Safely Home Read online

  SAFELY HOME

  Ruth Logan Herne

  I think my name is Brian.

  The boy stared at the winding stone drive leading to an empty expanse of roughed-up road. He’d stared out the window many times before, when the old lady was outside, doing whatever she did out there. Thoughts of potions and cauldrons seemed about right when her thin, tapered hands offered harsh reminders of her expectations.

  If he got out without being noticed, could he reach the road? And then, how long to get to town? And would anyone listen, would they care?

  Ain’t got nobody but me now, boy. That’s the way it is, that’s the way it’s gonna stay. The old woman’s voice didn’t allow thought or choice. And she’d taken him to town a couple of times, calling him her grandson. You call me “Grandma” when we go out, Charlie. Got it? And Miz Jane when we get home.

  But this wasn’t home. It couldn’t be, although he couldn’t quite remember what ‘home’ was. He used to, he used to be able to draw up images of before, but those pretty pictures had dulled long ago.

  Now they were gone, like dust on the wind.

  He stared as a short school bus rolled by on the distant road, kicking up late-summer tractor debris. The proximity to something normal broke his heart. Charlie? Brian? Miz Jane?

  He studied the locked windows and the messy rooms, desperately clinging to other thoughts, other sights, thinning as the days went on. The old woman made it a point to use his name often. “Get a move on, Charlie Backus! We ain’t got all day!”

  But now and again an image would flutter through the boy’s head, a sense of warmth and sweetness, a commodity he couldn’t quite see. More like he felt it, wandering through, and with the warmth came that fleeting thought of something else. Another time. I think my name is Brian. But the whispers came less often now, so maybe it was nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  Chapter One

  Detective Crescent Dietrich fumbled Gran’s old-style coffee maker, then managed to spill the sloppy contents of the used filter when she spun toward the garbage can and her leg gave out.

  She wanted to swear, and working the streets of Minneapolis made her privy to innovative phrasing, but this was Gran’s house, Gran’s rules and Gran had enough on her plate considering her recent cancer diagnosis. Cress growled as she struggled up, her healing leg unstable.

  “That bad, huh?” Alex Westmore’s deep tone angered her further, and after seeing firsthand what he’d done with her grandparents’ farm, a centennial Swedish family legacy tucked into the fertile fields of Watkins Ridge, Wisconsin? She didn’t think the term ‘more angry’ was possible. Clearly she was mistaken.

  A shadow accompanied the masculine voice, tall and lean. Strong hands grasped her shoulders, lifting her, while the scent of money masked as pricey cologne mingled with fresh country air. “I can get that.”

  “Yeah? Well, so can I. It just takes me a little longer these days.” Cress pulled from his touch, his scent, shrugging him away.

  The local lawyer and land developer stepped back, not amused but not wounded either. “Have at it, then. I’ll be right here, watching.”

  Cress grabbed the soggy paper filter with two hands, shifted it into a pinched-top bundle and pitched it into Gran’s garbage container. She wobbled and hated that she did, hated that simple things which took no brain and just a touch of stability stymied her. Mostly she hated that Alex Westmore witnessed the whole thing, hands loose, eyes assessing, looking too uptown for a wrong-side-of-the-tracks guy. Of course the money he bankrolled from developing Gran’s farm into an upscale housing development allowed him plenty of discretionary income. Giving an extra spin to the paper towel holder, she tore off way too many sheets in a quick move, proving there was nothing wrong with her hands.

  “What do you want, Alex?” She clipped the words as she bent to blot the remaining mess with the wad of toweling, glad that Gran didn’t see how many she used for one little task. That would initiate a lecture on sacrifice and making do, and Cress wasn’t in the mood. The fact that her current moods shaded from snippy to downright snotty wasn’t lost on her, but for the life of her she hadn’t a clue how to change things.

  Maybe you already have. You’re here, right?

  She bit back a sigh, refusing to give Alex the satisfaction.

  His tone stayed matter-of-fact. “Your undying love and total faith would be a great start, Cress.”

