by Lisa Jackson
And who allegedly had nearly killed the victim the night before, Snyder thought.
He and Lyons walked through a massive open foyer. He remembered the impressive staircase that wound upward to a second-floor gallery that opened to the bedrooms.
“Dillard has everyone in the family room,” the deputy said. “We haven’t interviewed them individually, but the long and the short of it is that the owner, Ava Garrison, had been visiting the ranch hand who lives over the stable on the property.” The deputy checked her notes and read from them. “She’d seen lights on in the victim’s room and went up to talk to her. This was around midnight. She heard the clock. She knocked on the door, no one responded, and after several tries to get the victim to answer, walked inside and found the victim in the bathtub. Already deceased.” She told them the location of Jewel-Anne Church’s set of rooms.
“Let’s take a look.” Lyons was already heading up the stairs. Snyder was a step behind. They found the open door to the victim’s room, which was decorated straight out of Sleeping Beauty’s castle in Disneyland. Pink and lavender, canopied bed, and white, feminine furniture. “My dream room when I was nine,” Lyons muttered before opening the door to the bathroom and exposing the garish scene within. The victim lay in the tub, fully clothed, flanked by two dolls with eyes that opened and shut. Antiques, these days. All three had their throats slashed, and the dolls’ necks had been painted with something to simulate blood.
“Nail polish,” Lyons said. “How bizarre.” She snapped pictures on her iPad.
“Yeah and check out the wig.”
Lyons stopped taking pictures long enough to look over her shoulder at him. “You think it’s a match?”
He grimaced, not liking where his thoughts were taking him. “I’d bet my badge on it.”
CHAPTER 42
Ava suffered through it all. Confined to the first floor, in close contact with the members of her family and the staff as they waited in the large room off the kitchen, Ava thought she would go out of her mind. Dern was included in the roundup of everyone who lived at Neptune’s Gate, but she kept her distance from him, didn’t want to give anyone any inkling to her feelings. Besides, she was upset. Beyond upset.
Who? she wondered over and over again. Who would kill Jewel-Anne? Could the killer be in this room even now? Her skin crawled at the possibilities, and when she remembered her cousin, all the blood, the hideous dolls, she cringed inside.
And they blamed her. She felt it in the looks cast in her direction.
Her head was pounding, her heart heavy, her stomach on the verge of losing whatever was in it, and she couldn’t avoid the silent accusations in Jacob’s and Demetria’s eyes. Though she turned her back to the family and stared out the window at the darkness beyond, she felt them watching her, felt the weight of their gazes. They all thought she was responsible.
But someone knew the truth.
Someone had to.
Because someone was guilty as sin; she just didn’t know who the culprit was.
Raindrops drizzled down the glass in crooked lines, and the leaves of the rhododendrons, visible in the thin light from inside, shivered with the wind. Still it seemed safer outside in the elements.
Never had this large room seemed so small. It had always been a comforting, family place with its gas fire and oversized furniture, a spot where one could read a book, watch the television, or just hang out. Sadly, Ava remembered curling up with Noah and reading a favorite story aloud. Even Jewel-Anne, with her clicking needles and ever-present dolls and earphones, had spent time here.
Now the sanctuary was a prison. Crammed into the room, everyone was nervous, barely talking, and Ava imagined they were all going through their own surreal thoughts. Jacob and Demetria, closest to Jewel-Anne, appeared shell-shocked. Khloe, Simon, and Virginia huddled in one corner, whispering among themselves. Ian and Trent took up residence near the fireplace, Ian nervously jangling the keys in his pocket, the fire hissing as flames licked the logs.
Standing stiffly near the doorway was Wyatt; his face was the color of ash and his arms were crossed over his chest, almost defiantly, as he remained tight-lipped. It was obvious that he stood as far from his wife as he could, on the opposite side of the room, oceans of dark emotions and unspoken accusations separating them. No more did he pretend to be the attentive husband; it was almost as if his belief that she killed Jewel-Anne was the final blow to an already shattered marriage and he was now resigned to its failure.
