by Brant, Kylie
In the next instant it hit him that she must wear it to hide a weapon, and the realization made his interest only burn hotter. Took a contrary man, he reflected, following Ramsey into the cool dim interior of the museum, to find the thought of an armed woman so arousing.
But then Ramsey Clark was no ordinary woman.
He slipped ahead of her at the last minute so he’d be the first to greet Donnelle. And her expression, when she looked up from a display she was assembling, was welcoming.
“Devlin, you ol’ heartbreaker. I’m so pleased you stopped in!” Her delight dimmed an instant later when she caught sight of Ramsey behind him. “Ms. Clark. How nice to see you again.”
Because he was listening for it, Dev caught the reserve couched in the polite tone. His smile bumped up a few amps to put the woman at ease. “Seein’ as how Ramsey and I have similar interests in the history of the legend, we thought we’d save you some work. You can just tell it once to us both.”
She demurred. “You’ve heard all this before, Devlin. Don’t know why you’d want to go through it again.”
Crossing his arms, he smiled easily at her. “I’m lookin’ to refresh my memory. And it just so happens I find myself free for lunch, so I thought when we’re done here, you might let me ruin your reputation by bein’ seen downtown with a younger man.”
“I think my reputation could stand a little jolt, actually.” Her charm fully restored, she motioned them to follow her back to another room.
“If someone comes in, I’ll have to see to them, but it’s been quiet as a mouse wettin’ on cotton so far this mornin’. Sit yourselves down at the table there. Can I get either of you coffee? Made it fresh about an hour ago.”
“None for me, thanks,” Ramsey answered.
“I’ll take some, Donnelle. With cream, if you have it.” A third cup of coffee wasn’t going to do him any harm, and he recognized that the business of playing hostess would soothe the woman’s nerves.
He could feel the impatience emanating from Ramsey as they spent several minutes swapping small talk and looking at pictures of Donnelle’s newest granddaughter, making the appropriately appreciative noises. He was a man who understood the small tasks of putting people at ease in order to draw the information out of them in their own time, and in their own words.
Ramsey, he imagined, was just as adept at extracting information, but he thought her techniques might be found a bit abrupt around these parts.
Eventually Donnelle relaxed in a chair across from them and brought her mug to her lips. “Feels good to sit a minute,” she confessed. “I swear there’s enough to do here every week to keep me runnin’ all day.”
“I appreciate you takin’ the time with us. Guess I don’t have to tell you that Beau Simpson’s death has whipped up some talk about the legend again.”
“It always does. I recall the last time, especially after your daddy was killed in prison, folks ’round here were in a fever ’bout the whole thing.”
He felt rather than saw Ramsey’s jolt at the words. Had a hard time concealing his own. There were some memories that throbbed like a wound despite the passing of time.
“The legend is, of course, rooted in fact.” He recognized the note that had entered the older woman’s voice and knew she’d settled into her role of historian. “Many superstitions are, before embellishments are added. What we do know, what we have records of, is that the red mist was first sighted nearly ninety years ago.”
Her spoon clinked against her mug as she paused to stir in more sugar. “There are, of course, different versions of the legend. One has it that a man named Harold Bean killed his wife in a fit of jealous rage in 1922. Killed her with an ax, the story goes, out behind the woodpile beyond their cabin. He hid the body, but the blood had turned to gas in the air, creating the red mist. Her lover, a man who had never been identified or caught, recognized his love’s blood in the red vapor and came to avenge her, usin’ the same ax on Bean and leavin’ his body dead where he fell.”
“That’s only two deaths,” Ramsey pointed out. She’d been uncharacteristically silent, Dev thought, and wondered again at the toll her recent findings had taken on her.
Donelle nodded. “Names and dates of each deceased are written in the history I’ve been keepin’. Actually, I had the whole thing written out in long hand, but now the museum board wants all notes transcribed into the computer.” She smiled prettily. “I’ll admit I’m not as handy with technology as I might be, so it’s been slow progress.
“One other death occurred within a few days of the Bean family, and in this retellin’ it’s unrelated. A Lora Kuemper was found dead in her family’s well. The story went that she must have tripped and fallen in on her way back from the outhouse late one night.”
“But her death is connected in other accounts?”
By only a flicker of expression did Donnelle show her annoyance at Ramsey’s question. “Another version puts a spin on the story that’s a bit more salacious. This one has it that Lora and Wilma Bean had been carryin’ on a lesbian affair. That Lora was the one exactin’ revenge, only to return to the farm she shared with her husband. He drowned her in the well for her sins.”
The stories were starting to ring a bell for Dev. He’d heard them a time or two over the years, or at least one form or another.
“The third account brings in an interestin’ twist. Seems the Beans had a Negro girl as live-in help. There was talk that perhaps Mr. Bean and the girl were . . . friendlier than they ought to be. While Harold was at work one day, Mrs. Bean had the girl follow her to the woods and bring a basket to collect berries along the way. She killed her there and pushed her body into Ashton’s Pond, though there’s no record of it ever being found.
