by S. E. Harmon
I took a purposefully long bathroom break, which was just an excuse to watch him through the glass. He called his daughter and his wife and had a conversation with them about where to stash the grandkids because, “This fucking pig is getting too fucking nosy.”
I’d been called worse.
I put in a quick call to Danny’s contact at DCHFS. She informed me that Kenneth’s daughter had three kids living in the home, and yes, history was repeating itself. Then she asked me to stall him as long as I could, which I did by starting my questions from scratch. I managed another hour before he finally realized he was free to leave and exercised that option. Loudly.
I was pretty clear on how I felt about Kenneth as a person—spoiler alert, not a fucking fan. But as a suspect, I just wasn’t sure. Yes, two of Joseph’s coworkers heard Kenneth swear he’d “make that fucking social worker pay for taking his kids.” And yes, he was certainly aggressive enough to do the deed. But was he clever enough? He didn’t strike me as the type who could pull off murder and credibly stage it as a suicide. He seemed more like the type who’d stab someone in the middle of a crowded street and take off running.
“You spelled Bree wrong.”
I looked up to see Kevin in the doorway, his messenger bag slung across his body. Nothing good ever came from an impromptu visit from a coworker. I spared a moment to silently eulogize the glass jar of Skittles on my desk. You all were so young, colorful, and sweet, and everyone loved you. So sorry you must die this way.
I followed his gaze, directed at my whiteboard. “No, her name was Bee. Bee Williams. Her mother always used to say she was busy as a bee in her stomach, so that’s the first thing that came to mind when she was born.”
“Ah.” Kevin stared at the board of pictures for a moment, a pensive look on his face. He was a father, and I knew he was probably thinking of his three little girls. Sure enough, he shook his head and murmured, “He took a lot from these people, didn’t he?”
I’d met with at least one member of each woman’s family and that was a no brainer. “Just about everything that matters,” I said simply.
He ambled farther into my office. “I had a meeting with one of Joseph’s coworkers, a woman named Gail. She had some very good things to say.”
“Such as?”
“Well, she described him as extremely dedicated—the come in early and stay late type. He was well-liked and formed special bonds with many of the families he worked with.”
I waited expectantly. “Yeah, and?”
“And he coached girls’ soccer at the local youth center. He also put together a Christmas fundraiser to help buy new sports equipment for the team.”
“I need some dirt, Kev.” I clucked my tongue. “Generally, people don’t get killed for things they could put in their bio.”
He shrugged again. “Well, from what I gather, he did have a side hustle.”
“Now we’re talking.” I rubbed my hands together in a sinister manner, á la Mr. Burns from The Simpsons. “So, what was it? Gambling? Drugs? Escorting?”
“He made toys for kids and sold them on Etsy.”
Jesus. “Next you’re going to tell me he was a Disney prince on the holidays.”
“Close. He was an elf.” He grinned. “He worked at Santa’s Village every year.”
I pointed at the door. “Get out.”
He chuckled as he sat in my lone guest chair and immediately lasered in on the candy jar. As expected, he didn’t give the Skittles one iota of mercy, lifting the lid off the container immediately. He dug out an obscene amount of candy and tossed them in his mouth.
I could see the writing on the wall. I leaned over my Echo. “Alexa, order a family size bag of Skittles.”
Kevin pointed at me. “You’ve always been the brains of this team, Christiansen. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“Alexa, order a rifle with a scope.”
“Now that’s just not nice.”
Kevin gave up on even a shred of propriety and picked up the glass jar, settling it on his knee. “Anyway, that’s not what I came in here to talk about.”
“Oh, good,” I said dryly. “I thought you stopped by to drop off a file and eat all my fucking candy as a reward.”
“No, that’s just a perk,” he mumbled around a mouthful of sugar. “I thought you’d like to know that four years after Delilah disappeared, her mother got a job.”
I looked at him blankly. “Yeah. So?”
“So her mother died when Delilah was in her teens. And it’s kind of hard to get a job when you’re a corpse.”
“Where was the job?”
“She was an associate at a gardening center, which also fits since Delilah owned a flower shop,” he said. “Interestingly enough, all of her checks were signed over to a Darla Gray.”
“A friend doing her a favor?”
“Haven’t tracked it down yet.” Kevin dug out another gargantuan handful of Skittles as he turned his attention to my whiteboard, covered in all things Thomas Kane. “So, what’s up with this guy’s obsession with flowers?”
“I’m not sure,” I said absently as I typed Darla Gray’s name in our database. A ton of results popped up, and I immediately started clicking on parameters to narrow the field. “He grew up on a hardscrabble farm and that shaped much of who he is today, even if he won’t admit it. His father was a strict disciplinarian and his mother wasn’t much better.”
“Abuse?”
“He won’t admit it, but most likely. His father wasn’t a very pleasant man. He imparted bruises on the entire family, both physical and mental,” I said. “Things were always lean and the entire family worked sunup to sundown. One summer, when Kane was around ten, he told me he dug a flower garden behind the barn.”
“I’m guessing his father didn’t appreciate the beauty of his flower patch?”
