No Turning Back Read online

  “You don’t think so?” Tawny gazed gravely at Liz.

  “Your mom needs you now, Tawny.”

  Tawny chewed on her lower lip. “You don’t think I’m a bother to her, then?”

  Liz’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Damn Guy Fielding, she thought viciously. Another man might actually believe those excuses, but she knew Guy and Kristy’s relationship too intimately to buy into that. Guy wanted everything. And if he was making noise about having Tawny live with him, then that meant he’d decided—belatedly—that he wanted the daughter from his first marriage. And calling Kristy every day to inquire on her welfare was just a blasted cover-up.

  “Babe, you’re not a bother to anyone,” Liz told her. “Don’t let anyone say you are.”

  “Anyone—like my father?” There was a touch of sardonic humor in her tone. Liz had originally tried to hide her aversion to Guy Fielding, but Tawny was too astute for that. Because she was only too aware of her father’s personality type, Tawny didn’t hold it against Liz.

  “All I’m saying is your mom needs you now. Your dad should know that, but maybe he doesn’t.”

  “If I can’t get through to him, would you talk to him?”

  Liz pictured that conversation. “Yes,” she said resignedly, to which Tawny actually chuckled. The kid was fifteen going on fifty.

  It turned out Jesse was at Brad’s, which made Liz sigh with relief. Not that she couldn’t pick him up at the log cabin he shared with his father. It was, after all, the middle of the afternoon and she was unlikely to meet Hawk during a weekday. But she naturally preferred to avoid a scene—and a scene it would be if, and when, Hawk realized she was seeing Jesse on the sly.

  “We’re catching a lift?” Brad asked, jumping in the back of the Miata. His long legs knocked against his chin.

  “I’ll probably get a ticket for no seat belts,” Liz complained as Jesse climbed in beside Brad. The two boys were a massive wall behind them, their bodies contorted to fit the small confines of the backseat.

  “It’s only a couple miles,” Jesse pointed out. “If we see the police, we’ll run for the border.”

  “Yeah right.” Liz knew she was piling on another transgression.

  The ride was uneventful and she cruised along Woodside’s main street until they found the ice cream shop, which was also a small café. As Tawny, Jesse, and Brad jumped out, Tawny glanced back at Liz and invited, “Would you like to join us?”

  “Thanks, but I’m okay.”

  To her amazement and secret joy, Jesse suddenly swung around, straight hair flying and said, “Yeah, c’mon,” to which Brad gave him a look that said You’re a total nutcase.

  Liz didn’t question the fates. With a shrug, she cut the engine and joined the three teenagers inside. Tawny and Jesse had accepted her at a different level than “adult” or “shrink,” and she was eternally grateful. Brad couldn’t get over the fact that she was his psychologist and therefore felt differently. She couldn’t blame him. But because he put up with this strange arrangement without much fuss, Liz continually took advantage of it.

  Three steps into the café, Liz stopped short and inwardly groaned. Ahead of them in line was Deanne Martin. No sign of Josh. He stayed as far away from his mother as possible unless he was forced to be with her—that much had been obvious from the start.

  Liz half-hoped Deanne would get her ice cream and leave without seeing Liz or, barring that, just smile in acknowledgment and head on her merry way.

  No such luck. As soon as Deanne turned around and her gaze touched on Liz, she bee-lined toward her, chocolate mousse nut ice cream nearly melting in the wind created by her sudden speed. She was completely unaware that Liz was with Tawny, Brad, and Jesse.

  “Josh is with his father,” she said. “He wants to stay with his father! Robert’s getting married and he wants Josh!”

  Liz wasn’t certain how to respond. It was difficult to see which way Deanne felt.

  Her hesitancy went unnoticed. “Josh has been hanging around with some juvenile delinquents,” Deanne continued. “He got in some trouble last week—nothing serious—and then Robert just came in and swooped him up. I’m taking him to court. He’s not going to get away with it.”

  Deanne belatedly became aware that Tawny, Brad, and Jesse were all staring at her. Collecting herself, she glanced around and focused on Jesse’s long hair. “It’s not like Josh is really bad, like a lot of kids. He didn’t take those yew trees,” she added pointedly.

