The Gossip

by Nancy Bush

  “Good Livin’. The one near the hospital.”

  “Sounds right. I don’t know if they’re still friends. I took the job with Laidlaw and haven’t kept in contact with Andrew since then. Andrew can be difficult. He hired Granger Nye and became even more difficult. That’s when I left. Nye has my position with the company now. Andrew’s right-hand man. Better for all of us.” Nolan gave Mackenzie a studied look. “What’s your interest?”

  “I’m still trying to figure out who Rayne Sealy was seeing.”

  “I’d be careful around those guys. They play hard.”

  Mackenzie tried again. “But you never heard of Troi Bevins? Troi with an ‘i’?”

  He shrugged. “If he’s working for Best Homes, he must’ve come on after I left.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  She could tell he wanted to ask her more questions, but she wasn’t ready to talk about what she was doing. Stephanie had already said she was tired and headed to her bedroom and now Mac did the same. Once alone, in the pink and white room, she sat on the bed and did some serious thinking. Time to figure out some things.

  She swept up her cell phone from where she’d tossed it on the bed beside her and weighed the idea of calling Taft. He wouldn’t appreciate any of the choices she’d made; she knew that. Still . . . Her fingers hovered over the keypad. In the end she clicked the phone off. Maybe Taft would call her for a new assignment. No reason to change his mind before that happened.

  * * *

  The cat washed one white-mittened paw with her tongue, rubbing the paw over her black face, cleaning off the white, fluffy cream that the man who smelled like skunk had squirted at her. When he’d first done that she’d run away. She didn’t like the way it felt. But the cream was good, so now she stayed nearby whenever he was around, hoping he would put it in a bowl for her, which sometimes he did.

  Today he’d lifted up a leg and shot it at her from under his knee. “Pew, pew, pew,” he’d said as the cream hit her. “Gotcha!” he declared.

  “Ian!” One of the people in the room with all the good smells looked up from where she was stirring a big, steaming pot. The swinging door to the room closed, but not before the cat saw the woman point a big wooden spoon at the man.

  “Sorry,” he said to the cat. “Duty calls.” He pushed through the door and the cat continued cleaning herself. She caught that scent again. Stronger and let her cool gaze travel around the occupants in the dining room.

  Finished cleaning, she strolled down one of the hallways, tail high.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Mac slowed as she drove by the charred remains of Bibi and Hank Engstrom’s nearly destroyed home. Half of it was dankly smelling wet timbers and ash. The other half stood dispirited and dilapidated. Hank Engstrom, Bibi’s husband, was considered a person of interest and maybe he was the arsonist and murderer. She would have liked to interview him herself, but knew better than to get in the way of the department’s investigation at this point. The crime tech team hadn’t made a definitive announcement as yet, but in Mac’s mind Bibi’s death was a homicide. And if that were true and the perpetrator wasn’t Bibi’s estranged husband . . . then who was it, and what was the motive?

  She wished she knew more about Bibi herself, but their relationship hadn’t been that deep. Bibi had been in an unhappy marriage and was facing divorce. She’d been clear about that. And she’d been worried first, about Rayne’s disappearance and second, that her death wasn’t an accident. Bibi had been convinced that Rayne’s demise was linked to her mysterious new boyfriend. Maybe Seth Keppler, maybe Troi Bevins . . . or maybe someone else.

  Though Rayne’s death had been ruled accidental, a foolish and dangerous attempt at a selfie, Mackenzie didn’t completely go along with that, either. Bibi’s subsequent murder was so fast on the heels of Rayne’s death that it seemed like it couldn’t be a coincidence.

  Maybe she was on a wild goose chase, but Mac was planning on connecting with Troi Bevins later today and asking about his relationships with both Rayne and Elise Sealy to see how, and if, they might play into Rayne’s death. She wanted to talk to Seth Keppler as well, but she was still trying to work that one out. He already felt he recognized her and he had a menacing attitude that may or may not be all bravado. She was betting on the former, and well, she didn’t want to get in Taft’s way, either.