“He destroyed it. He told Kane that everything they grew on the farm had to have a purpose. If it couldn’t be eaten or sold, they didn’t have time for it.” I altered the search parameters slightly, successfully eliminating twenty more Darlas. “If I had to guess, Kane probably associates flowers as beautiful, unattainable, and useless… much like he sees women. That’s why he calls them his roses.”
Kevin shook his head. “It truly bothers me how much you understand the mind of the serial killer.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Thanks?”
Still left with six too many Darlas, I narrowed the field again by location, and one popped up. My excitement faded when I clicked on the result and found the picture of a seventy-six-year-old woman. She was only in the database at all because she’d been arrested for protesting in her youth.
Kevin stood and stretched. He put my candy jar back on the desk. “I’m going out for a bite to eat. I’ll see you later.”
I couldn’t help but notice his departure coincided with the lack of Skittles. I waited until I was sure he was good and gone before I reached in my bottom drawer. I pulled out a bag of M&M’s and refilled the jar.
The picture of Darla Gray caught my eye again as I tossed the empty bag in the trash. Before I could convince myself that I was wasting my time, I scribbled down her address on a Post-it. Then, I grabbed my keys, sent my computer to sleep, and headed out the door.
Chapter 16
Darla Gray’s house stood out from the others on the street, and not just because of its eclectic green, white, and blue paint job. It was smaller and older than the rest, a blast from the past smackdab in the middle of the cookie-cutter newbuilds. I had a feeling she’d been offered money for the house and declined before digging her roots deeper.
There was an older woman in a rocking chair on the porch, her eyes closed. She looked so real and substantial that it took me a second to realize that she was a ghost. Her eyes opened a tad to examine me before they drifted shut again. “Don’t mind me, honey,” she said, rocking a little in her chair. “I’m just catchin’ a little breeze.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
; “And don’t mind Darla in there. She can be a real pill when she wants to be. I don’t know why Ralph ever married that girl.”
I tried not to smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
I knocked on the door and almost immediately, someone inside yelled that I should “hold my horses.” A moment later, the door swung open to reveal an older woman in a pale blue sweatsuit, her salt-and-pepper curls held back with a matching headband. She looked up at me with suspicious brown eyes. “Badge.”
I showed my shield to her, and she examined it so thoroughly I was tempted to offer her a jeweler’s loupe. “Name’s Darla,” she finally said. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her firmly. “Sorry, but I don’t let any cops in my house.”
“That’s quite all right. I just had a few questions about your friend, Delilah Rose.”
“Can’t rightly say I know anybody by that name.” She tilted her head. “You know, you look familiar. Have we met before?”
“I doubt it,” I said. “You might’ve known her by the name Emma. She signed over a lot of her work checks to you. I’m assuming you cashed them and gave her the money because she couldn’t get a bank account.”
She snapped her fingers. “Now I remember. Hang on a second.” Before I could blink, she disappeared inside the house, slamming the door behind her.
I sighed. “Well, that happened.”
She didn’t allow cops in her house, but I wondered if they were allowed to sit on her dusty-ass porch chairs. I decided to take that risk. There were two sets of chairs, one on each side of the porch. I sat on the side opposite the ghost.
She sent me a knowing smile. “I told you she was annoying,” she said. “The name is Ruth.”
“Rain Christia—”
“I know who you are, honey. Just about every ghost around these parts knows exactly who you are.”
Well, that’s comforting. Before I could ask her to take down my ad from a ghostly Craigslist, the door opened again and Darla tottered out with a folded newspaper. I didn’t bother to hide my groan. “You’re the ghost whisperer, aren’t you?” She asked in a hushed tone.
The year before, some fuckwit reporter had written an article about the FBI using a real-life ghost whisperer. Graycie had been about as thrilled as I was about the coverage. The Bureau did their best to bury the article, and for the most part, their efforts had worked.
“That’s just an old newspaper,” I said dismissively. “You can’t take everything you read in the paper seriously.”
She plopped down in the chair next to me. “That’s just what I’d expect you to say.”
She glanced at the tiny picture next to the article and then back at me. I knew the picture without looking. It was a grainy photo of my profile—I’d been talking to Danny outside of a crime scene. Lucky for him, his back had been to the camera.
Satisfied with her comparison, she folded the paper back up and put it on the arm of her chair. “Mm-hmm. That’s you all right.”
I didn’t think further denials would do me any good. “Let’s talk about the nature of your relationship with Emma Jane.”
“I want you to talk to my husband’s mother,” she said. “She passed on about fourteen years ago. You ask her where the family jewelry is, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“I can arrest you for obstruction, you know.”
“I’m old and curious,” she said with a glint in her eye. “It’ll be an adventure.”
“I’m young and impatient,” I shot back. “This won’t be an adventure you want to go on.”
She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “Then maybe I don’t remember anything.”
I growled under my breath. “I have no way of contacting any ghosts. You can’t believe everything you read in the paper.”
“I don’t believe everything I read in the paper. I believe my own eyes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You took a seat on this side of the porch, even though the chairs on the other side are better.”
“So?”