Not that Ava cared. She continued to stare outside, looking past her own ghostly reflection on the glass to the inky night beyond. Let Wyatt think whatever he damned well pleased.
Dern stood at the other window. Leaning one shoulder against its frame, he also stared outside to the darkness and probably wished he, too, could be anywhere else but in this tense, uncomfortable room.
Never once did she meet his eyes.
Graciela was missing, but she wasn’t due to arrive for work until morning. Noisily the two detectives returned to the first floor and made their way into the den. As Ava turned to face them, she tried to remain calm and hang on to her wits.
Snyder said, “We’re going to need to talk to each of you, alone. One of the deputies will stay with the rest of you while we interview individuals. You’ll all be asked to make a statement. I’ll talk to some of you in the den, and Detective Lyons will talk to the others, again, one at a time, in the dining room.” He rubbed the back of his neck, as if trying to figure out how to break some more bad news. Ian quit his key jangling. The group in the corner stopped whispering.
Ava’s stomach tightened. There was something in his attitude that made Ava’s muscles tense. Dear God, what now?
“Before we start with the interviews, I think you should know that there’s been another homicide, very much like this one.”
“What?” Trent stared at the detective. “Another one? Besides Jewel-Anne, you mean?”
“Besides Cheryl Reynolds,” Wyatt interjected.
“Besides Ms. Reynolds,” Snyder clarified, and Ava stood stock still, disbelieving.
Please, not someone else close to me . . . oh, please.
“It looks like we have another victim who may have been the target of the same killer.”
He paused to take a breath, and everyone in the room stared at him. Waiting. Nervous.
“Evelyn McPherson was also murdered.”
“What?” Ava gasped. “No!” One hand flew to her mouth and her knees nearly gave way. Dr. McPherson? The woman she was certain was having an affair with her husband? “There has to be some mistake!” Shaking her head, she conjured up Evelyn’s face, her sad smile, her knowing eyes . . .
“That’s not possible!” Wyatt said, his face draining of all color. “Evelyn’s fine!”
Trent took a step toward Snyder. “I can’t believe that anyone would do anything to Eve. . . .” But the serious expression on both detectives’ faces stopped him short, seemed to convince him. “Jesus. Why?”
Everyone in the room was stricken, all in various stages of denial. Two murders? Of people who spent so much time here? It just didn’t make any sense. . . .
“When?” Ava whispered. “Where?”
“At home, sometime yesterday, probably last night. Still waiting to find out.”
“There’s been nothing in the news!” Wyatt still wasn’t accepting it.
“Her body was discovered only today.”
Jacob’s eyes narrowed on the cops. “What the fuck is going on here?”
“That’s what we’re here to do, to sort it all out.”
“Well, fuckin’ do it!” Jacob said, reaching for his jacket as if he were planning to leave.
Lyons raised a hand. “Settle down!” she ordered. “We know this is a shock, but we ask that you all just try to stay calm.”
“How the fuck can we do that?” Jacob threw at her. “You just told us two people we know have been murdered. My sister and the shrink. Shit! Calm down, my ass!”
Lyons wasn’t having any of Jacob’s histrionics. “You know, we could make you all come to the station, so if I were you, I’d just take a chill pill.” Her eyes were zeroed in on Jacob, but her words were for everyone in the room.
No one else argued. They were all too stunned, and Jacob, sufficiently schooled, dropped back onto the couch again. “Fuckin’ sideshow,” he said, but his voice was barely audible.
Lyons didn’t rise to the bait, and Snyder took over. “Listen,” he said, “I’m sorry, I realize you all knew her, so this is tough. We know that. But in light of what happened to Jewel-Anne, I thought you should know.” Clearing his throat, he paused a beat, then added, “We discovered her body earlier this evening, and we think she’d been dead for nearly twenty-four hours at that time. We’re still waiting for an official time and cause of death. Her family’s been notified, so now at least we can let the public know, and I’m sure the press will be all over it, as they’ve already been calling the station.”
“That will happen here, too,” Ian said, horrified. “Reporters everywhere.”
“I’m afraid so, yes,” Snyder said, and Lyons nodded her agreement.
