My eyes brimmed with unshed tears. She probably wasn’t much older than my own daughter. What will her parents say when they find out?
How would I feel if it were my own child lying on the floor?
I stopped sketching and blew my nose. Did her murder relate somehow to the center? Or did Fancher have a crazed killer running around murdering young women? Neither thought was reassuring. What about the protesters, or the biker? I leaned my head back and pictured the crowd around the girl. Hippie Lady with her pulled-back gray hair, the two missionaries in short-sleeved white shirts, the guy with beer breath, an older man in a Stetson . . . I could easily picture their faces. I was blessed, or cursed, with an almost photographic memory of faces. None of the people closest to Rebekah had looked at her until she fainted. Only me. So, had someone followed the bus back to the motel? Had they waited until she was alone?
I’d finished the first drawing. I turned the page and started on the faces of the crowd.
The officer jumped to his feet. A burly man wearing a beige suit and tie approached with the unmistakable stride of a detective. The sun glinted off his lapel pin and gold badge attached to his belt.
“Mrs. Marcey?” he asked, extending his hand. “Deputy Howell, Washington County Sheriff’s Department.”
I closed my sketchpad, shoved my sunglasses up, and shook his meaty paw.
Pulling a chair next to me, he gave a dismissive nod to the patrol officer. “I understand you found the victim and called it in. How did you open the door?” He tugged a notebook from his pocket, then opened it.
I handed him my notes. “Here’s my statement.”
His eyes narrowed. “I didn’t ask you for an alibi—”
“I thought I’d save you some time. I’m a forensic artist, Deputy Howell, and also a reserve deputy for Ravalli County, Montana. You can call Sheriff Dave Moore. He’ll vouch for me.”
The detective studied me, then rubbed his top lip with his finger. “You look familiar. Have we met?”
“I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. I’m working at the Mountain Meadows site. I have something—”
“Deputy Howell?” A uniformed officer waved. “Sorry. We need you.”
Howell stood and folded my notes into his pocket. “We’ll get back to you. Don’t leave town until we’ve had a chance to talk.” He hastened away.
“—belonging, I think, to Rebekah.”
He was already out of hearing range, leaving me alone by the pool. A slight, ash-scented breeze created tiny waves on the water and flung desiccated leaves across the surface.
I felt a tingling between my shoulder blades, that slithery feeling that someone was staring at me. I was alone. I slipped my sunglasses over my eyes, stood, then carefully surveyed the rooms overlooking the pool. Most had white sheers drawn over the windows.
Wait. There. Movement, a twitch of fabric in my periphery. I counted over from Rebekah’s room on the ground floor. The seventh unit.
I strolled to the corner pass-through where two buildings met. If the suspect was hiding out, I didn’t want to spook him. I also wanted to be out of sight.
Crime scene tape outlined the end units of the structure. Blue-and-white strobes blazed out the open door as the technicians photographed the room. Cars pulled in and out of the lot, but no ambulance or morgue vehicle stood waiting, so the coroner must have transported Rebekah’s body to wherever they conducted autopsies. Deputy Howell wasn’t in view. No one even looked in my direction. Not very observant around here. Then again, how many homicides had Fancher, Utah, ever had? The town was less than ten years old and built to take in big tourist bucks. Of course, a brutal murder could dry up those dollars.
The watcher’s room would be in the middle of the wing.
I advanced until I stood in front of the door, allowing my gaze to track over every inch. There. A tiny drop of rusty red just below the knob. I stepped back, then trotted toward the bustling crime scene, glancing over my shoulder every few seconds.
A uniformed officer holding a clipboard stopped me. “Sorry, no closer.”
I checked behind me again. “Is Deputy Howell here?”
The officer pointed with his pen at two men standing beside a patrol car. Ethan Scott was a frozen statue in the backseat.
“Excuse me.” I raced to the two men.
Deputy Howell turned, eyes narrowing as I approached. “I told you I’d talk to you later.
I took a deep breath. “Your killer may still be in the motel.” I nodded at the unit.
“Impossible.” Deputy Howell shook his head but placed his hand on his pistol.
