Her Last Summer: A Veronica Lee Thriller

by Melinda Woodhall

  With Veronica it felt different. The attraction wasn’t just physical. There was something about her unjaded, curious attitude that was refreshing. He felt better when he was with her. As if her positive energy rubbed off on him somehow.

  Pulling into a gas station to refuel, Hunter wondered what effect he had on her. He couldn’t be sure how she felt about him, but he knew that Veronica had a big heart, and that she was drawn to people that seemed to need help. So, while his instincts told him the attraction was mutual, he feared she was drawn to the damaged part inside him. The part that had broken into a million pieces back in Kabul, and which he was still trying to put back to together.

  It wouldn’t be fair to saddle her with his issues and problems, even if he wasn’t her boss, and even if they were in a position to see what might happened between them.

  So, I need to stay away, at least emotionally. For her sake, and my own.

  As he finished filling the tank and climbed back in the car, Hunter wondered if Veronica had gotten her interview with Julian Hart yet. It would be a big scoop for the station; viewers would surely tune in to hear what Portia Hart’s reclusive brother had to say about his sister’s tragic death. And Veronica would be just the right reporter to handle the interview with compassion.

  He thought of the comment he’d overheard Finn say earlier in the day about Veronica getting involved with a subject of one of her stories. Had he been talking about Julian Hart. Could Veronica be interested in more than just Julian’s sad story?

  Picturing the downcast figure he’d seen in Channel Ten’s parking lot that morning, Hunter assumed the tortured artist routine had gotten to her. Being a billionaire probably didn’t hurt either. He couldn’t blame her really, but he didn’t like to think of Veronica getting mixed up with a family that seemed to be cursed.

  Maybe having all that money was a curse, and not a blessing. Portia and Julian Hart’s life of excessive money and angst certainly hadn’t seemed to end in a happily ever after.

  Turning to Gracie, Hunter decided he wasn’t ready to go home.

  “How about we do a little investigating of our own, girl?”

  Gracie looked out of the window with eager eyes as Hunter headed the car toward Kingston Street.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Hunter drove down Channel Drive looking for Kingston Road. He noticed a blue Toyota coming the other way, absently noting the Willow Bay Quick Rides decal on the window.

  Spotting the crime scene tape across the front of the house, Hunter circled the block, wanting to check out the whole scene before going any closer. The house looked dark and deserted from every angle, and Hunter decided to park the Audi and let Gracie stretch her legs. The walk would give him a perfect excuse to nose around without drawing undue attention.

  Gracie trotted beside Hunter as he walked past the house. She pulled him toward a big oak tree and stopped to mark it as her territory. As Hunter waited, he noticed the silver gleam of a discarded candy wrapper on the sidewalk. As he bent to pick it up, muffled footsteps sounded behind him and a man stepped out of the shadows.

  “Nice looking dog,” a gruff voice called out. “That one of them rescue dogs? My grandson tells me I need to get one of those now that old Spike is gone.”

  Hunter watched as the man approached with the help of a cane. His bespectacled face was wrinkled with age, but his eyes were sharp behind his thick lenses.

  “This is Gracie,” Hunter said, looking down at the Lab with affection. “And I guess you could call her a rescue dog. A friend of mine brought her back from Afghanistan a while back. She was just a skinny little thing then.”

  The man seemed to contemplate the information, then nodded, as if he approved.

  “I was in the army myself. About a hundred years ago.”

  Hunter smiled and shook his head.

  “Oh, I wasn’t in the military. I was a reporter. Now I work at a local news station.”

  The man’s expression changed. His forehead collapsed into wrinkles.

  “You aren’t with that Channel Six are you?”

  “No. I’m the station manager at Channel Ten.”

  “Yeah?” The man cocked his head and grinned. “Well, you’re lucky, cause I like your show. That new girl you have is a breath of fresh air. Not all fake like that Nick Sargent on Channel Six.”

  Hunter felt a twinge of satisfaction.