Wyatt muttered, “Great,” under his breath.
“This is too creepy.” Khloe shuddered. “Cheryl Reynolds, Evelyn, and now . . . now Jewel-Anne.”
“I know. We’ll get through it.” Simon placed an arm around his wife’s shoulders, as if to comfort her, but the gesture seemed awkward. Stiff. All for show. Ava couldn’t help but wonder if he, so secretive, could have had anything to do with the murders. A fleeting, stupid idea. Why would Simon go to all the trouble?
“So, in our interviews,” Snyder was saying, “we’ll be discussing what you know about Jewel-Anne’s homicide, but we’ll also need to ask you when was the last time you had any contact with Dr. McPherson.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees as Ava processed what was going on.
Three women.
Three homicides.
And the police thought they were linked.
Because the victims all knew you! You’re the link, Ava. That’s what the police think.
Ava swallowed hard. Her head was thundering, visions of Jewel-Anne appearing in her mind. She imagined how Cheryl and Evelyn had died. Had they been wearing wigs? Positioned by treasured items . . . Cheryl with the cats. Jewel-Anne with her dolls. Ava had no idea what Evelyn considered valuable, if anything, but she told herself to stop thinking about it. Yes, she’d known each of these women and they’d known her, probably more intimately than any of the others in the room had. Cheryl because of the hypnosis and shared confidences, Evelyn through psychological sessions, and Jewel-Anne by observation and proximity.
Again Ava’s stomach felt as if it might empty.
Heart heavy, she realized she wasn’t just the link between the victims but she was also probably a prime suspect. With her history of mental problems, her own violence toward herself, it would be an easy leap to think of her as capable of murder. In her mind’s eye, she saw the evidence stacking up against her. They really couldn’t think that—
“Mrs. Garrison?” Detective Snyder said, bringing her back to the here and now.
Her stomach nearly dropped to the floor. She wasn’t ready for this but realized the interview was inevitable. She had to give a statement, no matter how difficult it might be. With all eyes trained on her, Ava somehow managed to force her legs to work and follow Snyder into the den, even though she knew deep in her heart the interview wouldn’t go well.
From the corner of the room near one of the windows, Dern had observed the spectacle unfold and had decided to hold his tongue, at least for the time being. Of course, he had a lot to say but thought it might be smarter to confide in one of the cops once they were alone.
Not so, Ava’s husband. Typical.
“I’m an attorney,” Garrison stated, finally acting a little concerned for his wife as Ava was being ushered into the den office for her questioning. The two cops exchanged glances. “I don’t want my wife to be interviewed without legal counsel.”
Dern wasn’t buying Garrison’s act, not for a minute. He had the feeling that Garrison would throw Ava to the wolves if it would pad his wallet in some way. The guy seemed to have snake oil in his blood. Also, as Dern saw it, Ava could hold her own; she didn’t need any help from Wyatt. The fact of the matter was, Dern flat-out didn’t like the guy, didn’t trust him, and wondered what the hell Ava had seen in him in the first place.
“Ava, you don’t have to talk to them,” Wyatt said softly, as if he cared.
Snyder shepherded Ava away, pausing for a second to give Wyatt an almost bemused glance. “You wanna sit in?” He cocked his shiny head toward the den. “If your wife doesn’t mind, it’s okay with me.”
“I’ll be fine,” Ava said.
“Are you sure?” Wyatt rounded an edge of the couch where Jacob, pouting silently, sat in the corner of the cushions.
As if she knew that allowing Wyatt into the interview was a mistake, Ava said firmly, “I think I can handle this.”
“Good. That’s settled, then,” Snyder said. “We’re just taking a statement here. No one’s charging your wife or you or anyone else here with anything.”
“But she’s been ill,” Wyatt told the detective, then, more softly, as he touched her shoulder, “It hasn’t been that long since you were released from St. Brendan’s, honey.”
She shrank away from his touch. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“But—”
“Let’s go,” she said to the detective, cutting off any more arguments as she left the room.
“She’s going to blow it!” Wyatt worried aloud, pacing.
