Holly and her grandmother, who once lived in the county’s poorest district, now occupied a stately brick house on property Holly had inherited from a murdered aunt. That aunt had been married to Robert McClure’s brother, and this house had been built by Robert McClure’s grandfather. Rachel doubted the banker had ever accepted the idea of Holly owning it. She and her grandmother had transformed the property into an animal shelter, and its first beneficiaries were abandoned dogs Rachel had rescued and abused animals Tom had saved from a dog fighting operation.
On their way to the front door, Holly whispered to Rachel, “She’s gonna be real mad at me for draggin’ her into this.”
“She may not be involved at all.” Rachel kept her own voice low, although she wasn’t sure why. Holly’s grandmother couldn’t hear them from inside if they spoke in normal tones. “If she knows something that could help Tom’s investigation, I’m going to try to persuade her to go see him.”
“Then she might be mad at you, too.”
“Let her. She’ll get over it.” Rachel had tangled with Sarelda Turner more than once, starting the day Rachel had literally helped Holly escape her family’s smothering grasp. They had developed a respect for each other since then, and Rachel knew the cranky old woman would usually do the right thing if somebody prodded her.
When Holly and Rachel walked into the living room, three mongrel dogs greeted them with wagging tails. Mrs. Turner lifted an orange tabby cat off her lap and used the arm of the couch for support to push herself to her feet. She looked as if she’d been crying for hours and had a reservoir of tears yet to shed. Her short hair, dyed black as boot polish, stuck out at angles, as if she’d been tearing at it.
Holly rushed to throw her arms around her. “Oh, Grandma, I’m so sorry about your friends.”
After giving Holly a couple of pats on the back, Mrs. Turner pushed her away. “Rachel, you come to see the dogs? Did I forget an appointment?”
“No, I came to see you.” Rachel placed a hand on Mrs. Turner’s shoulder, intending it as a gesture of consolation, but removed it when she felt the older woman stiffen under her touch. “Holly told me you and Marie Kelly were friends.”
Instantly Mrs. Turner’s expression hardened, and she shot a peeved glance at Holly. “There’s not any need for you to be tellin’ people about my personal business.”
“Now don’t be that way, Grandma. I know you’re hurtin’ because of what happened to your friends. You don’t have to act mean when somebody shows they care about how you feel.”
Mrs. Turner pressed her lips into a hard line that wouldn’t hold. One corner twitched upward in a rueful smile as she told Rachel, “This girl’s done nothin’ but talk back to me since the day she took up with you.”
Rachel laughed. “Sorry about that.”
The tension broken, Mrs. Turner sank onto the couch again. The tabby cat reclaimed its place on her lap and the smallest dog, a terrier mix, jumped up beside her. The other two settled at her feet. “Lord, that was awful news about Marie and her husband. It’s just been eatin’ away at my heart since I heard. Look at the time, and I’ve not even started dinner yet.”
She began to rise, giving the cat a gentle push that prompted a yowl of protest.
“No, Grandma,” Holly said. “You stay right where you are and talk to Rachel. I’ll take care of dinner.” She threw Rachel a look that mixed apprehension, hope, and a plea for tact, and headed off to the kitchen.
Rachel hoped she would be in her own kitchen preparing dinner sometime soon, although she doubted Tom would be able to join her. If this day seemed endless to her, she could imagine what a grind it had been for him. And his workday was probably nowhere close to being over.
Two more cats occupied the room’s armchairs, so Rachel sat on an upholstered hassock. Although they lived in a house that many called a mansion, Holly and her grandmother were using the furniture from their old house and leaving many rooms empty or filled with supplies for their charges. New furnishings cost too much, they said, and the money was better spent on caring for the animals they took in and expanding the space to house them. Upstairs in the master suite, though, Holly was creating a freshly decorated apartment for herself and Brandon in preparation for their upcoming marriage.
