Sandra Robbins - Yuletide Jeopardy

She cleared her throat. “Mr. Mitchell,” she called out.

Another gust of wind blew across the bridge, and the man wobbled as he struggled to maintain his balance. For a moment it looked as if he might fall to the river below, but he steadied himself. “Is that you, Grace?”

Chills rippled up her spine at the sight of the gaunt figure perched on the railing. She took a deep breath and stepped closer. “Yes. I understand you wanted to see me. What can I do to help you?”

The man didn’t speak for a moment. His eyes narrowed, and his gaze raked Grace. Her skin burned as his intense stare bored into her very soul. “You can find out who murdered my son.”

Grace didn’t know if it was the force of Mr. Mitchell’s words or the veins that stood out in his neck and face that frightened her the most. “Mr. Mitchell, Landon committed suicide. Don’t you remember? His car was found parked on this bridge. The door was open, and the keys were still in the ignition. There was a note on the seat that said he was sorry.”

His eyes blazed with fury. “He didn’t commit suicide. The note was printed off a computer. Landon hated typing on the computer. He would have left a handwritten note. Everybody was too quick to decide it was suicide.”

She shook her head and frowned. “Mr. Mitchell, I noticed changes in Landon during the two years before he died. He started skipping school, his grades dropped and he cut himself off from his old friends. I thought he was going through some kind of depression, so I wasn’t surprised when he killed himself.”

The man closed his eyes and yelled at the top of his voice. “He didn’t kill himself! He was murdered. It was that secret group he joined that killed him. You knew about it and didn’t tell anybody.”

Grace’s eyes grew wide, and she held up her hand. “Mr. Mitchell, please be careful. You’re going to fall.”

The words were no sooner out of her mouth than another wind gust whipped across the bridge. The loose-fitting, unbuttoned coat he wore flapped around his body. He grabbed the bar he straddled and clamped his legs around the base of the railing as he wobbled from side to side. Grace drew in a sharp breath and released it when he steadied himself.

She waited until he’d regained his balance before she spoke. “I understand how hard his death must have been for you. I wish I could have done something to help him, but he shut me out of his life. He never told me he joined a secret group. What makes you think he did?”

“Because after his death I found money hidden everywhere in his room. And I also found his journal. It was filled with all kinds of rambling entries about his successful deals and how much money he and his partners had made. There was a wolf’s head drawn on every page.”

“I never heard him say anything about wolves. Maybe it was just his way of doodling on the page.”

Mr. Mitchell shook his head. “No, it was more than that. One night I went into his room when he was sleeping to cover him with an extra blanket, and I saw a wolf’s head tattooed on his shoulder. So don’t tell me there wasn’t a secret group. I know there was. They were evil, and they killed my son.” The last words ended in a sob.

“If you’re right about this, I would like to help prove it. You say there was a journal that told about this group. Where is it now?”

He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a leather book. “Here it is. I’ve read it over and over ever since he died.”

“Would you let me look at it?” Grace inched forward and stepped over the low barrier onto the pedestrian walkway.

“Grace, stop right there. Don’t get too close.” Her heart thudded at the voice that came from behind her. It didn’t matter how long it had been since she’d heard it. She’d know it anywhere. Alex Crowne had arrived on the bridge, and his command reminded her of the tone he’d used when cautioning her about something when they were children.

She frowned and shook her head. They weren’t children anymore, and he’d long ago given up the right to be concerned about her safety. She arched an eyebrow and glanced over her shoulder. “It’s all right, Alex. I just want to see the journal.”

Mr. Mitchell tilted his head back and laughed before he glared at Alex. “So Detective Crowne who supposedly solves cold cases came, too.” He leaned forward. “When I read in the paper you had been picked to help head up the new Cold Case Unit with the police, I begged you to solve my son’s murder. When are you going to do it?”

“I looked into the case like I said I would do,” Alex said, “and I told you I wasn’t able to find any new evidence that his death was anything but a suicide.”

Grace inched closer. “Mr. Mitchell, I’m sure Alex will be glad to look into Landon’s death again.” She turned her head and glanced at Alex over her shoulder. “You’ll do that, won’t you?”

Alex looked at her, then to Mr. Mitchell. “Of course I will.”

Grace smiled and turned her gaze back to Landon’s father. “We’ll both see what we can find out. Now why don’t you give me the journal and come down from the railing?”

Alex stepped over the barrier and came to a stop behind her. “No, Grace. Don’t get any closer.”

Without looking around, she waved Alex off. “It’s okay.” She moved closer to the railing and stretched out her hand. “I’m a reporter. If I see anything that makes me think Landon was murdered, I’ll find out who did it.”

Mr. Mitchell started to hold out the book but pulled it back. “Do you promise you’ll find out who killed him?”

“I promise I’ll look into his death, and Alex said he would also.”

Hesitantly, he sat up straight and held out the book. Another strong gust of wind swept across the bridge, but it wasn’t the sudden breeze that chilled Grace. Her skin prickled at the change in Mr. Mitchell’s face. Whereas moments ago he had looked like a grieving father, his eyes now held a maniacal glare, and he stared at her as if seeing her for the first time.

“Grace, be careful!” Alex’s warning came too late.

Grace reached out to take the journal. Before she could touch it, Landon’s father hurled the book into the air and grabbed her by the wrist. “You can look at it with me at the bottom of the river.”

Grace slammed against the bridge railing and gaped in horror as the book sailed downward toward the river. She looked up into Mr. Mitchell’s crazed eyes and tried to break free, but it was no use. He held her in a viselike grip. “You know who killed my son.”

“Grace!” Alex’s panicked yell reached her, and she struggled to twist free.

Mr. Mitchell’s hold on her tightened, and with a loud scream he fell backward off the railing but managed to clamp his free hand around the handrail. With one hand circling her wrist and the other clutching the railing, he dangled in midair and pulled her toward him.

Grace clawed for a hold on the railing with her free hand and watched in horror as he uncurled one finger from his grip on the handrail. He grinned and lifted another finger. Her feet lifted from the walkway, and she screamed at the excruciating pain radiating up her arm. She tried to wedge her feet between the metal rods that supported the railing, but she couldn’t grab a foothold as his weight pulled her closer and closer to the top of the railing. In a few seconds she would be pulled from the bridge to a watery grave below.

Just when she thought all hope was lost, Alex’s left arm encircled her waist, and he stretched his right one over the railing in an effort to reach Mr. Mitchell. The two uniformed officers appeared on either side of her to help Alex. Before they could catch hold of Mr. Mitchell, he released his hold on Grace’s wrist and the railing, but Alex grabbed him by the sleeve of his open coat before he could fall.