by Kate White
“Perhaps from church.”
“Are you back to that? I don’t want to be dismissive of leads, but I already told you that I couldn’t imagine anyone we’re familiar with from the church murdering her. And Shannon had been back in the congregation for only a few months.”
“Has anyone from the parish ever struck you as hyper-religious? For instance, talking about sinners needing to be punished?”
“No . . . no one.” She seemed distracted suddenly, as if a thought had begun to skirt around the edges of her mind.
“Kelly? Did you think of something?”
“No, it’s just all too much to bear. And besides, I need to pick up my niece and nephew in a little while.”
“Okay.”
She extended an arm indicating she would see me out and began to move toward the hall.
“How are they coping?” I asked, following her to the front door.
“They’re too young and shell-shocked to have fully absorbed it yet, but when they do, it’s going to be utterly devastating. Shannon was so involved in every single aspect of their lives, twenty-four/seven.”
The remark could have been taken as a compliment—like the unicorn-colored cupcake comment the other day—but her tone once again gave off a whiff of criticism, as if Shannon’s involvement with her children had been of the smothering variety.
We’d arrived at the front door, and Kelly reached for the handle.
“I’m really grateful for your time,” I said. “And again, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. And I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but I’d really appreciate it if you left us alone from now on. I’ve tried to be helpful, and there’s nothing more I can contribute.”
“I’m sure dealing with the press hasn’t been easy,” I said, not making any promises. There was every chance I’d want to circle back to Kelly in the next days, but I’d simply have to cross that bridge when I reached it.
I stepped back to let Kelly swing open the door, and as I did, my gaze fell onto the surface of the small hall table. Tucked under the base of a lamp was a bright red-and-white business card with the words Cunningham Real Estate, along with the agent’s name, Janice Talbot. I made a quick mental note of the information as I stepped onto the portico and felt the door close firmly behind me.
Back in my car, I tried to regroup. By itself, the revelation from Cody about Alice’s query hadn’t given me anything much to work with, but I’d convinced myself that if I followed this particular thread, I’d end up somewhere. Yet, it was looking now as if Shannon had never been on retreat, and Alice might have even determined this before she died.
What I needed to do now was get back to my computer, continuing to retrace what I hoped were Alice’s digital footsteps. Perhaps I’d missed a critical detail and needed to review areas I’d already covered.
I drained the lukewarm remains of my coffee and stared back at the Claiborne house. There were a couple of things about the visit that gnawed at me. For one, Kelly’s comment about Shannon’s 24-7 involvement as a mother. Shannon was supposedly kicking her career back into gear, working as a marketer for Baker Beverage, but Kelly’s comment seemed to indicate she wasn’t aware of that. Maybe Shannon, hoping to avoid judgment on Kelly’s part, had decided not to let her in on the news.
Poor Shannon. She’d probably never been able to win with her older sister, who considered her too involved with herself one minute and too involved with the kids the next. That was one of the problems with being both beautiful and talented. People overscrutinized you for flaws and when they couldn’t find any, they blew up a momentary error into a deficiency. Or they trivialized your accomplishments—like J.J. had done by categorizing Shannon’s work at Baker as simply “giving herself something to do.”
I was also thinking about the real estate agent’s business card. One of the Claibornes might have tucked it under the lamp or a real estate agent could have left it there after showing the house to a prospective buyer. I googled the number for the agency and talked to someone at the office who gave me Janice Talbot’s cell number.
“This is Janice,” she said when I reached her a minute later.
I introduced myself, and inquired if the house on Linden Lane was on the market.
“Um, yes and no. I had been showing it, but for personal reasons the sellers recently decided to take it off the market temporarily. But I have some fabulous properties I could show you that are very comparable in style and price.”
“Let me think about it, all right? I was in that house once for a baby shower, and I loved it, so maybe I’ll wait until it’s available again. Why are the owners thinking of selling, do you know?”
A pause before the answer as she chose the right words.
“They love the house, but I think they’re looking to downsize. Why don’t you give me your contact info so when it does come back on the market, I can reach you?”
I told her I’d prefer to be the one reaching out and signed off. I didn’t buy her explanation for the sale. The daughter was still around five years away from college or moving out.
The decision to sell could relate to their marital issues. Kelly might have suspected that Doug was cheating—or had even discovered it—and had decided they should split. Shannon’s disappearance and death would have surely put that plan on hold.
I had better things to think about at the moment, though. It was time to see if I could track down Ben Hatfield.
My heart was pounding before I even reached Alice’s road and by the time I made the turn, I could hear it in my ears. God, it was so damn sad to be there. I imagined her bumping along the road in her MINI every morning, itching to tackle her next assignment, and then returning late in the day, eager for a glass of wine and the sight of a moonrise over the lake. No more.
I caught a brief glimpse of a movement through the trees. Was it Ben? Reporters inspecting the scene? Once I pulled closer, though, I saw that it was simply a piece of yellow crime scene tape that had broken off and was flapping like a kite tail in the wind.
