AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“It does. Was his body ever found?”
“Not for a long time. But this part I know for sure because I was here. The searchers had given up. Then, just a couple of years ago, a fisherman brought up some bones and rags. And would you believe it? It was Jeff. Down there all that time. The DNA test proved it.”
Stunned, Brock willed himself not to look surprised. So Jeff’s suicide had been real. He’d been dead all this time. And the theory that Jeff was behind the clippings, threats, and murders was nothing more than dust in the wind.
He forced himself to speak. “You say Jeff had a son.”
The salesman shrugged. “That’s what I was told. Can’t say I know where the boy is now. But the old lady—Chase’s widow—is still alive. She’s in an assisted living place out on the south road. Had a stroke that put her there. From what I hear, she isn’t doing too well.”
“So who owns the dealership now?” Brock’s gaze swept over the lot full of shiny cars.
“Now that’s an interesting story, too. Chase’s widow inherited the place when her husband died. For a lot of years, she leased the business but kept ownership. I guess maybe she was saving it for Jeff if he ever turned up alive. When those bones were pulled up, she announced that she wanted to sell. She was bought out by some big franchise company for a pile of money—close to a million bucks if you can believe the rumor.”
A car was pulling into the lot. The salesman straightened his tie and wiped a fingerprint off the Subaru’s rear door with his handkerchief. “Gotta go,” he said. “But you could try talking to the old bat. From what I hear, she got religion and went a little crazy, but you never know. Anyway, nice passing the time with you, stranger.” He strode toward the newcomer, leaving Brock to climb into his car and drive back to the street.
Farther down Main Street was the city park. Brock found a shady spot on a side street, climbed out of the car, and sat on a bench gazing at the budding trees overhead. He needed time to weigh what he’d just learned.
The pieces of the puzzle had finally come together. The person providing the orders and cash behind two murders, four murder attempts, some serious property and stock loss, and possible extortion was Johanna Smith Carpenter—Chase’s widow, the mother of Jeff and Mia, and the grandmother of Jason, otherwise known as Jim.
Those numbers didn’t take into account the death of Fritz Jaeger, the hit man she’d hired to wreak vengeance on the man she blamed for destroying her family.
He could go to the police, but without solid evidence, they would never believe his story. Short of walking away, the only option that remained was to go to the nursing home and confront her.
There were some harsh truths that the woman needed to hear.
* * *
The Twilight Villa, a rambling, one-story brick structure, was overgrown with ivy and shaded by two drooping mulberry trees. It had been built after Brock left Ridgewood, but the place had long since taken on an air of age.
The smell of bleach, masked with cinnamon-scented air freshener, flooded Brock’s senses as he signed the visitor log. Inside, the place looked clean and well maintained. The parlor, seen through a wide archway, was furnished in cushiony leather seating, where several elderly residents were watching an episode ofPetticoat Junctionon an oldies TV channel. Although the day outside was warm, a gas log blazed in the fireplace.
“Johanna is in her room,” the receptionist said. “I’ll send an aide down to let her know she has a visitor. We have to tell her your name. Does she know you?”
Brock nodded. “She hasn’t seen me in years, but you might say we’ve been in touch.”
A few minutes later, the aide, a young woman in scrubs, was back. “She’ll see you, sir. Lucky timing. This is one of her good days.”
He followed her down a long hallway to a room near the end. The door was slightly ajar. The aide motioned for him to go inside, then left.
Brock hadn’t known what to expect when he stepped into the room. The woman in the wheelchair was seated with her back to the window. The light behind her made it difficult to see her features except in silhouette. But he could make out a thin, erect figure with meticulously coiffed silver hair. Her legs were covered with a knitted afghan. A leather-covered Bible lay in her lap, cradled by her wrinkled hands.
“Close the door, Ben Talbot. Or is it Brock Tolman?” The low voice pricked his memory. He hadn’t known her well, but he recalled her superior manner of speaking.
“If you want to sit, you can sit on the bed,” she said. “Extra chairs just get in my way.”
“I’ll stand. And it’s Brock Tolman.” He closed the door.
“Yes. I saw you in a TV interview about bucking bulls. That’s how I knew who you were.”
He moved aside to escape the glare of the window. Now he could see more of the room. There was a closet and a doorless entrance to the ADA-compliant bathroom. Opposite the foot of the bed was a credenza with a TV on top. Lined up along one side were framed portrait photos of her husband, her son, her daughter, and her grandson.
He could see her face now. Johanna Carpenter had been a beautiful woman. Her elegant bone structure remained. But grief, hate, and ill health had aged her. The left side of her face was rigid, with a lopsided droop to her mouth, caused by the stroke she’d suffered. It might have been easy to feel pity toward her. But Brock felt nothing of the kind.
“I know everything, Johanna,” he said. “Jason, the grandson you used against me, is dead. He was murdered by the hit man you hired to carry out your foolish vendetta. All for nothing.”
He saw the shock pass over half her face. The other half remained eerily still. She slumped in her chair. Then, with an amazing show of strength, she seemed to pull herself together.
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said. “There’s nothing you or anybody, not even the law, can do to me. I have a terminal mass in my brain. The doctors have given me less than a month to live. I could die anytime.”
