WHEN SHE LEFT THE RESTAURANT, Rachel called her dad to make sure he was home, then pointed her car in the direction of his house. Her phone rang as she turned off Poplar. Boone. She might have known he’d check up on her. “Hello, Lieutenant.”
“Evening, Detective. What did you learn from Terri?”
Her thoughts froze. What could she tell him? They’d gotten off on the subject of her father and she hadn’t asked all the questions she’d meant to. “She hardly knew Foxx, didn’t like him. She knew Vic a little better because he was nice to Erin.”
“What about her husband? What’d you learn there?”
Her heart sank. “I, ah, not much.” Silence stretched between them. “When I brought his name up, she got a migraine and had to go home . . . Why don’t you talk to her tomorrow? She’d probably be more open with you.”
He exhaled hard. “All right. Give me her number and I’ll see what time she can meet me.”
She rattled off Terri’s number from memory. “I’m going to stop by and see my dad. I’ll call you when I start back to the CJC.”
“Okay, but be careful, and make sure no one is following you.”
“Yes, sir.” She felt like saluting after she hung up and turned into her dad’s drive. The front of the house was dark, and Rachel pulled around to the back, where a strange car was parked. The light was on in the kitchen, and she knocked lightly.
“Door’s unlocked,” her dad called out.
When she entered, he was standing at the coffeemaker, pouring coffee into a carafe. “Whose car?” she asked.
“The US Marshal assigned to guard me.” He held up his cup. “Want some?”
“Sure.” Might help keep her alert later. And questions were always easier to ask over a cup of coffee. She looked around the kitchen. “Where is he?”
“In the living room setting up his equipment. I informed him you were coming.”
That explained why he hadn’t met her at the door.
“How’s the rest of your day been?” he asked.
“It’s been better.”
“The report said the ricin I received today wasn’t active. That should make you feel somewhat reassured.”
“So it was ricin and you’ve gotten the report back?” How did he . . . ? The US Marshal, of course. “Someone still sent it to you—twice now—and is threatening to send the real stuff.”
“Unless the package Saturday night was meant for you. Could be someone wants to get rid of us both.”
That was not a reassuring thought. She took the coffee he offered. “Has Boone seen the report?”
“It just came in and that’s probably first on the marshal’s to-do list. You want to go into the breakfast room?”
“Sure.” She sat in the same chair as yesterday morning, noting the tablecloth had been changed. Her father’s need for order was as strong as Rachel’s.
“So to what do I owe the pleasure of two visits in two days?” he asked as he set the carafe on the counter.
Was it still just Monday? It felt much later in the week. Rachel quickly sipped the hot coffee, wincing as it burned its way down her throat.
“That’s hot,” the Judge said.
“Yeah. Is there anywhere we can talk without being interrupted? Or overheard?”
“This is about as good a place as any, but let me advise the marshal not to interrupt us.”
He set his coffee on the table and walked to the living room. A minute later he was back. “We won’t be disturbed.”
She hoped his request didn’t pique the marshal’s curiosity. Rachel fortified herself with a deep breath. “I interviewed Monica Carpenter today, and she indicated that Harrison Foxx threatened you with blackmail the day he was murdered, and you told him you should have gotten rid of him a long time ago.”
There. It was out. Silence followed.
“I see.” He wrapped his hands around the cup.
Why wasn’t he denying it? “Is it true?”
“It’s true that he did try to blackmail me. And I may have said the other. I thought it often enough before your mother died.”
Her heart sank.
“But I didn’t mean murder.” His jaw slackened, and then he frowned. “You think I may have killed him?”
“No. But why haven’t you told me this before? That you argued with Foxx the day he died?”
“It wasn’t one of my finer moments. That man could exasperate me like no one else. We’d just buried your mother, and he accused me of murdering her, then he threatened to tell the police something he’d fabricated unless I gave him money.” His eyes hardened. “A loan, he called it, but we both knew better. Over the years, Gabby had loaned him in excess of ten thousand dollars, and with her death, Foxx’s source of easy cash was gone. He was desperate.”
A flash of memory. “You and Mom argued about Foxx that night at the convention center.”
“Yes. I hope I don’t have to tell you that I didn’t kill her.” Her father leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. “And as for Foxx’s accusation, there wasn’t a word of truth in it, but if it had come out, people would have believed it. Just like now, even you have doubts. So no, I didn’t mention it to anyone. I’ve spent my life upholding the law. I didn’t kill the man, Rachel.”
