Killer Investigation

by Amanda Stevens

  “You’re forgetting one extremely important detail. No red magnolia petal found on the body. No crimson kiss of death placed on the lips. This isn’t the work of a copycat and I seriously doubt that a dormant serial killer has suddenly been reawakened after all these years. A jury of Finch’s peers found him guilty and none of his appeals has ever gone anywhere. This has to be something else.”

  Arden refused to back down. “Then I repeat, why are you here?”

  He ran fingers through his hair as he tried to formulate the best answer. “Damned if I know at the moment.”

  She regarded him with another frown. “Just consider the possibility that you and I were right about Orson Lee Finch’s innocence. The monster who killed all those women, including my mother, has remained free and well disguised all these years. Maybe I’m the reason he’s suddenly reawakened. Maybe the white magnolia blossom left at the crime scene was meant as another warning.”

  “It’s way too early to head down that road,” Reid said. “If anything, we may be dealing with a killer who wants to throw the police off his scent.”

  “So you don’t think my coming home has anything to do with this?”

  “You just got in today. The murder occurred sometime last night or early this morning.”

  “A coincidence, then.”

  “What else could it be?”

  She sighed in frustration. “I don’t understand you, Reid Sutton. You berate me when I don’t show the proper reaction to your revelation about the magnolia blossom, and now you go out of your way to try and convince me—and yourself—that it has nothing to do with me. You came all the way over here just to tell me about a coincidence.”

  “I’m just trying to be sensible,” Reid said.

  “You were never any good at that.”

  “Maybe not, but someone needs to put on the brakes before we get too carried away.”

  “Now who’s being pedestrian?” She brushed back her hair with a careless shrug. “Something’s not right about all this. Something’s not adding up. Why do I get the feeling you’re still holding out on me?”

  Reid glanced away. The proximity of the crime scene to his place niggled. Another coincidence, surely, but ever since he’d heard about the murder, he hadn’t been able to shake a dark premonition. For days he’d had the feeling that his house was being watched. He’d caught sight of someone lurking in the shadows across the street. One night he’d heard the knob at the back door rattle.

  The incidents had started at about the time Dave Brody had been released from prison. The ex-con had stopped by the office as soon as he’d hit town, strutting like a peacock with his smirks and leers and ominous tattoos. He blamed his incarceration on Sutton & Associates, claiming the attorneys that had represented him pro bono—in particular, Reid’s father, Boone Sutton—had suppressed a witness that could have corroborated Brody’s alibi.

  Why he hadn’t gone straight to the source of his resentment, Reid didn’t know. He hadn’t even been out of law school when Brody had been sent up, had only worked peripherally on the appeals. Yet he was apparently the attorney Dave Brody had decided to target for the simple reason that Reid was now the most vulnerable. Without the money and prestige of the firm backing him, he was the easiest to get to. Knock out the son in order to get to the father. But Brody would find out the hard way that Boone Sutton didn’t cave so easily, even when family was involved.

  Reid hadn’t reported the incidents because police involvement would only provoke a guy like Brody. It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last time an irate client had harassed him. Best just to ignore the creep, but still the location of that murder scene bothered him.

  “Look, to be honest, I don’t know what any of this means,” Reid said. “I just knew that I wanted you to hear about that magnolia blossom from me.”

  He expected another argument; instead, she nodded. “Okay. Thank you. I mean it. I haven’t been gracious about any of this. You caught me off guard. That’s my only excuse.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m not usually like this. It’s just...” She seemed at a loss. “You and I have a complicated history.”

  “To put it mildly,” he agreed.

  She drew a breath. “Fourteen years is a long time and yet here we are, back where it all started.”

  He smiled. “History repeating.”

  “God, I hope not.”

  “I’ll try not to take that personally.”

  “You know what I mean. Everything was so intense back then. So life and death. I don’t think I could take all that drama these days.”

  “That’s why we have booze. Adulthood has its perks.”

  “I don’t want to numb myself,” Arden said with a reproving glance. “But a little peace and quiet would be nice.”

  “You’ll have that in spades here,” he said as his gaze traveled back into the foyer. “Are you sure I can’t help you with those bags?”

  “I can manage.”

  He lingered for a moment longer, letting his senses drink her up as memories flowed. Man, they’d had some good times together. He hadn’t realized until that moment how much he’d missed her. Arden Mayfair wasn’t just his ex-girlfriend. She’d been his best friend, his soul mate, and a true and enthusiastic partner in crime. He hadn’t had anyone like her in his life since she’d left town. Oh, he had plenty of friends, some with benefits, some without. He never lacked for companionship, but there was no one like Arden. Maybe there never would be.

  “I guess I’ll say good-night then.” He wondered if she noticed the hint of regret in his voice.

  “Reid?” She crossed the room quickly and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. She was like quicksilver in his arms, airy and elusive. Before he had time to catch his breath, she’d already retreated, leaving the scent of her honeysuckle shampoo to torment his senses.

  He caught her arm and drew her back to him, brushing her lips and then deepening the kiss before she could protest. “Welcome home, Arden.”

  She looked stunned. “Good night, Reid.”