“Have a little faith,” Dern suggested. Ava had a lot more grit than anyone gave her credit for.
“She’s fragile,” Wyatt said. “She could snap like that!” He snapped his own fingers to emphasize his point.
Dern lifted a shoulder. “I don’t think you give her enough credit.”
“You’re not paid to think,” Wyatt said before stopping short as the sound of his own words echoed in the room. He was suddenly aware of the eyes of everyone else waiting to be interviewed watching him. “I’m sorry. I’m just upset.”
Sure. It’s not that you’re an egomaniacal prick. But Dern let it slide. There was no reason to antagonize Garrison any further or give the cops anything more to think about.
Besides, Dern had a couple of his own bombshells to drop.
“So after spending a little over an hour in Austin Dern’s apartment, you were just going up to your cousin’s room to talk to her, find out the name of the father of her child, the one you adopted but didn’t remember?” Snyder asked. Seated in Wyatt’s executive chair, he was taking notes on a small spiral-bound pad, even though a small recording device had been placed on the top of the desk.
Ava sat on the opposite side of the desk, nervously propped on the edge of her grandmother’s favorite chair. “That’s right.” Ava had told him everything she could remember about the night before. “I admit it, I was furious and determined to find out who was the father of my son. I thought she was lying to me and probably knew where Noah was, so I went up to Jewel-Anne’s room. I knocked, called through the door, and when she didn’t answer, I let myself in and . . . and . . .” The grotesque memory of Jewel-Anne in the bathtub with the dolls and all that blood assailed her. “And I found her.” Shuddering at the memory, she knew how bad it sounded. She’d been angry with her cousin, again, not long after nearly throwing her over the railing.
Snyder had been scribbling, but his hand stopped writing and he looked up at her. “You have no idea who could be Noah’s biological father?” His eyebrows raised a fraction.
“No,” she admitted. Looking at him, seeing his face remain much too bland, she felt a little buzz on her spine, a warning. “You do?” Her heart began beating crazily at the thought that this man had information about N
oah.
The detective nodded. “We have reason to believe that your cousin might have been sexually involved with one of the patients at Sea Cliff.”
“A patient . . . ?” she repeated, hearing her own heartbeat in her ears as an image came to mind.
“Lester Reece.”
A little squeak of protest escaped her lips. The murderer? He was perfect little Noah’s father? “No!” No! No! NO! “That can’t be right. There must be some kind of mix-up, because there’s no way that a serial killer could be . . . No!” She didn’t realize she was shaking her head.
“You didn’t know this was a possibility?” Snyder asked.
“Of course not! How could . . . ?” She thought of Jewel-Anne with her smug little I’ve-got-a-secret smile. But . . . but Lester Reece? “I don’t believe it.”
“She and her family lived at Sea Cliff. Her father was the head administrator.”
“I know that!” she nearly screamed as her mind raced. Was it possible? No . . . oh, no!
“She spent time with the patients. Worked there, didn’t she? As an aide of some kind.”
Ava’s heart grew cold. Yes . . . she remembered Jewel-Anne talking about some of her chores at the hospital, how she’d gotten to know some of the patients. Still she couldn’t, wouldn’t believe this nonsense. Her voice was hard to find and she had to clear her throat. “Uncle Crispin would never allow anything like this to happen.” But Jewel-Anne had always been sneaky and rebellious and stubborn, even devious. For the love of St. Peter, could it be true? Though she wanted to deny, deny, deny it. How could she?
“You’d never considered the possibility?”
“No,” she finally whispered, and swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat and reminded herself that she could face anything—she just had to find her son. No matter what. Closing her eyes, hearing her heart drum denial in her ears, she took several deep breaths before opening her eyes again.
“Why? Why do you think he’s the . . . ?” She couldn’t even get the word over her tongue. Barely able to hold on to the shreds of her composure, she listened mutely as Detective Snyder explained further about the connection between Reece and Jewel-Anne. The police had connected the dots; they were confirming with others, including Piper and Crispin, who had been informed of their daughter’s violent death and were headed to Neptune’s Gate, a place Crispin had tried to avoid.