The Elizabeth McClaine Thriller Boxed Set

by Catherine Lea

  And she left Elizabeth standing there, glaring tight-lipped after her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  DAY TWO: 9:31 PM—ELIZABETH

  At Elizabeth’s insistence, Nancy had conducted a quick search across the docking bay, then the parking lot. After reporting back that there was no sign of a car, and insisting it had probably been the wind she’d heard, she’d gotten in her car, swung it in a wide arc across the concrete apron out front of Millcreek, then headed for the exit.

  Elizabeth stood hugging herself and watching the taillights recede down the lane and disappear. Then realized Nancy had just driven off with the only flashlight.

  “Dammit.” She turned to survey the building once more. Whereas it had looked like the Black Hole of Calcutta when they’d first arrived, now it was lit up like Times Square, the lights they’d turned on blazing at almost every window.

  “Oh … crap!” Fists balled at her sides, and muttering curses against the woman for leaving her to lock the place up, she headed back around to the rear of the building and up the stairs.

  Without Nancy there, the atmosphere inside the building had taken on an eerie calm. Far above, the tin roofing creaked, and the walls seemed even icier than they were ten minutes ago. For a second, Elizabeth thought she heard a scratching sound, like something small scrabbling through the walls.

  Pulling the sides of her jacket close in across her chest and folding her arms against the chill, she trod quietly down the hallway, intending to switch each light off as she made her way back. But just as she reached to flip off the last one down the hallway, she noticed a closed door with a pristine sign affixed to the upper half.

  WORKROOM: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

  Elizabeth checked behind her, then the door. Her stomach clenched and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. In the deathly quiet, she tiptoed down to the doorway and leaned her ear to the upper panel.

  Nothing. Not a squeak.

  She put her fingers on the handle. It turned.

  Her heart leaped into her throat and a shot of adrenaline hit her system.

  With her lip caught between her teeth, she put her fingertips to the door and gently pushed. It creaked open.

  The space inside was bathed in that same oily darkness. Running her fingers down beside the door frame, she located two switches. When she flipped them on, six neon tubes set in three pairs across the ceiling flickered with a plinking sound, then flooded the room with an icy white light.

  Elizabeth stood in the doorway with her hand pressed to her heart, scanning the room.

  “Hello?”

  A chilled emptiness echoed back.

  She stepped across the threshold and gave the place a long look. Four large square worktables stood pushed up against each other to form one large square in the center of the room. Each side of the work surface held two sewing machines threaded with an industrial size spool of black thread and along each side of the tables, a steel measure had been attached. At the far end of the room, rolls of fabric were stacked on end.

  She moved quietly inside and ran her fingers along the nearest tabletop. Clean. Not a speck of dust. Behind her the wall was stacked two deep, and almost to the ceiling with bulging cardboard boxes, each with the address crossed out and numbered in thick black crayon. Elizabeth walked to the end of the table and scanned the area from this side. Just under the table next to her, she spotted a plastic trash can. She pulled it out and ran her hand through the layers of tiny black labels inside, each embroidered with a Millcreek Fashions logo.

  She plucked one out and studied it. A couple of short cotton threads were attached at each end of the label, as though it had been cut from the garment. She dropped it back and spotted a carton pushed under the table; same black crayon marks across the side. She dragged it out to find the upper flaps hadn’t been sealed, just tucked down. Inside was a jumble of garments made from a soft beige silk. She drew the top one out and shook it out: a blouse, scooped neckline, darts at the waist, label on the neckline that read Millcreek Fashions.

  The fabric felt soft, sensuous. If it wasn’t real silk, it was as good as anything she’d seen.

  Across the room, twenty or so rolls of the same fabric stood on end, lined up against the wall. She crossed to lift the unfurled end of an outer roll between her fingers. Same softness, same quality. She put it to her nose and took a cautious sniff, then realized that if the fabric had had drugs of any kind embedded in it, she had no idea what it would smell like.

