by Lisa Jackson
“Don’t worry about me. Just take care of yourself and Martina.”
When the Delmonicos left, Rachel walked over to Dean. With her eyes cast downward, she waited until the officers said their good-byes and headed toward their squad cars, then she looked directly at him.
“How’s Martina?” Dean asked.
“Frightened to death.”
“We found footprints under the kitchen windows,” he said. “I’ve got somebody on their way here to photograph them and make casts. The prints are slightly distorted, as if the person tried to erase them but didn’t have time to completely get rid of all the prints.”
“So, we wait for your crime scene tech person and in the meantime guard the scene?”
“Yeah, around back,” Dean said. “I’ll want Hughes to check for fingerprints on the windows, too.”
Rachel and Dean spent the next twenty minutes, while they waited for crime scene investigator Phil Hughes, making several phone calls. One by one, they telephoned the members of the reunion committee. The purpose of these calls was twofold. One: to warn them to be extra careful. Two: to see if they were at home. Of course, any one of them could have been here at Martina’s and made it home by now. But they had to check, to make sure everyone was accounted for tonight.
Lindsay was with Wyatt in their hotel room. Bella answered on the fourth ring. She was home and said she was just stepping out of the shower. DeLynn didn’t answer her home phone but answered her cell phone. She was at her mother’s, picking up her twins. April didn’t answer either her home phone or her cell phone.
“Just because she’s not answering her phone doesn’t make April a suspect,” Dean said.
“No, but…I can’t stand this!” Rachel’s nerves were on edge. She had worked quite a few murder cases over the years, first in Chattanooga and then in Huntsville, but the victims had been strangers. Everything was different when the victims were people you knew. Old friends. And complicating matters even more was the fact that the most obvious suspects were also old friends.
Dean slipped his arms around Rachel and pulled her into a comforting embrace. At first she stiffened, unsure of herself and of Dean. It had been a long time since she’d leaned on someone for any kind of support or counted on someone to be there for her. When he rubbed his big hand over her back and nuzzled the top of her head with his chin, she relaxed into him. Loving the way he held her so protectively, she eased her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest.
And that’s the way Phil Hughes found them. Embracing in the dark.
Phil cleared his throat.
Rachel started to jerk away from Dean, but he draped his arm around her shoulders as he turned her to face Phil. The crime scene tech carried quite a bit of equipment, which he set down on the driveway.
“The footprints are under the kitchen windows,” Dean said. “Need help setting up your camera?”
“Nah, I’m fine,” Phil replied, a sheepish grin on his face.
“Then get to it,” Dean told him. “We don’t want to be here all night.”
“Got something better planned?” Phil winked at Dean.
“Get your dirty mind out of the gutter,” Dean said.
Phil chuckled as he headed toward the kitchen windows.
“Check the window frames for prints,” Dean called to Phil.
“Will do.”
Being careful not to disturb the shoe tracks, Phil shined his flashlight on the double windows. He dusted both windows, including the glass panes. When his brush didn’t remove enough powder, Phil blew off the excess and studied the dusted surfaces.
“I don’t see anything. Either our guy was wearing gloves or he didn’t touch the windows.”
Finished with the first chore, Phil then placed the frame his camera rested on above the shoeprints, the frame pointing directly down. The crime scene tech used this type of camera because it showed the ratio of the negative to the original. This meant the original footprints could be reproduced in their precise size.
When Phil finished photographing the tracks, he set about making moulages by spraying the ground under the window with a fixative.
“I’ll need some water,” Phil said. “To mix the plaster. Once that’s done, you two can go on. Damp as it is tonight, it could take an hour or two for the plaster to set.”
“What’s your guess as to shoe size and type of shoe?” Rachel asked.
“Looks like an athletic shoe of some kind. Maybe a size eight or nine. Small for a man. I’d say there’s a good chance these are a woman’s footprints.”
She had waited until after midnight before she drove to St. Elizabeth’s, the lure to return here too powerful for her to deny. But it wasn’t all that great a risk, was it? Not when no one had any idea that she had created a shrine to the past here at the old school. She always parked behind the building where no one would see her car. Being careful and ever vigilant, she never took her own safety for granted.
She made her way down into the basement. Using a high-beam flashlight with a stand attachment, she illuminated the row of lockers. If things had gone as she’d planned this evening, she would have a souvenir from Martina to place in her locker. But the woman was smarter than she’d given her credit for being.
When she had telephoned her tonight, as she stood in the shadows of Martina’s backyard, she had planned on luring Martina outside so that she could kill her.
Are you upset that you’ve blown your diet by eating candy? You should have answered on the first ring. That way, you wouldn’t have spilled your candy all over the floor.
She had been so sure that after she let Martina know she could see her, that she was watching her, Martina would open the back door and search for her. But no, instead of coming outside looking for her caller, Martina had slumped down on the floor and refused to answer the phone again, after she apparently had called Rachel.