  “Yew trees?” Liz questioned. “You mean, Mrs. Brindamoor’s trees?”

  “Well, we didn’t take them either,” Brad declared, puffing up with indignation.

  Jesse stared Deanne down, his blue eyes simmering with repressed anger. Liz said quickly, “Mrs. Brindamoor’s tree theft doesn’t sound like teen vandalism.”

  Tears brimmed in Deanne’s eyes. “I’m going to kill Robert in court,” she declared. “He’s an unfit father, and I’m going to make sure everybody knows it.”

  “Josh is a decent guy,” Jesse stated flatly.

  “How the hell would you know?” She whirled on him. “You’re a thief!”

  “Deanne,” Liz protested.

  Jesse moved a step closer, threatening with his size. Deanne, tough lady that she was, didn’t budge, though she did flinch at his cold tone. “I didn’t take those trees.”

  “Hey.” Liz sidled between them, unconsciously preparing for a fight.

  “Anita Brindamoor saw you and your friends digging them up. She said so. Vandals! You should be ashamed of yourselves!”

  “She said the same about Josh,” Brad put in.

  “Let’s not make accusations,” Liz intervened firmly, but Brad couldn’t help muttering something under his breath, which sounded suspiciously like stupid cow.

  Jesse just continued to glare at Deanne in that awful way young men can use to intimidate. It eventually worked, too, because Deanne lost a bit of her confidence and headed for the door. She stopped, one hand on the exit bar, seemed to want to say something, then pushed into the late afternoon sunshine, chocolate mousse nut ice cream speckling her navy double-breasted dress.

  “She’s unhappy,” Liz said into the uncomfortable silence.

  “Friend of yours?” Jesse asked.

  “More like an acquaintance.”

  “She’s a bitch.”

  “Do you think Josh wants to live with his father?” Tawny asked, sounding worried.

  Liz didn’t know. She hadn’t seen Josh enough to have an opinion. “She’d sure like to blame the theft of those trees on you,” she told Jesse.

  In a way that could make Liz’s heart squeeze because he resembled his father so much, Jesse sent her a sardonic smile. “I’m a bad boy.”

  “Not as bad as me,” The Brad Influence chimed in.

  “Worse. My dad’s a detective, and he can’t control his own son. I went out in the dead of night, dug up twenty-two yew trees, and sold ’em for timber.”

  “Nobody wants yew trees for timber.” Brad stuck out his tongue and rolled his eyes.

  Something twitched inside Liz’s brain. Something she almost knew. She thought about it long and hard while the three teenagers picked out ice cream flavors, but nothing gelled. Maybe later it would come to her.

  Tawny, Brad, and Jesse decided to walk home together. Liz climbed back in her car. She was turning the ignition when Jesse suddenly leaned his arms on the door of the Miata. Sunlight slanted across his young face. She saw, vaguely, a resemblance to herself and it took her breath away.

  “We really didn’t take those trees,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “That’s more than a prank. That’s a damn lot of work.”

  Liz barely heard what he said. Something about the timbre of his voice picked at her memories of Hawthorne, and she couldn’t really pay attention to anything besides the quality of those low, rumbly tones.

  But later, when she was alone in her house, brushing her hair at the bathro
om mirror and gazing at her own reflection and the slight tan she’d achieved over the last week and a half of much-anticipated sunshine, Liz considered Jesse’s words.

  Why would someone steal twenty-some trees that weren’t worth much in timber?

  And then the little prickling memory swam to the surface of her memory. Yews. Yew bark.

  Grabbing the phone, she placed a call to Tawny and accidentally wakened Kristy, who sounded groggy and disoriented.

  “I’m sorry,” Liz apologized, realizing it was late. “Is Tawny there?”

  “She’s in her room. The music’s loud.” Kristy yawned.

  “Kristy, do you remember when we were at the hospital and the doctor was talking to you about Taxol, the medicine you were prescribed?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Where did he say it came from?”

  “Oh, I remember that. It was weird. He said it came from the bark of yew trees. He said it took tons of bark to squeeze out the derivative for Taxol.” She paused. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “Yeah.” Liz was thoughtful. “That’s what I wanted to know.”