  When the ring of her phone cut the silence, she jumped and let out a squeak.

  “Shit!”

  She dredged it from her jacket pocket and checked the screen.

  “Oh, great timing,” she said, and answered. “Clay. What a surprise.”

  “Elizabeth. I’m sorry, I know it’s late.”

  “No, it’s fine.” In the background she could hear the thrum of an engine. “Are you driving?”

  “Just left my office. Tough meeting. I got to wondering what you’re doing.”

  She glanced around the room. “Ah, nothing much.”

  “How about I pick you up and take you to that restaurant I was telling you about? You can tell me how a beautiful woman ends up spending Saturday night doing ‘nothing much.’”

  She picked up the tag and ran her thumb across the embroidered lettering—gold stitching on black, the threads dangling from each end. “Answer me something first.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why would someone order garments, then cut the labels off?”

  He considered it for a second. “Maybe they put the wrong label on. Or if they were selling those garments under a different brand, perhaps. I don’t know, why?”

  “Did you find out anything about Millcreek Fashions?”

  A pause, then he said, “I didn’t know I was supposed to be looking. What’s going on, Elizabeth?”

  She crossed to the unfurled roll of fabric again and picked up the end. “Okay, so do you have any idea how you’d embed fabric with drugs? Like heroin, maybe? And how you’d get it out again?”

  “How would I know something like that?” Suddenly his tone was serious. “You’re not out at Millcreek again, are you?”

  She wanted to lie. Experience had taught her she was a hopeless liar. “I just dropped by to see if anyone knew where Trish was.”

  His tone became stern. “Elizabeth, get out of there right now. If those guys come back and find you there, you could be in real danger.”

  She felt like a kid being scolded by her father. “I’m leaving now.”

  “Wait a second.”

  She waited. For the longest moment, all she could hear was the sound of his breath.

  “Okay, I’ve got it on the GPS. I’m coming over there.”

  Fine, but how was she to explain how she got in here? She touched her fingers to her forehead, eyes squeezed closed, annoyed now. “You don’t have to do that, Clay. There’s no one here and I’m leaving right now.”

  “Go back to your car and wait there. If anyone comes before I get there, just hit the gas and drive. Do you hear me? But unless that happens, don’t leave until I get there.”

  Almost exactly what she’d told Nancy to do.

  “No, seriously, I’ll leave right now.”

  “I’m ten minutes away on the state highway,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.”

  And he hung up.

  Elizabeth rolled her head right back and stared up at the night sky.

  “Dammit!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  DAY TWO: 10:03 PM—ELIZABETH

  For what turned out to be closer to fifteen minutes, Elizabeth sat in her car wishing she’d insisted on meeting Clay back in the city. Why she couldn’t just drive off was anybody’s guess. She had just made up her mind to leave and then call him back once she was on her way, when headlights appeared at the end of the lane. They swept across the darkened building and stopped on her car.

  She waited until she heard the car doo
r slam, then got out, holding her hand up to shield her eyes from the brilliance of the light.

  “Clay?”

  “It’s me.” He left his car door open and rushed to her. “Are you okay?”

  The temperature had plummeted. Only now did she realize how cold she was.

  She rubbed her upper arms. “Just a little cold.”

  “You look freezing. Here, take this.” He shrugged out of his jacket and drew it around her shoulders.

  “Thank you.” Feeling the intensity of his eyes on her, she stepped back and looked away.

  He raised both hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, it’s fine, I’m just…” Now she felt foolish.

  Recognizing the awkwardness of the moment, he smiled and dropped his hands to his hips, then looked back at the darkened building. “So what are you doing out here?”

  She pulled his jacket in around her, glad of the warmth. “It’s a long story.”

  He tipped his head toward to the late model black BMW he’d driven up in. “Let’s go back to my car. It’ll be warmer.”

