Gone to Her Grave (Rogue River Novella Book 2) Read online

  GONE TO HER GRAVE

  Rogue River Novella No. 2

  THE ROGUE RIVER NOVELLAS

  On Her Father’s Grave by Kendra Elliot

  Gone to Her Grave by Melinda Leigh

  Her Grave Secrets by Kendra Elliot

  Walking on Her Grave by Melinda Leigh

  GONE TO HER GRAVE

  Rogue River Novella No. 2

  MELINDA LEIGH

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 Melinda Leigh

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  e-ISBN: 9781477872529

  Cover design by Marc Cohen

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Strobe lights throbbed in the dark and swirled across the peeling white paint of a small, forlorn house. The cheerful play of color highlighted the battered state of the home. Carly turned into the driveway and parked next to a police cruiser.

  Sitting back off the road on a large, wooded lot, the one-story home had no particular design other than “basic rectangular box.” The forest loomed over the house. Insects hovered in the high, weedy grass that passed for a lawn. Trash had blown up against the cinder-block foundation, and a rusted washing machine sat off to the side of the front yard. Chained to nearby trees, four large dogs barked from the edge of the clearing.

  Being a social worker for Child Protective Services in the small town of Solitude, Oregon, had its highs and lows. Emergency calls after midnight qualified as one of the latter.

  She got out of her Jeep. Even at the late hour, the air was too hot and too humid for a Pacific Northwest July.

  A redheaded county deputy in his late twenties came out of the house and greeted her. She vaguely recognized him. No doubt they’d met at a scene much like this one in the past. The local police force was chronically shorthanded and relied on the county sheriff to cover the expansive rural township. “Ma’am. Things seemed to have settled down, but we wanted CPS’s take on the situation before we left.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Tammy Fisher and her friend were having a beer in the kitchen when Darren Fisher came home drunk. The Fishers started going at each other. The friend got scared, left, and called 911.” The deputy frowned at the house. “Darren appears to be intoxicated. There are four kids inside. Oldest is fifteen. Youngest is about three.”

  “Let’s go inside.” Carly walked to the door.

  The deputy opened the front door and led the way inside. “Tammy’s in the kitchen. My partner took Darren out back to cool off.”

  The deputy was on edge, and Carly understood why. Her father had been a cop. Her sister was a cop, and technically Carly was still married to a cop, though she and Seth were currently separated. Domestic disturbances were some of the most dangerous and volatile situations police officers encountered.

  Grease and cigarette smoke coated the back of Carly’s throat as she stepped into the living room. In front of a small TV, four kids huddled on a torn couch. Despite the open windows, little air moved through the interior of the house. Three sleepy-eyed little girls clung to their big-boned older brother like kittens. Carly smiled at the kids as she tried not to be obvious about her visual assessment. No visible bruises. The kids were thin but did not appear malnourished. Mismatched pajamas were seasonally appropriate and appeared clean.

  She went through to the tiny kitchen. Letting her pass, the cop leaned in the doorway. Tammy Fisher sat at a chipped Formica table. She was a mousy woman, with lackluster, gray-streaked hair and the shifting, wary eyes of a small prey animal. A cigarette trembled in her fingers. Carly scanned for obvious signs of physical abuse but saw none. The only beating evident on Tammy’s face was the one delivered by her life.

  Through the window over the table, Carly could see a bulky man dwarfing the second, older deputy. The light fixture on the back of the house cast shadows over Darren’s broad, heavy-boned face. His Neanderthal forehead shaded his eyes, but his stance projected belligerence.

  “I’m Carly Taylor from social services.” Carly slid into the seat next to Tammy. “What’s going on?”

  “We had a fight. That’s all. Darren can get loud when he’s drunk.” Tammy sucked on her cigarette and blew a stream of smoke to the ceiling. “I didn’t save him any supper. I should’ve, but I was mad when he didn’t come home on time. My oldest wasn’t here, and the girls aren’t old enough to leave on their own. When Darren finally came in, I lit into him.” She stuffed the butt into a beer can and gave it a quick shake. “I missed my shift at the Dairy Queen so he could go drinking.”

  “Has he been drinking recently?”

  Tammy lifted a bony shoulder. “Hasn’t been easy since the plywood plant closed three years back. He’s been getting day work out at the O’Rourke resort job, but at quitting time they told him they don’t need him anymore.”

  Carly and the deputy exchanged looks. Darren had lost his job today.

  “He didn’t hit any of you?” Carly scanned the kitchen. Two more empty beer cans sat next to a sink full of dirty dishes. A Styrofoam meat tray poked out of a full garbage can, and the scent of grease told her dinner had been served earlier.

  Still staring at the table, Tammy shook her head.

  Carly got up and checked the fridge. Not much on the shelves but eggs, cheese, and mayo. The pantry was mostly empty too. She went outside. The deputy followed her. Humidity wrapped her skin in cloying dampness. A mosquito dive-bombed her face. She waved it away.