You were too smart for me this time. But next time…
The reunion was now less than a week away. It would be only days until they all united at St. Elizabeth’s. The senior classes from St. Lizzy’s, Western Catholic, and Washington High. All the boys and girls now approaching middle age. Twenty years and a lifetime of experience lay between those teenagers and the men and women they were now.
But she would bet her life that none of them had forgotten Jake Marcott or the night he had died.
You’re unforgettable, Jake.
But you knew that, didn’t you?
I certainly haven’t forgotten you. I remember how much I loved you and how much I hated you. And I’ll never forgive you for making me kill my baby.
Our baby.
If you’d taken me to a real doctor for the abortion, I wouldn’t be sterile. You took everything from me. Everything.
Now I’m going to take everything away from them. Those smug girls who thought they were better than me. Those lucky women who found men to love them and had babies and have lived wonderful lives.
Rachel and Dean sat inside his T-bird, the windows rolled down and the top back, but before he got a chance to start the engine, Rachel said, “Kris wears a size seven shoe, or at least she used to. And I believe Lindsay wears a six and a half.”
“I thought you had ruled them out completely as suspects.”
“I have. I was just thinking out loud, running over shoe sizes in my mind.” She turned in the leather seat, her safety belt unsnapped. “I wear a six.”
“Cinderella feet.”
“What?” She eyed him quizzically.
“Tiny feet. Glass slipper,” he said by way of explanation.
“Oh.” Then she charged ahead, still on the subject of shoe size. “I have no idea what size shoes the others wear. We can rule out Martina. She couldn’t fake being that terrified. So that leaves DeLynn, April, and Bella.” Looking directly at Dean, she asked, “Have you ever paid any attention to their feet?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“DeLynn is tall and slender. I’
d think she’d wear at least an eight. And I seem to recall that April has rather large feet. Maybe a size nine. I have no idea about Bella.”
“Why don’t we wait until Phil has a definite size for us before we play this guessing game,” Dean said. “Once we know a definite size, we can investigate.”
“What do you think they’d do if we asked to see in their closets to look at their shoes?”
Dean reached across the console and grasped Rachel’s shoulder. “Let it rest for tonight. Phil will call us in the morning. In the meantime, we both need some R&R after the day we’ve had. I’ll take you home—”
“I don’t want to go home.” The words flew out of her mouth before she gave the implication any thought. “I—I’m not offering or asking for anything more than just not to be alone. Understand?”
He nodded. “Buckle up.”
He fastened his seat belt. She did the same. Then he started the engine and zoomed the T-bird out into the nighttime traffic. The wind whipped around them, warm and balmy. When he kicked the sports car into high gear, all of Rachel’s senses came into play: The feel of the evening breeze. The sound of the T-bird’s motor and the hum of traffic. The mixed and mingled scents of the big city. The blurred lights and buildings as they zipped by at high speed. The taste of desire and fear in her mouth.
Neither of them spoke on the drive from Martina’s house to Dean’s apartment. Screeching into his designated slot, he parked the Thunderbird in an underground garage. After bringing up the windows and top, he got out, rounded the hood, and opened the door for her. She looked up at him and smiled. He held out his hand.
She put her hand in his and climbed out of his car. “Nothing like death to make you need to prove just how alive you are,” she said.
“Is that what you think this is all about?” He raked the back of his hand over her cheek.
She sucked in her breath. “Maybe, at least in part.”
“And the other part would be?” He took her hand and led her away from the locked car and toward the elevator.
“Needing sex,” she admitted.
He punched the Up arrow button and the elevator doors swung open. Once inside, he hit the Six button, the doors closed, and the elevator began its ascent.
“Nothing personal about it?” he asked, waving his hand between them. “You and me or you and anybody, as long as—”
She put her hand over his mouth. “It’s not like that and you know it.”
They gazed at each other, the connection between them sizzling. She eased her hand away from his mouth.
“I don’t understand you, Rachel. I thought you weren’t into meaningless one-night stands.”
“You’re the one who said we shouldn’t mistake need and want for love,” she told him. “You’re the one who didn’t want to get involved.”
The elevator stopped and then opened on the sixth floor. Without saying a word, Dean waited for her to exit; then he got out, took her hand again, and silently led her to his apartment door.
He took his key ring from his pocket, unlocked the door, and reached around her to flip on the overhead light in the small entry hall. She felt him behind her, his chest to her back, his breath warm on her neck.
“Come into my parlor.”
Said the spider to the fly. Shivering, she hesitated for a millisecond, then when he nudged her into action, she entered his bachelor flat. Nothing fancy. White walls. Wooden floors. Sturdy, masculine furniture. Not overly expensive. Not cheap.
“Come on in and make yourself at home,” he said. “Want something to drink?”