“Someone watched me, and blood is on the door. Room thirty-two.” I hoped I was right. They could arrest the murderer within hours. And I could sleep tonight.
Howell turned to the second man. “I thought you checked all the rooms?”
“We did. That is, we knocked and—”
Howell swore. “Get a pass key.” He jerked his head at the other man, then pulled his Glock from the holster and dashed away. Several uniformed officers leaped after him, taking up positions around the perimeter.
Heart pounding, I ducked behind a wide ponderosa. Apparently they weren’t waiting for a SWAT team from St. George, assuming the small farming community needed a resident SWAT team.
Howell waved two uniformed officers to the pool side of the building and waited until he had radio confirmation. He took the short interval to examine the tiny drops of blood. His radio crackled. He nodded and thumped on the door.
Bam-bam-bam!
I jumped.
No answer.
“This is the sheriff’s department. Open up!”
The second man brought the key and took his position against the wall. Standing on the other side, Howell swiped it, then opened the door, keeping his body out of the opening. They took turns quickly peering into the room. Howell slipped in. After a moment, his voice rang out. “Clear!”
He reappeared, pointed at a man in overalls with CSI on the back, waved him over, then marched over to several of his officers. He kept his voice low, but from the men’s expressions, it was clear he was dressing them down for sloppy police work. He turned and saw me. He took a moment to wipe his face with a handkerchief, then crossed to me. “Good call. The perp used the room to clean up. Might get something, though.” His tone held a little less of his gruff detective veneer.
“You’re not arresting Ethan, are you?” I asked.
“Police business.” The Voice was back.
I sighed. It was so much easier working with a department that knew me, where growling was because they liked me, not on general principle. “Whatever. One last thing. I think I have Rebekah’s backpack. She dropped it when she fainted.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?”
“I . . . Forget it. It’s in my car.” I strolled over and unlocked the trunk. Before I could warn him about the broken latch, he yanked out the backpack, sending the contents careening into the trunk and onto the pavement.
Howell let out a few well-chosen cuss words and looked at me as if I were the one who’d made the mess. I helped him collect the miscellaneous items and jam them back into the bag: a hairbrush, eye shadow, wallet, digital camera, pink sweatshirt, and water bottle.
He slammed the trunk closed and stalked over to the crime scene van.
I trailed after him, but peeled off when I spotted Ethan. “Wait up.”
He’d apparently not been charged with anything and was wandering about like the walking wounded. He drifted toward me. His eyes were bloodshot and shoulders hunched forward. “Yeah?”
“Here.” I handed him the drawing I’d done of Bekka. “I’d like you to have this.”
He stared at the sketch for a moment, then rubbed his eyes and nodded. “Thank you. I . . . she . . . oh, never mind.”
I waited a moment. “What?”
“Uh, what if . . . what if I had some stuff of Bekka’s?”
“Like what?”
“Her jacket
. A paperback. Stuff like that. The latch on her backpack didn’t work.”
“Well then, you should probably give it to Deputy Howell.”
“Deputy Howell is a jerk!”
“Then send it to her parents.”
“How? I’m staying here. Mom and Dad are driving down, and I doubt they’ll let me out of their sights.”
“Go into the business center here.” I nodded toward the office. “Get on the computer and print out a shipping label from FedEx. Give the package and the right amount of money to Joyce at the front office. Be sure you put enough insurance on it. She’ll see that it’s shipped. Okay?”
“I guess . . . so . . . Where are you going now?”
“Home. Finally.” I patted his arm, then turned away, suddenly bone-tired. My feet felt like I’d walked barefoot on sharp gravel. I trudged to my room, pulled the blinds, and cranked up the air-conditioning unit to block the sounds of the investigation just below.
After yanking off the wig, I inspected my head in the bathroom mirror. Everyone told me that, after chemo, my hair would grow back thicker, a different color, and wavy. Somehow I’d assumed it would also sprout quickly, like a lawn after fertilizer and a good watering. Not so. Pale peach fuzz, barely visible, represented two months of growth.