Interestingly, Alice’s car was missing from the driveway, which suggested Ben had already arrived and was currently using it. More than likely, the crime scene unit had declared the premises cleared by now, and Ben had been given access.
I didn’t want to occupy the driveway in case Ben returned while I was there, so I parked along the side of the road against a cluster of fir trees. As I reached for the door handle, my phone rang. Killian.
“You doing okay?” he asked.
“Yes, thanks.” I wondered what he’d think if he knew I was currently outside of Alice’s house. “Anything new?”
“Unfortunately, and I’m speaking totally off the record here, we have nothing pointing to the assailant’s identity. We won’t have DNA results for days, of course.”
Expected but still totally frustrating.
“What about the autopsy?”
“Scheduled for tomorrow. But as I mentioned to you, we have good reason to believe her death wasn’t accidental. The bottom line, Bailey, is that I want you to remain extremely careful.”
“Yes, of course. By the way, I talked to Cody Blaine today. He mentioned Alice’s call and the information she wanted him to confirm.”
Killian might be annoyed at Blaine for revealing the call to me but that wasn’t my problem.
“That Shannon stayed at the Sunset Bay center years ago? That actually doesn’t appear to be true. The parish had only a handful of retreats at that location, and didn’t save records, but the diocese did. There’s no evidence Shannon was ever there.”
So I’d staked out Kelly’s house for nothing.
“How do you think Alice ended up with that idea?”
“Don’t know, but it was clearly bad information. I’m sure you’ve had your share of false leads and tips.”
“Oh yeah. That happens even to us fancy pants.”
He chuckled. “I need to sign off, but let’s stay in touch.”
So I was still in his good graces. Which meant he might continue to share developments with me, and frankly, it was nice to know he had my safety in mind.
“Just one last thing,” I said, my memory jogged. “Did you have any luck finding that woman at the motel?”
“One of my deputies is looking into that. I’m waiting to hear from him.”
As I’d been speaking with Killian, I’d felt Alice’s house exerting a force field–like pull on me. With the call concluded, I climbed out of the Jeep and strode in that direction, my stomach knotting. The curtains on both floors had been pulled shut, so it was impossible to tell if Ben was inside, but I thought not. The place seemed utterly empty and forlorn.
After stepping over a strewn length of crime tape in the yard, I walked up to the kitchen door and knocked a few times, not expecting an answer and not receiving one, either. Ben might not even be planning to stay at the house, I realized, given how creepy it would surely feel. After fishing in my purse for a slip of paper and pen, I scrawled a note for him—introducing myself as a friend of Alice’s and asking him to call me—and wedged it into the crack between the kitchen door and the frame. Even if he didn’t intend to sleep here during his trip, he’d hopefully come by the house again at some point.
Before leaving, I made my way around to the other side of the building and stepped onto the patio. Whatever crime scene tape had been around the patio had been removed. I let my gaze run down the steps to the dock and rest on the spot below where Alice had lain. My eyes welled with tears but I quickly brushed them away.
I still had one more task to tackle. In case Ben didn’t see the note, I needed to wrangle his cell number. I spent the next twenty minutes knocking on doors of the other houses along the road, in the hope of finding the neighbor—or any neighbor for that matter—who had Ben’s contact info. Not one person was home.
My frustration mounted. Maybe I could at least convince Killian to give Ben a message from me.
I trudged back to the Jeep. It was nearly six o’clock by now, and the daylight had begun to fade. My cell phone rang the second I closed the door. With a jolt I saw “blocked number” on the screen.
“Yes?” I asked, keeping my voice steady. Was it the killer again?
I heard a sharp intake of breath, but no one spoke.
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Is this Bailey Weggins?” A woman’s voice.
“Yes, speaking.”
“This is Lisa,” she whispered hoarsely, her tone desperate. “Lisa Mannix.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“Lis—?”
“The woman at the motel.”
“Right. What—?”
“You said I could call you. You have to help me. Someone’s after me—and he’s out there now.”
Chapter 19
OUT WHERE?” I SAID. “OUTSIDE THE MOTEL? IS THAT what you mean?”
“Yes, God . . .”
“Is your door bolted?”
“Yeah, but . . . this is freaking me out.”
“Uh, where’s the guy who comes to see you? The one with the BMW.”
It might actually be him she was freaking out about, I realized. An abusive boyfriend who was now scaring the crap out of her.
She hesitated, perhaps caught off guard that I’d noticed her paramour’s car.
“I—I can’t reach him,” she said after a few seconds. “It’s going to voice mail.”
“When you say someone’s out there, who do you mean exactly? A man? Can you describe him?”
“I’m not sure who it is. But a white SUV has been tailing me this afternoon. I thought I’d lost it, but as I pulled in here, I saw it shoot past me, going farther north. It may have turned around.”
“Do you see anyone out there now?”
“Not from the window. And I’m too scared to go outside.”
“If you think you’re in danger, you should call 911. Right now.”
There was such a long silence that I wondered if the call had been dropped.
“You still there, Lisa?”
“I—I can’t call 911.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want any cops involved.”
Hmm, now that was curious.