  For now she had a few hours to kill. She’d told herself to put her mind to finding an apartment—as much as Stephanie had suggested she stay with her till the baby arrived, she couldn’t help feeling like an intruder—but she had no energy for that just yet. It was the kind of task that just zapped strength.

  As she drove on she realized she was aiming toward the direction of the trail that led to Percy Peak and the overlook where Rayne had died. She hadn’t really planned on following Rayne’s footsteps today, but it suddenly sounded like a good idea.

  The weather didn’t agree, however. As Mac parked at the side of the strip mall, rain suddenly pounded down on the roof of her RAV, bouncing in silver streaks on her hood. She waited inside the vehicle and let a sheet of water wash over her windshield, obscuring everything for a time. March was almost over. If this was a prelude to April showers, next month was going to be a doozy.

  She waited, but it didn’t let up, and Mac realized how hungry she was. She switched on the ignition and pulled away from the trailhead, retracing her route to Miller’s Market, whose deli she knew served up pastrami sandwiches that were pretty damn good.

  She walked in and ordered her sandwich, watching the rain pour down through a window to the street, asking herself if it was really worth climbing up to the overlook in this weather. Once her sandwich was bagged, she moved to the counter where a girl with a sharp face eyed her hard. Her name tag read: CINDA.

  “It’s a sandwich,” Mac heard herself say. The way she was being regarded, it felt like she was trying to buy alcohol underage. She’d tried that once and failed. She’d always looked too young.

  “You’re that cop?” the girl said, keeping eye contact as she slowly reached for Mac’s sandwich, chips, and bottled water. Paul Miller, owner of Miller’s Market, was one of the people around town who knew Mac well and had always appreciated having the police looking out for him and his store.

  “I was,” said Mac. “I’m no longer with the department.”

  The girl’s shoulders slumped and she made a sour face. “Can you get them a message?”

  “The police?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes . . .” Mac lifted her brows in a silent question.

  “Will they listen to you?”

  “Yes. I think so. What’s the message?”

  Mac was about to add that Cinda could call the department herself, when she jumped in with, “I saw that girl that killed herself, you know. That day. I’m pretty sure I helped her on that day. She came in here, to the market.”

  She stared at Mackenzie, chin out, daring her to argue with her.

  Mac took a moment, then asked, “You mean Rayne Sealy?”

  “Rain, rain, that’s right. Like what we’ve got going right now.” She hooked a thumb toward the windows where the rain had finally lessened a bit but was still a strong and steady drizzle. “She bought a bottle of wine.”

  “She bought a bottle of wine,” Mac repeated.

  “Yep.” She spread her hands. “She wasn’t going to drink it all by herself up there, was she? She was meeting someone. Probably at Percy’s Peak. I know she stopped at the overlook to take a picture and she just was stupid, I guess. But she was meeting someone. So, where is he now, huh? Why didn’t he come forward after she died? I suppose she could have been a her. But I’d bet it’s a guy.”

  Mac thought that over. “What day was that?”

  “THE SAME DAY. Are you listening? She went up there the same day she was here, buying that bottle of wine. A pinot. I had to card her. I remember she was practically running over the lady in front of her she was so revved. And she was wearing
this red blouse, a nice one. I’m thinking maybe I was, like, the last person to see her alive. Freaky, right?”

  She was working herself up. Mac saw that she’d had weeks to think about what happened to Rayne and was eager to be a part of the story.

  “You’ll tell them, right? You’ll let them know that somebody was waiting for her. She wasn’t going to drink that bottle alone. She was meeting someone. You can just tell.”

  Mac thought about pointing out that Rayne could just as easily have taken the bottle home with her, but sensed it wouldn’t be received well. Cinda had made up her mind and that was that.

  “I’ll tell Detective Haynes,” Mac told her, almost as a means to calm her down as she paid for her items.

  She drove through the rain back to the trailhead. Mackenzie ate her sandwich and chips and drank from her bottle of water. She thought over what Cinda had told her. It jibed with her own thinking that maybe there was foul play involved, but she didn’t really want to bring an alternative theory to the police. Rayne’s case was closed and they would resent someone trying to reopen it. Haynes was fairly open-minded, and Elena Verbena could listen sometimes, but Bennihof liked things tied up and done with.

