HER SISTER'S KILLER an absolutely gripping killer thriller full of twists

by MICHELLE S. SMITH

  “Right,” she said.

  He caught her eye for a moment, and the dimple showed itself. “Do you enjoy hiking?”

  She smiled briefly, unable to resist the sudden shyness in his question. “I used to,” she said, thinking of how her sister had been found off the trail of one of the East Side walks.

  “Yeah,” he rushed on. “I go out with this group. I help out Sandy, the facilitator, as a volunteer. It’s a support group called ‘Hiking through Grief’.”

  She stared at him for a moment, humiliated to have thought that he wanted to spend time with her and angry with herself for letting down her guard or even contemplating going with him. What was her problem?

  “Right,” she said. “Well, I tell you what, Dr Gardner, when I need your hiking therapy, I will let you know. Until then, why don’t you stick to your job rather than playing psychologist?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  He walked to the window and stared out in silence, then glanced at the framed page on the wall beside him.

  Victoria rose.

  “You may be right,” he said suddenly, turning around, “about your sister’s innocence being dangerous.”

  He tapped the framed page on the wall. “This is one of my mom’s favorite poems, which is why it is hanging on the wall here. She was an English teacher. ‘My Last Duchess’ by Browning. Do you know it?”

  Victoria shook her head.

  “Read it some time,” he advised. “The narrator is a man writing about his wife, whom he has had assassinated out of jealousy, simply because she didn’t favor him above the others she showed kindness to. She reminds me of your sister.”

  Victoria nodded. “You think the motive could have been jealousy?”

  “Perhaps.”

  She looked thoughtfully at the scar on his jaw, wondering whether he was someone who could be roused to great anger and jealousy. Certainly he would have had the physique to overpower her sister.

  “And who would represent the narrator?” she asked pointedly.

  She thought she could see amusement in his eyes, though whether it was mocking or not she couldn’t be sure.

  “If we knew that, we would know who murdered your sister,” he replied, showing her out.

  Chapter 10

  Steve was sitting in Fiddleheads Cafe — named after a fern’s furled fronds, which resemble the scroll on the neck of a fiddle. He had just picked up his coffee mug, when Karen Timms knocked on the window next to his table. He gave her the lopsided smile that left her daughter tongue-tied and gestured to her to come in.

  “Coincidence finding you here,” she exclaimed. “I was just wondering whether I should call you. I was down at the station when Rebecca Wharton’s cell-phone company phoned your line to say that they had sent through the phone records you asked for.”

  Steve suddenly stopped smiling and leaned forward, his muscles taut. “And?”

  Karen shrugged. “And nothing.”

  “You didn’t see the records?”

  “No, of course not. The stuff was emailed directly to you, they said.”

  “Thanks.” Steve threw a few bank notes onto the table and grabbed the jacket he had slung over his chair.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “See you Monday!” he shouted over his shoulder as he ran.

  * * *

  Victoria sat outside her mother’s house in her car, reading ‘My Last Duchess’ on her phone, mostly to delay going in.

  That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall . . .

  . . . she smiled, no doubt,

  Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without

  Much the same smile?

  Victoria read on, shivering at the chilling lines that describe the murder of the duchess.

  I gave commands;

  Then all smiles stopped together.

  Enough. She looked up at her mother’s house. She remembered it as run-down, but she was not prepared for how dilapidated the property had become. The hedge around the garden stood almost six feet high in places, and in others it was browned and withered, the ground littered with dead branches and leaves.

  Swallowing down the nausea that arose when she thought of going inside, she forced herself to open the car door and get out. She walked slowly up the garden path and rang the doorbell. No answer, but she noticed the bedroom curtain falling back as though someone behind it had lifted it a fraction. Determined, now that she was actually there, to get the visit over and done with, Victoria knocked loudly on the bedroom window until a reluctant hand drew the curtain back again. Her mother lifted her other hand in greeting, barely making eye contact with her daughter, and the curtain fell. Victoria could hear the sound of her mother’s wheelchair moving across the wooden flooring as she made her way to the front door.

  “So you finally decided to pay your mother a call.” Vera’s voice was flat and dull as she unlatched the door. “I was wondering whether you were going to make the effort.”

  On the attack already. You don’t even wait for me to set foot inside, do you? Victoria glanced at the time on her phone. Thank goodness she’d agreed to meet Janet later. It would give her an excuse to get away.

  “Whenever I have called there has been no answer,” Victoria said.

  Vera wheeled herself through to the living room, which was shrouded in darkness. Victoria opened the curtains, letting the sunlight fall on the fading furniture and the unwashed breakfast tray still sitting on a coffee table. The room was scattered with magazines and clutter, and nightmarish memories lurked in every corner.

  “When I got here, I learned from the pastor the memorial had already been held,” said Victoria. She bit her lip. “Why would you do that? And why haven’t you been answering my calls?”

  “Everything is always about you, isn’t it? Always has been.” Her mother laughed drily. “I had to do everything myself when Becky died because you weren’t here. As per usual. Select hymns, drive myself to the pastor, talk to the police. I just wanted it all to be over as soon as possible. I even had to view—” She placed her sleeve over her mouth for a moment to stop herself from losing control — “your sister’s corpse.”

