by Lisa Jackson
“You gonna try and stop her?” Donny waved Roland off and caught the end of a three-point play. Beautiful shot. Nothing but net!
“I’ll have to. I’m gonna be counting on you again, man.”
“For an alibi?” Donny Ray didn’t like the sound of that. He’d stuck his neck out for Roland more times than he wanted to count and kept his mouth shut about the big one because it had served his purpose as well.
“What’re you plannin’?” Donny Ray asked cautiously.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m here, remember. If anyone calls, you just say I’m in the bathroom and I’ll call them back, then you phone my cell, tell me who called and what the score of the game is. Who made the last big play, so pay attention.”
“Jesus, Ro, what’s in it for me?” he asked, half-joking, then saw the glimmer of rage in his stepbrother’s eyes. He knew what that meant and backpedaled fast. “Just kiddin’, man—you know it. I’ve got your back. If anybody comes askin’, you and me, we were watchin’ this here game.” He pointed at the TV. “That’s it, tossin’ back a few cold ones and rooting on the Jaguars.”
“That would be good, bro,” Roland said as he opened the door of Donny’s mobile home. “That would be real good.”
As he left, Donny Ray didn’t know if his stepbrother’s final words were an observation or a warning.
Nikki stared at the images on Effie’s computer, and as she did, her shock gave way to anger, a sharp, pulse-pounding rage.
The picture of her on the porch of the cabin was just the first of dozens of photographs of Nikki and her family. Snapshots at the lake when she was a child, photos from school albums, Hollis riding her horse or in the dance studio, Elton in his football uniform or behind the wheel of his car, Aunty-Pen as a girl riding dressage or in college.
“What is this?” she said aloud.
There were newer shots as well. The house where she lived currently was featured, along with the one where she’d grown up. There was a photo of Uncle Alex’s home and the farm by the lake. Some of the pictures were older, some more recent. The cabin was featured prominently. Older shots, some with members of Nikki’s family, but newer ones as well.
What the hell was this and where the hell was Effie? Nikki had been sitting at the computer for more than half an hour and half-expected Effie to walk into her apartment and discover her, which, Nikki decided, would be just fine. She was itching for a fight, and she sure as hell needed to know what was going on.
She sorted through Effie’s pictures and realized she was in a folder marked “Family.” Yes, it was Nikki’s family, but . . . holy crap. Not Nikki’s family. But Effie’s. Somehow Effie had adopted Nikki’s family . . . adopted. Her mind began spinning with all the innuendos and quiet whisperings she’d heard, the skeletons that had kept rattling in the family closets, one of which was about her aunt. Hadn’t Nikki’s own mother intimated that Aunty-Pen wasn’t as lily-white as she’d pretended to be? And Hollis had made a few similar remarks.
All of a sudden the reason Effie reminded her of someone became increasingly clear. She was large for a woman, like Aunty-Pen, her eyes as blue as Penelope’s and Hollis’s.
No longer worried about breaching Effie’s privacy, Nikki kept searching the documents in her computer, looking for clues to the woman. She had little trouble as Effie kept her password taped to the desk on which the computer rested, allowing Nikki access to evermore-personal files: a copy of Effie’s birth certificate, with Aunt Penelope’s name listed as the mother, the father blank; adoption papers signed within two months of Effie’s birth; and finally the obituaries and death certificates of Nelson and Vivian Savoy, who, according to the obits, had no living relatives other than their daughter. Newspaper articles about the automobile accident that had taken their lives were in the file.
“Dear God,” Nikki said under her breath, as if the very walls could hear her. She found that Effie had joined a couple of Web sites dedicated to connecting adoptive children with their birth parents.
All of it was starting to make some kind of sense until she opened an album marked “Blondell O’Henry.” Just as there had been pictures of Nikki’s family, there were photos of Blondell and her children, her ex-husband, even some of June Hatchett, Leah, and Cain, a virtual family album of people connected to Blondell O’Henry. What now? Nikki wondered. Pictures and links to footage from the trial were included, and Nikki saw her own father in his judicial robes, as well as Alexander McBaine on the courthouse steps, smoking a cigarette, and Garland Brownell standing at a microphone.
It didn’t stop there, either. Not only did Effie have pictures of the players at the trial and shots of the crime scene, but there were photos of Blondell’s home before she was incarcerated and ones of the exterior of the prison. “What the hell are you doing, Effie?” Nikki said. Then she saw why Effie had been seen hanging around her station at work: she’d obviously lifted some of these pictures from Nikki’s database.
“Tit for tat,” she whispered, angry all over again, and when she opened Effie’s Word document file, she saw, big as life, the start of a long document with the working title “Mother or Monster: The True Story of Blondell O’Henry,” by Effie Savoy.
“You bitch,” Nikki whispered in wonder, realizing that Effie planned her own true-crime book about Blondell O’Henry’s case.
She went back to the photo library again and found an album marked “Research with RC.”
