Dead Giveaway (Stillwater Trilogy 2)

"Good old Joe," he said, putting on his pants.

"I know. Not your favorite person."

"An understatement if I've ever heard one." Joe had instigated the last search of the farm.

And Joe had mistreated Grace. Clay knew he didn't have the whole story and doubted Grace would ever tell him, but he'd gathered enough to suspect that the hatred between his sister and Joe stemmed from high school. Clay also guessed the contact between them had been sexual in nature.

But after what his sister had been through, he didn't judge her. Barker had nearly destroyed her.

After what had happened when she was only thirteen, she'd acted out in various ways, no doubt hoping to finish the job--and Joe had been there, ready and eager to take advantage, to inflict even more damage.

Clay had done what he could, but Grace had thwarted his attempts to protect her, and he couldn't help her if she wouldn't confide in him. So, he'd watch helplessly as she searched for the attention she needed, the love and support she'd rejected from her family.

Until recently. Somehow, she'd managed to survive even her own self-loathing and Joe's opportunistic abuse. And now she was happy, and Clay was going to make damn sure she stayed that way, if he had to sit at the farm and guard whatever forensic evidence remained until he rotted right along with Barker.

Which reminded him of the purpose behind his call.

"What are you doing tonight?" he asked, holding the phone with his shoulder so he could button his fly.

"Kirk said he'd like to shoot some pool. Why? Want to come?"

Kirk Vantassel, a roofing contractor, was Madeline's longtime boyfriend. Clay kept expecting them to marry but, so far, they weren't even engaged. In some ways, they acted more like brother and sister than boyfriend and girlfriend.

"I know you don't like crowds, and Good Times is busy on Friday night," she said. "But it'd be fun for you to get out. You don't do it often enough."

"I'll meet you over there." He held the phone out as he pulled on a T-shirt. "Any chance you could convince Allie McCormick to come?" he asked when he had his head through.

"You mean with us? You want me to set you up with Allie?"

"Nothing like that," he replied. "I was just hoping to get to know her a little."

"I see," she said, drawing the word out as though she saw far more than he intended.

"Stop it." He shrugged into a button-down shirt and splashed on some cologne. "She's investigating Dad's case, isn't she? I figure I might as well talk to her, see if there's anything I can do to help." Clay hated making such statements, hated being the hypocrite he was when it came to Maddy but, once again, past actions propelled current ones.

"Considering how you feel about the police, that's generous of you. I'll call her," she said.

"I've been meaning to, anyway. She left a message on my answering machine, asking about Dad's Bible."

"Why? Does she want to look at it?"

"Yeah."

Clay felt another trickle of unease. Would Allie see the demented man behind the notes the reverend had made in the front and back pages of that Bible? Or, like Madeline, would she see a pious man who loved his new family--and was particularly impressed with his oldest stepdaughter?

At times like this, Clay felt almost justified in keeping the truth from Madeline. Wondering where her father had gone was hard. Especially because she had to deal with the fear that he'd abandoned her. But learning that her father wasn't fit to breathe the same air as other human beings would be much harder. Of course, that was assuming she'd believe the truth if she heard it.

Certainly no one else would.

"I'm going to grab some dinner," he said. "I'll see you at Good Times."

"Are you eating at home or in town?"

"I'm on my way to Two Sisters. Why? Would you like to join me?"

"I'm tempted, but I should finish the article I'm working on. Besides, Kirk's still out, patching a leaky roof. I'll eat with him, then catch up with you later."

"What article are you writing?" he asked. Whatever it was, Clay hoped it wasn't about him.

One week, his stepsister had published a piece on the cars he restored in his barn and the fact that he'd recently sold a 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air for $52,000 and had a client waiting for his 1960 Jaguar XJ6 at a much higher price. Another week she'd written about the way he managed "a large, successful farm" all on his own, as if there'd never been a better farmer. But the worst was when she'd put him in her Singles section and referred to him as "appealing to women" and possessing an

"elusive, mysterious allure." Suspicions being what they were, he already drew enough attention when he walked into a room. He didn't need her training the spotlight on him.

But, according to Madeline, she sold more papers when she included an article about him, so he didn't complain. He figured it wouldn't kill him to occasionally boost her circulation.

Still, he cringed at her next words.

"After the thing with Beth Ann, I'd like to do one on what causes a woman to make false claims against the man she loves."

"When?"

"In a few weeks."

Hoping she'd forget by then, he picked up his wallet and keys. "What are you working on now?"

"A series of articles on Allie."

"Will they run in the Singles section?"

"No, this is front page stuff. I'm writing about some of the murders she solved while she was working in Chicago."

"Sounds interesting."

"It is. In one case, she found the guilty party because of the stitching on the bedsheet that was wrapped around the victim's body."

"The stitching?" he repeated.

"Yeah. I guess she could tell that the sheet wasn't the type typically purchased for home use. So she contacted the big commercial cleaners who wash linens for hotel chains in the area and, sure enough, each hotel has different-colored stitching to designate which sheets belong where."

"How did that lead her to the killer?" he asked.

"You can read the details when the article comes out. It was pretty darn smart of her. But, basically, she traced the sheet to a major downtown hotel and one of their employees."

"Great," Clay said. But he wasn't sure he wanted to read the article. He was worried enough already.

"Allie?"

Her father's voice intruded on the Disney movie she was watching with Whitney. Picking up the remote, she muted the sound so Dale wouldn't have to yell quite as loudly. "What?" she called back.