“I didn’t know the Kellys well,” Rachel said, taking a cautious first step toward her goal, “but I thought they were good people. I can’t imagine who would do such a thing to them.”
She watched with dismay as Mrs. Turner’s face crumpled and tears spilled down her cheeks. “I hope they burn in hell, the ones that did it,” she choked out.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Rachel cut off her apology. She had come here to get information, after all. She refocused. “Do you have any idea who it could be?”
Mrs. Turner extracted a fresh tissue from the pocket of her dress, mopped her eyes and blew her nose. “I’d like to load up my shotgun and go after them. Cut them down in cold blood, like they did poor Marie and Lincoln.”
Rachel believed she was capable of doing exactly what she said. “The person who did it won’t get away with it. Tom will make sure of that.”
“He’d better, or I’ll do it myself. You tell him I said so.”
Oh, he’d love hearing that, Rachel thought. But she nodded to placate Mrs. Turner. “When was the last time you saw the Kellys?”
“Couple days ago.”
“How were they? Did they seem worried about anything?”
“Marie was. Lincoln was worked up about their neighbor’s fence, like he always was. His mind was goin’ and he’d get so wound up and mad—I think he was scared, you know? He couldn’t understand what was happenin’ to him.”
Rachel murmured agreement, although she’d heard none of this before. “What was Marie worried about?”
“Well, for one thing, that s.o.b. Robert McClure was on their doorstep all the time, tryin’ to get them to sign away their land. All that talk just confused Lincoln. He thought the bank was gonna throw them off their land. But all the other stuff was even worse.”
“The other stuff? Such as what?”
Mrs. Turner fixed a canny gaze on Rachel. “I know what you’re up to. Don’t think I don’t. You want to find out what I know, so you can tell your husband.”
Rachel shrugged, trying to look abashed. “Guilty as charged. You don’t have to tell me anything. I’m not the one who needs to know. But if you can tell Tom something that might help, you really should talk to him. He has to find out who did this and put him behind bars.”
“But that’s the thing, you see.” Mrs. Turner stroked the cat absentmindedly. “I don’t know if it’ll help. Even when Marie was tellin’ me—and I trusted Marie, I thought she was a sensible woman—but it all sounded so crazy.”
“Crazy in what way?” Despite what she’d said, Rachel couldn’t stifle her curiosity. She wanted Mrs. Turner to tell her everything.
“Funny noises outside at night. Something, or somebody, knockin’ on the side of the house. Scary sounds out in the apple trees, like a baby or a woman cryin’. Snakes in the house, three different times. One time in the middle of the night, she heard somebody up on the roof. Lincoln didn’t wake up, thank the lord. Marie thought at first it was just a coon, but she said she never saw one big enough to make that much racket just walkin’ around. She was too scared to go out and look. Next mornin’ she found a dead crow in the fireplace, like it was dropped down the chimney.”
“My God.” Despite her jacket and the warm room, Rachel suddenly felt cold.
“Well, anyway, you can just imagine the toll it all took on Lincoln, with his mind already in a bad state.”
“Did Mrs. Kelly report any of this? Did she call Tom?”
Mrs. Turner shook her head. “How was she gonna prove any of it? We all hear funny noises at night sometimes, don’t we? And a bird down the chimney, that h
appens sometimes, too. I’ve had it happen to me. What could the police do?”
She was right, Rachel knew. Tom would have cared because Mrs. Kelly was his mother’s friend, but he wouldn’t have been able to help.
“I guess they got tired of waitin’ for Marie and Lincoln to give up and leave. They decided murder was quicker.”
For the first time, Rachel realized Mrs. Turner had repeatedly used the word they, not he or she. Colloquial grammar? Probably. Rachel did it often enough herself. But she wanted to make sure. “When you say they and them, is that just a figure of speech, or do you mean more than—”
“I mean exactly what I say.” Mrs. Turner’s knife-edged voice cut off Rachel’s tentative question. “I mean them.”