“Now Harold, comin’ back from the field, was surrounded by the red mist and knew at once what his wife had done. When he confronted her with his suspicions, she attacked him with the ax and inflicted serious wounds before he got it away from her and killed her. He ended up dying from his injuries.”
“Making Lora Kuemper’s death unrelated.”
Donnelle nodded. “Similar threads in all three versions, although they don’t all connect to form the same picture. Technically, since the colored girl at Bean’s was never found, she can’t be counted as a fourth death.” The woman gave a shrug. “She may have headed up north and gotten a job in the city.”
“How long before the pattern was repeated again?” Ramsey asked.
“Nineteen fifty,” Donnelle answered promptly before sipping from her coffee again. “The records are much more accurate from then on. The red mist was first sighted three days before a death. Cal Hopkins was found out in his garage, hanging from a beam. His neighbors, Lucien and Rachel Tarvester, swore they saw a car drivin’ off from his house at the approximate time of death. But they weren’t tellin’ that story very long as Lucien was struck by a hit-and-run driver not a week later. Died up in the Knoxville hospital. His wife packed up and moved that same week. Less than two months later the house she was rentin’ in Nashville burnt to the ground while she slept.”
Dev slanted a look over to the notes Ramsey was writing. Red mist as a premonition to deaths or subsequent to?
“I think I’ll have a look at that written history after lunch, Donnelle,” he said. It occurred to him to do a little checking into the dates of deaths occurring around each of the dates. He hadn’t run any tests at the local cemetery, though he’d have to be cautious doing so now. Nothing got people up in arms more than the thought of someone disturbing their loved ones at peace. But he was curious to know whether there was any activity around the graves of those affiliated with the red mist in another generation.
Ramsey checked her watch. “I have to go.” He heard real regret in her voice. It was second nature to rise when she did. “I do appreciate you taking your time to talk to us today, Donnelle.”
“Nice to see you again, Ramsey. You look like you’re workin’ too hard. Leanne’s offerin’ a facial
half price with any trim next Friday, if you get a free minute.” Lowering her voice, Donnelle went on, “Don’t tell her I told you. But it’ll be in the paper in a couple days. So you cut out that coupon and plan on usin’ it, hear?”
Dev nearly smiled at the pained smile Ramsey gave in return. “That sounds . . . tempting.”
“Don’t forget dinner,” he reminded her. And it pleased him to see her eyes heat and narrow with irritation. “Problem with inflation is if you don’t pay it down, the cost just keeps increasin’.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” And her tone, as she uttered the words, was only slightly less sincere than her answer to Donnelle had been.
They both watched her walk away in that rapid, no-nonsense stride of hers. She wasn’t a woman to use her retreat in a way guaranteed to catch a man’s eye and ante up his interest. No, Dev mused, Ramsey put on none of the usual wiles and ways of her gender. And was all the sexier for it.
When his attention reverted back to Donnelle, she was eying him archly. “Not your usual type, is she Devlin?”
He slipped his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels. “What is my type, Donnelle?”
“Single, willin’, and attractive, for starts. Oh, she may fit on two of those counts, I’ll grant you.” The woman stood gracefully and crossed the room to the desk to take her purse from a drawer. Turning to face him again, she continued. “But there’s no softness in that one. It wouldn’t pay to trifle with her.”
He recognized the concern in the older woman’s eyes and was touched by it. “You’re right there. That’s why I’m willin’ to make the supreme sacrifice and allow her to trifle with me. And when I’m nursin’ a broken heart, I’ll ’spect you to be suitably warm and sympathetic.”
She continued to regard him anxiously for a moment before visibly relaxing. As she approached him on stiletto-thin heels, she responded airily, “I’m not going to worry ’bout it, because with all due deference to your success with women, somethin’ tells me she isn’t going to fall for your usual line. That one’s here for one reason only, and when her work is done, she’ll be off again. You’d do well to remember that.”
As Donnelle clicked up to him and took his arm, Dev reflected there was a measure of truth to the woman’s words. Ramsey would be here only a short time and so would he.
But he couldn’t think of a reason in the world not to spend that time as pleasurably as possible.
It was with a sense of déjà vu that Ramsey stood outside the medical examiner’s office and watched a dark sedan roll up to the curb. But this time Mark Rollins was at her side, and the car’s occupant was female rather than an ill older man.
But when the young woman got out, showing a tear-ravaged face that bore a striking resemblance to the victim, Ramsey braced herself for the upcoming emotional scene.
She let Rollins take the lead, approaching the woman, Sarah Frost, and making introductions while he led her up to the door.
Barely acknowledging Ramsey, the woman was saying, “I’m sure this is all a mistake. The last time I talked to her, Cassie was in Chattanooga workin’ as a legal secretary. What would she be doin’ in a Kordoba bar? She’s not a bartender.”
The lobby of the building seemed to echo with their footsteps as they made their way across it. Rollins nodded to the clerk manning the desk, who buzzed them through the door that would lead to the morgue.
