Chasing Venus

by Diana Dempsey

  She liked his voice, too: deep, calm, never rushed.

  “Annie,” she heard herself say, “call me Annie. Annette’s just my writing name.”

  He smiled. “Annie.”

  She stared into his eyes, enjoying the sound of his name on her lips. Then she forced herself to look away. She had FBI agents and sheriff’s deputies and K-9 units in her backyard searching for evidence to incriminate her in a serial-murder investigation, so now was not the time to re-enter The Dating Scene. Nor was Reid Gardner necessarily on her side. He had an agenda, too, and she’d do well to remind herself of that. So she stepped away from him and began rebuilding her defenses.

  First, by lying. She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not really worried.”

  He was silent.

  She swung around to face him and went on the offensive. “Why did you come all the way up here? Really?”

  He meandered away from the window and claimed the sofa. “This search is happening because of a tip that came into Crimewatch.”

  “So you’re the reason I have to go through this?”

  “Any tip that seems credible, we feed to law enforcement. This tip passed muster.”

  “And this fabulous tip said search Annette Rowell’s backyard?”

  “It said you buried something in your backyard. And that it seemed suspicious.”

  She shook her head, baffled and unnerved. “That’s preposterous. Who would say such a thing?”

  “It was anonymous.”

  “That really gives it credibility.” Then another thought crashed into her brain. “I wasn’t even mentioned on your show. Why would somebody phone in a tip about me?”

  “They had to have known about you some other way.”

  Maybe it was a prank. Someone who didn’t like her and thought they were being clever by making sinister insinuations. Maybe a fellow author who was jealous that her book was landing on the bestseller lists.

  Amazingly, the tip had succeeded in bringing a team of experts to her backyard. A team that was dead serious about finding evidence against her.

  Simpson had made clear the other day that he believed she had motive and opportunity to commit these murders. All he needed now was means.

  That was why he was in her backyard. That was what he thought he’d find.

  She began to pace. “You think I was wrong to let them search, don’t you?”

  He hesitated. Then, “I understood your reasoning.”

  She halted in the middle of her living room as a new worry jolted her. “I should have been watching them. For all I know they could be planting evidence.”

  “They’re not gonna do that.”

  She didn’t really believe they would, either. But paranoia was setting in. “You have more faith in cops than I do.”

  “I used to be one myself. You don’t like cops, I take it?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. Several have been very helpful to me when I’ve been researching my books.”

  “But it’s a different matter when you’re on opposite sides.”

  “I’d say so.” She eyed him. “So why aren’t you as suspicious of me as they are?”

  “Because I don’t think you’re guilty of anything.”

  “And you know that how?”

  His gaze never wavered. “I trust my judgment about these things.”

  She forced herself to look away from him. “Do me a favor and share that with Simpson.” She headed for the kitchen, whose rear door let out into the backyard. “I’m going to go keep an eye on them.”

  He wasted no time following her through the kitchen and out the door onto the slanted, half-broken concrete stoop that served as the step down to the backyard’s uneven rock-hard terrain. A lot of it had been torn up. Mounds of dirt littered the half dozen areas where shallow holes had been dug. Two shovels lay abandoned. Both German Shepherds were relaxing by one of the trainers; the larger of the two was munching a treat as if in reward for a job well done.

  And Higuchi … she frowned, watching. Higuchi was holding open a plastic bag into which the other trainer was dropping something he’d pulled from a hole. Something the size of a rat, dark and encrusted with dirt.

  They found something. It was hard to believe, but they had. She stepped closer, trying not to panic. Whatever they’d dug up reeked. The wind carried toward her nostrils the whiff of decaying flesh. She realized then that there were several plastic bags lying on the ground filled with similar corpses. In the fading light it was hard to make out what they were. She moved still closer, squinting at them.

  Simpson held up a warning hand. “Hold it there, Ms. Rowell.”

  She ignored him and walked still deeper into the yard. He repeated the order, louder, and this time she did stop in her tracks. But it wasn’t because of Simpson’s command. At her feet lay one of the bags. She knelt to examine it more closely. The shape of the creature inside took her back to high school science class, where she and her fellow students had screwed up their courage and dissected … frogs.

  Her mind whirled. Something she’d read when she was researching one of her books came back to her. A piece of knowledge possessed by many mystery writers but few others, and which hit her at that moment with blinding force.

  Frogs. Curare. Frogs.

  Oh, my God. She rose to her feet. Her hand flew to her throat as her breath caught there.

  She could feel Simpson’s laser stare on her face. “Did you bury these, Ms. Rowell? They were buried recently. By you?”

  She shook her head no, though she did not expect him to believe her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Reid was seriously baffled. He stopped behind Annie’s left shoulder and peered down at the clear plastic bag lying at her feet. “What’s in there?”

  She was as pale as he’d ever seen a woman who was still breathing. “A frog.”

  “A frog?”

  Her right hand clutched her throat; her mouth hung open. She gave every sign of being in shock.

  “Annie?”

