a while. Unless you’re tired.”
“Nope.”
“There are some shops down that way.” She pointed southward to where the road turned a corner and disappeared. Sam knew the area well and nodded as she added, “There’s a restaurant that I think stays open late.”
“The diner . . .” Sam said.
“Brest’s.” Jules laughed shortly. “Hap calls it Boobs. Every time we drive by. Like it’s news, or something. ‘Look, Jules. There’s Boobs.’”
Sam’s opinion of Walter Hapstell Junior dipped even further, though Hap wasn’t the only one who called it that. Lots of guys did, himself included. Sam just didn’t want to like Hap.
Jules headed down the road and Sam worked to keep up with her again.
“I’ve got about three dollars,” she said.
“I’ve got a twenty.”
“Well, then hobble a little faster, Sandy, and you can buy.”
“You got it, Sandy.”
And those were our nicknames right up until we split up.
He thought about that, the pain of it all and the outcome. God, it seemed like a million years ago . . . yet it felt like yesterday.
He’d hooked up with Tina after feeling ignored when Jules was dealing with her mother’s illness. He’d felt like a heel—he had been a heel—and he’d then doubled down on his mistake by sticking with Tina, for no good reason he could think of now. A year into their relationship she’d wanted to marry him and that had finally woken him up. He’d tried to see Jules again, seeking . . . what? . . . some kind of absolution? The chance to repair what he’d broken? Maybe make things right?
Not a chance. It was déjà vu when he showed up at her parents’ home; he’d stood in the same spot when they’d broken up and this time Jules had assessed him through the screen door, cool and disinterested. He knew she’d been seeing his brother, but he’d thought it was merely a friendship. Joe was not only in the same business as their father, he was in the same business as Peter St. James as well. It was only natural that he and Jules ran into each other.
By that time Jules’s mother was in a deep, almost comatose state, and Peter, Joe, and Walter Hapstell Senior were working on several real estate deals both in Portland and in communities along the Oregon coast. Jules’s father had thrown himself into his work, unable to deal with his wife’s illness, so Jules was the one to help her.
“Congratulations,” she’d announced to Sam through the screen, when he’d managed to choke out that he and Tina were talking marriage.
“It isn’t decided,” he assured her. “I just wanted to see you, and see how you are.”
“Well, I’m just fine.”
“You’re taking care of your mom?”
“Yep.”
“Is there any chance you and I could go out for coffee sometime? Talk over some stuff.”
She stared at him a long moment. “Nope.”
He’d flushed in embarrassment. He’d deserved everything she dished out, had pretty much expected it, but to see her and realize how little she cared about him, how clearly there was nothing left, had dug into his gut and heart. Somewhere inside he’d apparently harbored the hope that she could forgive him, that maybe they could be friends again, or something, but that was clearly not to be.
“Well, it was good seeing you again,” he managed to force out as he turned away.
“Same,” she said without inflection, then she closed the door.
A year later he and Tina were married. Right after that, Lena St. James passed away in her sleep. Six months later, Peter St. James left a good-bye note and then made his way to a bridge over the Columbia River. He spoke to a woman before he threw himself into the river, and she witnessed his fall, hysterically saying she thought he’d dived in. Sam’s own marriage had begun its death spiral, and he was already heading for divorce court when Joe and Jules said their “I dos.”
Now he exhaled heavily. Directly ahead was the familiar wooden sign, painted in tan, gray, and white, with sandpipers carved into its face, that always welcomed him to Sea and Sunset Retirement Living. He pulled into an asphalt parking lot that ran beneath a portico where a short bus with another sandpiper painted on its side was waiting for passengers. Sam parked in an empty spot that had writing painted into the asphalt: “For Future Sea and Sunset residents.”
His father’s studio unit was at the end of a short hall. A Lucite sleeve had been attached to the wall next to the door and the day’s newspaper lay in its embrace. Sam pulled it out and looked at the headlines. BOATING ACCIDENT RESULTS IN DEATH.
Swallowing, he knocked on the door but didn’t wait for it to be answered. “Dad?” he called as he stepped inside the room. The bathroom door was closed, the only other door in the room. He could hear his father inside, brushing his teeth. He walked farther into the room. His father’s bedcovers were thrown back and his clothes from the night before tossed over the back of the visitor’s chair, the only one in the room besides his dad’s recliner. Sam perched on the cushion and opened the paper, scanning the article, his chest tight. The reporter did not name the victim, just described him as male, and there was no mention of Jules. Sam had a moment of new respect for the Sheriff’s Department. They’d kept a lid on things.
And placing the guard outside Jules’s room said something about the accident; they hadn’t ruled out foul play.
Neither had Sam.
His father came out of the bathroom clad in a pair of striped pajamas that looked several sizes too big for him. The old man was shrinking. Age was shrinking him.
“Joe?” he asked in a voice that warbled slightly.
“It’s Sam, Dad.”