  Victoria sank onto the ripped couch, feeling sick. “I’m sorry. I was on my way. My car kept giving trouble, and I tried to call and tell you, repeatedly. I came as fast as I could.”

  “Not fast enough. All your calls came too late. If you’d been here in the first place, with your family, you wouldn’t have had to drive out. You would have been here. Maybe your sister wouldn’t have been out alone.”

  “She wasn’t out alone,” Victoria replied. “That was the problem.”

  “Of course she was. She was robbed and left to die.”

  “Is that what the police told you?” demanded Victoria, feeling her temper rising. She was going to confront Steve about it at the first opportunity. Why did he keep harping on about the idea of a robbery? “It is also possible she was killed by someone she knew. I thought you might have some idea who she had been seeing.”

  “Becky had no secrets from me,” her mother said, emphasizing her daughter’s name as if to compare her openness with Victoria’s absence and silence.

  “Did she have any close friends?”

  Her mother shrugged. “We were the closest to each other. Becky didn’t have much time or desire to socialize. Though she did have a couple of friends that she went out with now and then.”

  “She didn’t still live here, though, did she? She told me she had a place of her own.”

  “Yes, I don’t know why,” her mother replied plaintively. “Her room was here. She shouldn’t have left. It wasn’t necessary, especially seeing she was single. I suggested she move back home.”

  “I’m sure you did,” Victoria said under her breath. “She didn’t talk about anyone special, did she?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” her mother sneered. “If there had been someone in her life, I would have been the first person she would have told. But men were neve
r her priority, were they?”

  “How could they be?” Victoria replied.

  Her mother looked at her sharply. “Becky always had her priorities right,” she said. “I don’t know what I would have done without her. When you drove your father away and took to roaming Hancock in your teens with that young kickboxing hellhound who showed up out of nowhere, she was the only one I could rely on when I needed help.”

  Victoria tried to shut out the last images she had of her father, but the sickening creak of her bedroom door as he slipped in at night kept echoing through her brain. Only Becky had believed her and given her the strength to go to the police.

  “Becky was the only one I could rely on too,” she said, half to herself.

  “If you knew the pain you have put me through . . .” Vera repeated a well-worn mantra.

  “You were never happy even before the divorce,” said Victoria. She paused and bit her lip. “Why? What happened?”

  Vera swallowed and half opened her mouth as though tempted to speak, but they were interrupted by the ringtone of Victoria’s cell phone. She didn’t hesitate to answer it.

  “Hello? What? So soon? I’m meeting Janet later today, but I can come past your place first. I’ll let her know. Where are you living? Right. It’s so close by, I’ll just walk to you.”

  “Who was that?” asked her mother, her ears pricking up at the sound of the male voice.

  Victoria smiled wryly. “The kickboxing hellhound,” she replied as she put her phone away. “Detective Steve McCade. He’s got Rebecca’s cell-phone records.” She felt a small stab of satisfaction as she saw her mother start and added casually, “He wants to meet up with me to discuss them.”

  “I never liked that boy.” Vera’s expressionless tone hid, Victoria knew, a seething jumble of jealousy. “I didn’t like him at all.”

  “No, you didn’t,” said Victoria, her voice equally expressionless.

  “He’s not good for you,” her mother continued, watching each barb sink in. “Keep well away from him. I’m only thinking of your happiness, Victoria.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Victoria replied. “But I happen to be working on the case with him. We are both detectives, Mother. It’s purely professional.”

  “Is it?” Her mother’s voice rang in Victoria’s ears as she left the house. Is your relationship with Steve strictly professional?

  Chapter 11

  Victoria pushed Steve’s doorbell then wiped her hand, slightly sticky, on her jeans. The sound of running water came from deep inside the house, then the thudding of bare feet on tiles.

  He put his head around the front door, his hair damp and smelling faintly of shampoo.

  “That was quick,” he said, standing back to let her in. She blushed as she saw he was still in a towel. “I wasn’t expecting you yet.”

  “I’ll wait outside.” She pulled back, embarrassed, but he took her arm, drawing her a little closer as he closed the door. She felt breathless and slightly giddy. She slipped under his arm and stood back, clutching her handbag. “I was at my mother’s house,” she said, scarcely aware of what she was saying. “We were just talking about you.”

  “Right,” he said, his light-heartedness dissipating and eyes watchful. “Your mother loves me almost as much as I do her.”

  “Almost.” She smiled, watching a drop of water weave its way down his cheek and slide down his neck. She sighed. “She and I have never got on either.”

  Steve grimaced. “Like my mom and me,” he replied. “Single mom. Always too busy for me. Never too busy to drink though.”

  “What about your dad?” Victoria asked. “You’ve never mentioned him.”

  Steve’s smile was grim, his expression unfathomable. “What was there to tell?” he said. “I never knew him. Maybe if he had been around, things would have been different.” He frowned as though he were annoyed with himself for revealing so much. “That’s life, I guess. Want anything to drink?”

  Victoria shook her head. “You said you’ve got the phone records?”