  “I’m going back inside.” She turned and made for the house, half stumbling on a rock jutting out of the ground. She clutched the doorjamb as she reentered the kitchen. He watched her weave across the linoleum and then lost sight of her.

  He turned to find Simpson’s eyes on him. The men stared at each other. Reid knew that was quite a transformation they’d seen: from calm and controlled to basketcase. And it had been caused by dead frogs. He pointed at the small plastic-shrouded corpse. “What’s the importance of this?”

  Simpson shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Reid counted the bags lying on the ground. “You found four of them?”

  Simpson didn’t respond.

  “Buried recently, you said,” Reid went on.

  Simpson didn’t respond to that, either. He looked as confounded as Reid felt. After a moment Simpson turned to his team and waved his arm as if to say, All right, let’s pack up and move out. Everyone bent to their task, as silent as their chief.

  Reid rubbed his forehead. He recognized the mood. It was the somber muteness that took over an investigative team when every member knew they’d found a critical piece of evidence. A smoking gun, for lack of a better phrase.

  But … dead frogs?

  Then Simpson spoke, in a low volume meant only for Reid’s ears. “I don’t want to see this broadcast on your show, Gardner.”

  “We didn’t stipulate that before.”

  Simpson edged closer, a big man using his size to make his point. His face came within inches of Reid’s. “I don’t know what this means but I don’t want it to become public knowledge. It could hamper the investigation.”

  Even as he prepared a rebuttal, Reid knew full well that this new development was safe with him. He knew that it was damaging to Annie. He knew, already, that he would not take any action that would damage her further. He wondered how that had happened so damn fast.

  “I won’t move on it until I understand what it means,” he said.
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  “I want more than that from you. You don’t go with it until you and I talk. Don’t forget, the murder investigation is priority one.” Simpson lowered his voice. “Usually I don’t have to remind you of that.”

  “You don’t have to now.”

  Simpson shook his head, doubt written on his features. “Just keep your head on straight, Gardner.”

  The unspoken subtext was clear. Don’t get mixed up with a woman who could be a murderer. That was where they differed. Reid didn’t believe Annie was.

  When the plastic evidence bags were gathered and the yard returned to a semblance of normalcy, Simpson’s team of men and dogs returned to the street via the alley. Reid and Simpson himself reentered the house through the rear screen door. They found Annie cross-legged on the sofa in her living room with what appeared to be a manuscript on her lap. Lamp lit at her side, tortoiseshell eyeglasses sliding down her nose, she was marking up the pages with a red pen. And in what was probably a bid for comfort, she was barefoot, and had changed into a gray Middlebury College sweatshirt and black leggings.

  She glanced up at Simpson over her lenses. “Is your team done?” She sounded completely normal again. Calm and self-possessed.

  Reid was impressed. She’d done one hell of a job getting a hold of herself. Clearly for his and Simpson’s benefit.

  Simpson spoke. “Ms. Rowell, until further notice I’d like you to remain in the vicinity.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re arresting me.”

  “No.”

  She looked back down at her pages and kept her voice casual. “Then I’ll do what I like.”

  Reid watched Simpson decide how to react. He was used to intransigence and flippancy both; they were as much a part of his job as stakeouts and interrogations. Finally, “Ms. Rowell, don’t make me sorry for not taking stronger measures with you. I will if I have to.” He nodded at Reid and strode toward the front door, his footfalls heavy on the century-old floorboards. The door clicked shut behind him. Reid listened to the cruisers start up outside, heard the gritty static of a police radio come to life. Headlight beams lit up the front windows. Eventually the vehicles drove away.

  Through it all Annie kept marking up her pages as if she hadn’t a care in the world. And though she was now alone in her house with him, still she didn’t look his way. Yet Reid couldn’t tear his eyes from her. Her hair was mussed, her lipstick had worn off, and her eyeglasses weren’t exactly styling. Yet somehow she still managed to compel his attention.

  He let his eyes roam that small, determined body of hers. He’d imagined more than once what it would feel like in his arms. He wanted to know for real.

  He started when she spoke. “Shouldn’t you be shoving off now, too?”

  “You trying to get rid of me?”

  “Show’s over. I would think you’d want to go.”

  “I didn’t come for some show.”

  Her pen stilled over her pages. Ask me, he communicated silently. Ask me what I did come for.

  But she didn’t take the bait. She didn’t give him the opening to say, You, I came for you. Instead she removed her glasses, set her work aside, and asked a different question. “You still think I’m innocent?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You’re one in a million, you know that, Reid Gardner?” He heard a little more belligerence in every word she spoke. “Did you forget your cop training? Simpson and crew already have me convicted, so why shouldn’t you? Forget indicted! They’re way past that. I should already be on Death Row as far as they’re concerned.”

  “Why are you getting so angry all of a sudden?”

  “Because there are goddamn dead frogs in my backyard and I sure as hell didn’t put them there!” Then she stopped and shook her head vigorously. “No. Forget it.”

  “Tell me about the frogs.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll find out anyway.”

  “Have at it.”

