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Overview
Together Steve and Cedric embark on a hunt for answers. At every turn, people seem to have secrets: the police officer who investigated a suspicious death years ago and who is now the chief near retirement, Cedric’s aunt Penny, who knows all the gossip in the town but claims to know nothing about the death and, most alarming of all, Cedric’s own grandparents and uncle, who insist no good will come of his questions.
What are they all hiding? And does Cedric really want to know the answers?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781459818255 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Orca Book Publishers |
| Publication date: | 08/27/2019 |
| Series: | Cedric O'Toole Mystery Series , #4 |
| Pages: | 160 |
| Product dimensions: | 4.75(w) x 7.25(h) x 0.31(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
I SAW THE GUY coming half a mile away, the dust from his pickup blowing across my cornfield. Not many vehicles use the gravel road past my farm, so Chevy and I both stopped to watch. By the time the truck was halfway up my lane, the dog was off the front stoop and running toward it. Tail wagging, tongue lolling. Chevy never has been much of a guard dog.
The truck had Alberta plates, so the dude was a long way from home. He took his time climbing down, like he was stiff from hours of traveling. He limped toward me.
"Cedric Elvis O'Toole?" he said.
I bristled. I've heard that little sneer often enough. My mother saddled me with that name, but she is long dead, and she couldn't help her love for Elvis. With his wraparound sunglasses and his leather cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes, the guy didn't give much away. But he wasn't smiling. About three feet from me he stopped.
"I think you might be my brother."
Now, I should say here that I have no brother. There'd only ever been my mother and me when I was growing up. We lived together out on this worthless scrub farm. She died when I was seventeen, and no one ever came to claim it from me. The only one of my mother's relatives who actually spoke to us was her aunt Penny. Getting pregnant at sixteen was an unforgivable sin in the O'Toole clan, Aunt Penny said.
So there could be a whole lot of cousins I know nothing about, but I'd have noticed if there was a brother underfoot.
I said that to the man standing in front of me. I couldn't see much of his face, but he was built like an oil drum. I'm a beanpole, even though I spend most of my days working on my farm and doing construction.
He grinned. "Half brother, I should have said. Steve Lilley's my name." He shoved out his hand. It was rough and callused, but his grip was friendly. He gestured to my front stoop.
"Can we sit down, Cedric?" He cocked his head at me. "Do people really call you that?"
"Only my great aunt when she's mad at me. Rick will do."
Steve limped over to my stoop and eased himself down. "You got something cold to drink inside?"
"Um ... Coke?"
Steve made a face. "I guess that will do."
I went inside to get two Cokes. I don't drink the stuff often. It's so sweet it makes my teeth ache. But there were a couple of cans in the back of the fridge. I'm guessing they didn't have an expiry date. While I was opening them, Steve came into the kitchen and stood looking around. His eyebrows shot up.
I know the farmhouse is nothing fancy. It's about a hundred years old, and my mother couldn't afford to fix it up. She put in electric appliances and painted the pine cupboards and the old farm table bright yellow with blue flowers. But we pretty much left the rest of the place alone. I live here by myself, and so far it's suited me fine. I've been thinking I should fix it up a bit now that Jessica is coming over, but that's a story for another time. Now I could see it was pretty shabby. I felt the tips of my ears grow red.
He peered over my shoulder into the fridge. I grow or raise most of what I eat myself. The fridge had a few vegetables, milk, eggs and goat cheese. "I don't have much right now," I mumbled.
"I passed a pub in town," he said. "We could grab dinner and a couple of beers there instead."
I thought of all the flapping ears that would be listening to our conversation. By morning the whole town would know about Cedric O'Toole's long-lost brother coming to town. My poor mother had had enough gossip in her time.
"I'll fix us something. And I've got beer in the cellar."
He seemed happy with that news and settled in to watch. I cut up some goat cheese, homemade bread, peppers and carrots, and put them all on a tray.
Back outside on the stoop, he downed half his beer before he said a word. He seemed to be having trouble getting started. "Your mother dead?" he said finally.
I nodded. "Long time ago."
"Mine died three months ago." He drank more beer. "Cancer. That was a bitch."
Words have never been my strong suit. But I know it must be hard to watch someone die bit by bit. "Sorry," I muttered when he'd been quiet too long.
"There was just me and her at the end. My dad died ten years ago. At least, I thought he was my dad. He was the only one I knew, and I always thought he was my real dad. But when my mom was dying, she told me he wasn't."
I finally saw where this was going. My heart raced as I waited. He drained his beer can and crushed it in one fist. "This is hard," he said. "I've been going over it in my mind this whole trip, how I was going to explain it."
"You want another beer?" I needed one. I was about to get the answer to the biggest question of my life, and I wasn't sure I was ready. Down in the cellar, I breathed in and out to settle my nerves.
"I brought us the case," I said when I went back outside. The sun was setting, and long shadows were creeping across the yard. Steve was scratching Chevy's ears. "We used to have a dog," he said. "God, I loved that dog. When I went into the service, my mother had her put down. Said she was old and sick, but I've always wondered." He paused and took a breath. "We grew up in Calgary. That's the only home I know. My mother said my real father worked in Fort McMurray during the oil boom. He'd come to Calgary for his holidays. He met my mother there, one thing led to another. But when I was a baby, he went east to visit a buddy. Never came back. She never heard from him again."