I rubbed the soft stubble and grinned at my reflection. All I had to do was take off my breast prostheses and I would look like a young man. Being bald wasn’t all bad. I didn’t need to pack a brush, curling iron, hairdryer, hair spray, or conditioners. The motel’s tiny bottle of shampoo lasted over a week, and I could get ready for work in minutes. Not to mention I could get my hair styled at the salon and go shopping at the same time.
After changing into beige cotton shorts and a clean T-shirt, I pulled back the covers on the bed and checked for spiders. All clear. The pillows equally free from insects. I stuffed them behind me, then wiggled until I was comfortable. I dialed Beth’s number.
“How are you feeling?” Beth said before I could speak.
Another leftover from battling breast cancer. Everyone always asked how I was feeling or how I was doing. “Good.”
“Still getting as many hot flashes?”
“I can’t tell yet. I seem to get more when I’m stressed, and this job is stressing me. And why do they call it a flash? More like a sustained burn. Maybe I can get a job testing deodorants’ staying power.”
“Ha. Tell me about your fainting woman.” The background noise of a forensic television series suddenly ceased.
“I’m interrupting your show.”
“I’m recording it. You’re more interesting. Go on.”
“Well, she did more than faint. Someone murdered her.”
“You’re kidding!” She was silent for a moment, finally muttering a quiet, “Amen.”
“Beth?”
“I’m here. Are you the lead investigator? How was she killed? Do you need an associate? Who murdered her? I want you to divulge everything!” The words tumbled over each other.
I ran my fingers over the fuzz on my head. “Right. No. Knife or something sharp. No. I don’t know. I just did.”
“You’re so droll. Why was she murdered?”
“I don’t know much of anything. We just found her. It was . . . pretty gruesome.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“The girl’s boyfriend and me.”
“Did it have anything to do with—” Winston’s deep bark drowned out her words.
“So what’s the problem with my dog?” I pulled my knees up and wrapped an arm around them.
“Oh no. More details first.”
I sighed. I loved Beth, but sometimes her addiction to forensic shows, mysteries, and the dictionary wore me out. “Remember our agreement.”
“Right. Everything you say about your work is confidential. I am sworn to secrecy.”
I filled her in on the case. “I wouldn’t want to be the crime scene technician working that mess.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ripped mattress, blood everywhere. Think Jack the Ripper kind of stuff. Maybe even ritualistic.” I described her wounds.
She gave a slight gasp. “Ritualistic? I’m going to do some research.”
“Just remember, it’s not my case, and I doubt the police will appreciate your work the way I do.”
“I’ll send you my findings anyway. You never know, maybe the police will be so impressed that they’ll have you help them investigate her murder. Then I can drive down and assist you. Norm’s going on a fishing trip to Alaska.”
“Aaaaaah, no. That’s not the way it works. About Winston?”
“He excavated my dahlias, but only the peach ones. I did some probing, operating on one of several theories. The choice of flower is interesting, so perhaps the scent disturbs him. One article on the Internet mentioned that Great Pyrenees notice shapes, so the shape of the leaves or petals might trigger him, however, as he seems determined to just dig up the peach ones—”
“Beth.”
“I thought I’d—”
“Beth!”
“Yes?”
“He’s getting revenge on you.”
Silence for a moment. “Dogs get revenge?”
I tugged the blanket over my legs. “Great Pyrenees do. What did you do differently?”
“I was trying to train him to track criminals. Then we both could help you. A team. Like the Three Musketeers.”
“He’s not a bloodhound, you know. And I don’t, personally, go after criminals.”
“Details. When do you anticipate returning?”
“Soon.”
“Keep me informed on your progress, and you know what I always say. Everything happens for a reason.”
I hadn’t yet figured out the reason my life was such a mess, except to make my ex-husband rich. Maybe I just didn’t get a reason. “I’m beat, so can I call you tomorrow?” It took some convincing, but Beth finally hung up.