  “In a pig’s eye,” she retorted. Upright now, without any tricky moves, her leg felt more solid. “How about road kill? That’s what vultures feed on, right? Carrion?”

  He slapped a hand to his chest. “Once again, she attacks. You ever get tired of slinging arrows, Detective? Taking shots?”

  “When they’re undeserved.”

  “And if your assessment turns out to be totally skewed? What happens then?” Alex wondered out loud, his expression adding hinted depth to the easy pitch of his voice. “The innocent wallow in the prison of your choice for an indeterminate sentence?”

  She switched her field of vision to the burbling coffeemaker, safe and mundane. “In your case?” Cress hiked a shoulder in dismissal. “Won’t be an issue, Counselor. Your type is born guilty. All I have to do is take a gander out the back window,” Cress thrust her chin left, the upscale housing project looming beyond the early autumn bloom-fest of Gran’s gardens, “and see the deft work of your hands. Another piece of nostalgia gone the way of suburban expansion, lining your well-to-do pockets with my grandmother’s future. Gag.”

  “So we go back to the detective/lawyer standoff whenever you feel cornered.” His stance remained comfortable but his jaw tightened.

  “Being in the same room with you makes me feel cornered. Why do you suppose that is, law-boy?” She meant it as a dig, but when she turned he’d moved closer. Too close. She had a close-up view of pure male chest filling out casual knit that screamed quality in quiet elegance, like a Mercedes E-class. Just enough to let you know the person within recognized excellence and value and could fund both. “Although I suppose it’s a typical response to vermin. Are you here to see Gran?” she continued, keeping her tone jagged. She waved a hand in the general direction of the front staircase. “She’s up there sorting out what’s left of a seventy-two year old life. Wanna go see if there’s something else you can get from her? You might have overlooked the family jewels the last time you were here.”

  “Already got ‘em, but thanks.” A slight shadow ruffled the edge of his glib tone, almost as if he had a conscience, but Cress knew better. From where she stood the peaks of cookie-cutter designer houses stood visible beyond the kitchen windows, weaving a ribboned formation along what used to be an agricultural haven for pig-tailed girls. Her haven, the place she ran to when life was unbearable. For a long while after her mother’s death, the Johansson farm was her sanctuary, her refuge. Now it was gone at this man’s hands, the heritage of four generations transformed into faux stone facades, drab vinyl siding and individual wooden playgrounds dotting landscaped yards. Cress had words for sharks that preyed on a widow’s vulnerability, and not one of them was pretty.

  “I was heading into town and wanted to see how Gran was doing. She had a run-in with Sylvie last week, and, well— I figured she might need something, but if the cavalry’s arrived to save the day, I’ll just ease on down the road.”

  Sylvie, Gran’s younger sister, bossy, antagonistic and disapproving, still mad because Gran’s land portion had outsized hers. Ridiculous. And it didn’t matter now, because Gran’s land was gone in a top-secret deal brokered by the guy facing her. “Do that. Preferably at break-neck speed.”

  “Kiera here? And Audra?”

  Of course he’d mention Kiera first, the youngest sister. Didn’t everyone? Something abou
t thirty-six inch legs and countless magazine covers grabbed a man’s attention. Cress kept her gaze averted. “We’re all here. Except Eric. Seems testosterone precludes one from working the mundane details of impending doom, like sorting closets. Chests. Attics.”

  “And on that note.” Alex eased toward the door, his movements fluid and flawless. “Tell Gran I was here.”

  “Tell her yourself. I’m not your delivery service.”

  He didn’t turn back, didn’t acknowledge her rudeness. He strolled across the back yard, hands in pockets, looking just as good from behind as he did from in front. Old Shep followed like a lovesick pup until the invisible fence stopped the dog’s progress. Then the dog plopped down, front paws extended, watching Alex’s retreat, his canine expression woebegone.

  Alex paused, turned, stepped back and gave the dog a prolonged head pet, his fingers kneading the dog’s ears, his jowls.