  “You’re not a fan of Nick Sargent, Mr…?”

  “Trout. Otis Trout,” the old man said. “But you can just call me Otis.”

  “And I’m Hunter Hadley, but you can call me Hunter.”

  The old man stared at him, his eyes suddenly suspicious.

  “You related to the Mayor?”

  “I’m his son, actually,” Hunter admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I agree with his policies.”

  “I should hope not, young man,” Otis sniffed. “The younger generation is supposed to be smarter than the old one. Hopefully you’re a right bit smarter than your father.”

  Holding back a smile, Hunter tried to change the subject.

  “So, why don’t you like Nick Sargent?’

  “He’s a phony, that’s why. He acts like a choir boy on the news, but I’ve seen him sniffing around here after all them young girls Molly used to bring around.”

  Hunter stared at the older man, too surprised to speak.

  “I mean, in my time I liked the ladies as well, but them girls are way too young to be hanging around with the likes of him.”

  “You must be mistaken, Mr. Trout.” Hunter tried to keep the lighthearted tone in his voice. “Whoever was coming over here probably just looks like Nick Sargent.”

  Otis snorted in disdain.

  “I’m not senile, and I’m not blind.” He thumped his cane on the sidewalk for emphasis. “Besides, I heard Molly call him by his name plenty of times. That man was hanging around here like a bad smell.”

  Deciding it would be futile to argue, Hunter held his tongue. If the old man thought he’d seen Nick Sargent at Molly Blair’s house, who was he to say otherwise? Willow Bay was a small town, and there weren’t many men in town who would easily be mistaken for the handsome reporter.

  Besides, the possibility that Nick Sargent had a connection to the murder scene intrigued him. He’d been a reporter long before he’d become the station manager. Perhaps it was time for him to put his investigative skills back to use. He’d been out of the game for too long. This was the perfect opportunity to jump back in with both feet.

  As he watched Otis Trout tottered back into the shadows, Hunter mapped out a plan. Investigating a reporter at his rival station was a sensitive operation. If someone found it would look like he was trying to sabotage the competition. And even if Nick had been hanging around Molly’s house, that in itself proved nothing. It certainly didn’t prove murder.

  But the accusation that Nick had been hanging around with young girls, possibly even underage girls, was disturbing in itself. It couldn’t hurt to do some digging. At the very least he could discredit the old man’s story. At most, he might end up with a major scoop.

  Once he and Gracie were back in the car, Hunter pulled out his phone and scrolled to a number saved in his contact list. He hadn’t felt the need to call Nessa Ainsley since the whole Boyd Faraday fiasco, but maybe it was about time he reached out to the new chief of police. She wasn’t a big fan of his dad, but then, neither was he.

  Nessa answered the phone on the first ring.

  “Hunter, how are you?”

  “Confused,” he answered, smiling at the southern twang in her voice. “I just heard something that I think you’ll want to hear.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Veronica sipped her glass of sparkling water and checked her watch. She had remained at the Riverview Hotel after Finn had stormed away in hopes that Julian would call her back and agree to the interview. But when her phone finally rang she hadn’t recognized the number. It had been Riley Odell calling to say she had a potentially huge sto
ry to share.

  After arranging to meet at the hotel bar, Veronica had ordered the bubbly, non-alcoholic drink and claimed a quiet table in the corner. She now sat in anxious anticipation, wondering what the big news was, and why the prosecutor had decided to call her.

  “You need another drink?”

  Benji appeared by her elbow, a tray in one hand and a dishtowel in the other. His long dark hair was slicked back into a small ponytail, and he was sporting a light five o’clock shadow. With his white button-up shirt and black pants, Veronica decided he could pass for one of the Chippendale’s dancers she’d seen on her one and only trip to Las Vegas. All he was missing was the bow-tie.

  “No, I’m good, thanks.” Veronica looked over his shoulder toward the door. “I’m kind of expecting someone, so I’ll wait to see what they want before I order anything else.”