“So that’s where Ralph’s mother used to sit everyday for over forty years. Right on that chair,” Darla said triumphantly. “If there is such a thing as ghosts, I’d imagine she’s still right in that chair, watching the world go by.”
Her eyes still closed, Ruth chuckled. “You might as well admit it. She’s like a dog with a bone when she wants something.”
I looked away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” They asked at the same time.
With both of them on my case, I didn’t have a prayer. I sighed. “This goes no further than this porch.”
Darla smiled. “Do you need to be alone for this to work or can I stay?”
“I’m not giving that girl any of my jewelry,” Ruth declared without opening her eyes. “That’s the end of that.”
“Why not?” I asked. Darla didn’t speak, but her eyes grew wide. She leaned forward in her chair so far I was afraid she might tip over.
“She didn’t care about our family traditions when I was alive. Why would she care now?” Ruth shook her head. “She’s gonna sell it for whatever she can get. My mother passed those earrings down to me, and her mother gave me that brooch.”
“What if Darla promises not to sell any of it?”
“Spiteful old witch,” Darla muttered.
I sent her an exasperated glance. “You’re not helping. She can hear you.”
“Well, she was,” Darla burst out. “Never did want me in the family.”
Ruth’s eyes popped open. “That’s a load of crap. I always wanted a daughter,” she snapped, “but she thought she was too good for Ralph and me.”
“What if you gave the jewelry to Ralph, then?” I suggested.
“What?” Darla cried. “That bastard ran off when our son was eight years old. He’s the one who would pawn the jewelry in six seconds.”
I rubbed my temples and directed my next comments to Ruth. “Look, there’s a reason why you stayed. You could’ve gone with Ralph, but you chose to stay here.”
“Because this was my home. And she’s my family. We argued like cats and dogs, but she’s still my family.” She frowned to herself. “Probably too much alike, if you ask me. Cut from the same ornery cloth.”
“Family isn’t always about like,” I said. “Sometimes it’s about trust and love.”
“I want to give the pearl ring to Max,” Darla said. “He’s getting married in a few months. You’d think she’d want Max to give his wife a family ring.”
Ruth didn’t hesitate. “I do.”
“She does,” I said. “She just doesn’t know if she can trust you.”
“Stubborn old mule,” Darla snapped. “I love you. I loved you then and I still do. Why do you think I sit out here with you every damned night? Why do you think I read the paper aloud?”
Ruth rocked a bit more, her brows drawn together.
“Well?” I prodded.
A sigh escaped her. “Don’t think I’m gonna forget about that old mule thing,” Ruth said.
“She loves you, too,” I told Darla, and the ghost didn’t disagree. Darla knuckled her eyes and swiped at a few tears. “Now, where’s the jewelry?”
“In a coffee can. It’s under the loose step on the back porch, right by the grill. If it was a snake, it woulda bit her,” Ruth grumbled. “I guess it’s only right that my son’s wife… no, my daughter should have it.”
I turned to Darla. “She said it was only right that her daughter should have the jewelry.”
Darla immediately protested. “She doesn’t have… oh. Oh.” She put a hand over her heart. “I don’t… I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s a first,” Ruth informed me. “You see why we argue so much?”
I stifled a laugh. “I did my part,” I said. “I know where the jewelry is. Now it’s your turn.”
“I told you the truth before,” Darla said. “I didn’t know no Delilah Ro
se. I was just doing a favor for a neighbor. She was a lovely lady who worked at the gardening center up the street. She always had the most beautiful yard.”
“Delilah?”
She tsked impatiently. “No, Emma.”
I pulled out my phone and scrolled until I found a picture of Delilah. I turned the screen to Darla. “This her?”
She stared at the photo for a moment, expressionless. Then her eyes shifted. That was all the confirmation I needed. Besides, if she could recognize me, a man she’d never met before, from a grainy newspaper photo, she could recognize anyone. “Is this the woman you knew as Emma?” I prodded.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” I raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to give me a little more than that. I did some beyond the grave shit for you today. I helped you make peace with your ghost-in-law and found the family’s heirloom jewelry.”
“You still haven’t told me where it is.”
“And I won’t unless you tell me something useful.”
She sighed gustily. “Well, Emma is a nice lady. I’m not trying to get her in trouble.”
I gave her the truth straight with no chaser. “No one has seen Delilah Rose in many years. There’s a good chance she might be beyond trouble.”
Darla’s eyes grew large. “I thought it was strange that she just up and disappeared. The landlord asked me where she’d went, but I had no clue. I even helped him pack up her stuff, but we didn’t have any place to send it. Eventually we donated most of it and tossed the rest.”
Damn, I would’ve liked to get my mitts on Delilah’s old things, but I certainly couldn’t blame Darla. She’d gone above and beyond for a neighbor who’d simply disappeared. “Did you call the police and report her missing?”
“Of course,” she said indignantly. “They said she was a grown woman and if she wanted to take off, she could.”
“Where did she say she was going the last time you saw her?”
“She didn’t. We mostly exchanged gardening tips and recipes, things like that. But I do know she was happy about life in general. She loved her job, and she’d met some guy at work she really liked.”