be helped,” Glen said as he handed her a pair of latex gloves.
“You don’t have to explain that to me.” She pulled on the gloves, surprised by the dread that she felt concerning entering the home where she’d been raised by loving parents.
Glen drew a deep breath. “Let’s get on with it, then.” He unlocked the front door and together they stepped into the large living room.
Savannah drew in a breath as she saw the blood. It stained her father’s chair, dotted the ceiling overhead and had dried on the television screen in front of the chair. She knew enough about blood-spatter evidence to realize her father had received a tremendous blow.
She struggled to find the emotional detachment to get her through this, trying to think of it as an unidentified victim’s blood instead of her father’s.
Fingerprint dust was everywhere and swatches of carpeting had been cut and removed. Her father’s chair faced away from the front door. It would have been easy for anyone to ease into the house and hit him over the head.
“Let me guess, no sign of forced entry,” she said. “My parents kept their door open and unlocked until they went to bed.” Emotion threatened to choke her. She swallowed hard against it. “It would never have entered their minds to be afraid here, to think they should lock up the doors and windows.”
She drew a deep breath and looked around the room carefully. “Nothing seems to be missing in here. If it was a robbery attempt, you’d think they would have taken the stereo or computer equipment.”
Glen didn’t quite meet her gaze, and with a stunning jolt she realized he believed her mother had done this. He wasn’t seriously entertaining the thought that it had been a botched robbery or anything else.
“Glen, I know my parents fought. Everyone knew they fought. They fought loud and often in public. They were both stubborn and passionate, but they were madly in love. You know my mother isn’t capable of something like this.”
His gaze still didn’t meet hers. “Savannah, we can only go where the evidence takes us, and until we find your mother, she’s our top suspect in this case.”
Knowing he thought it and hearing him say it aloud were two different things. She swallowed the vehement protest rising to her lips, aware that whatever she said would make no difference.
From the living room they entered the kitchen, which was neat and clean and showed no evidence that anything or anyone unusual had been in the room. The only thing out of place was a pie that sat on the countertop, along with a knife and a plate. Her father loved his pies, and Rita baked them often for her husband.
The next two bedrooms yielded nothing unusual. Nothing appeared to have been touched or disturbed in any way.
As they entered her parents’ bedroom, a small gasp escaped her lips. Here it was obvious something had happened. The closet door stood agape, and it was evident clothes were missing. The dresser drawers were open, clothing spilling out onto the floor as if somebody had rummaged through them quickly.
She walked to the closet and looked on the floor, where three suitcases in successive sizes had always stood side by side. Now there were only two. The middle size was missing.
She stared at the spot where the suitcase had stood, trying to make sense of its absence, but it made no sense. In all their years of marriage her parents had never taken trips separately.
It would have been extremely out of character for Rita to pack a bag and go anywhere without her husband. Just as it would be extremely out of character for her to harm the man she loved.
Clothes were missing…several sundresses, slacks and summer blouses. Empty hangers hung on the rod and littered the floor, as if items had been forcefully pulled off them. A check of the dresser drawers showed missing lingerie, sleepwear and other personal items.
She became aware of the ticking of the schoolhouse clock that hung on the wall, stared at the beautiful dark-blue floral bedspread that covered the bed.
What had happened here? She looked at Glen, whose face was absolutely devoid of expression. “I don’t care how it looks. I’ll never believe my mother had anything to do with my father’s injuries.”
“But you have to admit, it looks bad.”
Savannah’s heart ached as she acknowledged his words with a curt nod. Yes, it looked bad. It looked very bad. If her father didn’t survive, then her mother would be wanted for murder. Either possibility was devastating.
They finished the walk-through and left the house. She’d hoped to find some sign of an intruder, some clue that somebody else was responsible for her father’s condition. But she’d seen nothing to help prove her mother’s innocence. And where was her mother?
She remained in her car long after Glen had pulled away, trying to piece together possible scenarios that might explain the absence of her mother’s personal items, the missing suitcase. But nothing plausible fit.
So, what happened now? Where did they go from here? She dug into her purse to find her car keys and suddenly remembered that Riley Frazier hadn’t just handed her a business card the night before. He’d handed her something else, as well.
Digging in her purse, she finally found the sheet of paper that had been thrust into her palm by the handsome stranger. She opened it.
It was a photocopy of an old newspaper article that had appeared in the Sycamore Ridge News on August 14, two years ago.
Man Murdered…Wife Missing, the headline read. Savannah’s heartbeat raced as she read the article that detailed a crime chillingly similar to what appeared to have happened in her parents’ house.
The victim’s name was Bill Frazier and the woman missing was his wife, Joanna. According to the article a son, Riley, survived Bill Frazier.
What had happened to Riley’s mother, Joanna? Had she been found and had she been guilty of the murder of his father?
She needed to talk to Riley Frazier. She needed to find out how things had turned out in this case. And she needed to know what it might have to do with her family’s case.
Chapter 3
He’d hoped she would call, but he really hadn’t been expecting her call so soon. Riley sat in the ice cream parlor that was the bottom floor of the Redbud Bed and Breakfast in the center square of Cherokee Corners.
He was early. She’d told him to meet her here at seven, and it was only now just a little after six. But he’d decided to come early. He’d ordered a cup of coffee, taken a chair facing the door and now waited for Savannah Tallfeather to join him.
She hadn’t mentioned the news clipping in her call, only that she’d like to meet with him. He sipped his coffee, watching the people who came and went as he waited.
The ice cream parlor was a popular place. He wondered if it was always so busy or if Saturday nights brought families out for ice cream. Certainly it was ice cream weather—hot and dry like only Oklahoma could be at this time of year.
The front page of the evening edition of the Cherokee Corners newspaper had been filled with the crime that had taken place the night before at the James ranch. Along with the facts