  Benji nodded. He moved on to the bar and set down his tray, then began using the towel to wipe off the empty tables.

  “I guess Sunday nights must be pretty slow,” Veronica said when he reached the table next to hers.

  “Yeah, most nights are slow around this town.”

  He stopped next to her and leaned against the table, his arm only inches from hers. “Nothing like the places I’ve worked in Miami and Key West. They were always busy. Always a party going on.”

  Veronica leaned back, inching away from the thick scent of cologne that hovered around the bartender.

  “So why’d you come here, then?” Veronica asked, unable to break her reporter’s habit of asking a million questions. “Why not stay where you were?”

  Benji shrugged his broad shoulders.

  “I guess I like variety.” His mouth spread into a wide smile. “I get bored doing the same things, you know?”

  Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Veronica nodded and gulped down the last of her water.

  “I think I will take that other drink now,” she said, eager for him to leave. “And then I need to prepare for my meeting.”

  She reached inside her bag for the notebook she usually carried, but it wasn’t there. She looked around for a spare piece of paper as Benji returned with her water.

  “It’s on the house.”

  Veronica offered up a weak smile.

  “Oh, thanks. That’s sweet.”

  Her eyes widened as she saw Riley Odell come through the door.

  “Oh, and do you have any paper I could use?” she asked Benji. “I need to make some notes.”

  Benji picked up a Special of the Day menu and flipped it over. The back was blank. He shrugged off her thanks and walked away just as Riley slid onto the barstool across from her.

  “I’m glad we’ve got the place to ourselves,” Riley said, looking around at the empty stools. “Because I’m not ready to go public with what I’m about to tell you just yet. I need you to swear you’ll keep the information off the record for now.”

  Veronica’s heart sank.

  “So why are you telling me then?” she asked, trying not to sound as annoyed as she felt.

  “I’m telling you so that you’ll be ready to run a special report when I give the go ahead,” Riley replied. “I have to wait until I get approval from the chief of police and the media relations officer.”

  Veronica grimaced at the mention of Tenley Frost, but she nodded her understanding.

  “Okay, I get it. I won’t release anything until I get your say-so. Now, what’s this big news?”

  Riley took a deep breath and leaned in just as Benji appeared behind her with his tray.

  “Can I get you a drink, ladies?”

  Veronica shook her head, and Riley waved the bartender away without looking up. When he’d gone, she continued in a low voice.

  “We’ve linked the murder of Portia Hart and Molly Blair to the same man. A man that has been questioned before in relation to another murder back in 2010.”

  Struggling to keep her composure, Veronica gaped at Riley.

  “Portia Hart was murdered by a serial killer?”

  Riley held a finger to her lips.

  “Shh! We’re trying to keep this under wraps for now, remember?”

  Veronica nodded and began writing down notes on the back of the menu as Riley began to explain what they’d found out.

  “He’s in the system under the name Xavier Greyson.”

  Scribbling down the name, Veronica was already planning out the report she would produce, and the appeal they would make to the community for information about the killer.

  “Do you have a photo of this Xavier Greyson?”

  “We’re trying get a composite sketch,” Riley said. “We didn’t get a mugshot because he was never officially arrested, but we were able to get his fingerprints and match them to all three crime scenes.”

  “A composite sketch? Does that mean you have a witness that has seen the guy’s face? Someone that can identify him?”

  Riley bit her lip, then nodded.

  “But I can’t share her name with the media.”

  “I understand,” Veronica assured her, “just send me the sketch when it’s ready, and I’ll start working up the report first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Veronica was already picturing the special segment she would create. Channel Ten would be the first station to display the image of the man who had killed Portia Hart, and she would be the reporter who broke the story.

  “Listen, I better go,” Riley said, looking at her watch. “Just promise me you’ll keep this to yourself until you hear back.”

  “I will,” Veronica agreed.