  She walked to the car, feeling his hand on the small of her back, guiding her. She waited while he opened the passenger door, then she slipped inside hunching her shoulders against the cold while he closed it. The seats were warm, pale gray to match the exterior; an extravagant-looking console between the seats; custom-made steering wheel. The scent of warm leather and aftershave wrapped around her. He circled the front of the car, cutting through the glare of the headlights, then got in and closed the door. The leather creaked as he twisted in his seat, elbow resting on the seat back, the knuckle of his forefinger at his lips while he regarded her.

  “So what do you think is going on? You think Stacy’s been out here?”

  She lifted her hands, dropped them. “No. It’s a long story, but we tracked a car out here, a prison officer’s—Patricia Tomes. Now, the car’s gone. I have no idea where. Maybe Trish took the car and went home. Maybe we’re worried for nothing.”

  “But you don’t think so.” He hit a button and the heating kicked in, warm and comforting on her stockinged legs.

  She looked back at the building. “I know this might sound stupid, but I think whoever runs this place is smuggling drugs into Carringway Prison in the garment labels.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? Why? What makes you think that?”

  “There’s a whole stack of boxes full of garments in there with the labels cut out. Why would they do that? I mean, how much heroin could you get in the label?”

  He shrugged. “Not much. Do you know who’s behind it?”

  “Someone inside Carringway—someone with enough money, and in the right position to get the drugs in there. It has to be. It’s all I can think of.”

  He reached out a hand and touched her gently on the arm. “But why is this your problem? Why don’t you leave it to the prison warden? Or the police? Did you tell them?”

  Good question. She’d found herself asking the very same thing so many times now it had practically become a mantra. But didn’t Eileen Grant tell her to trust her gut? Wasn’t that what she was doing?

  “If I don’t find out what’s going on, Stacy May Charms will finish up spending a big chunk of her life behind bars, and a little boy will be without his mother when he needs her most. And it’s all just because of someone else’s greed. One girl has already lost her life over this. I can’t let it go.”

  Another silence. He stroked the sides of his mouth while he mulled it over.

  “And this other girl—the one that died—you think she knew something?” he asked.

  “I’d bet money on it. I’m also beginning to think something was sent to her parents after her death, something incriminating. When they got it, they didn’t realize the significance of it.”

  He twisted a little further around in his seat, frowning, head resting on his knuckles. “What do you think it could have been?”

  Elizabeth felt drained. Exhaustion and dehydration were bringing on a headache. She touched her fingertips to her forehead, then dropped her hands back into her lap. “I have no idea.”

  “Have you spoken to the parents?”

  “I don’t even know where they live.”

  A half grin creased one side of his face. He got out his phone. “I’ll bet you fifty bucks I can find it.”

  She watched him tap the screen and wait.

  “What was her name? The girl that died?”

  “Amy Dixon. Why?”

  He tilted the phone in her direction. “Obits. How long ago?”

  “Oh, great idea.” She leaned a little so she could see the screen. “About four months ago. She was from Cleveland.”

  He moved around, leaning a little closer to her and angling the phone so she could see it.

  “Bingo! Here it is. It says: ‘Amy Marie Dixon. Nineteen years, gone too soon. Beautiful only daughter of Ron and Sara. You’re always in our hearts.’ Does that sound like it?”

  The words brought Elizabeth a stab of sadness. She nodded, felt the lump in her throat. Clay was already tapping again. She angled her head again. “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for their phone number.”

  She checked the time. “Now? They’ll be asleep, won’t they?”

  The number was up on the screen, his finger poised over it. “Your call.”

  She hesitated. If it were her, would she mind being woken by someone who may have found her daughter’s killer? “Go ahead.”

  He hit the button and handed her the phone. It was already ringing. She turned away from him, hugging herself and gazing out into the night while she waited. On the sixth ring, the answering machine picked up, inviting her to leave a message, or to try them on a cell phone number, which was rattled off at the end. She relaxed, let her shoulders drop while she relayed the message to Clay, then hung up.