With a click of the mouse, Nikki was exposed to Effie Savoy’s private sex diary, photographs primarily shot in the bedroom of this apartment. The man who was tending to Effie’s sexual needs was obviously tall and muscular, with a few tattoos emblazoned across his broad back, but his face was generally turned away from the camera’s eye.
Only one photograph showed his features clearly.
Nikki’s heart nearly stopped.
There, on the computer screen, big as life, was a naked and sweating Roland Camp.
“I knew you’d show up again,” Flora Beauregard said quietly. As before, her jeans were too tight, her hair a perfect cap of soft waves. “I just didn’t know it would be so soon.” Through the screen, with only the porch lamp for illumination, she looked defeated, as if she’d done some serious soul-searching since Morrisette’s last visit.
“There’s not a lot of time. Blondell O’Henry is about to be released. If you won’t tell me the truth, I’m pretty sure she will, and I thought you might want to unburden yourself first.” It was a ploy, but Morrisette pushed it a little. “I know there’s more to the story, and I’m willing to bet you know it.”
As if she held the weight of the world on her shoulders, Flora unlatched the door. “I don’t know if it matters anyway,” she said wearily. “From what Deacon tells me, it’s a done deal, but come in. I suppose it’s time to tell the truth. Flint is long gone, the boys are men now, able to fight their own battles, and I don’t really care any longer anyway.” She looked at Morrisette with sad, defeated eyes, then led her back to her living room, with its pictures of her family proudly displayed on the mantel, attended by Jesus and the antique rifle.
Flora dropped into her chair. “All right,” she admitted, “It’s true. Amity O’Henry was Flint’s daughter. He and that woman had an affair. It was short-lived; she was little more than a girl and ended up pregnant.” Flora’s lips tightened at the memory. “We were going through a rough patch in our marriage, the boys young, not enough money, me dealing with my father’s failing health, and we just drifted apart for a while, though, of course, I didn’t know that he’d . . .” She squeezed her eyes so tight that her whole face crinkled, and she looked suddenly ten years older. “It was a nightmare. Lord knows he was at fault, being as she was so young, but that woman was sly and calculating, demanded money.”
“Child support?”
Absently Flora picked up her knitting needles. “Oh, no, Detective, this was blood money.”
“She blackmailed him, that’s what you’re saying?”
“There was no deal,” Morrisette said.
“Of course not. That entire trial was a sham.” Her mouth twisted at the irony of it all. “And then she ends up getting involved with her lawyer.”
Click, click, click.
“I’m pretty sure nothing about the State of Georgia vs. Blondell Henry was legal, but everyone just played their part,” Flora continued.
“So Blondell did shoot her kids?” Morrisette asked.
“Of course she did, Detective. But the prosecution just couldn’t prove it, not without that little boy’s testimony.”
Click. Click. Click.
“But it doesn’t really matter anymore now, does it? Amity’s gone. Her baby, Flint’s grandchild, gone too.” Flora’s lips quivered.
“Amity’s baby,” Morrisette said. “Do you know who the father was?”
She shook her head. “But it wasn’t Holt’s. Flint made sure of that. When he found out Holt was dating her, I thought he’d wring Holt’s neck.”
“You’re positive?”
Her needles stopped for a second, and her lips twisted in distaste. “Yes, ma’am. And now that woman is going to be set free, her crimes suddenly erased.”
Click. Click. Click.
“What a banner day for all of Georgia,” Flora Beauregard declared, holding back a flood tide of emotion Morrisette guessed was just about to burst through.
CHAPTER 30
Now that Nikki knew what Effie was up to, it was time to leave. She’d love to confront her right then and there, but obviously Effie was out for the evening.
Convenient, Nikki thought, as she scooted the desk chair back. She was about to exit out of Effie’s desktop when she spied the online calendar on Effie’s monitor.
Could she get so lucky?
With a click, she was on a page for November, and, sure enough, work info and appointments from doctors to hairdressers were listed on the virtual page. On today’s date, she had a note: meet at cabin.
Cabin? Meet who?
No note.
It had to be the only cabin pictured in the laptop’s memory, the very spot Amity O’Henry had been killed.
Why would anyone want to meet there?
Nikki’s first thought was that Effie had set up a meeting with her birth mother, but no way would Penelope Hilton McBaine go to that dilapidated cabin at night. Besides, according to Nikki’s mother, she and Penelope were scheduled to attend the Benefit for the Arts.
So that left Roland, right?
Or someone else?
Another player in all of this?
Someone who could give her a little more insight into the book she was writing.
Nikki thought about it hard. She should crash that meeting, find out what was going on.
Are you crazy? You haven’t forgotten staring nose to nose with a copperhead, have you?
Her doubts kept pounding through her brain, but her determination to learn the truth won as she made her way out of the apartment the way she’d come in, walked around the building again, and slid behind the wheel of her dented Honda.
She could just drive home. It was only a few blocks. That would be the smart thing to do.
Or if she needed to feel as if she were doing something useful, she could even stop by Aunty-Pen’s while she was out and return the keys.
But she didn’t heed any of her saner options. From the second she’d seen the note on Effie’s calendar, she’d known, deep in her heart, what her next plan of action would be.