“Sam?”
“I came to see you. I want to talk to you.”
Donald pulled back at Sam’s serious tone and shuffled to his dark brown recliner. With a flap of his hand he motioned Sam to go on. Still holding the newspaper, Sam picked up the chair and positioned it directly in front of his father’s. The old man was barely seventy, but he acted a decade older, maybe even more. His in-and-out dementia was so random that at times Sam thought he was faking. It just seemed a little too convenient sometimes, because his father tended to fade out whenever the discussion turned to something he didn’t want to talk about.
“It’s about Joe,” Sam said, handing his father the paper.
“Are we going to breakfast?”
“No, Dad. I’m going to say this. I just need your attention.”
“We have to eat sometime. I think I might be too late.”
“Joe’s dead, Dad. He died in that boating accident yesterday.” Sam inclined his head toward the paper.
Confusion filled his father’s face. He looked at the newspaper and his face drained of color. His mouth opened in shock. Then he closed his jaws with a snap and said angrily, “Joe was just here.”
“Maybe yesterday . . . or the day before . . . not today. Because, Dad, he’s gone. I went to the morgue yesterday and identified the body. I saw him and I . . .” The wave of emotion took Sam unawares, sweeping over him, drowning him.
His father’s eyes moistened. “You’re lying!” he cried, but he knew . . . he knew.
Sam swallowed several times. His chest was tight. His eyes burning.
Meet me at my dock at noon.
“I’m going to find out what happened,” Sam stated. “I don’t believe it was an accident and I’m going to prove it.”
He hadn’t known what he was going to say. The words just popped out of him, but once said, he knew they were right.
His father’s jaw trembled, but then it grew rock hard. He shot Sam a hard look and said, “It’s about the money.”
“What?”
“It’s about the money. They all think Joe swindled them, but he saved them. They killed him for it. They killed my boy.”
Sam stared at his father. He seemed stone-cold sober and in the present. Sam almost didn’t want to spoil the moment.
“You check with his partner,” Donald said grimly. “If Joe’s dead, like you say, then it’s because of the money.”
“His partner? In his company?” Sam asked with dread. He didn’t like the sound of where this was going.
“That’s right.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “And if you’ve invested with Joe, sell everything.”
“I didn’t know he had a partner.”
Donald waved a dismissive hand. “Your friend. You know.”
“Hapstell? He wasn’t a friend. He was a—”
“That’s the one,” he interrupted.
“You always said not to have a partner,” Sam reminded. “I heard you say that a hundred times. I heard you tell Joe that.”
“Partner, schmartner. They worked together, that’s all. Did some deals. Sometimes you need money to make the deal work, even if it’s a bargain with the devil.” His face clouded over. “Sometimes you get burned.”
Sam gazed at his father in a kind of suspended disbelief. His older brother had been the one who’d made good in Donald’s eyes. It was Sam who was the screwup. Sam who’d chosen a career in law enforcement and not the heady, elite world of finance.
“I’m not invested with Joe. What about you?” Sam asked him.
“Joe pulled me out months ago. The cabin’s free and clear, and I’ve got enough savings for this place.” He sank back in his chair and turned his eyes toward the ceiling, staring for several minutes, then he let out a long, drawn out sigh and asked, “Why did you come by again?”
Sam was still processing his father’s sudden sentience. Now he was snapped back to the moment. “You really don’t remember?”
His father frowned. “Something about Joe?”
Sam got to his feet. “I came to tell you he died in a boating accident yesterday.”
“Joe’s dead?” His father gazed at him in horror.
Sam turned toward the door. He didn’t know what to believe any longer. He saw a notepad and pencil on the small kitchen counter. Grabbing up both, he wrote: “Joe died in a boating accident yesterday.” Then he added his cell phone number, signed it, and handed it to his father.
Donald stared down at the words as if committing them to memory. “Does Georgie know?” he asked.
“Not yet,” Sam said. Georgie lived with Gwen in Portland. They needed to be informed, but Sam had wanted to tell his father first.
“What are you gonna do?”
“I don’t know, Dad. I don’t know what to think. But I’m going to find out why Joe died. I don’t think it was an accident,” he repeated.
This time his father was silent, and he seemed to shrink even further into himself. Sam asked him if he wanted to walk with him down to breakfast, but he shook his head and waved a hand to the counter where a stack of energy bars waited. Sam was too tired and his head too achy to argue the point.
He left a few moments later, reflecting that he couldn’t trust that his father would even remember their conversation, and he hadn’t had a hell of a lot of luck with Jules, either. Maybe today would be better.
His stomach rumbled, making him realize he couldn’t go much longer without food. He drove out of Sea and Sunset Retirement Living and turned the pickup south, heading toward the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department. There was a McDonald’s in Tillamook, if he could wait that long.
But then he spied the sign for Digby’s Donut Shoppe and he wheeled into the lot for a cinnamon cruller or two to tide him over.