  “You want me to have Tawny call you?”

  “No, that’s okay. Take care, all right?”

  Liz hung up. She thought about Mrs. Brindamoor’s trees and wondered if she’d stumbled on the reason for the theft. If so, the culprit might be more easily caught and the heat would be off Jesse.

  Drumming her fingers on the receiver, she considered calling Hawthorne and explaining her theory.

  Do you just want to make contact?

  No, she didn’t want Hawthorne. Criminy, the guy had treated her abysmally sixteen years ago and she was still licking her wounds. She couldn’t still have feelings. She didn’t want contact.

  Still, the memory of his blue-gray eyes and low voice and strong muscles did strange things to the cool detachment she prided herself on. With just the slightest trick of memory, she could recall sharp images from when his body and hers made magic: hair-roughened limbs, smooth sheets, slanting sunlight, trembling gasps, warm skin, and alcohol-laced breath.

  She went to bed early that night, covering her head with blankets, listening to her heartbeat. Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think, she admonished herself until way past the witching hour and into the empty hours of early morning.

  Chapter Eight

  The sun beat down with gleeful vengeance, as if laughing at the poor, foolish Washingtonians who’d prayed for deliverance from the rain mere weeks earlier. Hawthorne slipped Barney Turgate’s key into the lock on his apartment door, meeting stale, sweltering air head-on. The rent was paid up for three months and no one had come to claim Barney’s things. His ex-wife and daughter apparently didn’t care in the least. Upon learning of her father’s death, the daughter merely said, “How sad,” in a bored tone that left Hawk feeling strange all day.

  Barney had left no will; he’d thought he would live forever, according to those who knew him. Hawk stretched his shoulders and glanced around without much interest. Someday the landlord might actually manage to box up his belongings and turn them over to the state, but for now they remained in limbo, having been combed through time and again by the police as if his meager pile of worldly goods could hold some clue.

  So far the only lead in the Turgate case was Manny Belding, and Hawthorne had had a hell of a time catching up with him.

  The guy was a phantom. Everyone had seen him—ten minutes ago. The barkeep at the Elbow Room, whose first name was Lars, had made the mistake of relaying to Manny that Detective Hart was looking for him. Manny, assuming the worst, was now acting like a fugitive. Apparently, he believed if the cops wanted to talk to you, make yourself invisible.

  Except he hadn’t left Woodside, at least according to the landlady who rented him a garage apartment sadly in need of some TLC, paint, and indoor plumbing. She explained that he was around in a kind of vague way that reminded Hawk of those hazy, alcohol-numbed weeks after Laura’s death. Yep, she was a tippler. But she was adamant that Manny was around.

  Hawk had spent the last few weeks alternately working on the Turgate murder and fending off renewed bile from Mrs. Anita Brindamoor. Not enough was being done. No one had any gumption. Teenagers were running rampant. The Woodside Police Department was manned by fools and incompetents. She was going to the F.B.I.

  Consequently, no one, including Chief of Police Dortner, had any burning desire to help her. Any sympathy once felt by Woodside’s finest had been eradicated by furious remarks from an extremely sharp tongue.

  One of the junior officers who’d been particularly scorned by Mrs. Brindamoor, based on his youthful appearance apparently, had even had the audacity to pin a newspaper picture of an elderly woman celebrating her one-hundredth birthday, label it “Our Friend Anita,” and throw the first dart. Perry had been forced to remove it from the storeroom wall, but it kept making reappearances. Hawk was pretty sure he’d seen it there this morning.

  So, Hawk had been following after Manny Belding and gleaning more information on Barney Turgate’s small-town life. Turgate was as unremarkable as gray stone, yet people seemed to get a kick out of him. There was always a Barney somewhere. But any speculation on who’d killed him or why it had happened was offered with a shrug and a shake of the head.

  He just didn’t inspire that kind of fury, and he didn’t have anything anybody really wanted.

  “Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” one of the regulars holding up the Elbow Room bar suggested. “It happens.”

