Murder in the Smokies

by Paula Graves

“How’s your mama?” he asked after a few moments of silence.

  “Unchanged,” she answered flatly.

  “Just like my dad.”

  She arched an eyebrow. Odd thing to say about his father, considering. “I suppose once you get in the habit of a certain way of life,” she said carefully, “it’s hard to make a change.”

  Apparently that was one thing from their shared past that had remained the same. She still had a weak-willed, naive mother who, though she recently turned sixty, was still going from man to man in search of some ill-defined, unachievable romantic bliss, leaving Ivy to clean up her messes and, one time at least, directly suffer the consequences of her bad choices. And Sutton’s daddy had spent most of his adult life skating the edge of the law, somehow managing to avoid more than the occasional slap on the wrist and a day or two in the local lockup.

  Of course, Cleve Calhoun hadn’t been causing much trouble for anyone in the past few years....

  “I came here thinking I’d be looking at just one murder.” Sutton broke into her thoughts. “I don’t suppose you could make my job a lot easier by telling me April Billings’s murder is unrelated to the others?”

  “Depends on who you ask,” she said drily. “Some people around these parts think we just hit an unlucky streak.”

  “Four stranger murders in Bitterwood, Tennessee? In under two months?” Sutton’s eyebrows rose. “One hell of an unlucky streak.”

  “Not everyone is convinced they are stranger murders.” Her coffee had already started to go cold; she shoved the cup away with a grimace.

  “There are people on the force who actually think these women were killed by people they know? Four different people they know?”

  She shrugged. “Apparently Bitterwood is a seething hotbed of suppressed homicidal passions.”

  Sutton laughed softly. “Okay.”

  She’d figured if she ever set eyes on Sutton Calhoun again, he’d suffer in comparison to her lingering girlhood memories. Nobody could live up to that idealized image of vigorous youthful masculinity.

  But damned if the grown-up version didn’t come awfully close. His smoky hazel eyes had an unnerving tendency to smolder when he smiled, a reminder that he might be more honorable than his swindler father, but he was just as dangerous a charmer.

  “I do think the murders are connected,” she admitted. “The victimology might lead you to think otherwise—”

  “Because they’re different ages and had different lifestyles?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “How’d you learn all this information so fast?”

  “Research.” At her look of skepticism, he inclined his head slightly. “Someone at Cooper Security has a former army buddy who now works for the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Someone in the crime lab,” she guessed.

  “I honestly don’t know. He just emailed me the information. I didn’t ask any questions about his source.”

  “So you know there are plenty of similarities between the murders, even if the victims’ ages and lifestyles aren’t that similar.”

  “Crime scene similarities, sure. Late-evening times of death, the first three, at least, killed with a knife from the victim’s own kitchen. But none of the murders take place in their homes. They were all killed somewhere else and returned to their homes after death. No evidence left behind.” His eyes narrowed. “Which I suppose might raise the question of whether your perp could be a cop. Is it a theory you’re seriously entertaining?”

  “There are a lot of theories I’m entertaining at the moment,” she admitted. “We still don’t know how he gains entrance. Never any sign of a break-in. And how do you stab women to death and leave zero evidence at the scene? No excess blood, despite the bodies often being partially exsanguinated. Little sign of a struggle.”

  “He seems to surprise his victims when they’re vulnerable,” Sutton said thoughtfully. “Late at night, when most people are in bed. These women were all attacked when they were asleep, I’d bet.”

  For a second, an image flitted through her mind. She saw herself, head down on the desk in her study, dead asleep. It was as if she were looking at herself through someone else’s eyes. She tamped down a hard shudder.

  “Is something wrong?” Sutton asked.

  She shook her head. “No. And yes, we believe they were attacked when they were asleep. Clearly he takes them and kills them somewhere else—explaining the lack of blood and other evidence where the bodies are found. Then he returns them to their beds. That’s a crazy way to kill people, but that looks to be how all four murders happened. What are the odds they’re unrelated?”

  “Nonexistent.”

  Well, damn, she thought, her heart sinking. I’ve just spilled my guts about a serial murder spree to a civilian just because he’s sexy and I’m weak. What the hell have I done?

  As if reading her mind, Sutton leaned toward her, laying his hand on top of hers on the table. “You know I’m not going to use anything you told me in any way that would hurt your case.”

  Her skin seemed to burn where he touched her. She pulled her hand away. “Make damned sure you don’t. And if you find anything I need to know, you’ll call me. Right?”

  “Call you at the police station?”

  She almost flinched at the thought. The last thing she needed was a call from Sutton Calhoun coming through the department phone system. Might as well put a sign on her back—stupid girl detective can’t keep her mouth shut or solve a case without outside help. “Cell phone,” she said, pulling her business card from her wallet and pushing it across the table to him.

  He sat back and studied the card for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “I never would have figured you for the detective type, back in the day. I thought you’d be a teacher or something. But now that I think of it, the clues were all there. You were always a curious little thing. Always saw a mystery in everything. Remember that time you thought old Mr. Valery had killed his wife because you hadn’t seen her in days?”

