Dead Certain. Carla Cassidy
what happened now? Where did they go from here? She dug into her purse to find her car keys and suddenly remembered that Riley Frazier hadn’t just handed her a business card the night before. He’d handed her something else, as well.
Digging in her purse, she finally found the sheet of paper that had been thrust into her palm by the handsome stranger. She opened it.
It was a photocopy of an old newspaper article that had appeared in the Sycamore Ridge News on August 14, two years ago.
Man Murdered…Wife Missing, the headline read. Savannah’s heartbeat raced as she read the article that detailed a crime chillingly similar to what appeared to have happened in her parents’ house.
The victim’s name was Bill Frazier and the woman missing was his wife, Joanna. According to the article a son, Riley, survived Bill Frazier.
What had happened to Riley’s mother, Joanna? Had she been found and had she been guilty of the murder of his father?
She needed to talk to Riley Frazier. She needed to find out how things had turned out in this case. And she needed to know what it might have to do with her family’s case.
Chapter 3
He’d hoped she would call, but he really hadn’t been expecting her call so soon. Riley sat in the ice cream parlor that was the bottom floor of the Redbud Bed and Breakfast in the center square of Cherokee Corners.
He was early. She’d told him to meet her here at seven, and it was only now just a little after six. But he’d decided to come early. He’d ordered a cup of coffee, taken a chair facing the door and now waited for Savannah Tallfeather to join him.
She hadn’t mentioned the news clipping in her call, only that she’d like to meet with him. He sipped his coffee, watching the people who came and went as he waited.
The ice cream parlor was a popular place. He wondered if it was always so busy or if Saturday nights brought families out for ice cream. Certainly it was ice cream weather—hot and dry like only Oklahoma could be at this time of year.
The front page of the evening edition of the Cherokee Corners newspaper had been filled with the crime that had taken place the night before at the James ranch. Along with the facts that Thomas James was in critical but stable condition and Rita Birdsong James was missing, the article also was a tribute to the couple’s contributions to the city.
Thomas James had served as chief of police for ten years, and before that had been on the force for twenty years. During his career he’d received a variety of awards, and recognitions of honor.
His wife, Rita Birdsong James, was no less visible in the community. A full-blooded Cherokee, she was the driving force behind the Cherokee Cultural Center. Her goal had been to educate through entertainment and re-creations of the Cherokee past and present. Both were described as pillars of the community.
Riley’s parents hadn’t been community icons to anyone but him. His father had been a simple man, a carpenter, and his mother had been a housewife who loved to crochet. In the evenings they had often worked on jigsaw puzzles together.
Two couples, seemingly very different, and yet they both had suffered a similar fate. The pain he felt when he thought of his parents had lessened somewhat with time, but it certainly hadn’t gone away.
The most difficult part was that there had been no closure. Sure, the police had closed the file, branded his mother a murderer on the run. But he knew better. He knew that somewhere the real killer of his father ran free and the fate of his mother had yet to be learned.
He’d just finished his first cup of coffee when Savannah walked in. Her gaze locked with his, and in that instant he felt a connection like none he’d ever felt before.
He saw the confusion, the pain in her eyes, felt it resonate with aching familiarity inside him. He was certain it was the connection of two survivors, of two people whose lives had been turned upside down by violent, senseless crime.
His impulse was to stand and draw her into his arms, hold her tight to take away the chill that he knew wrapped tightly around her heart.
But, of course he didn’t act on his impulse. She was a virtual stranger, and the last thing he wanted to do was alienate her right from the get-go. He stood as she approached his table. “Officer Tallfeather,” he said in greeting.
“Please, make it Savannah,” she said, and waved him back into his chair. “I’ll be with you in just a minute.” She walked over to the counter and greeted the woman working there. The two hugged and spoke for a minute or two, then Savannah returned to the table and sat across from him. “My cousin,” she explained.
Before she could say anything else, her cousin appeared at their table. She placed a coffee mug before Savannah, then filled both Savannah’s and Riley’s cups.
“Alyssa, this is Riley Frazier,” Savannah said. “Riley, my cousin, Alyssa Whitefeather.”
Alyssa’s eyes were as dark and as filled with pain as Savannah’s. “Nice to meet you,” she murmured in a soft, low voice.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Riley replied. “I’m sorry for the pain your family is experiencing right now.”
She nodded, then touched Savannah’s shoulder. “Let me know if I can get you anything else.”
“Thanks, Alyssa,” Savannah said.
Once again Savannah directed her gaze at him as Alyssa left the table. She wrapped her long, slender fingers around the coffee cup as if seeking warmth.
“I read the newspaper article you gave me,” she began.
“I figured you had when you called.”
She took a sip of her coffee. “Tell me about it. Tell me about the night it happened.”
Riley leaned back in his chair, for a moment rebelling at the thought of revisiting that horrible night. And yet he’d known she’d want him to tell her about it. He’d known when he’d given her that news clipping that he would have to call up everything about that night.
“Before I tell you what happened to them, let me tell you about my parents…about what kind of people they were.”
“All right,” she agreed.
“They were quiet people and lived an uncomplicated life. My father was a carpenter, my mother a homemaker. He liked to putter in his garden in his spare time and my mother loved to cook and crochet. In the evenings they’d either watch old movies together or work on jigsaw puzzles that they set up on a card table in the living room.”
“You were close to them.” Her voice was as unemotional as her beautiful features, but her eyes spoke volumes, radiating with pain. He just didn’t know if the pain was for him or for herself or perhaps a combination of both.
“I was their only child and yes, I was close to them.” He thought of the nights when his choice had been to go to the local honky-tonk or spend the evening at his parents’ house. He’d often chosen his parents’ company. “They were good people.”
“So, what happened…that night?” The words came from her in hesitation, as if she was sorry to have to ask him such a question.
He raked a hand across his lower jaw and forced himself to go back to that night. “I’d been over to their house that afternoon to show my dad some blueprints of new homes. I had a six-o’clock appointment with clients and so left my folks’ place about five-thirty.”
He paused to take a drink of his coffee and felt himself plunging back in time, pulled back into the nightmare. “It was after eight when the clients left, and I realized I’d left some of the blueprints at my folks’ house, so I drove back there.”
On one of the walls of the restaurant was a beautiful painting of a redbud tree in bloom. He stared at the picture as he continued. “The front door was open, which really wasn’t