“How long has it been since you’ve talked to your sister?” Ramsey inquired.
The flicker of guilt on the woman’s face didn’t go unnoticed. “About six months ago, I guess.”
Ramsey exchanged a look with Rollins. “Would you say the two of you were estranged?”
Sarah’s head came up sharply. “Of course not,” she snapped. “We’ve always been close. We . . . there was some stuff recently, but we’ll work through it. We will. Because I don’t think this is Cassie. You’ve identified the wrong person.”
“I hope that’s true, ma’am.” There was an unfamiliar tech awaiting them outside the morgue door. Ramsey took a moment to wonder where Don Wilson was before pressing Sarah, “What sort of problems were . . . are you having with your sister?”
There was another flicker on Sarah’s face, strengthening Ramsey’s earlier impression. “Oh . . . you know. Guy problems.”
She subsided then, because the tech was leading them to the wall of metal drawers. Pulling out the gurney holding the victim. Ramsey and Mark surreptitiously moved to flank the woman as the sheet was pulled back on the corpse.
Sarah Frost’s weak scream bounced off the walls and gleaming stainless steel tables in the room. Ramsey caught her in the next moment as the woman’s knees gave out.
“Cassie! Oh my God, Cassie!”
Rollins motioned to the tech to re-cover the victim as Ramsey turned the woman toward the door. She was sobbing now. Great wrenching bouts of weeping that racked her body. With an arm around Sarah’s shaking shoulders, Ramsey moved her down the hallway, to the lobby, where the clerk, with one swift look in their direction, disappeared into a back room to give them some privacy.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Sarah,” she murmured, her throat tight. She recognized the guilt in the woman’s devastation. The tragedy of loss always made survivors feel their flaws more deeply. Magnified each slight they might have dealt the victim. Reminded them of everything done or not done.
“It’s my fault.” Ramsey could barely make out the words, but she noted Rollins’s attention to them. “She wouldn’t have been here if it weren’t for me. It’s all my fault.”
Guiding her to a bench in the lobby, Ramsey helped the woman sink into it before sitting beside her. Rollins stood next to them, his discomfort showing in his expression. It was clear he was fine with Ramsey taking over with the distraught woman.
“Why do you say that?” Tissues sat on a nearby table—probably for just this sort of occasion—so Ramsey snagged some and handed them to Sarah.
“Quinn . . . he was engaged to Cassie.” Her breath heaving, Sarah managed the words between sobs. “They were supposed to get married last year. But we . . . he and I . . . it was just so strong, y’know?” She raised swimming eyes to regard Ramsey imploringly. “We didn’t mean for it to happen. But it was like we were meant to be together. Cassie was so hurt. So . . . devastated.”
“So she broke the engagement?”
“Quinn did. We told her together. It was a pretty bad scene.” The woman’s face seemed to crumple again. “We all said some hurtful things. A couple weeks later she packed up and left town. I’ve only talked to her a few times since.” Rollins had pulled open his notebook and flipped it open.
“What’s Quinn’s last name?” Ramsey handed the whole box of tissue to the other woman.
“Sanders. He has a fitness gym in Memphis. That’s where we’re from.”
“How long ago did Cassie leave town?”
“April of last year. They were plannin’ to get married in May.”
“Has Quinn talked to Cassie since then that you know of?”
Sarah shook her head and blew her nose violently. Although her manner seemed calmer, the tears still flowed freely down her cheeks. “We thought it best for him to cut off all contact. And I tried to call her more frequently, but she didn’t often answer my calls.”
“What happened the last time the two of you spoke?” When the woman just looked at her, Ramsey expanded. “You said you hadn’t talked to her for six months. But sometime after the last conversation you had, it sounds like she quit her job and moved away. Did she say anything to let you know why?”
The tears seemed to flow faster. “I thought enough time had passed, y’know? That maybe she’d gotten over . . . everythin’. At first we had a real good talk, and it was almost like things were back to normal between us. But when I told her that Quinn and I were gettin’ married, she just hung up. And no matter how many times I called since, she wouldn’t answer.”
“Did she threaten to make trouble for the
two of you?” There was a reason they always looked at family first in homicide cases. Strangling someone took a certain amount of passion. Emotions ran deepest with those who knew the victim.
“No, she would never do anythin’ like that.” Sarah blew her nose again, regarding Ramsey with bleary eyes. “Cassie wasn’t like that. She just got real quiet and then she hung up.”
“Sarah, we’re going to do everything we can to find your sister’s killer. I know you want to do what you can to help us.” Ramsey caught the warning in Rollins’s eyes, but it was unnecessary. She knew how to extricate the information she needed without shocking the interviewees into lawyering up. Waiting for the woman’s jerky nod, she went on. “We’re going to be talking to everyone who knew your sister and asking them the same questions I’m going to ask you. We want to build a picture of her last hours.”
The other woman took a fresh tissue and wiped at her mascara, smearing it worse beneath her eyes. “But none of my friends have talked to Cassie since she left.”