  He tipped his head. “So let’s try the cell phone.”

  “You think?”

  He lifted his eyebrows again.

  So she tapped the number in and waited. The phone rang five times. She was about to give up when the line opened and a weary voice answered. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Dixon? Sara Dixon?”

  A brief hesitation, then a cautious, “Who is this?”

  Feeling dreadful now, and wishing she’d left it until morning after all, Elizabeth said, “Mrs. Dixon, this is Elizabeth McClaine. I run a funding trust that’s involved with one of the young women in Carringway Prison. I’m so sorry to call this time of night, but it’s a matter of some urgency.”

  She glanced across at Clay, who nodded encouragement.

  Sara Dixon’s breath rasped down the line. It sounded as though she was repositioning herself in bed. After a moment, she said, “What’s this about?”

  How to put this gently?

  Another look at Clay.

  Another reassuring nod.

  “It’s about Amy, Mrs. Dixon. I’m so sorry for your loss, and I hate doing this to you, but I have reason to believe that she didn’t die by her own hand.”

  The reply was a tight whisper, as if her throat had tightened. “I know she didn’t.” A brittle silence stretched into a ragged breath. “What have you found?”

  “It’s only a hunch. I can’t promise you anything, but I need to see what the prison sent home after Amy’s death. I think there’s something among her personal effects that could prove she was…” Elizabeth closed her eyes tightly, as though that might soften the words. “…well, that her death wasn’t accidental.”

  Another hesitation. When Sara Dixon spoke this time, her voice was strained but firm. “The prison sent a package of her things home. I’m sorry, I know this sounds terrible, but I … I haven’t even looked in it. I couldn’t.” The final word hooked in her throat, reducing it to a whisper. Elizabeth felt her own eyes welling.

  “I’m so sorry.” Elizabeth swallowed hard, then steeled herself for the next question. “Would you mind if I came over tomo
rrow and took a look at it? I promise you, I would use all care and respect.”

  “We’re not at home. We’re staying with my mother in Boston.” In the background a man’s voice mumbled something. “Can you hold on a second?”

  It sounded as though her hand had gone over the phone while a muffled conversation took place in the background. Elizabeth figured it was Ron Dixon. Clay tipped his head into her line of vision, eyebrows up, as if to say, “Well?”

  She nodded once and Sara Dixon was back.

  “Are you there, Mrs. McClaine?”

  She turned away from Clay to gaze out the window and pressed the phone hard to her ear. “I’m here.”

  “There’s a key under a geranium pot on our front porch. If there’s something among Amy’s things that’ll prove she didn’t take those drugs, you have my full permission to go into the house and find it.”

  Elizabeth motioned to Clay and he took a pen and notebook from his jacket pocket. She took down the address, thanked Sara Dixon, and hung up with a promise that anything they found that could be evidence would be taken straight to the police.

  “So what now?” asked Clay.

  “I’ll go there tomorrow.”

  He waggled his eyebrows, gave her one of his poster-boy grins. “Why wait?” he said and started his car.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  DAY TWO: 10:52 PM—ELIZABETH

  Clay had offered to follow Elizabeth back to her house, then take her in his car to the Dixons’ house on the waterfront. Elizabeth had declined the offer, telling him that she didn’t want to put him to any more trouble than she already had. In fact, she was tired and after that awkward moment back at Millcreek, she didn’t want to have to rely on him if she needed to leave. So she’d driven the forty minutes to Amy’s house with him following. Now, here she was parked in front, looking up at the darkened windows and wondering why the hell she let him talk her into coming here tonight instead of tomorrow morning.

  The house was in total darkness. A two-story frame construction, built in the style of a Cape Cod, it somehow exuded an atmosphere of abandonment—as though Amy’s death had drawn out all the life and happiness, leaving nothing but an empty shell.