He stopped again to scratch Chevy's ears and drink more beer. "Who's your father, Rick?"
I wasn't ready to tell him that story yet. I was already about to jump out of my skin. "Who's yours?" I shot back.
"They were never married. My mother called him Wild West, and she said there was a rumor he had an affair back here. Fathered a kid."
Wild West? In all the years I'd been wondering about my dad, the idea he was from out west had never come up. But why did that name sound familiar?
"Me?" I croaked.
"She thought I should know."
I was thinking, What kind of mother drops that bombshell on her deathbed? I thought mine was bad enough, carrying the secret of my father to her grave. But since I'm not great with words, only one word came to mind. "Why?"
"I was home on compassionate leave. I'd just finished three tours in Afghanistan. With this busted-up knee, I was on my way out of the army. I guess Mom thought finding my dad would give me something to do when she was gone."
"So that's why you're here? To find him?"
"Not especially. He left my mother with a two-year-old boy and a pile of grief." He looked at me, his eyes glinting in the sunset. Silvery blue, just like mine. "But it would be nice to know if I had a brother."
CHAPTER 2I'VE NEVER BEEN much of a drinker. So after three beers I was nearly falling off the stoop. But Steve was just winding up. I stumbled to my feet.
"I've got some chores to do," I said before wobbling off toward the barn. Goats and chickens don't take care of themselves.
Steve limped along behind me. "Can you make a living off this farm?"
"I get by. I'm a simple guy."
We passed by the piles of junked cars and gutted appliances scattered about. Thanks to Jessica, they were neater piles than they used to be, but rust and weeds were taking over.
"What's all this stuff?" Steve asked.
"I like to tinker."
He stopped dead. Looked at me excitedly. "Me too. I was a mechanic in the army, and I've been building engines since I was ten."
Halfway through the barn door, he spotted my old shotgun hanging in its case on the wall inside. It pulled him like a magnet. "Does this work?"
I shrugged. "I suppose. I hardly ever use it."
He peered at it. "Needs a bit of oil. I'll fix it up for you."
The goats had set up a racket, so I used that as an excuse to go inside without answering him. Inside, there was more junk. Old radios, toasters, lawn mowers — anything folks wanted to get rid of. I know I shouldn't take it all, but it's hard to say no. I have fourteen old lawn mowers, some of them buried so deep in raspberry canes that I can't even find them.
While I fed and milked the goats, Steve pawed through the junk. He was muttering like a kid in a candy store. "Some of this stuff is worth money, you know. Clean it up, replace a part or two, and you could sell it on Kijiji."
Kijiji. Jessica has been on me too to advertise my handyman business on the Internet. But computers and I don't get along. Like the kids I went to school with, they mock me when I don't understand. I'm a back-to-basics guy. I jury-rigged an antenna so I could watch TV, but I never bothered with the Internet. I have all the entertainment I need right here in my yard.
I finished the chores and headed back to the house. My head ached. I wanted to crawl into bed, but Steve was still going strong. He showed no signs of leaving. Back in the house, he opened up the fridge. Pulled out a pot and peered inside.
"That's soup," I said.
"That ought to do us for supper with a hunk of cheese and bread," he said.
"Shouldn't you be getting back?"
"Back where?"
"Well, to town. Or wherever you're staying."
Steve glanced up the stairs. "You got an extra bedroom up there?"
So Steve stayed the night. Not the quietest guy in the world. He woke me a few times, pacing and muttering. I was going to need earplugs if he stayed long.
The next morning I struggled awake at eight o'clock, surprised that Chevy hadn't woken me. Downstairs, Steve already had eggs frying and toast ready. Chevy was sitting happily at his feet, catching scraps.
"Uncomfortable bed?" I asked.
He looked puzzled, then shrugged. "Just stuff. Nightmares. I hope I didn't yell."
"It's fine," I lied. "You can try sleeping downstairs if it helps."
"It's not the bed. It's a pretty good bed for a hundred years old." He poured me a coffee. "I've been thinking, this is kind of the first day of the rest of my life. I'd like to explore my options a bit. I could earn my keep around here. Maybe sell some of that stuff for you, help with chores, while I figure out what's next. I got nothing keeping me in Calgary."
That freaked me out. I've been on my own a long time. I like my own company, and all that stuff he wanted to sell was my stuff. "I don't know, Steve," was all I said.
Steve put a plate of eggs down on the table in front of me. "You ever heard of anyone called Wild West?"
I'd been replaying old conversations and meetings in my head most of the night. The name rang a distant bell, but I couldn't think why. "Don't know. Maybe," I said, picking up my cup. It took two hands, as if it weighed a hundred pounds.
"Who's your father then?"
"Don't know that either."
Steve sat and rested his elbows on the faded-blue-flowered table. "But you must have some idea. You've been living here your whole life. Relatives must have talked. In a small place like this, everyone talks."