Chapter Twelve
Back at Sheriff’s Department headquarters in Mountainview, Dennis Murray and Gretchen Lauter were sitting at one end of the long conference table, drinking coffee, when Tom and Brandon walked in. Eight-by-ten photos of the murdered couple filled the cork board on one wall. Tom closed the door so their discussion wouldn’t be overheard by anyone passing in the hallway.
Dr. Lauter rose, straightened the jacket of her navy blue pants suit, and moved to the photo display. The three men gathered around. She drew a deep breath, let it out, and focused on the pictures. “I don’t think we’ll learn anything from the autopsies that we don’t already know. I didn’t see any evidence that they’d been assaulted. Struck, I mean. No bruises, no obvious broken bones, no bleeding anywhere except the bullet wounds.”
“And no sign that they tried to save themselves,” Tom said.
“No, none.”
“Somebody just walked into their yard with a rifle and shot them.”
“Exactly.”
“Had to be somebody they knew,” Brandon said. “Somebody they wouldn’t be afraid of if he showed up in their yard carrying a gun.”
“Dennis told me about the marijuana,” Dr. Lauter said. “I don’t mind admitting that completely floored me. But now that I think about it, it’s not out of character, not if they were growing it for people who needed pain relief. Do you think that points to a motive? Some dealer who didn’t like them cutting into his business?”
“I don’t know,” Tom said. “The plants weren’t taken. We found leaves and buds drying in the shed. It didn’t look like anything had been removed.”
“Hollinger’s the one acting like he’s got something to hide,” Brandon said.
“But everybody knows they were feuding,” Tom pointed out. “Hollinger would be a fool to kill both the Kellys. He’d know he’d be the first suspect. He was our first suspect.”
“If he did it during an argument, while he was angry,” Dr. Lauter said, “he wouldn’t have been thinking about consequences. Get a person mad enough and—”
The door flew open and a tall, dark-haired man in a business suit burst in. “I got here as fast as I could.”
“Ronan, let’s go in my office.” Tom stepped in front of him, trying to get between the Kellys’ son and the pictures before he saw them.
Too late. Ronan Kelly’s eyes had found the photos of his dead parents and fixed on them, his face contorting in horror, his breath coming in shallow gulps. “My God— Mom, Dad—”
“This way.” Tom locked a hand on his arm and forced him to swivel toward the door.
Ronan twisted his neck to keep the photos in view, as if he were still trying to make sense of what he saw. Tom had to shove him out the door. Keeping a firm grip on Ronan’s arm, Tom led him across the hall and into the office.
Ronan collapsed into a chair facing the desk, leaned over and buried his face in his hands. His broad shoulders shook with sobs. A few years older than Tom, he was a former high school and college football player, now an engineer who had maintained his athletic physique, but at the moment he was a kid who had lost both parents under horrific circumstances.
Tom sat behind his desk, waited for Ronan to cry himself out, and struggled to keep the barricade up against the memory of his own parents’ deaths and the grief that had overwhelmed him. He forced himself to mentally check through the questions he had to ask. And he reminded himself that until he was cleared, the Kellys’ son was as much a suspect as anybody else.
At last Ronan quieted, pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his face. He ran his fingers through his thick hair, which left it looking worse rather than better. Like Tom, he had inherited coal-black hair and olive skin from a Melungeon parent. “I still can’t believe this has happened.” Ronan’s voice broke on the last word. He paused a moment, took a breath, and went on, sounding a little calmer. “Driving out here, it was surreal, trying to get my mind around it.”
“Can I get you anything? Coffee?”
Ronan shook his head. “I’ve had so much caffeine already I’m about to jump out of my skin.” He sat forward, his face beseeching. “Tell me you know who did this. Tell me you’ve got him in custody.”
“I wish I could. But right now…” Tom shook his head.
Ronan slumped back in his chair and leaned his forehead in his palm.