  Chapter Three

  Arden finished unpacking and then took a quick shower, dressing in linen pants and a sleeveless top before going back downstairs to decide about dinner. There was no food in the house, of course. No one had been living in Berdeaux Place since her grandmother’s passing. She would need to make a trip to the market, but for now she could walk over to East Bay and have a solitary meal at her favorite seafood place. Or she could unlock the liquor cabinet and skip dinner altogether. She was in no hurry to venture out now that twilight had fallen.

  At loose ends and trying to avoid dwelling on Reid’s visit, she wandered through the hallways, trailing her fingers along dusty tabletops and peering up into the faces of forgotten ancestors. Eventually she returned to the front parlor, where her grandmother had once held court. Arden had a vision of her now, sitting ramrod straight in her favorite chair, teacup in one hand and an ornate fan in the other as she surveyed her province with quiet satisfaction. No matter the season or temperature, Evelyn Mayfair always dressed in sophisticated black. Maybe that was the reason Arden’s mother had been drawn to vivid hues, in particular the color red. Arden supposed there was irony—or was it symmetry?—in the killer’s final act of placing a crimson petal upon her lips.

  Enough reminiscing.

  If she wasn’t careful, she could drown in all those old memories.

  Crossing over to the French doors, she took a peek out into the gardens. The subtle glow from the landscape lighting shimmered off the alabaster faces of the statues. She could hear the faint splash of the fountain and the lonely trill of a night bird high up in one of magnolia trees. Summer sounds that took her back to her early childhood days before tragedy and loss had cast a perpetual shroud over Berdeaux Place.

  Checking the lock on the door, she turned away and th
en swung back. Another sound intruded. Rhythmic and distant.

  The pound of a heartbeat was her first thought as her own pulse beat an uneasy tattoo against her throat.

  No, not a heartbeat, she realized. Something far less sinister, but invasive nonetheless. A loose shutter thumping in the breeze most likely. Nothing to worry about. No reason to panic.

  She took another glance into the garden as she reminded herself that her mother had been murdered more than twenty-five years ago. It was unreasonable and perhaps paranoid to think that the real killer had waited all these years to strike again. Reid was right. The magnolia blossom found at the murder scene couldn’t be anything more than a coincidence.

  Arden stood there for the longest time recounting his argument as she tried to reassure herself that everything was fine. A jury of Finch’s peers had found him guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. He would never again be a free man. And even if another killer did prowl the streets, Arden was as safe here as she was anywhere. The property was sequestered behind brick walls and wrought-iron gates. The house had good locks and, ever since the murder, a state-of-the-art security system that had been periodically updated for as long as she could remember. She was safe.

  As if to prove to herself that she had nothing to fear, she turned the dead bolt and pushed open the French doors. The evening breeze swept in, fluttering the curtains and scenting the air with the perfume of the garden—jasmine, rose and magnolia from the tree that shaded the summerhouse. She’d smelled those same fragrances the night she’d found her mother’s body.

  She wouldn’t think about that now. She wouldn’t spoil her homecoming with old nightmares and lingering fears. If she played her cards right, this could be a new beginning for her. A bolder and more exciting chapter if she didn’t let the past hold her back.

  Bolstering her resolve, she walked down the flagstone path toward the summerhouse. The garden had been neglected since her grandmother was no longer around to browbeat the yard crew. In six months of Charleston heat and humidity the beds and hedges had exploded. Through the untrimmed canopy of the magnolias, the summerhouse dome rose majestically, and to the left Arden could see the slanted glass roof of the greenhouse.

  The rhythmic thud was coming from that direction. The greenhouse door had undoubtedly been left unsecured and was bumping in the breeze.

  Before Arden lost her nerve, she changed course, veering away from the summerhouse and heading straight into the heart of the jungle. It was a warm, lovely night and the garden lights guided her along the pathway. She detected a hint of brine in the breeze. The scent took her back to all those nights when she’d shimmied down the trellis outside her bedroom window to meet Reid. Back to the innocent kisses in the summerhouse and to those not so innocent nights spent together at the beach. Then hurrying home before sunup. Lying in bed and smiling to herself as the light turned golden on her ceiling.

  Despite the dark shadow that had loomed over the house since her mother’s murder, Arden had been happy at Berdeaux Place, thanks mostly to Reid. He’d given her a way out of the gloom, an escape from the despair that her grandmother had sunk more deeply into year after year. Evelyn Berdeaux Mayfair had never gotten over the death of her only daughter and sometimes Arden had wondered if her presence had been more of a curse than a blessing, a constant reminder of what she’d lost.

  Her grandmother’s desolation had worn on Arden, but Reid had always been there to lift her up. He’d been her best friend, her confidant, and for a time she’d thought him the love her life. Everything had changed that last summer.

  Too soon, Arden. Don’t go there.

  There would be time enough later to reflect on what might have been.

  But already wistfulness tugged. She paused on the flagstones and inhaled sharply, letting the perfume of the night lull her. A moth flitted past her cheek as loneliness descended. It had been a long time since she’d felt so unmoored. She blamed her longing on Reid’s unexpected visit. Seeing him again had stirred powerful memories.