She wanted to believe him, but he’d never let anything stand in the way of his career. She tried to think back to the night her mother had been buried. Was her father home all night? She couldn’t remember.
He leaned forward. “Are you going to the DA with this?”
Indecision must have shown on her face.
“If you do, it’ll ruin my nomination. Is that what you want to do? Ruin me?”
Did she? She stood and refilled her coffee cup.
“I thought we’d gotten past whatever problems we had after your mother died.”
She stared at him. “How could we? You never acknowledged that we had a problem. It was always, ‘Buck up, Rachel. Winslows don’t cry.’”
His shoulders sagged. “I was trying to make you stronger, but I realize now that was the wrong way to do it.”
The fragment of a memory broke free from the dark corners of her mind. “I need my dad! Let him move back home!” Mom, shaking her head. “I can’t, honey.” Then it was gone. “You should have been there that night! Were you with your girlfriend?”
She clapped her hand over her mouth. But it was too late. The words, trapped inside her for seventeen years, had spewed from her mouth like a volcano.
Her father jerked back as though she’d slapped him.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“Why would you think I had a girlfriend? I never, ever cheated on your mother. Yes, I worked long hours, and she once accused me of my career being my mistress, but there was never another woman.”
She faltered in her certainty. Was it possible she’d gotten it wrong? Her father wasn’t faking the shock that registered on his face. Or the sincerity in his voice. Her knees threatened to buckle. All these years, she’d believed a lie about him. There’d been no girlfriend. What else had she gotten wrong? “I . . . I’m really so sorry. I thought you were hiding something and that was the reason you avoided me.”
“It’s all right.” He exhaled a long breath. “I wasn’t there for you, and yeah, sometimes I even avoided you . . . but I felt so guilty for not being there.”
“I thought you blamed me for not being there.”
“Oh no, Rachel, I never blamed you. You were just a teenager—you couldn’t have done anything. I was glad you weren’t there. If I’d lost you too . . .” He shook his head. “Adults can be so stupid sometimes.”
He’d never blamed her? All these years she’d believed he had. Her heart pounded against her ribs.
“I should have come home anyway, even though Gabby said no.”
His words penetrated her thoughts.
She rubbed her forehead, remembering Mom and Dad talking backstage . . .
“I’ve changed, Gabby. No more long hours. We’ll take a trip, just the three of us, a month if you want it.”
“Lucien, I’m just not ready.”
“You know there’s no one else.”
Her mom nodded. “Just your work.”
And then her dad had left.
He had tried. Why had she not remembered that? Another memory hung on the edge of her consciousness, but she couldn’t pull it out. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted all these years,” she said.
“It wasn’t your fault. We should have had counseling. It’s not too late, you know.”
If she could find her mother’s killer, she wouldn’t need counseling. She stood. “We’ll see. In the meantime, I have a couple of murders to solve.”
“Of course.”
Their gazes collided, the unspoken question hanging between them.
The Judge straightened his shoulders. “If you want, I’ll tell Boone what happened that night with Harrison. Should’ve done it seventeen years ago and trusted God to make it turn out right.”
“That would have taken a lot of faith,” Rachel said. More than she possessed.
“More than I had at the time. When you don’t do the right thing, it always comes back to bite you.” His lips quirked in a rueful smile. “But the timing couldn’t have been worse then, or so I thought.”
He had a lot more to lose now. “Let me think about it.”
Her father stood and started to put his arm around her. Instead, he let his hand fall to his side. “I . . . I don’t tell you often enough, but I’m proud of you.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she blinked them back. “Thanks.”
They stood in awkward silence. Impulsively, she slipped her arm around his waist and hugged him, and was surprised when he leaned into the hug.
“We don’t do that often enough, either,” he said, his voice husky.
“Must be the British in us.”
“Don’t blame a whole country for our incompetence. How about we go to dinner tomorrow night and celebrate your birthday?”
A smile curved her lips. “I’d love that—oh! Wait. I’m going to the candlelight vigil with Erin. Maybe Wednesday night?”
It would be a new start for them. Rachel hugged him again. She’d waited a long time for his approval. So why did a dark cloud still hang over her?