  Could Rayne have been meeting someone, taking a bottle of wine with her? Rayne was known to be a very social person. She could have been meeting someone. Cinda had a point.

  Huh.

  Mac finished her sandwich and stared through the rain. Was it slowing? It looked like it was slowing. She glanced down at her apartment-hunting notes. There was a service that landlords paid into and posted their apartments for lease, which Mac could join as a would-be renter for a small fee. She’d resisted so far, but maybe it was time to invest in her future.

  She eyed the rain again.

  Are you believing Cinda because her idea fits with Bibi’s certainty that Rayne’s death was related to her new boyfriend?

  The rain was slowing.

  Mac made her decision, slapping on her Mariner’s cap, stepping out into the precipitation. Bending her head to the wind, she aimed toward the trailhead. She held her jacket close to her neck and trudged up the strong incline.

  She was huff ing and puffing as she finally reached the overlook. Stopping, she glanced up the trail toward Percy’s Peak, which was about a mile farther on. She took a moment to look around, then walked to the overlook rail and gazed downward to the cliff side and river far below. Had Rayne really hauled herself over the rail to stand where? On the teeny, crumbly ledge of land above the river? Maybe. People do crazy, dangerous things for the perfect selfie.

  But the bottle of wine . . .

  She searched around, kicking wet leaves and debris that had collected against the brush and the bole of a nearby tree. The crime techs had undoubtedly examined the area, but hadn’t found anything to change their opinion that it was an accident, apparently.

  Mac moved from the overlook and headed farther up the trail about twenty yards. She glanced back, her gaze scouring the area, which was all damp foliage, the trail covered by small sticks, stones, and debris above underlying mud. Hiking farther up the trail, she rounded a corner and stopped, eyeing the upward-winding track. Maybe Rayne had gone farther. Hiked with a friend to the peak before turning back to the overlook. But she’d been wearing a nice blouse. Was that really hiking gear?

  Mackenzie worked her way back down, past the overlook, scouring the wet ground. She was about dead even with the closest of the three houses that backed up to the trail when her eye caught on something silvery poking out of a pile of wet debris.

  She walked over to it and bent down. With the edge of her coat, she pulled a strip of foil from the dirt, leaves, and small sticks. It was red on one side, silver on the other, a ripped-off piece of the same kind of pliability that wound around the neck of wine bottles.

  In her mind’s eye she saw Rayne, in her nice, red blouse, pulling a cork from a bottle of wine, ripping off a piece of foil that had covered the cork in the process, smiling up at her companion.

  Mac rewound her vision. She looked down the trail and could almost see Rayne hurrying up the path, eager to meet her latest lover, carrying the wine, bottle opener, and . . . glasses? In her . . . purse? Or a bag?

  No purse or bag had been found. No cell phone.

  Lost in the river . . . or . . .

  Her mental vision shifted to the faceless lover. She saw the two of them sharing the wine. Pouring wine into glasses, or possibly both sipping from the bottle?

  Mac stuffed the piece of foil into her coat pocket and hurried back down the trail, clutching her hood close, losing her grip on it and running bareheaded down the last part of the trail through the rain and gusts of wind.

  She switched on the RAV’s engine, backed out of her spot, and aimed the SUV toward Miller’s Market again. This time she didn’t bother with the hood as she hurried across the parking lot and into the store, glancing around for Cinda. Her heart clutched when she didn’t see her at any of the checker stands. She walked past them, thinking hard. Then she saw her standing in front of the deli counter, apparently on break, jawing with one of the young women behind the counter.

  Mac hurried her way. As she approached, Cinda glanced over at her. Recognizing Mac, she looked her up and down. “Wow. You really got wet.”

  The young woman at the deli leaned forward and comically grimaced. “You sure did!”

  “Yep. It’s wet out there,” Mac said with a smile.

  “Were you walking in the rain?” asked Cinda.

  “As a matter of fact, I was. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Well, okay . . . but my break’s almost over,” said Cinda.