  Something darted through the trees and she whirled toward the movement. She’d been so lost in thought she hadn’t kept track of her surroundings, of the danger that had entered the garden.

  She stood frozen, her senses on full alert as she tried to pinpoint the source of her unease. The thumping had stopped, and now it wasn’t so much a sound or a smell that alarmed her but a dreaded certainty that she was no longer alone.

  Her heart started to pound in fear as she peered through the darkness. The reflection of the rising moon in the glass ceiling of the greenhouse cast a strange glow directly over the path where someone stood watching her.

  In that moment of terror, Arden wanted nothing so much as to turn and run from the garden, to lock herself away in Berdeaux Place as her grandmother had done for decades. She could grow old in that house, withering away with each passing year, lonely and desolate yet safe from the outside world. Safe from the monster who had murdered her mother and would someday return for her.

  She didn’t run, though. She braced her shoulders and clenched her fists even as she conjured an image of her own prone body on the walkway, with blood on the flagstones and a crimson magnolia petal adorning her cold lips.

  “Arden?”

  The voice was at once familiar and strangely unsettling, the accent unmistakably Charleston. A thrill rippled along her backbone. She had lots of videos from her childhood. Her mother had pronounced her name in that same dreamy drawl. Ah-den.

  He moved out of the shadows and started down the path toward her. Arden stood her ground even as her heart continued to flail. The man was almost upon her before recognition finally clicked. “Uncle Calvin?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said in his elegant drawl.

  “No, it’s okay. I just... I wasn’t expecting anyone to be out here.”

  “Nor was I. You gave me quite the start, too, seeing you there in the moonlight. You look so much like your mother I thought for a moment I was seeing her ghost.”

  For some reason, his observation sent another shiver down Arden’s spine.

  As he continued toward her, she could pick out the familiar Mayfair features—the dimpled chin and piercing blue eyes melding seamlessly with the Berdeaux cheekbones and nose. Arden had the cheekbones and nose, but her hair wasn’t quite so golden and her complexion was far from porcelain. Her hazel eyes had come from her father, she’d long ago decided. A frivolous charmer who’d skipped town the moment he’d learned she was on the way, according to her grandmother. Still, the resemblance was undeniable.

  “Ambrose told me a few days ago that you were coming, but somehow it slipped my mind,” her uncle said. “I’m so used to letting myself in through the garden gate I never even thought to stop by the house first.” He came to a halt on the path, keeping distance between them as if he were worried he might startle her away. “I hope I didn’t frighten you too badly.”

  “It’s not you.” She let out a breath as she cast a glance into the shadows. “It’s this place. After all these years, the garden still unnerves me.”

  “I’m not surprised.” His hair looked nearly white in the fragile light as he thrust it back from his forehead. He was tall, slender and somehow stylish even in his casual attire. In her younger years, Arden had thought her uncle quite dashing with his sophisticated demeanor and mysterious ways. She had always wanted to know him better, but his remoteness had helped foster his mystique. “Even after all these years, the ghosts linger,” he murmured.

  “You feel it, too,” Arden said with a shudder.

  “No matter the time of day or year.” He paused with a wan smile. “You were so young when it happened. I’m surprised you still feel it so strongly.”

  “It’s not something you ever get over.”

  “No, I suppose not. I was away at the time. Father and I had had a falling out so I didn’t find out un
til after the funeral. Maybe that’s why the impact only hit me later. I’m sorry I wasn’t around to at least offer some comfort.”

  “I had Grandmother.”

  “Yes. I remember hearing how she clung to you at the funeral. You were her strength.”

  “And she, mine, although I don’t remember much about that day. It passed in a haze.”

  “Probably for the best.” He gave her another sad smile. “So here you are. Back after all these years.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s been a long time. Everyone had begun to think that we’d lost you for good.”

  Arden wondered whom he included in that “everyone.” Not her grandfather, surely. Clement Mayfair had never shown anything but a cursory concern for her welfare. “I’ve returned periodically for visits. I spent almost every Christmas with Grandmother.”

  “And now you’ve come home to any empty house and me looking like something the cat dragged in. I apologize for my appearance,” he said as he held up his gloved hands. “I’ve been working in the greenhouse.”

  He looked nothing short of pristine. “At this hour?” Arden asked in surprise.

  “Maybe you’d like to see what I’ve been up to. That is, if you don’t mind the general disrepair. The greenhouse is in rather a dismal state so mind your step.”

  “What have you been working on?”

  His eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “You’ll see.”

  He turned and she fell into step behind him on the flagstone pathway, following his graceful gait through borders of silvery artemisia and pale pink dianthus. She felt safe enough in the company of her uncle. She didn’t know him well, but he’d always been kind. Still, she couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder. She couldn’t help remembering that her mother had been murdered on an evening such as this.

  The greenhouse door opened with a squeal.

  “The hinges have rusted and the latch doesn’t catch like it should,” he said. “Not that there’s anything of value inside. The tools, what’s left of them, are secured in the shed around back. The lock needs to be replaced, regardless. No one needs to be traipsing about inside. Could be a lawsuit waiting to happen.”