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“You did what?” Miranda, ashen faced, demanded of Dutch.
Claire’s head began to thunder again, echoing with a dizzying rush of sound.
“Denver Styles.” He let the name sink in, though it held no meaning for Claire. But Miranda stopped short and for a second a shadow of fear passed behind her eyes. Quickly it disappeared as she seemed to get a grip on herself.
“Styles is a damned good private investigator. He’ll find out what happened sixteen years ago and help me do whatever I have to do to keep it quiet, or at least tone it down.” He reached for his drink. “So you girls have a choice. Either you come clean with me now, or you let Styles dig it up on his own. The first way will be the most painless, believe me.” He swallowed the last of his scotch.
“You’re out of your mind.” Miranda shot to her feet. “The sheriff’s department concluded that Harley Taggert had a boating accident—no foul play, no suicide.”
“’Course they did,” Dutch said, his face mottling in anger. “Didn’t you ever wonder why?”
Claire’s stomach dropped to the floor. She didn’t want to hear this. Not now. Not ever. Harley was gone; nothing could bring him back.
“Suicide? No one would have bought that.” Dutch snorted at the absurdity. “The kid didn’t leave a note and had no history of depression, so, you’re right, the suicide idea didn’t stick.” His lips thinned.
“Didn’t stick?” Claire repeated, suddenly catching a glimmer of what her father was hinting.
“Wait a minute. Are you suggesting that—what?” Miranda’s eyes were wide and she slowly sat down again. “There was foul play and we”—she made a sweeping gesture to include her sisters—“were somehow involved?”
Dutch crossed to the bar and poured himself another drink. “The reason Taggert’s death was ruled an accident was because I paid the sheriff’s department off—a bribe not to investigate a possible homicide.”
“What?” Claire’s voice came out in a rush.
“Don’t start talking like this,” Miranda said.
“Worried?”
“You bet I am.” Miranda, visibly bristling, walked to the windows and balanced her hips on the sill. “Accusations like this could ruin the reputation of the local sheriff’s department.”
“You’re worried about Sheriff McBain losing his job? Hell, he retired, full pension, three years ago.”
“It’s more personal than that, Dad, and you know it. A story like this, linking my name to a . . . what, murder? Is that what you’re really saying? It could jeopardize my career.”
Ice clinked in his glass as he swirled his drink. “Possibly.”
“And what about you? If you’re serious about running for office, this could kill it. If anyone got wind that you tried to fix the Taggert case—”
“I’ll deny it.” Dutch’s eyes blazed. “As for your precious career, it’s already in jeopardy. Something about a botched prosecution of a known rapist?”
Some of the starch seeped out of Miranda. She felt her shoulders sag. Her father was right—at least partially. Bruno Larkin should be behind bars instead of walking free because of testimony that hadn’t held up in court. The woman who had been raped, Ellen Farmer, a shy thirty-year-old who still lived with her parents, never dated, attended church regularly, and believed that sex outside of matrimony was a sin, had committed suicide after the second day of court. Miranda should have seen it coming. Without Ellen’s testimony, the case was dropped, a sweet woman was dead, and Bruno walked. “You’ve made your point.”
Dutch’s gaze moved to include his other daughters. “Okay, now that we understand each other, let’s get down to it. Which one of you was involved in the Taggert kid’s death?”
“Oh for God’s sake!” Tessa slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “As I said, I’m leaving.”
Just then, the sound of an engine rumbled like damning thunder through the night.
Claire, pale, looked about to keel over. She cast a furtive glance in Miranda’s direction and wiped her palms against the faded fabric of her jeans.
“This Denver Styles,” Miranda said, still shaken. “Has he already been checking around? Has he stopped by my office asking questions?”
Dutch lifted a shoulder. “Don’t know.”
“I don’t appreciate my private life being turned inside out by you or anyone else,” she said, her stomach knotting so painfully she could barely breathe. “There was a time when you could tell us what to do, who to see, where to go, but that’s over, Dad—”
A loud rap interrupted her, and she turned toward the sound.
“Door’s open,” Dutch yelled.