"Not to me they don't."
He cocked his head and studied me. I could see the disbelief in his eyes, which had dark rings around the blue. Just like mine. My mother's eyes were brown.
"Don't you want to know?"
I thought about it. When my mother died, I'd gone searching for his identity. I'd always figured she'd tell me when I was old enough to handle whatever surprise she thought it would be. But when she smashed up her car and broke every bone in her body, I realized I'd have to find out on my own.
I wasn't in the best shape in those days, so I didn't get far by asking. I tried listening, hoping to catch a stray word. I tried watching blue-eyed men from the sidelines. Did any of them cry at the funeral? Did any of them visit her grave? Did any of them show a soft spot for me?
I went through a lot of theories. One possibility was my high school math teacher, whose dark-blue eyes still made the girls all fluttery. He was her teacher the year she got pregnant.
Another major contender was Todd, who ran the marina. He'd have been much older than her, but he had the money in the town, so he could pretty much get whatever he wanted.
I'd tried coming at the puzzle from another angle. I do that when I can't get an engine to work. What kind of girl had my mother been, and what kind of man would have interested her? I only had kid memories of her, mostly of her sitting on the porch smoking cigarettes and listening to Elvis. Or dancing with me all dreamy-like in the living room. Humming along. She'd loved Elvis. For years after her death his smoky eyes had looked down at me from posters all over the walls. There was still one in the bedroom where Steve had slept.
I figured any guy she liked would have had to look like Elvis. Jessica said women fell for him because he was dangerous and sexy, with killer eyes. Of the kids in my mother's high school class, the ones still in town after all these years had beer guts and buzz cuts. No one who looked like Elvis had stayed in Lake Madrid.
I shrugged. It was too complicated to explain, especially with a hangover. "It seemed like a dead end," I said.
"But you must have theories."
"Like I said, dead ends."
"Jesus H., Rick. Someone knows! Or suspects. What about your mother's family?"
"We lost touch." Actually, we'd never been in touch. That was another sore point that I didn't want to share with a guy I barely knew. I knew where they lived, and when I was younger I used to drive over there, park down the road and watch the house. I knew my grandfather had been a carpenter. He still puttered around the house, but his back was all bent out of shape, so he couldn't work. I knew my grandmother had a bad temper. After I saw her kick their dog, I didn't want to meet her anymore.
Steve got up to clear the plates and wipe the crumbs from the table. The guy sure was neat. Must have been the military. "Well, this is a good excuse to get back in touch," he said. "Let's work our way through the possibilities. You have something to go on now. An Albertan who came here thirtyfive years ago to visit a friend from the oil patch. Can't be too many of them."
My brain cells were beginning to come to life. "And what are we going to do if we find anyone? They'll probably deny everything. How are we going to prove it?"
"DNA."
"From all the guys it could be? They'll never agree."
"We won't know unless we ask. Who knows, maybe they'll be excited to find out they have two sons. Like I was thrilled to have a brother."
A thought clicked into place in my awakening brain. It was a question I should have asked right at the beginning. "How do you know that? How did you find me?"
Steve tapped his temple. "The old noggin. After my mother died I was cleaning out her things. I found a letter postmarked Hawley Bay, February 1985. It was signed Your WW. He said something had come up and he couldn't leave till he sorted it out. I figured the something was you. So I paid a private-eye buddy of mine to do a little digging, and he came up with all the babies born in Hawley Bay in 1985. None fit the bill. But when he expanded his search to nearby towns, bingo." He pointed at me. "There was a little boy born in Lake Madrid in June 1985, father unknown."
"But ... but ..." My head reeled. I felt like I was in free fall. "That doesn't prove I'm your brother. Just because the letter was postmarked Hawley Bay doesn't mean your brother was born around here. You could have the wrong place, even the wrong year."
"But I don't think I do," he said, his silvery blue eyes staring into mine in a way that gave me the creeps. "But there's one way to find out. DNA testing ourselves."
The free falling got worse. "Oh no. There's only one doctor in town, and his nurse has lived here forever. The whole town will know before we're even out of the office."
Steve laughed. "On the Internet, you doofus! We order the kit on the Internet. You swab your cheek and mail it back to them, and they tell you how you're related. No one here has to know a damn thing."
He made me feel like an idiot. Like the world was galloping away from me, out into a future I didn't know or understand. Jessica makes me feel like that sometimes. I like keeping things simple, but it seemed like I was going to get dragged into the future no matter what.
CHAPTER 3STEVE WASN'T TAKING no for an answer. So after breakfast we set off for the Lake Madrid library, which had Internet access. I kept my head down as Steve barreled toward a private corner at the back. I imagined everyone in Lake Madrid was staring at me. Rick O'Toole was at the library! He can hardly read a cereal box! My cheeks flushed just at the thought of their laughter.
Steve flipped open his laptop. He sure knew his way around the Internet. He found what we needed right away, but we were halfway through filling out the form when we hit our first stumbling block.
"What's your address?" he asked.
"Why?"
"So they can mail the kit."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Blood Ties"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Barbara Fradkin.
Excerpted by permission of ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS.
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