  She stood and watched as Riley hurried out the door. Before she could turn back to the table, she saw Julian Hart walking through the lobby. Spinning around, she almost knocked over Benji, who had already started to clear the table.

  “Oops, sorry.” She shoved the menu with her notes into her bag and slung the bag over her shoulder. “We’re all done here…thanks!”

  Grabbing a twenty dollar bill from her wallet, Veronica dropped it on the table and dashed out into the lobby. Julian was waiting by the elevator holding a paper grocery bag. He looked startled to see her.

  “Julian, I thought you were going to call me.” She pointed to two chairs in an alcove. “Did you still want to talk?”

  “I’ve been working on a new sketch. I guess I lost track of time.” The elevator doors slid open. “Why don’t you come up?”

  Not wanting to lose her opportunity for a second time, Veronica stepped on the elevator and rode with Julian in silence to the fourteenth floor. She followed him off the elevator and down the hall. He stopped and waved his key card outside Room 1410.

  Veronica stared at the door to Room 1408 with wide eyes. How could Julian bear to be right next to the room where his sister had been murdered? The realization that might know the name of the man who had been in that room, and who had killed Portia Hart, sent a shiver down her spine.

  Would she be able to interview Julian about his sister’s death and not reveal what she knew? It felt wrong on too many levels.

  “Come on in,” Julian said, carrying his bag into the suite. “I’ll just put this down on the bar.”

  Veronica hesitated just inside the door as her mother’s voice sounded in her head, warning her against strangers.

  Reaching into the bag, Julian pulled out a bottle of wine and a small container of fresh fruit. He gave Veronica a self-conscious smile, then picked up the corkscrew.

  “Would you like a glass?” he offered, once the cork was out. “I’d rather not drink alone, although I often do. Portia used to bug me about it. Said I was becoming a closet alcoholic.”

  His smile wobbled, and he turned his attention to pouring the wine into two stemless wine glasses imprinted with the Riverview Hotel logo. He held a glass of the dark red liquid toward Veronica.

  “I don’t drink while I’m working,” she said, reluctantly taking the glass. “And I shouldn’t be in your room without my cameraman.”

  “What do you think of my s
ketch?” Julian asked, ignoring her protests as he pointed to a sketch pad on the table. “I started this the day before I got the call about Portia.”

  Veronica’s eyes moved to the table; she was immediately captivated by the colorful drawing. Stepping closer, she studied the beautifully detailed beach scene, where a blazing sun was setting in the distance as two children played in the surf. She glanced up at Julian, intrigued by his ability to convey so much emotion with a piece of paper and a few colored pencils.

  “Me and Portia,” he said, nodding at the figures on the paper. “We grew up on the coast. We were so close back then.”

  Julian walked to the window and stared down at the river.

  “My sister and I both suffered after my parents died, but we had each other. At least we did at the beginning.”

  “Did something happen to change that?” Veronica asked,

  Julian paused, as if carefully considering his next words.

  “Can I tell you something off the record?”

  His question made Veronica’s stomach drop, but she nodded, knowing she had no choice but to respect his request. She’d crossed a line when she’d entered his room, moving from a public forum to a private conversation. She wouldn’t be able to use anything Julian Hart told her without his express permission.

  “My sister made some very bad investments a few years back. She ended up losing most of her inheritance.” He paced across the room, stopping in front of her. “It put a strain on our relationship, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

  Actually, Veronica couldn’t imagine inheriting, and then losing, a billion dollar fortune, but she nodded in agreement anyway.

  “I always thought she wrote Simply Portia to justify her scaled back lifestyle, but it ended up being a self-fulfilling prophecy,” Julian said. “Living more simply did seem to make her happier. Lately she didn’t seem to care about the money at all. But maybe that was all just an act. Maybe it all got to be too much.”

  Veronica blinked.

  “So, you still think she killed herself?”

  “I think it’s a possibility, although I guess it could have been an accident. She wasn’t used to taking drugs, or even medicine. She liked natural remedies. Maybe she didn’t know what would happen.”