“Apparently the kid has lice now,” Riley said, pouring her can of sauce into the pan of sautéed onions and garlic.
“Poor kid. I had to have my head shaved when I got lice.”
Riley gave her head a scratch. “Can we stop saying the word lice?”
Tonight they were working their way through a chocolate chili recipe her dad had made dozens of times, but that Riley had never tried before. Michael had a tendency to “get creative” with ingredients when his pantry wasn’t properly stocked, as well as not being the best at reading labels when purchasing food.
Once she had complained about this to Jade, who shared similar woes. Jonah wasn’t allowed to go shopping on his own for anything too involved. The guy could write code for complicated apps, but the last straw for Jade was the time she’d sent him out to buy a few things, including green onions, and he’d returned with a stalk of celery.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked him.
His response had been, “What? It’s green. I couldn’t remember which green thing you wanted.” Calling her to ask for clarification on which “green thing” apparently hadn’t crossed his mind.
Riley, similarly, had realized that instead of pouring a small cup of chocolate chips into his pot of simmering chili, Michael was breaking chunks of chocolate into it. She’d only taken her eyes off him for a minute while she’d been adding the chocolate into her own pot.
“Son of a bitch,” he grumbled. “Why is this stuff so hard?”
She cocked her head, watching his back. “Uhh … what kind of chocolate did you get?”
He had successfully broken the chocolate into the chili by then and was stirring it. Glancing over his shoulder at her, so he could look at his phone propped up on a surface across from the stove, he said, “I don’t know … the regular kind?”
She squinted at him.
Placing his spoon on the counter, he went rummaging in his trash can for the wrapper. He walked over to the phone, read the label, and wrinkled his nose. “Is baker’s chocolate the wrong kind?”
Riley hung her head. “I think that stuff is really bitter.”
“Dammit. I put in like three bars,” he muttered, then picked up the phone so he could hold it closer to his face. “This is what happens when I’m left to my own devices.”
“I should send you a picture ingredient list next time, rather than words,” she said.
“Yes, you should totally do that.”
He was in the midst of telling her what other kinds of pictures he’d like that had nothing to do with cooking and everything to do with her clad in skimpy underwear, when she was interrupted by a call from a number she didn’t recognize.
“I promise we’ll revisit this topic later,” she said, “but can I call you back?”
“Sure. I’m going to see this recipe till the end, but I have a feeling I’ll be eating leftover pizza tonight.”
She laughed, hung up with him, and answered the incoming call. “Hello?”
“Uhh … hi,” a male voice answered. “This is Rodney. Rodney Elgin?”
“Oh! Hi,” not sure if she was surprised more by the fact that he’d called her or that he’d done so the same day. “I’m glad you found my message.”
“It’s the only one I’ve gotten on there in a long time, so it wasn’t hard to find.”
A prolonged, awkward silence settled over them. She needed Nina with her to guide the conversation.
“So is this some kind of joke?” he finally asked. “Some prank to fuck with the guy who spent fifteen years in prison?”
Riley swallowed. “No. It’s not a prank.”
“You said you’re a psychic medium?” he asked, tone dripping with sarcasm. “So, what, you’re saying to talk to dead people or something?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve talked to Shawna.”
“Bullshit.”
“If you think it’s bullshit, why did you call me back?” she asked, her angry tone matching his.
He didn’t have an immediate answer. “Prove it.”
Her cheeks heated. “It’s not like I can pull her out of a hat like a rabbit. It’s not a magic trick.”
“Convenient,” he said. “You people always call me looking for a story. Pretending to be book publishers and TV producers and to offer me money, but it’s usually just some young reporter trying to trick an ex-con into confessing. To get some exclusive story to get a career going. ’Cause of course there’s no way I’m innocent, right? Somehow I cheated the system by only getting fifteen years for first-degree murder? Gotta say the psychic medium angle is new. You get points for creativity. But I still call bullshit.”