  She smiled. “Well, I was right that she was missing. How was I supposed to know she’d had a fight with him and gone to stay with her mother for a few days?”

  He grinned. “Good thing I talked you out of calling the police.”

  “You just didn’t trust the police in general.”

  His smile faded. “Yeah, we Calhouns didn’t exactly have any friends in blue. You never called the police if you could avoid it.”

  “And here you are a private eye.”

  “And you’re a detective.” He cocked his head, his hazel eyes narrowing. “Aren’t you a little young to be a detective? You’re what, twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?”

  “Twenty-nine. I’m pretty sure I made detective so quickly because the force didn’t have a female investigator.”

  “Trying to meet a quota?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, it worked out this time, for both of you.” His smile looked genuine, but Calhouns were notorious for their easy deceit. “You’re working a job you’re obviously good at, and the force benefits from a good detective who also gives them a box to mark on their diversity checklist.”

  “No need to feed me a line of bull, Calhoun. I don’t have the clout to get you in on this investigation. Or keep you out.”

  One dark eyebrow lifted, but he didn’t comment. A tense silence continued between them after that, until she broke it by suggesting they head back to the crime scene.

  Once they were belted into the truck, Ivy asked, “How long have you been with Cooper Security?”

  “Two years.”

  “What did you do the other twelve years? How long did you stay in the army?”

  “All twelve years. I went straight to Cooper Security from the army. One of the boss’s brothers-in-law knew me from there, and I
was ready for a change of pace.”

  “Change of pace? From one dangerous job to another?”

  “Slight change of pace.” He nodded in concession.

  “So, an army buddy vouched for you? I’d assumed Delilah Hammond must have gotten you an interview or something.”

  “I don’t think Delilah has many kind thoughts about anyone or anything from Bitterwood,” he said with a wry smile.

  “No, I don’t suppose she would.” She and Delilah hadn’t been best friends or anything, but she ran into Delilah’s mother occasionally, usually on a drunk and disorderly call. Once she sobered up, she was a typical proud mother, telling all the cops at the jail about her daughter, the former FBI agent who was working for a big international security firm.

  “I hear some amazing things about your company,” she added as they headed back toward the crime scene. Dawn had broken while they were at the diner, and the sun was creeping closer and closer to the mountaintop horizon. “Y’all took down the president’s chief of staff last year, right? For corruption and conspiracy to commit murder?”

  “I wasn’t directly involved with that.” His tone was careful, and she supposed she might be treading on classified territory with her questions.

  “Delilah was, though. At least, that’s what her mother claims.” She smiled wryly. “I’m sure she’d be horrified to know Reesa brags about her from the drunk tank. I remember how she felt about her mother’s drinking.”

  “Do you ever see Seth Hammond?” Sutton sounded curious.

  “Now and then. He moves around a lot. Last I heard, he was living in Maryville. Or maybe it was Knoxville.” She grimaced. “He’s already shafted just about everyone here in Bitterwood. I guess he had to find somewhere new to run his cons.”

  “So he’s still doing that, then.” Sutton sounded disappointed. He’d been friends with Seth as a kid, she remembered suddenly. She hadn’t thought of them together in a long time. As they’d both grown older, Seth Hammond’s fascination with Sutton’s father’s lifestyle, and Sutton’s growing disgust with it, had pushed the two friends far apart.

  And pushed Sutton closer to her. For a while, at least.

  “I guess he still is. I don’t know if he knows how to do anything else,” she said. “He didn’t exactly have the best role models growing up.”

  Sutton grimaced. “That’s no excuse. His sister Delilah turned out just fine, and she came from the same family.”

  “You turned out pretty well, too, considering.”

  He slanted a thoughtful look at her. “Maybe. I suppose none of us really got out of here unscathed.”

  She certainly hadn’t, she thought bleakly. Life with her undependable, often foolish mother had taken a heavy toll on her chances at a normal life. By the age of sixteen, she’d no longer had any illusions about romance, love or sex. She’d seen too much, suffered too much to think of romantic love as anything pure or uplifting.

  She’d had boyfriends. She’d had sex. But she’d never had that elusive thing called love that her mother seemed desperate to find, and she had no intentions of ever looking for it.

  Back at Marjorie Kenner’s house, most of the onlookers had dispersed, leaving only police cars and a vehicle marked with the TBI’s insignia. “That was fast,” she said, nodding toward the new arrival.

  Sutton pulled up next to Antoine Parsons’s Ford Focus and looked toward the front door. “Your boss is here.”

  She followed Sutton’s gaze and spotted her supervisor, Captain Rayburn, standing in the doorway talking to Parsons.

  Well, hell.

  * * *

  INCOMPETENCE WAS BAD enough, Sutton thought as he and Ivy headed up the front walk, but in Glen Rayburn’s case, he’d never been sure whether the captain was merely inept at his job or actively corrupt.

  He’d made it to captain the way a lot of cops in a lot of small towns did—by making friends with the mayor and city council. He did favors for anyone in the department above him, often at his own expense, and got away with being a careless, corner-cutting cop as a result.