  She stopped a few feet away from Darren and introduced herself. “Want to tell me what happened tonight?”

  The yeasty smell of beer wafted across the cracked cement patio. He crossed arms thicker than Carly’s thighs and glared at her. “Couples fight. It ain’t the goddamned business of the government if I have an argument with my wife.”

  People did not like social workers interfering in their lives. Carly’s services were needed but not wanted. Such was the nature of her job. She tried to put herself in her clients’ places. How would she feel if the cops showed up on her doorstep during one of her fights with Seth? How would it feel to be unable to buy food for your children? What was it like to have a government employee snooping through your kitchen cabinets? Nothing broke Carly’s heart more than taking kids away from parents. The foster system was far from a guarantee of safety.

  “As long as it was just an argument,” Carly said.

  “I said it was. Are you calling me a liar?” Darren shifted forward, aggression building in his posture.

  “Back off, Mr. Fisher.” The deputy stepped between them and put a hand on Darren’s arm. “She’s here to help.”

  “F
uck you.” Darren jerked his arm away.

  The other cop flanked Darren. “Calm down.”

  Darren’s belligerence swelled. “What if I don’t want to fucking calm down? What if I don’t want her help?”

  One cop pulled out his cuffs. Darren threw up his hands to shake off the other deputy. A bowling-ball-size hand flew toward Carly’s face. She ducked, but the wild blow caught her under the chin and knocked her backward. She landed on the rough cement. Pain zinged through her tailbone. She scrambled out of the way as the deputies wrestled Darren’s hands behind his back. They marched him out front.

  Carly got to her feet and brushed dirt off her tan slacks.

  The redheaded deputy came back around the corner of the house. “You all right, ma’am?”

  “I’m fine.” Carly rubbed her chin.

  “You want to press charges?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No. Seemed like an accident, and the man lost his job today.”

  “That’s a shame,” the cop sighed. “We’ll cut him a break, then. Probably let him out in the morning when he sobers up, as long as he doesn’t act like an asshole again.”

  Fingers crossed on that, Carly thought.

  “Unless you need us to charge him with more.” The cop gave her a knowing look. Did the family need time to get away from Darren? Did she want to build a case for taking the children out of the home?

  “Give me a minute.” She went back inside and gave Tammy a business card. “I’d like to come back tomorrow. If your husband’s out of work, we can see if you qualify for public assistance.”

  She shook her head. “We ain’t charity.”

  “Can’t hurt to know what’s available,” Carly said.

  Staring at the card, Tammy sniffed. “Okay.”

  “Don’t hesitate to call if you need me in the meantime.”

  Tammy’s gaze settled on Carly’s for a second and flittered away like a gnat. “When will he be back?”

  “Probably tomorrow. Unless there’s a reason he shouldn’t. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  Tammy shook her head, taking in the information without any reaction. But what could she realistically do? Even with public assistance, she couldn’t support four kids waitressing part-time at the Dairy Queen. Darren’s intermittent construction jobs likely kept a roof over their heads. Carly had one child, and she’d ended up moving in with her mother.

  Depressed, Carly went back outside.

  “Everything all right?” the deputy asked.

  “Yes. I’ll keep an eye on the situation, but I think we’re all right for now. Thanks for the call.” Carly walked to her vehicle, her steps weighted by more than lack of sleep. The limitations of her job frustrated her. But as she opened her Jeep door, the hairs on her neck lifted. She glanced back at the cruiser. Through the rear window, Darren watched her. His gaze pierced the dark and stabbed her with hostility.

  He’d lost his job today. She’d give him a pass for being an asshole in light of his obvious frustration. Tomorrow she’d visit the family again and see what she could do to help alleviate some of their stress.

  But as Carly turned toward home, she prayed she hadn’t made a mistake.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Though the autopsy suites were down the hall, the scents of slowly decomposing flesh and disinfectant seeped through the walls and into the waiting area of the Rogue County medical examiner’s office. Seth’s stomach protested at the sight of an open box of doughnuts. How could anyone eat in here? He tossed his half-full coffee cup in the garbage can. Despite the sweet aroma drifting across the room and the bitterness of his brew, all he could taste was death.

  The receptionist smiled. “He’ll be out in a minute, Detective Harding.”

  “Thanks.” Seth paced across the commercial-grade gray carpet to the window. On the other side of the parking lot, the summer sun rose over the trees. How many days did he start with homicide? Too many. Major crimes were the bulk of his responsibilities as an investigator for the Rogue County Sheriff’s Department. People in southwestern Oregon needed to stop dying.

  “Seth, how are you?” Sixtyish, the scrub-clad ME was average size and soft around the middle.

  “Hank.” Seth shook his outstretched hand. He liked to catch the medical examiner early, before he started performing autopsies. Not that the procedure grossed him out. Okay, it did, but typically after Hank unzipped the first body bag of the day, he blazed through his workload without stopping.

  “How’s the new job on the task force?” Hank led the way down the hall and into his office.