Riley clenched her jaw, her own anger mingling with his, shutting down her ability to think. She wanted to punch something, to claw someone’s eyes out.
“You come at me with proof and maybe I’ll talk to you.” He hung up.
Riley groaned. It took a few minutes of pacing while shaking out her hands and rolling her neck like a boxer about to enter the ring before she was able to calm down enough to call Michael back.
“This is a disaster,” he said in greeting. “Everything okay?”
“That was Rodney Elgin.”
“Why do you sound like that? What happened?”
“He wants me to prove I’m a medium before he’ll talk to me,” she said, her voice shaking, just like her hands. “He was … pissed. He assumes I’m not who I say I am.”
“To be fair, I’m guessing you’d find it hard to trust people after being in prison, too.”
“I guess so,” she said, blowing out a slow, controlled breath. Now that the anger had ebbed, she was able to think clearly again. “It took Mindy a while to warm up to the idea of psychic mediums. When I called her out of the blue, it made her relive the worst days of her life. I guess the same would be true for Rodney. I just don’t know how I’m supposed to prove it to him that I’ve talked to Shawna.”
“You’ll think of something,” he said. “My god, this chili is awful.”
Riley checked on her own chili, stirring it around the pan. In the short time she’d left it unattended, it had taken a turn for the worse. She took a sampling bite and dramatically stuck out her tongue. “I think I screwed mine up somewhere.” She flipped off the burner. “Guess it’s pizza for me tonight, too.”
“I wish you were here making disastrous chili with me.”
Her cheeks heated again, this time for a different reason. “Same.”
“Baxter can hardly sleep all week, you know. He lives for the weekends—whether you’re here or we’re there.”
She smiled ruefully at that. As if that cat—or any cat—ever took a break from napping. But it was easier to put this all on an animal who couldn’t speak for himself. She and Michael had danced around the “living together” conversation dozens of times lately. Both of their places were tiny, so moving into an entirely new place would make the most sense. But would they live in Albuquerque closer to her work, or Los Lunas which was closer to his? Should they find somewhere in the middle? Was she ready to cohabitate with someone again?
Michael laughed. “I can practically hear all the questions circling in your head. Don’t stress, okay? You don’t have to decide anything. I just miss you, that’s all.”
“I miss you, too.”
After a brief pause, he switched back to his usual goofy tone. “All right! Go order your pizza. We’ll reconvene once it has arrived and we’ll synchronize a movie.”
After ordering pizza, she took a quick shower, wondering how in the hell she’d find a way to prove to Rodney that she could speak to ghosts.
She was awoken at 8 the next morning by a phone call from Carter. “Hello?” she croaked.
“Aw, damn. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s okay,” she said, yawning and sitting up. She rubbed the heel of her palm against her eye. “My schedule is all over the place. What’s up?”
“I have news for you this time. I just go
t a call from Lola Bodwell.”
Riley’s brows hiked toward her hairline. “Is that her … mother?”
“Yep. She said she’d like to talk. She apparently found something in Brynn’s bedroom and thought it might be of interest to me. Any chance you want to join me? I was planning to meet her around noon in Taos. I’m in Santa Fe now for a couple hours, and was going to head out to meet her there for lunch. She’s at a fundraiser of some kind until 11:30.”
Riley didn’t immediately reply, thrown by the invite.
“I was thinking that your … skills … might prove useful when talking to Brynn’s mom,” he said after a beat of silence. “Plus, I feel bad about how I reacted when you first told me you’re a psychic. I figured if you’re really into true crime, meeting the victim’s mom might be up your alley.”
It was.
“I just need coffee and a shower, and I have to be back by 4.”
“That works. If you want to meet me here in Santa Fe around 10, we can drive over to the café together. Plus, where we’re meeting her has the worst parking situation, so one car will limit the headaches.”
“Sounds good,” she said. “Text me where to meet you.”