  Turncoat dog. The shaggy mutt ate it up, tail thumping, mouth parted in a perpetual smile. Alex’s lips moved, his manner light, his lips quirked up, sharing the dog’s enthusiasm. He straightened after one last pat, turned and headed toward his car, unperturbed and classy despite her barbs and digs.

  But then he must have turned a nice bit of change when he’d negotiated the deal that turned an agricultural legacy into a high-stakes real-estate development. He’d created an exclusive neighborhood that brought an influx of commuter traffic on weekday evenings as SUV’s and upscale imports angled into paved and sealed drives. Instead of luxurious peace and quiet, Saturday mornings now buzzed with the continual whine of lawn mowers and kid quarrels.

  And the upper back pasture that once offered summer respite to a milking herd beneath the old oak grove? The broad, sloped terrace was now a designated green zone, the town’s answer to continued development, a squared-off section of land designated for recreational use, still undeveloped.

  Like that was a surprise. Alex had made his money, and then some, if the quick influx of high-priced housing was any indication. Who needed to hurry the non-paying amenities like parkland? Play areas? Tall, thin saplings and brushy undergrowth said the green zone sat idle, which only confirmed her sour opinions. Westmore had been a poor kid from wretched circumstances whose single claim to fame was football prowess, a talent that took him to a top notch university and then law school. He came back to rub his success in small-town faces, and managed to leverage no small number of land deals that lined his designer pockets, including her grandparents’ farm, a roll of land that had held a young girl’s thoughts and dreams back in the day.

  “Cress? You okay?”

  Audra’s voice jerked her back to the reality awaiting her upstairs. “Coming. Coffee’s just finishing up.”

  “All right.”

  The kitchen phone rang. Cress snatched it up as she grabbed mugs from the cupboard.

  “Cress?”

  Her heart seized. Why hadn’t she just let it ring? Stupid, Cress. Plain stupid. She sucked a breath, wishing the caller wasn’t her abusive former lover and MPD section lieutenant, two roles distinctly at odds.

  What on earth had she been thinking? Her, a trained cop and detective, getting herself into a situation like that, after years of helping women out of the exact same thing. When had her brain taken a leave of absence?

  Three years back, give or take. His voice dredged up a host of feelings Cress didn’t care to examine yet, her injury and leave-taking too raw, too new.

  Instinct pushed her to toss the phone and run. A mix of German and Swedish pride wouldn’t allow it. She drew a deep breath, then exhaled long and slow, wondering which was worse, the mental slap-down or the physical challenges she now faced because she hadn’t kept her mind on her work and took a bullet as a result.

  Stupid is as stupid does, Cress. Get ‘er done, once and for all. She righted her shoulders and straightened her backbone. “What do you want?”

  “Where have you been? I’ve been calling your cell since yesterday. ” James sounded annoyed, like that was anything new. Why had she ever thought that a desirable attribute? Especially with her training? Another check went into the dunce column.

  “Busy.”

  “Busy? Or avoiding me?”

  “Both. Understandably.”

  “You’re running. Running’s a sign of weakness. Solves nothing.”

  Anger tightened her shoulders. “I don’t run and I don’t hide, but I’m capable of making a one-eighty when things go bad.”

  “Cress, forget about me. About us.” James’ voice softened, a ploy he’d often used to elicit her sympathy. The pain in her leg reminded her to stand strong. “The force needs you.”

  The force. Right. “The MPD can survive without a gimpy detective to slow things up.”

  “How’s your leg? Better?”

  “Mending. Slowly.”

  His sigh said she was being overdramatic about something as simple as a bullet to the leg. “We’ve got desk jobs.”

  Cress stared out the back window, eyeing the houses, hating them and him. Wondering what she’d done to get herself to the here and now staring her in the face. “Ten years I’ve been on that force, James. I know about desk jobs. It’s under consideration, but I’m also aware I’ve got time coming. Getting knocked around by your long-term boyfriend who also happens to be your boss, and then shot on duty carries perks. Which conversation would you like to have first? Or would it be better to convene in the captain’s office?”

