“Not long enough to get to the Bluff and back again without her noticing.”
“Where were you?”
“At the hospital in Greenley, all the way on the other side of the county from the Bluff.”
The police chief leaned forward, concern softening the craggy lines of his face. “I’m sorry. I heard David was hospitalized again. How is he?”
“Much better, thanks.”
With the personal niceties out of the way, the police chief glanced down and adjusted the file on his desk. When he looked up, he had his game face back on “You didn’t see Henry Stillberg at any time last night?”
“We didn’t say that,” Gracie admitted.
“Gracie, I’m asking Dylan.”
“We talked to him at the festival, but that was before ten o’clock.”
Craggy eyebrows hooked upward. “What did you talk to him about?”
Gracie opened her mouth to jump in, but Dylan nudged her knee with his. “The time he worked for my father at Old Maine.” Dylan hesitated, but couldn’t see any reason not to divulge the rest. “I wanted to know if he remembered seeing my father at the mill the night Lana Harris disappeared.”
“Did he?”
“He said he might be able to remember something if I paid him for the information.”
“Did you agree?”
“No.”
Furrows marched up Fleming’s forehead, and his chair creaked as he leaned back. “You’ve been running around acting like a fictional detective for the past week, investigating events that occurred over twenty years ago. Didn’t you think that might be dangerous?”
“Not until my cabin burned down.”
“I’m glad you see the connection.” Fleming shook his head with disgust. “Why didn’t you leave the investigation to professionals?”
“The professionals gave up on the case a long time ago,” Gracie reminded him.
The police chief grunted. “You believe there’s a connection between the late senator and Lana Harris, and that Henry Stillberg might have known something about it. Am I right?”
“Possibly.”
“What did he have on your father to make him think you’d pay him to keep quiet?”
“I don’t know. I’d never heard of him until a few days ago and never met him before last night.”
“You’d never seen this before either?” The police chief pulled a letter encased in plastic from the file folder and tossed it to Dylan.
Dylan and Gracie leaned forward to read the crude request for money in exchange for information that would be damaging to the good Bradford name. Dylan kept his face impassive. “No, I’ve never seen this before.”
“When did you last see your uncle?”
Dylan looked at his watch. “About fifteen minutes ago.”
“He’s in town? Since when?”
“Last night,” Gracie said. “We were walking over to David’s when we ran into him, so he went with us.”
“What time did he leave you there?”
Dylan exchanged glances with Gracie. “About eleven, I guess.”
“Where did he go?”
“He told me he was staying at Drew Johnston’s in Wallingford.”
“Okay.” Fleming jotted on a paper in front of him and nodded. “That’s all the questions I have for you, unless you want to wait around until your uncle gets here.”
While Gracie and Dylan grew edgier through second and third cups of coffee, the Senator finally arrived at the police station escorted by a gangly deputy and accompanied by Drew Johnston. His uncle’s grand senatorial presence dwarfed the small office.
“Thank you for coming, Senator,” the police chief said.
“I wasn’t aware I had a choice.” A jerk of his head toward the deputy explained the comment. “Let’s get this over with.”
Dylan stood up to give his uncle his seat, and Arthur patted him on the shoulder. “You all right, son?” he asked.
“As good as can be expected. Sorry you got dragged into this.”
“Not your fault.” Unruffled, he sat down. “I was interrupted during an important conference call. I’d appreciate it if we can get down to business. For the record, this is Drew Johnson, my attorney.”
“Fine,” Fleming said. “For the record, this conversation is being recorded.”
“Then I’d like to instruct my client not to say anything further.” Drew stood directly behind Arthur. Johnston was a tax attorney and probably came along for the ride, but it sounded like good advice to Dylan.
Arthur waved the warning aside.
The chief handed him a packet of eight-by-tens. “What do you know about these?”
The senator’s face drained of all color. His hands began to shake, and for a second, Dylan feared he might collapse on the spot before he squared his shoulders and relocated his steel backbone.
Dylan peered over his uncle’s shoulder and froze. He stared with disbelief at a picture of his uncle carrying Lana’s limp body out of the furniture factory.
Shock ripped through Dylan like a howitzer blast. Beside him, Gracie drew in a startled breath, and gripped his hand tight enough to break bones.
Surely there was another explanation beyond the obvious. “It’s easy to photo-shop pictures,” he began, rising to his uncle’s defense.
Arthur dropped his head into his hands.
“Don’t say anything, Arthur,” Drew Johnston advised. “You haven’t been accused of anything, arrested, or Mirandized.”
“Mirandized?” Arthur looked up, wearing an expression of stunned disbelief. “Why would anyone need to Mirandize me?”
“With all due respect, sir.” Fleming tapped his pen against the incriminating photograph. “This is a picture of you carrying a dead woman. And since we know where Lana was found, there’s at least circumstantial evidence that you put her there. This photograph was in the automobile of a person who is also now dead. Those are some mighty big coincidences.” The police chief reduced the room to a shocked hush by reading the senator his rights.
Drew cautioned him again, but Arthur ignored the advice again. “I’m so sorry,” he said to Dylan.
“What is it you’re sorry for, Senator?” Police chief Fleming asked. “Killing Henry? Killing Lana Harris? Getting caught?”
“No! I didn’t kill anyone.”
Dylan wanted to sympathize, but his empathy withered beneath the weight of his uncle’s betrayal. This was the man he’d looked up to his whole life, the man who’d been a surrogate father, confidante, mentor, and friend. Apparently, all of it had been a house of cards built on the unsteady foundation of deceit, infidelity, and possibly murder.
“What did happen?” Chief Fleming asked.
Arthur cleared his throat and began in a shaky voice. “I went to meet Lana at the mill that night. When I got there, she was already dead. I swear. A head wound.” He gestured to a spot on his temple and grimaced. “There was blood everywhere.”
He paused for a sip of water. “It was wrong, I know, but I panicked. I was afraid I’d be incriminated in her death. That would be the end of my marriage, my career, everything I valued. My only thought was to get her out of there. Later, I intended to come clean with Matt and let him handle things. But it was several days before our schedules coincided, before I could talk to him in person. He came to look into things. But he died, here, at the cabin of all places.”
Dylan shuddered at the callous reference to his father’s passing as if it were just another inconvenience in his uncle’s run of bad luck. Fascinated in a sick sort of way, he listened to Arthur’s justification and rationale of surreal events.
“I couldn’t do anything about the body while people kept coming around to investigate Matt’s death. Afterward, I was afraid to go near the cellar in case someone would see me. I made sure the boy was taken care of. Nothing I could’ve done at that point would have brought Lana back. As time went by, I thought it would be best to leave her body where it was.
“When I found out about Margaret’s failing health, I tried to get her to sell or give the cabin to me. At first she agreed. Then later, whenever I brought the subject up, she looked at me so strangely that I thought she might know something. When Dylan told me someone had been harassing Margaret as Matt’s illegitimate son and then Dylan decided to renovate the cabin, something had to be done.”