  He nodded and gestured to her to sit, removing the gun holster he always wore at work from the couch.

  “Give me a second to change. Make yourself at home.”

  He disappeared into his bedroom. Victoria quickly messaged Janet to let her know where she was in case the visit took longer than expected. She put her phone away and looked around. Steve’s living room was everything her mother’s wasn’t: clean, neat, everything in its place. It was clearly the room of a man who knew what he wanted and where he wanted it. A large frame holding several photos stood on one wall. She rose and gazed at the pictures. In one fading photo in the corner of the frame, there was a group of laughing youngsters. In the middle of the group stood Steve, one arm around her and the other around Becky, who smiled out of the photo, her face so young and eager that it broke Victoria’s heart.

  She sat on the black leather couch, lost in the past, until Steve emerged a few minutes later, pulling on his shirt. She looked away quickly, noting the slight smile as he saw her embarrassment.

  “So, business,” she said formally. “Tell me about the records.”

  He nodded, tossing his wet towel over the back of the couch.

  “Your sister made and received a few calls here and there but not many. The library. The hospital. Until three weeks ago.” He passed her a piece of paper on which he had jotted down a number.

  “Does this look familiar at all?”

  “No, should it?”

  He grimaced. “I rang it just now. John Gardner. The vet. Turns out he phoned your sister every day for the twenty-one days leading up to her death.”

  John. Victoria glanced at him, startled.

  “I spoke to John today,” she said. “He seemed honest enough. He told me they were just friends.”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” Steve replied.

  “Why didn’t John tell me the truth?” Victoria said, more to herself than to Steve. Then she turned to him suddenly. “You surely don’t still think the motive was robbery, do you?”

  “We haven’t located the war vet yet, who might give us a better idea of that angle,” he replied, “but investigating John Gardner too would be worthwhile, I think.”

  “I’ll speak to him again on Monday. You should also look into the whole Megan Jenkins saga.” Victoria frowned. “There is something strange about the family.”

  “Sure, I’ll try to fit them in on Monday,” Steve said.

  She frowned at him, and the thought flitted across her mind that he hadn’t tried very hard to find the homeless war vet. Why hadn’t he shown interest in pursuing the Jenkins angle? Why hadn’t he done more to find the truth? Was there a reason it was too painful for him to pursue? Or was it—

  “Did you print out the phone records?” she said suddenly. “I’d like a copy.”

  “Sure. Remind me when I’m at the office. I’d email them to you, but the file is so big it takes forever to open.”

  He glanced down at her, holding her gaze for a moment in a way that made her forget what she had wanted to say next.

  “I agreed I’d meet Janet,” she said and, aware that even to her own ears she was babbling, added, “She invited me to dinner. Where did I put my keys? I am sure they were—” She lifted her handbag, trying to see if they had slipped out onto the couch below. Then she felt a hand over hers and Steve was passing her the keys.

  “They fell on the floor,” he said, still holding her hand lightly.

  For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her and felt a crazy desire to respond.

  “Janet will be waiting for me,” she stuttered, standing.

  And then his mouth met hers, but so fleetingly that she almost wondered if it had been her imagination.

  She instinctively placed her hand on his shirt to ward him off. Instead of releasing her, he slowly drew her closer, and she felt herself melting against the tautness of his chest.

  The doorbell rang loudly, and Victoria sprang away.
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  “Anyone home?” a loud voice called.

  “Janet, hi,” Steve said, pulling open the door and lifting his eyebrows in resignation.

  Janet stepped in, her eyebrows lifting too as she saw the damp towel hanging over the couch.

  “Not interrupting you, I hope?” she said. “I got tired of waiting, Victoria, so I thought I’d come meet you.”

  Victoria glanced at her phone. “Is that the time?” she exclaimed. “I had no idea. We were— that is, we were—”

  Janet grinned. “Tell me later.”

  Chapter 12

  “Hey, I thought I was coming to dinner,” Victoria protested as Janet headed back toward the Hancock Inn. “Where are we going?”

  “You are,” Janet said. “But first we’re going to pick up your stuff from the inn and check you out. Then you’re fetching your car from your mother’s house, and you’re coming to stay with me. Blake and the kids are away camping, which I hate, and I could do with the company.”

  “Hey, no!” Victoria exclaimed. “I could be here for several weeks still. Longer.”

  “Detectives must be paid really nicely if they can afford to put themselves up in hotels for weeks at a time,” Janet said. “Had you thought about that?”

  Victoria grimaced. “I guess not,” she admitted. “Maybe I should consider staying with someone I know.”

  “Where were you thinking?” asked Janet. She grinned. “At the moment, if you don’t take me up on my offer, I’d say you’d have to choose between moving in with your mom again and sharing a place with Steve.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Victoria blushed.

  “True, that is ridiculous,” Janet said. “You’d never get on with your mom.”

  “Cut it out, Janet. Steve and I are colleagues.”

  “Is that all?”

  Victoria stared out the window as they reached a stop street. In the late afternoon sun, a mockingbird swooped down from the sky into a black cherry tree and rose soon after, fruit dripping from its beak.

  “Vicky?” Janet prompted. “Talk to me.”