She took the time to text Reed, saying she was still doing research, but she didn’t have the heart to admit that she was going back to the cabin. Still, she couldn’t go out there and not tell anyone, so she left another text with Trina and asked her to call her in an hour.
Just in case there was trouble.
Then she headed out of town.
“That’s right,” Reed said to the dispatcher, “I want a BOLO alert on Roland Camp’s Dodge pickup.” Driving back to the station, he rattled off the license-plate number and hung up. Maybe he was jumping the gun on Camp. The guy hadn’t done anything illegal that Reed knew of, but there were those missing snakes in Dahlonga and a dead man to go along with them.
Roland Camp could have had nothing to do with Alfred Necarney’s death, but Reed wanted to be sure. Truth to tell, he didn’t like the guy.
His cell phone blasted, startling him out of his thoughts of Camp and Blondell O’Henry and religious ceremonies with snakes.
Adjusting the ear device on his Bluetooth, he said, “Reed.”
“I’m on my way back to the station.” Morrisette’s voice was weak, background noise distorting it a little, as she was also driving. “But I thought I’d give you the rundown. Looks like Flint was the father of Amity O’Henry. The missus finally spilled the beans.” As he maneuvered his Caddy through the streets of the city, she told him a story of statutory rape, unwanted pregnancy, and blackmail. When she was finished, she sounded pleased with herself. “You know, Deacon might just regret forcing another twelve hours on us.”
“Who’re you kidding?” Reed asked, slowing for a traffic light and watching a jogger overtake an older man with a cane who was crossing more slowly. “You would be doing this, deadline or no. You love this.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Hate to admit it, though.” He knew she couldn’t deny what was so patently true. As opposite as she and Reed were, when it came to working doggedly on a case until it was solved, they were totally in sync. Neither could stand a case going cold. “So what about you?”
“I’m looking hard at Roland Camp again.”
“For Amity’s murder?”
“I don’t know. I just found out he has an affinity for poisonous snakes.” He launched into his meeting with the Reverend Byrd and his association with Camp. “Since Roland’s MIA again, I put a BOLO out on him. Just to talk to him.”
“And maybe scare him a little. I like it. You’re kinda pushing the limits,” she said.
“Guess you’ve rubbed off on me.”
“About damned time. I’ll meet you back at the station. I should be there in five.”
“You got it. I’m here already.”
He pulled into the lot and was getting out of his car when the text from Nikki came in.
“Working late. Looks like we may have picked up another stalker. Seriously. Effie Savoy. Will fill you in later. Meet at home and maybe eat Chinese?”
He read the text twice and didn’t get it. He knew that Effie was a woman Nikki worked with and that there was some friction between them, but a stalker?
As he climbed out of the car, he had his phone in hand to call her when he nearly ran into a wild-eyed June Hatchett.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.
“I’m sorry.”
“Going to my church! Bothering my brother! Asking all kinds of ridiculous questions!”
“Mrs. O’Henry, slow down,” he suggested.
“I am sick and tired of all the harassment my family has endured. Reporters. Police. Curious people driving past our house and up our lane! It has got to stop!” Eyes rolling until the whites showed, she said, “I want to talk to your supervisor.”
“She’s gone for the day.”
“Well, there has to be someone on duty!” She was raving, her face drained of color, her body shivering with her outrage. “Why don’t you come into the station and we’ll talk this out,” Reed suggested as, from the corner of his eye, he sa
w Morrisette pull into the lot.
“Fine,” June agreed. “But don’t try to placate me, Detective. I know my rights, and religious freedom is guaranteed by the Constitution of these United States.”
“That it is, Mrs. O’Henry,” he agreed as Morrisette parked and started toward the door. “That it is.”
Nikki had never used the stun gun that Reed had insisted she carry. In fact, she always left it at home, near the bed, but tonight she took the time to find it and make certain it was working.
Just in case.
Then she drove as fast as she dared to the dilapidated home her great-great-grandfather had constructed more than a century earlier. The night was clear, a moon rising, the breath of winter chilling her bones as the beams of her headlights splashed against the trees and underbrush surrounding the cabin. The lake was much as it had been the last time she’d driven here, white caps swelling on the dark, restless water, reeds and marsh grass bending in the wind.
This is nuts, her inner governor told her, but she blocked her mind to that glimmer of sanity.
The gate to the property was open, and that gave her pause. How had Effie figured that one out? Was it left unlocked the other night after she’d had her car towed?
Setting her jaw, she drove forward, through the open gate.
Are you sure you can do this? Tread on Amity’s grave all over again?
Her jaw was so tight it ached, and fear crept up her spine, but she was determined to ignore it.
The coward who’d placed a snake in her car wasn’t going to stop her. And besides, Effie would be here. As irritating and deceitful as she was, Nikki didn’t think she was physically dangerous.
So where was her car?
Bracing herself, fighting her inner demons, she told herself the ramshackle cabin was not evil, that just because an unthinkable horror had occurred within its crumbling walls, there was no reason to be afraid.
Get on with it, then, if this is what you’re bound and determined to do.