  Seth followed him. “Too busy.”

  Hank rounded his desk. His chair groaned as he settled into it and hunched over his blotter. “You want the autopsy results on that OD from a couple of weeks ago?”

  Seth lowered his body into a chair facing the desk. “Anything you can give me would be helpful at this point. You’re sure it was an overdose?”

  “Yes. Let me pull up the reports.”

  “The same drug?” Seth asked.

  “Yes, I believe it was the same compound.” Hank nodded. “The DEA is formally calling it C-22 because of its chemical composition.”

  “We want to stop this wave before the bodies start piling up,” Seth said.

  “Better hurry. We’ve had six confirmed ODs from C-22 since January one.” Hank booted up his computer and pulled black-framed glasses from his breast pocket. “Okay. Let’s see what we have. Twenty-three-year-old male. External examination showed skin lesions, low muscle tone, general malnourished state, poor condition of teeth, et cetera, all of which suggest long-term drug use. Internal examination found dilated cardiomyopathy or an enlarged heart, which can result from abuse of illegal drugs including cocaine, methamphetamine, and heroin. From the condition of his liver, he also abused alcohol. But the immediate cause of death was cardiac arrest.” Hank peered over his glasses at Seth. “This guy was a serious user.”

  “Can you identify the drug that killed him?”

  “The toxicology report came in late yesterday.” Hank clicked and scrolled, his bushy, black-and-gray eyebrows sinking low over his eyes as he concentrated. “His toxicology results are similar, but not identical, to the other five, as is the nature of synthetic drugs like C-22. These compounds have no consistent manufacturing process. Kids have no idea what they’re taking when they abuse this type of drug. It’s a game of Russian roulette.”

  “Any new information about the drug itself?” Seth asked.

  “Not really. You already know it’s a hallucinogenic compound similar to LSD. All of the victims died of cardiac arrest. One showed bleeding in the brain. Another reported seizures just before death. But we don’t know whether those ancillary reactions were caused by this drug or by the other compounds in the mix. Preexisting conditions also have to be taken into account. However, my findings suggest it’s particularly deadly when combined with alcohol.” Hank tossed his glasses on top of his blotter and rubbed his eyes. “This is a bad one, Seth.”

  “Aren’t they all?” Seth’s phone vibrated in his pocket. “Excuse me one second, Hank. I have to take this.”

  Hank motioned toward the door, and Seth stepped into the hall. He ducked his head back into the office a few minutes later. “I have to go, Hank. Thanks. We might have a live one. The county medical center reported a suspected overdose of a hallucinogenic compound.”

  “Where?”

  “Solitude,” Seth said.

  “Isn’t that where you live?”

  “It is.”

  Concern drew Hank’s bottle-brush eyebrows together until they nearly touched. “This will be the second OD there.”

  “I know.” Seth tapped on the doorjamb. “Catch you later, Hank.”

  Outside, Seth cleared his head with a lungful of fresh, hot air before getting into his county-owned sedan. The medical examiner’s and sheriff’s offices were located in the Rogue County seat of Hannon, forty
-five minutes away from the small town Seth called home. Solitude seemed to sit right in the middle of the current drug infestation.

  The Taylors’ hobby farm on the outskirts of Solitude had served as overflow for the animal shelter for as long as Carly could remember. Since her marriage had fallen apart and she’d moved home to live with her mother, the barn had doubled as a storage facility. The little cabin on the other side of the meadow from the main house was the perfect size for her and her seven-year-old daughter, but it didn’t have much storage space.

  She moved another container and read the label. “Kitchen supplies.” That wasn’t it. The stacks of boxes that held most of her possessions were a sad reminder of her broken marriage and the pretty house in town she’d left behind, all in the name of peace.

  She lifted her tank top off her sweaty skin. The barn chores were finished, and she was eager to get out of her jeans and work boots. July heat wasn’t usually oppressive in southwestern Oregon, but this summer had been a scorcher from the very beginning. Her entire life felt as off-kilter as the weather.

  “We didn’t leave it, did we?” Brianna propped a hand on a skinny hip. Thanks to a recent growth spurt, her jeans rode at her ankles. After she’d spent an hour in the barn working with her pet project, a rescued pygmy goat, the child’s sun-streaked hair was more dirty than blonde. A greenish smear across her pink T-shirt looked suspiciously like goat slobber.

  “Of course not.” Carly forced her tight lips into a smile. “And even if we did, your father would have it. He’d bring it to you.”

  “But Daddy’s never home.” Her daughter pouted. Before Seth and Carly separated last winter, Brianna’s pouts had been few and far between. “I need my hat for the parade. Prince Eric has a matching halter.”

  In two days the town would celebrate the Fourth of July with a patriotic parade, fair, and fireworks. Brianna had entered her goat in the 4-H livestock show. It was the first time she’d shown any real enthusiasm since the separation. The American-flag-colored top hat they were so desperately seeking was worth fifty cents at best.