After Carter drove out of the parking lot of the mall where Riley left her car, he said, “We’re heading to the Taos Village Shopping Center. The locals call it Boujee Village.”
Riley had donned her dark purple top with the pearl buttons—the nicest shirt she owned—in a fit of self-consciousness. The fact that Brynn’s parents had deep pockets had come up numerous times. She pictured Lola Bodwell with elegantly coiffed hair, a pearl necklace that cost more than Riley’s monthly rent, and shoes worth more than her car.
It was a chilly October morning, and a light rain had started to fall. They didn’t talk much on the drive into Taos, the radio tuned to an old R&B station.
The sign for the Taos Village Shopping Center stood on a corner opposite an expansive, empty field. Shop names were printed on the dark brown wood in a pristine white font. The buildings mimicked the classic adobe-style Southwest architecture, but instead of everything being a warm sandy brown, their façades were white with black accents. The parking lot for the café was packed with BMWs, Lexuses, and gleaming SUVs. Carter’s Prius, though outdated, fit in better here than Riley’s old Honda would have.
Carter tried searching for a parking spot on the street first, but after driving five blocks away from the massive shopping center and coming up empty, he returned to the parking lot. Once there, it took twenty minutes of circling the lot before a cherry red sports car glided out of a spot. Carter pulled in between a pair of champagne-colored Audis. He cast a sideways glance at her. “Told you.”
Riley laughed, some of the tension leaving her chest. “I feel underdressed. Too bad my café gown is at the cleaners.”
“Along with my café tux, I’d imagine,” Carter said with a grin. “Lola suggested we get a table outside. Apparently the inside is freezing all year long.”
The patio of the café had an awning stretched over the tables, but to help accommodate for the rain, a plastic cover had been stretched down over the awning as well as the sides of the wrought-iron fence that lined it, shielding the many diners from the elements.
Riley was glad she’d brought her heavy peacoat with her. As they walked to the café, she pulled it on. “You haven’t eaten here before?”
“Not really my scene. I checked the menu last night. The wedge salad appetizer is like $15.”
“That dressing better be laced with gold,” Riley muttered.
Carter chuckled as he held the door open for her. As she stepped in, it was instantly noticeable that the bustling café was colder inside than out. Every table inside appeared to be occupied, though, and the place was loud with the chatter of voices and the sounds of the open kitchen behind a curving glass wall. A whoosh of fire rose in her peripheral vision as a chef threw something into a wok of hot oil.
The man behind the maître d’ podium smiled at them. “Good evening. Do you have a reservation?”
“I believe Lola Bodwell reserved a table for three?” Carter asked.
The man offered another little smile and checked something on his podium. “Ah, yes. She requested a table on the patio, yes?”
Riley had only been in here for under a minute and already her teeth were on the verge of chattering. “Yes, please.”
“Perfect,” the man said, and turned to the counter behind him lined with menus. “Right this way.”
Riley and Carter followed after the man who cut through the middle of the room and then made a right out onto the plastic-lined patio. A pair of tall space heaters stood vigil by the patio doors, easily heating the contained space.
The man led them to a table that sat perpendicular to the iron fence. Sets of black linen-wrapped utensils waited for them. Carter and Riley took a seat on the same side of the table, and the maître d’ laid out three menus for them.
“Zephyr will be your host this afternoon,” he said. “He’ll be by to take your drink orders shortly.”
Riley tentatively picked up the menu—a black-fabric-wrapped board with a neatly typed menu on brown paper affixed to it by way of delicately tied ribbons in two corners. Carter hadn’t been lying that the cheapest thing on the menu was the $15 wedge salad appetizer. She quickly gave up on her perusal of it and set it down, folding her hands on top.
“Did Lola tell you specifically what she wanted to talk to you about?” she asked after a couple of minutes.