I turned off the lamp and curled up under the covers. Light seeped through the curtains and under the door. I closed my eyes, but the glow remained. The sheet bunched under my legs, and I rolled over. Something was swirling around in my brain. Bekka? The pillow seemed lumpier than usual. I pounded it and flipped it over. The alarm clock’s red digital readout clicked out the minutes. College . . . something . . . Dead? No. I’ve seen dead people before. I flopped on my back. Passing headlights pirouetted across the ceiling.
Sisters!
I jerked upright and turned on the light. Bekka and I had been dressed alike, with the same build and hair. My room was just above the young woman’s. I got out of bed. Did someone see her from behind and think it was me? Had she been the real target . . . or was I?
My hands felt icy, and I rubbed them together. I double-checked that the door was locked and then peeked out the window. I wedged a chair under the doorknob. Who would want to kill me? Robert? No. He was indifferent. I’d simply been a good subject for his thinly veiled novel about my cancer battle. If he hadn’t already been a best-selling novelist, no one would have even read that stupid book.
Why would anyone want to eliminate a forensic artist from Montana? The serial killer in my last case had gotten away, but that was more than a year ago. Was it connected to the work at Mountain Meadows? Some of the folks seemed mad enough to murder.
I went to the tiny bathroom, filled a glass with water, and took a gulp. But why would someone want to butcher a young college student? I made a mental note to talk to Deputy Howell about the possibility that I’d been the target. If the killer grabbed Bekka from the rear and cut her throat, he wouldn’t know he had the wrong woman . . . no . . . she’d answered the door. Hadn’t she?
I shivered as my brain tumbled the possibilities around like a tossed paper cup in a brisk wind. Did Bekka have something the killer wanted? I picked up the phone and dialed Deputy Howell’s number. It rang six times, then went to voice mail. I hung up without leaving a message.
I tugged out my suitcase, reached into
a side pocket, and lifted out an amber prescription bottle. Just this once. Post-traumatic stress disorder. That’s what the doctor had called it. I figured I’d earned PTSD. I was diagnosed with cancer, divorced, the pathetic subject of Robert’s book, and working on a serial killer and bombing case all at the same time. I shook out a pill, downed it with another slurp of water, and slid under the covers.
It seemed as if I’d barely closed my eyes when I heard someone bang on my door. “Mrs. Marcey?”
I glanced at the time. It was 4:23 in the morning. I’d throttle that deputy if he’d decided to interview me this early. I crawled from the bed and peeked out the window. A uniformed officer.
I opened the door as far as the chain would allow. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Marcey?”
“Yes. We’ve established that.”
“The sheriff wants to see you right away.”
“What—”
“Someone trashed the Mountain Meadows Center.”
“I’m not—”
“George, the security guard, is dead.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
RAVALLI COUNTY SHERIFF DAVE MOORE GLARED at the steaming liquid swirling in the delicate pink cup on his office desk. “What. Is that?”
Louise, his matronly secretary, folded her hands neatly in front of her. “My special tea. For nerves. I blend it myself. Some St. John’s wort, peppermint, lemon balm, lavender, and just a hint of raspberry leaves.” She pivoted and left, gently closing the door behind her.
“I don’t have nerves,” Dave said. “And I hate tea.”
He sighed and glanced out the window overlooking the parking lot for the patrol cars. Late-afternoon shadows stretched across the lot from the pines along the perimeter, and chain-link fencing imprisoned the vehicles.
He pushed the cup and saucer away. He’d inherited Louise from his father, the former sheriff of Ravalli County, Montana. She was well past retirement, but showed no sign of surrendering her job or of giving up on bringing him tea.
He checked his watch. Almost seven thirty. He piled the last report onto the out-box and placed his pen back into the marble award holder proclaiming him the Jaycee Distinguished Service winner. After tearing off the top sheet of a yellow legal pad, he reread the grocery list his wife, Andrea, called over earlier. Lettuce, carrots, celery, apples, skim milk, coffee. He sighed, stood, and was about to leave when the phone rang. Probably Andrea calling back to add more to his list. He guessed she wouldn’t be adding ice cream with fudge syrup. So much for watching the Grizzlies play their first football game on television. He snatched up the handset. “Sheriff Moore. Make it fast.”
A Cry from the Dust Page 4