  Rayburn’s eyes narrowed to slits as he recognized Sutton. He didn’t bother with politeness. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I have family in town,” Sutton answered airily.

  “You ain’t got no family here at my crime scene.”

  Your crime scene? Sutton forced himself not to look at Ivy for her reaction, aware that it might turn Rayburn’s displeasure toward the detective instead of Sutton himself.

  But Rayburn apparently had plenty of displeasure to go around, for he turned his baleful gaze on Ivy and asked, “You brought him here, Hawkins?”

  “I came here on my own,” Sutton answered before Ivy could speak. “Matter of fact, Detective Hawkins just gave me the third degree—why was I here, what do I want, how long am I going to be in town—”

  “And?”

  “He’s been hired by one of the victims’ brothers,” Ivy answered. “To look into her murder.”

  Rayburn turned his attention back to Sutton. “Somebody hired you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mind if I ask who?”

  Stephen Billings hadn’t asked him to keep his identity a secret, and Sutton had already told Ivy who his client was. Still, he gave Rayburn’s question a moment of thought before he answered, wondering if there was any way Rayburn could use Billings’s identity against him. “April Billings’s brother,” he answered finally.

  “April Billings’s murder has nothing to do with this crime scene,” Rayburn said firmly. He sounded as if he believed it.

  Was he really that self-delusional? Or was he desperate to believe there were no connected murders in Bitterwood because the alternative might bring state and federal investigators swooping down on the small mountain town, putting all the police department’s secrets under a bright light of scrutiny?

  “Maybe not,” he said aloud, trying to keep his tone friendly. “I just wanted to talk to the detectives on the case, see what territory’s already been covered so I’ll know where to start.”

  “That’s not going to happen again.” His face darkening with anger, Rayburn shot Ivy a warning look. “Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her voice was tight with annoyance, but if Rayburn noticed, he didn’t comment.

  Instead, he turned back to Sutton. “Leave my detectives out of your investigation. That’s not what we pay them to do.”

  Swallowing a smart-mouthed retort, Sutton nodded and turned away, walking slowly to his truck.

  He spared a glance back at the crime scene as he cranked the truck and put it into gear. Rayburn had already moved on, talking to the TBI agents milling near the state agency’s van. But Ivy Hawkins’s gaze was still turned his way, the look on her face thoughtful.

  He felt a flare of regret at the realization that she was now officially off-limits to him, regret that had nothing to do with what she could offer him as a detective in charge of the case he’d been hired to investigate.

  Instead, it had everything to do with the way his libido had gone on high alert the second she’d walked out of Marjorie Kenner’s front door—and his memories of her friendship came roaring back as well, reminding him that she’d once been his lifeline.

  He passed his father’s ramshackle old house on the way back to the motel, and for a moment, he considered stopping in to see how the old man was faring. He hadn’t seen him since he’d left town, hadn’t talked to him in nearly as many years, and the handful of Bitterwood natives he’d run into over the years had been in no hurry to bring up the unpleasant topic of his father, to his relief.

  He drove on without slowing down. Some parts of his past he had no intention of revisiting.

  The clerk who ran the Stay and Save Motel’s front office called his name as he walked past, draw
ing him inside the small sandstone building. “Somebody left a message for you,” he said, holding out a half-crumpled piece of paper. He gave Sutton an expectant look as he handed over the message.

  “Thanks.” Sutton pulled a couple of dollars from his wallet and handed it to the clerk. He unfolded the message as he walked down the covered walkway to his room.

  The message was short and sweet. “Clingmans Dome observation tower, 7 p.m. Come alone.”

  Chapter Three

  Clearly, sleep deprivation had taken a toll on her normal good sense, because there was no logical explanation why she had bypassed the turnoff to her house on Vesper Road and continued down the two-lane highway to the Stay and Save Motel on Route 4. After fifteen straight hours on the job, she’d finally taken Antoine’s advice and clocked out just after five-thirty so she could head home to catch up on some sleep.

  Instead, she was at the far end of the Stay and Save parking lot, scanning for any sign of Sutton Calhoun’s truck and kicking herself for being such a reckless idiot.

  Rayburn had told her not to contact Sutton. Yet here she was, the second she slipped the captain’s line of sight, defying his order. And for what? Sutton Calhoun might be sexy as hell and still chock-full of masculine mystery, but she hadn’t gotten any sense, during their conversation early that morning, that he knew anything more about the murders than she knew herself. And that should be the only thing about Sutton Calhoun that held any interest for her now.

  She didn’t see Sutton’s truck parked in the guest lot. At this time of the evening, he was probably out to dinner somewhere. Maybe catching up with old friends who still lived in the area. His old girlfriend Carla was still in Bitterwood, recently divorced and nearly as pretty as she’d been years earlier, when she’d been the homecoming queen who’d defied her parents to date a mysterious bad boy from the wrong side of the tracks.

  Her cell phone rang, giving her tired nervous system a jolt. She checked the display and sighed, thumbing the answer button. “Hi, Mom.”

  “I guess you’re not coming for dinner?”

  Damn. “I picked up a new case. I’m sorry. Rain check?”