Carter looked up from the menu. “Just that she had something she wanted to show me. She wasn’t shocked to hear the serial killer theory. My guess is, she’s been scouring the internet for information just as much as any other true crime junkie. I’ve seen many parents attempt the armchair detective thing when they feel like the police aren’t doing enough, or when they grow frustrated that their child’s case has gone cold.”
Lola Bodwell arrived a few minutes later. The relation to Brynn was unmistakable—they had the same blonde hair, blue eyes, and high cheekbones. Carter and Riley got to their feet at the same time, but Lola waved a hand at them.
“Sit, sit,” she said, taking a chair across from them, unwinding her scarf from her neck and unbuttoning her coat. “I appreciate you making the trip over here.”
“No problem. I’m happy we could meet,” Carter said.
Lola quickly ran a hand through her shoulder-length hair to shake free the clinging dots of mist.
“Good call on the outside table,” Riley said.
“I know, right?” Lola said, picking up a menu. “It’s great inside during the summer, but the rest of the year, it’s an icebox. Also, order whatever you want. It’s on me.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Carter said.
Lola looked up from the menu, her bright blue eyes scanning Carter, and then settling on Riley. The grief hit Riley in the chest like a freight train. The woman might have had a breezy, polished façade, but she was a wreck underneath, just as any mother would be who had lost her child. “Yes, I do. Please let me.”
“Thank you,” Riley said, picking up her menu, and Carter reluctantly followed suit.
Riley opted for the Cobb salad, which was nearly $25. When the waiter came by for their drink orders, Riley asked for water as a way to lessen the guilt.
Once their orders had been put in, Lola placed her folded arms on the table. She tucked hair behind one ear, and Riley could see the slight tremble to her hand before she lowered it back to the table’s surface.
“Was there something specific on your mind that you wanted to discuss, Lola?” Carter asked. “I assume this is about the article.”
“Yes. I don’t know much you’re able to tell me, but I wanted to find out how you know the woman in that picture is connected to Brynn’s death. And Shawna’s too, if your theory is correct.” Lola sat a little straighter, her smile a little bigger. “Do you have a source in the police department? Are you two working togeth
er?”
Riley suppressed a frown at Lola’s hopeful tone.
Carter said, “I have an outside source. The information came to me from someone with a unique insight into the case. My source is confident that the young woman in the photo was killed by the same man.”
Lola stared at him a beat, then her gaze swung toward Riley. “Did you write the article with him? I only saw one name in the byline.”
“She’s an intern of sorts,” Carter answered for her. “I can’t get into the details of who my source is just yet, for confidentiality reasons. Just know that the source is reliable enough that I believe there’s little chance these deaths aren’t connected. You said you had something you wanted to show me?”
“Oh, right,” she said, turning to get something out of the purse that hung from the back of her chair. She produced a Prada wallet, and then pulled out a business card. She slid it across the table.
Carter looked it over and then handed it to Riley. She braced herself for a potential psychic reaction, but nothing happened.
John Anderson. Photographer.
www.andersonphotog.net
There was a phone number, too. Riley turned the card over. Blank.
“Brynn’s room was eventually turned into storage space, not a guest bedroom or anything like that,” Lola said, and Riley didn’t need to be a psychic to sense how much guilt was wrapped up in that statement. “We boxed up many of her things and put them in the closet. But neither my husband nor I have been able to throw anything out. Anyway, I guess I was having one of my low days and I was looking through some of her things. I picked up a box and this card slipped out. I’d never seen it before.”
“Had Brynn mentioned seeing a photographer?” Carter asked, clearly unsure why this was significant.
“Sort of. Two weeks or so before she went missing, she asked me if I had the contact information for the man who had taken our family photos a few years back. The photographer had since moved, so I couldn’t pass anything along to her. She said she wanted to get some pictures taken of her and Liam. I honestly thought there was a secret engagement I hadn’t known about—I couldn’t imagine why she’d want pictures like that. It just didn’t seem like a Brynn thing to do. But she didn’t bring it up again after that.”
Shuttered Secrets Page 27