  This was going nowhere. He approached the sofa and motioned for her to move over so he could sit beside her. “Scooch over.”

  “No.”

  “I said scooch over.” When he nearly sat on her, she grudgingly slid to the next cushion. He settled himself and clasped his hands between his knees. “If you tell me what’s going on, I might be able to help.”

  “Forget it.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “Right. I don’t even know why I’m talking to you.”

  “Maybe because on some level you know you can trust me.”

  She pointed her finger at him. “Don’t turn into some Dr. Phil amateur shrink on me. Even though you are on TV and are currently sitting on my couch.”

  He smiled. “It’s good to see you haven’t entirely lost your sense of humor.”

  “I’m still not going to tell you a damn thing.”

  “Well, then, I’ll tell you a damn thing.” She fell silent and averted her gaze but he knew she was listening. “There was a time when I was suspected of murder.”

  Her head snapped in his direction.

  He went on. “So I have some idea how you feel.”

  “You were suspected of murder?”

  “For a short time. After my fiancée was killed.”

  He could talk about it now; he’d been able to for years. He could discuss the facts clinically, dispassionately. He could relay how Donna had been murdered only weeks before the Big Day, how it was one of those cases you hear about where instead of people gathering for a wedding, the very same people gather for a funeral.

  Heartbreaking, people called it. Heartbreaking. Yeah, that was about right.

  He could talk about the details; he just couldn’t talk about the woman herself, how she’d made him feel, the man he’d grown into when he loved her. Nor could he talk about the beast who’d killed her. If he tried to do that, whether he was overcome with love or rage, his heart knotted and his mouth lost the ability to form words that someone else could understand.

  Even to this day. Five years later.

  “Your fiancée was murdered,” he heard Annie murmur. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

  He nodded. What was there to add? Sometimes life sucked. Sometimes the worst possible thing actually did happen.

  She spoke again. “I can’t even imagine what that must have been like. It must have been unbearable that you were actually suspected.”

  “It didn’t last long. But it killed me. Especially because it cost time.”

  Voices reached his ears from the street. People were walking past Annie’s house, a man and a woman. The woman was laughing. It was a Saturday night laugh, free and easy.

  It might as well be Bigelow out there, he thought. Free and easy. Getting away with murder.

  Reid felt the hate wriggle inside him. Malignant companion. Always there; growing if he didn’t watch it.

  “Reid?”

  He looked at Annie. Her eyes were sympathetic. The automaton was gone and so was the spitfire, both replaced by a real woman, flesh and bone, heart and soul. Less protected than earlier; some of the veils lifted. “I think that’s the first time you ever said my name,” he told her.

  “Without cursing.”

  Their gazes locked and they both smiled. The hate burrowed back into its hole, for the moment thwarted.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?” Her voice was soft. Her gaze was soft. His eyes trailed down her body before he forced himself to look away.

  “Not right now.” Another time hung in the air. And, he noted, she didn’t protest. He cleared his throat. “So you see, I have some idea what you’re going through. I might be able to help you.”

  She didn’t say anything for some time. Then, “Let’s just say I’ve got to do this on my own.”

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, I barely know you. For another, I have no reason to trust you.”

  There it was again. The contentiousness. The pushing back. He sighed. He’d pierced it for a moment. At least he knew that was possible.
“You have your demons, too, don’t you, Annie?”

  “I don’t know about demons.” She rose from the sofa, a signal of dismissal. “But I have mistakes I don’t want to make again.”

  He recognized a security system when he saw one. He had a damn good one of his own. It had worked for five years now, with only the occasional test.

  Must be her ex, he thought, watching walls rise around her as surely as if she had bricks and mortar on hand in her living room. It made sense that she didn’t want to put herself through the wringer again. He respected that. And maybe, unlike him, she hadn’t yet learned how to be casual.

  He rose, pulled his wallet from the rear pocket of his jeans, and held a business card in her direction. “If you change your mind about that on-your-own thing.”

  She took it and perused the information, then lay it on her coffee table. He figured there was a good chance it would collect dust there until someday she threw it out. She led him to her door and he moved through it, but turned on the porch to look at her one more time. “I meant it about helping you.”

  She nodded.

  He had to leave then. There was nothing for it but to go. He forced his feet to walk toward his rental car, aware of the door clicking shut behind him, of her moving deeper into the old house.

  He didn’t think she was watching him through the front window but his hope got the better of him. He glanced that way as he turned the key in the ignition. No sign of her. As the engine rolled over, he knew he’d have to get back to work, find out about those damn frogs. There was one person he wouldn’t ask for help, though, for the first time in forever.

  He pointed the car south for the long drive to the airport, its headlights poking through the fog rolling in from the Pacific. No, he wouldn’t involve Sheila. Not this time.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Less than 48 hours later, Annie had defied Lionel Simpson and was well out of her vicinity. In fact she was in a Peet’s in Orange County, sitting across a small round table from Michael’s wheelchair and feeling a bit better about the world.

  And not entirely because of caffeine and a chocolate macaroon.