“When will Sheila be here?” Tom asked.
“Tomorrow. She’s flying to Charlotte from Chicago, and I talked her into taking a hotel room and getting some sleep before she drives up here. I don’t want her driving through the mountains at night when she’s…God, I don’t even know what to call it, the way we’re both feeling. Shocked. Stunned.”
“When was the last time you talked to your parents?”
“Last Sunday. I try to call them once a week.”
“Did they say anything to indicate they were having problems with anybody?”
“Besides Jake Hollinger, you mean? That’s all I ever heard from Dad lately, when he got on the line. But Mom, no, she never complained about anything or anybody. She got along with everybody.”
“How serious would you say the trouble between your dad and Hollinger was?”
“Are you thinking—”
“I’m not thinking anything at this point. Just gathering information.”
“All right. Let me try to remember.” Ronan blew out a long breath and shifted his gaze toward the darkening sky outside the window while he gathered his thoughts.
Night was falling, Tom realized, and the wind had picked up, swirling a few fallen leaves across the parking lot. A couple of fat raindrops splattered the window glass.
“Hollinger…” Ronan began, then paused. “He’s right about that fence, you know. If he’d taken it to court, Dad would have lost. I surveyed it myself, but Dad wouldn’t listen to me, wouldn’t accept my conclusion. I’m an engineer, for God’s sake, and he wouldn’t take my word. But he wasn’t well, and he was getting worse, so I gave up trying to get through to him.”
“Were you ever afraid the tension between him and Hollinger might escalate?”
Ronan looked at Tom in surprise. “Escalate into Hollinger shooting Dad and Mom both? No. Never.”
“And they weren’t having trouble with anybody else?”
“If they were, Mom would’ve made sure Sheila and I never heard about it. She never wanted to worry us. They kept things from us, health problems and stuff like that. Dad was having trouble for a long time before it finally got so bad, just recently, that Mom couldn’t hide it from us anymore.”
“When was the last time you actually saw them?”
“Well…” Ronan shifted in his seat. “You know how it is. I’ve got a wife, kids, it’s not easy…”
“I understand,” Tom said, keeping any hint of judgment out of his voice. “I just need to know the last time you saw them.”
“I guess it was… Yeah, it was. Right after Christmas last year. We came out for a couple of days.” He added, as if reinforcing an argument, “All of us, the whole family.”
And here it was getting close to Christ
mas again, and Ronan lived within driving distance of his parents, one of whom had been suffering from Alzheimer’s, yet he hadn’t come to visit. All that was beside the point, though, if it had no bearing on the murders. “Do you have somewhere to stay while you’re here? I can’t let you stay in your parents’ house, at least not tonight.”
“What? Why not?”
“Did you know they were growing marijuana? And selling it?”
Ronan’s expression wavered between astonishment and amusement. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”
“No. They were growing pot in their cornfield, and they had a lot of plants under lights in the basement. We have to get them out before we can give you and your sister access to the house. I’ve got men over there now, but I’m not sure when they’ll be done.”
Ronan’s mouth hung open as the knowledge settled in. At last he expelled a short laugh that sounded like a grunt following a punch to the stomach. “Well, I’ll be damned. They were selling it? My parents were drug dealers?”
“In the strictest sense, I guess. But my information is that they weren’t selling it for recreational use. They grew it for people with terminal illnesses who need relief from pain. They probably gave away a lot of it.”
Ronan considered that for a moment. “Okay. All right. Yeah, I can see them doing that. That’s the kind of people they were.”
“You know about the Packard development, don’t you? The offer for their land?”
“Well, sure. I told them they ought to sell and move to one of those assisted living places where Mom could get some help with Dad. But they wanted to live out their lives on the farm.”
“There was a lot of money on the table.”
“I know. But…” Ronan shrugged. “It was their decision.”
“It’ll be your decision now. Yours and your sister’s.”
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