  “Cress, I didn’t mean—”

  “A sick grandmother buys me time as well.”

  “It’s not like you two are close.”

  Not close? How did he figure?

  “You never went home, didn’t have long, gossip sessions on the phone,” he continued. “Barely mentioned her, in fact, except to complain about her sharp tongue.”

  Maybe because you were too busy fast-tracking it up the chain of command to have any idea what I did. How I felt. Still, his words stung, just like he intended. She hadn’t come home to Watkins Ridge often. She’d purposely stayed away, breaking family ties. She’d neglected her grandparents and her sisters, and she did it intentionally, an unforgivable offense. “Gran’s not a gossiper and she hates the phone. And you’re wrong, James. I love my grandmother. We’re buds.” Gran’s sharp-eyed look came back to haunt her, the assessment that said the old gal saw too much.

  A background buzz interrupted the moment. James muttered, paused, then came back on the line. “Gotta go. Problems off-campus.”

  Minneapolis prided itself on shielding the university’s expansive river campus.

  “Find your cell phone. I don’t like having you unavailable.” Click.

  Cress eyed the phone she clutched.

  She wasn’t unavailable, she just wasn’t at his beck and call. A niggle of awareness made her re-cradle the phone, her mind twitching.

  She was an admitted cell phone addict. And yet, in the two days she’d been home, the phone had been out of reach for nearly thirty hours and she hadn’t suffered irreparable pangs of loss, separation or depression.

  Well, any more so than she’d been suffering since being released from the medical center, pronounced ready for multiple forms of therapy, patted on the shoulder, called a hero and shoved out the door into a blazing hot Twin Cities afternoon.

  Life pitched downhill from there, until she’d gotten her stepmother’s phone call. The call that brought the sisters together on a united cause.

  “Cress, I could have bought a freakin’ Starbucks and hired the staff in the time it’s taken you to make a simple pot of coffee.”

  United cause? Did soroicide count? Only if Audra acted in collusion with her, plotting Kiera’s unfortunate demise. Cress grabbed the mugs, restrained from adding strychnine to Kiera’s, and headed toward the stairs. “Like you didn’t hear the phone? Or figure someone had to answer it?”

  Kiera stood at the top of the stairs, bent over the banister, hands clasped, perfect hair framing a face that looked amazing even with
out make-up, her expression runway-friendly.

  She stretched two hands toward the steaming mug. “Gimme.”

  “No one’s that addicted. Are they?”

  “Nope. But any excuse to leave the room was welcome. We’ve moved to the fifth item.”

  “Five things?” Cress paused, incredulous. “We’ve only sorted five things? In all that time?”

  Kiera nodded, her eyes teasing, her mouth glum. “Every item has a story.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “And Audra is required to jot down minute details.”

  “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  “When we’re done with these two chests, we move to the attic.”

  Not the attic…

  A fire marshal would condemn the house based on volume alone if they spotted Gran’s attic.

  “That will take—”

  “Forever. Tell me about it. And I’ve got a shoot in London starting Tuesday.”

  “That’s five days.”

  “Five days of torture.”

  “But we can get a lot done in five days,” Cress argued, more with herself than her sister, knowing what didn’t get done with all three girls present would be left to her.

  “Then the barn.”

  Cress firmed her jaw, but it took a minute. Maybe two. “Not the barn. Not really.”

  “Oh, yes. Really.”

  “And where’s Eric in all this?”

  “Forging ahead in his medical career, unlike those of us with potential to carry future generations within.”

  “Why weren’t we born boys?”

  “They smell.”

  Cress didn’t disagree.

  “And they do yucky things like dig up septic systems. Clean out gutters. Gut fish.”

  At the moment gutting fish didn’t sound all that bad. Cress eyed the front door at the bottom of the stairs. “Think we can make a run for it?”

  “Girls?”

  Gran’s voice hailed them from the back bedroom. Without a word, Cress knew they both recognized the diminished timber, the slightly higher tone. Cress sucked a breath, glared at the door, turned and climbed the last two steps, resolved but not even close to happy. “Coming.”