“Well, at least call the front desk. Ask if they see anyone hanging around.”
“And then the clerk’ll end up getting the police here.”
“Okay—” I gave myself a second to think. “Why don’t I drive up there and see what’s going on. You’re in unit eleven?”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks. I don’t mean to seem like a baby, but I swear someone’s after me.”
“I’m staying in the village now, so give me fifteen minutes. If anything happens before then, you have to call 911.”
Seconds later, I was on my way. What was my plan? At the moment, I didn’t have one. There was a chance Lisa Mannix—if that truly was her name—had allowed her imagination to go rogue. And it wasn’t hard to see why. I’d stopped her mid-jog and warned her about women disappearing in broad daylight, a skeevy motel owner had subjected her to his lecherous stares, and a serial killer appeared to be at large in the area.
But what if she wasn’t simply conjuring up boogeymen? What if Terry Dobbs actually was the killer, had figured out Lisa was now ensconced at the Breezy Point, and had begun to stalk her? It seemed odd, though, that he would make himself that obvious. I’d check out the situation and, if necessary, urge her again to call the cops. Lisa wanted to leave the police out of it, but she didn’t know that I’d already alerted Killian to her existence.
When I pulled into the Breezy Point there was no white SUV, but also no Camry. The only car near any of the rooms was a muddy four-door Honda, in front of unit one—a new guest, I assumed.
I jumped from the Jeep and pounded on the door of unit eleven. No response. Maybe she had simply cleared out after her call to me rather than wait for my arrival. Or in the time it had taken me to get here, Beemer man had finally come to her rescue and the couple had split simultaneously, but in separate cars. And without her bothering to notify me.
And there was also the chance that something bad had gone down.
I hustled to the front office and shoved open the door. The woman I’d chatted with earlier in the day was still on duty, and she smiled in recognition.
“You forget something, hon?”
“No, I wanted to see if my friend was around, Lisa, the woman in eleven. No one’s answering her door, and I don’t see her car.”
“Her car’s not there? That’s funny, because when I went out back a minute ago, I thought I saw her walking down toward the lake.”
All the hairs on the back of my neck shot up at once.
“Was anyone with her?”
“She seemed to be alone.”
“And what’s down there anyway?”
“We’ve got a swimming dock with a few chairs on it. I assumed she wanted to sit outside for a bit, enjoy the view.”
Fifteen minutes ago, Lisa had been too scared to open the door of her unit, and now she was taking a scenic stroll? And where the hell was her car?
“Is there a path behind the motel?”
“Yes, it’s about a ten-minute walk to the lake. You’ll see a couple of camps to your right, but keep going till you spot the dock.”
I turned to bolt, then stopped and swung back to the clerk.
“You haven’t seen a white SUV around here, have you?”
“White? Actually, I have. One pulled in earlier today but then pulled right out again.”
“What about a few minutes ago?”
“Afraid not. Were you expecting someone?”
“No, but thanks.”
After exiting, I quickly rounded the building and located the path, which descended toward the lake through an area fairly thick with firs, maples, and poplars. It wasn’t seven yet but the sun was sinking behind me, veiled by a filmy layer of pink and yellow clouds.
It didn’t make se
nse that Lisa would have gone out here on her own, and I wondered if the desk clerk was mistaken. Perhaps Lisa had darted behind the building to hide and then circled back to the front once Beemer man called her to report he’d arrived. That didn’t explain her missing car, however.
I started down. As much as I didn’t relish being on the path alone, I needed to make sure she wasn’t in any trouble.
On the right, I spotted the first camp the clerk had referenced, boarded up for the season. But no sign of Lisa. The only sounds were the tremble of leaves high in the trees and the steady, urgent chirping of a solitary bird.
I kept moving, past the second camp, also closed, and finally, through the trees, I saw a sliver of lake. I could hear the water, too, lapping lightly and methodically against the shore. If Lisa was at the dock, I was close. I picked up speed, following the path along a large, shaggy outcropping of rock.
As it rounded the rock, I saw her, smack in the middle of the dirt path, her hair tucked up into a baseball cap and her back to me.
But it wasn’t Lisa. I realized that this woman, dressed in jeans and a quilted navy jacket, had darker hair flowing from beneath her baseball cap. At the sound of my footsteps, she spun halfway around and looked at me. To my complete shock, it was J. J. Rimes.
And she had a black gun in her hand. Pointed now in my direction. I didn’t know a whole lot about firearms, but I was pretty sure it was a mini Glock.
My breath froze in my chest and fear shot through me fast as the snap of a whip. “J.J.,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “What are you doing here?”
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I stayed at this motel for a few nights, and I—I’m looking for someone I met here. Are you in trouble?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she swiveled her body so it was square again with the area behind the outcropping and swept the Glock through the air so that it pointed in front of her. There was someone behind the rock, I realized. Someone she’d been aiming at before I arrived. I slowly shifted my hand until it reached my shoulder bag, ready to dig for my phone.
“Let me help, okay?” I said.
She scoffed, looking back at me. “What are you going to do? Make me a star on the Crime Beat website?”