  They stepped away from the girl at the deli counter and as soon as they were out of earshot Mac asked, “The day that Rayne came through your station. Do you happen to remember what kind of pinot she bought?”

  With the amount of customers that had to have run through Cinda’s station since Rayne’s death, it was a long shot. But Cinda didn’t hesitate.

  “’Course I do. I buy it myself. Red Bridge. It’s popular around here.”

  Mac felt a fizz of electricity run through her. She knew the local vineyard, which produced pinot noirs. The Willows. “You’re sure about that?”

  “Absolutely. Did you talk to the police?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’re going to, right?” she asked, frowning.

  She must’ve heard something in Mac’s purposely neutral tone that suggested Mac might not, so Mac assured her she fully intended to speak with the River Glen PD. She just wanted to think about her theory for a little bit more first. “I plan to.”

  She thanked Cinda, then left her back at her station and walked to the wine section. She found Red Bridge tucked in beside other reds. Mac picked up a bottle and turned it over in her hands.

  The foil was red on the outside. The same shade as the piece in her pocket. She picked at the foil with her thumbnail and folded back a tiny section. It was silver on the reverse side, just like the piece she had.

  She took the bottle of wine to Cinda and purchased it before walking back into the rain, throwing up her hood belatedly over her wet hair.

  * * *

  Thad drove his pickup down Hawthorne Boulevard on the east side of the Willamette River, opposite Portland’s city center, his wipers rhythmically slapping against the rain.

  He’d determined he would go after Brenda Heilman, the easier of the two bitches first. Things need to be in the right order.

  He knew the apartment complex where Brenda lived. She was a dental hygienist and worked at an office only a few blocks from where she rented. Her job almost made her sound decent, but in reality she was a dirty girl, like Rayne. Always out at bars trying to pick up guys. And Brenda didn’t seem to have even Rayne’s desire for a relationship. She just picked ’em up, brought ’em home, screwed ’em, and let ’em go. Thad had found her on Facebook and had hardly needed to hack into her information to learn all about her. She was g
iving up information like it was her life’s ambition. He knew where she worked, where she lived, who her friends were, what her habits were. She was just the type to meet “Chas” and take him home.

  Thad had drifted by her place a number of times, but she’d been gone. No one around. On vacation or something that had taken her away for a while. It was just so like her to make him wait. Fucking bitch.

  He’d used the time in between to slowly drive by Bibi Engstrom’s house once or twice, needing to relive the thrill of the kill. He’d taken Rayne’s Hobo purse with him on those trips. He couldn’t wait till he got back in the lair before pleasuring himself. What he really wanted to do was go to the overlook and relive pushing Rayne over, but he knew he couldn’t do that. Too risky. He’d heard on the news that they’d ruled her death an accident, but Bibi’s demise so soon afterward could be adding some questions. If he hung around both of his killing sites too much, it would put a big, red target on his back. Still, he hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d gone up on the trail a time or two, walking past the overlook and heading to Percy’s Peak, a regular hiker. But on the way back down he would always slow by the overlook, remembering Rayne’s clumsy foot catching the railing before he pushed her through, her flight toward the ground, her body bouncing off the side of the cliff, scattering dirt and small stones that followed her down, down, down to the water far below.

  His cock jumped at the memory, and he almost missed the turnoff to Brenda’s apartment and had to yank the wheel at the last moment, nearly scraping the bumper of a parked sedan. He earned a sharp beep from a passing motorist at his abrupt move.

  Fuck you, buddy. He flipped the asshole off, half smiling behind his aviator sunglasses. He had dear old Dad’s cowboy hat on his head. His camouflage.

  Killing . . . man, it made him hard.

  He cruised by Brenda’s apartment complex again. He’d determined her car was the blue Kia Soul, and it was still in the same parking place. Left there while she was gallivanting around, likely on some trip somewhere, screwing day and night. It pissed him off. She needed to be home. She needed “Chas” to make her acquaintance. He wanted to take her down. Bad. Briefly he thought about moving to the third mean girl bitch on his list, but getting to her was more problematic and things need to be in the right order. He had to keep remembering. The chance of discovery increased when he deviated.