  Hawk pointed out that it was a very removed “wrong place” and it looked like Barney Turgate had been instrumental in setting up the time, be it wrong or otherwise. It turned out that the very property where he was killed was the site of one of old Barn’s failed real estate deals. This had intrigued Hawk for a while. Maybe there were bad feelings over money. People had died for a lot less. But no, the property had been fought over by a couple of corporations that’d wanted to develop it. Any fight was with the city of Woodside, whose council wasn’t interested in commercial development of any kind. Barney’s failure as a real estate man was in thinking he could fight city hall. The corporations backed out and that was that.

  So, now, he stood inside Barney’s abode for the second time that week. It was a four-plex unit along the trendier side of Woodside’s South End. Barn had recently made a few rungs up the economic ladder, enough to change his address and buy himself a newer model pickup that stood out front baking in the sun. Hawk had searched it a few days before. Nothing. He’d told the daughter about it, and she’d told him to sell it and send her the check.

  Offspring. Ya gotta love ’em.

  Inhaling the stale scent of small, hot rooms and forgotten belongings, Hawk couldn’t help thinking about Jesse, who’d been remarkably “good” these past few weeks. His friend Brad had gotten a job at Lannie’s and Jesse was showing interest in the work as well. Hawk hadn’t suggested he find employment this summer because Jesse’s irresponsibility had gotten him fired several times before. The kid just couldn’t take orders. But now there was new hope.

  So, Jesse hadn’t been the headache he was earlier, and the investigation was proceeding at the rate of molasses in January, which left Hawk with time on his hands.

  It gave him way too much time to think about Liz Havers.

  “Damn,” he muttered without heat. He should have known she would show up sometime. The fact that she’d been out of the picture until now meant little. She was Jesse’s biological mother, and no matter how hard he wanted to believe—and have others believe—Laura had been Jesse’s mother, it simply wasn’t true.

  He grimaced. He’d almost forgotten about Liz. She was a fuzzy memory from that grief-stricken, hellish period after Laura’s death. She meant nothing to him. She’d been a panacea, and a damn poor one at that.

  He would have felt guilt about using her; he would have worried about her feelings. But she’d almost destroyed the child he’d wanted so
desperately to have with Laura, a child clearly never meant to be.

  But then Jesse had come along, and he wasn’t about to let anyone—especially the bluenose Havers family—take the boy away from him. Liz had given him Jesse, but that was as far as their relationship went—then and now.

  Hawk shook his head, still startled by how beautiful Liz had become. Up until a few weeks ago, he wouldn’t have been able to say what she looked like; he’d spent too many years crushing her memory. But when he’d suddenly seen her, he’d known immediately who she was. And it had hit him soul-deep.

  And now she wanted to be part of Jesse’s life, and she couldn’t have come at a worse time. He was frightened Jesse might be susceptible to her, though he would never admit it. Though they’d been close during all those years alone together, he and Jesse had entered a pretty rough stretch. Who knew what could happen now?

  Hawk had learned the hard way how to care for a baby. He’d been a single parent with a tough, demanding career to balance as well. It had been okay. They’d made out, somehow, until Joey’s death and Jesse’s subsequent dive into adolescence.

  It was partly his own fault. He’d pulled away from Jesse at a time when his son had really needed him. He’d been unable to do anything else. If Laura still had been living and there to help, the transition might have been easier and Jesse might be on a more stable path.

  Except Laura wasn’t Jesse’s mother. Liz Havers was.

  “God . . .” Hawk murmured, shaking off the past and turning to the job. Here he was again. Looking for something. Anything. It was annoying to admit, but his investigations in Los Angeles had always followed predictable paths into drugs, sex, money, and power, and criminals invariably messed up. But here in his bucolic hometown, Hawthorne couldn’t come up with one logical explanation to Barney Turgate’s untimely death.

  The guy just wasn’t that interesting.

  Hawk glanced around the living room of Barney’s two-bedroom unit. Newspapers were stacked in piles all along the periphery. Old Barn loved the sports page; it was on the top of each pile and sometimes the rest of the paper beneath appeared to be untouched. His furniture looked like a cross between Grandma’s hand-me-downs and bachelor chic: smoked-glass shelves and chrome tubular black-leather slingback chairs cheek by jowl with claw-footed, overstuffed armchairs sporting tattered lace doilies.