She shook her head.
“So how do we play this?” he asked. “Up-front and honest? Or subtle and coy?”
“I’m not good at playing games.”
“Honey, you sure as hell could have fooled me. I think you’ve been playing a game with me for weeks now.”
“No, I haven’t. Really. I—I—” She turned and walked toward the door. “This was a mistake, wasn’t it? I thought you wanted me, maybe even needed me tonight. I guess you should just take me home.”
Before she knew what was happening, Dean came up behind her, whirled her around, and shoved her up against the wall. He lowered his head and brought his mouth down on hers, taking her in an all-consuming, conquering kiss that both startled and excited her. With his big, hard body pressing against her, she felt his arousal and knew without a doubt that he wanted her.
And she wanted him. God, how she wanted him!
Rachel pushed against his chest until he ended the kiss. They stared at each other, their lips parted, their breathing ragged.
“We don’t have to talk,” she said breathlessly. “We don’t need to analyze this.”
“No, honey, we don’t.”
He swept her up into his arms, kicked his half-closed bedroom door wide open, and carried her to his unmade bed. They tore at each other’s clothes until within minutes they were both naked. Shoes, belts, his slacks, her blouse, and various other items lay scattered on the floor and foot of the bed.
Dean stared at her, visually eating her up as if she were his favorite food. She looked right back at him, appreciating his lean, hard body.
“I knew you’d be perfect,” Dean said as he cupped each of her breasts. “I’ve wanted to see these beauties since I was fourteen.”
She smiled. “Better late than never.”
He released her abruptly. “Wait right here. I’ve got a box of condoms in the bathroom.”
“Do you think we’ll need a whole box?” she asked teasingly.
“Honey, the way I feel about you, we may need more than one box.”
Hours later, as dawn light seeped through his apartment windows, Dean rested on one elbow and stared at the woman asleep beside him. Rachel. His Rachel.
Had she meant it when she’d told him that she loved him? Or had she spoken the words in the heat of the moment? Three times! He hadn’t thought he still had it in him to go three times, not at the ripe old age of thirty-eight. But by God, he had. And he was hard again. Wanted her again.
He kissed her navel. She stirred. He kissed the musky triangle of blond curls between her thighs. Her eyelids popped open.
“Liked that, did you?” he teased.
She ruffled his hair. “I like everything you do to me. Everything.”
“Are you too sore for a little more everything?” he asked as he came up and over her, straddling her hips.
“You know, I could get used to being the object of your desire.”
“Permanently?” he asked, but kept his tone light.
She lifted her arms up and around his neck, drawing him down to her. She kissed him. He rubbed his sex against hers. She sighed into his open mouth.
“What would permanently entail?” she inquired.
Should he tell her that he’d meant it when he had repeatedly told her that he loved her and find out if she really did love him? Should he risk her rejection and ask her to marry him?
“I was thinking—after a proper courtship—we might get engaged and then eventually married and in a year or two after that have a couple of kids and—”
“Why wait?” She spread her legs and lifted her hips, inviting him in, as she pressed her lips against his neck. “I don’t need a proper courtship. A few more dates and then you can buy me a traditional diamond ring.”
“A diamond ring, huh? How big?” He thrust deeply inside her.
She gasped with pleasure. “Really big,” she sighed.
He laughed. “I was talking about the ring.”
Smiling, she said, “So was I, you arrogant, conceited—”
She gasped when he retreated and thrust into her again as he lifted her buttocks in his hands and claimed her completely.
“Oh, Dean…!”
An hour later, Dean’s alarm went off, waking both of them. Just as he leaned over and kissed her, his phone rang.
“Who the hell?”
“You’d better get it,” she said. “It could b
e Phil Hughes or even Uncle Charlie.”
Dean picked up the phone on his nightstand, not bothering to check the caller ID. “Hello.”
“Lieutenant McMichaels?”
A woman’s voice. Dean sat up in bed. “Yeah, this is he.”
“I’m Marilyn Dewey. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No. No, ma’am, you didn’t.”
“My son has convinced me that I should talk to you.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’d certainly appreciate it if you’d let me drive up to Salem and ask you a few questions about the old Cupid Killer case.”
“I—I’m in the middle of moving from my house into a condo near my elder son and everything is a mess here.”
He heard reluctance in her voice. And something else. Trepidation?
“Mrs. Dewey, you could come here to Portland, if you prefer. Your son could come with you.”
Rachel punched Dean in the ribs and mouthed the name Marilyn Dewey.
“No, no, I’d rather not,” Mrs. Dewey said. “You come here. Next week.”
“Why wait?”
“Why hurry? Jake Marcott was killed twenty years ago.”
“The Portland P.D. believes there is a possibility that Jake’s killer has resurfaced and recently killed three of Jake’s old friends, three girls Jake once knew quite well.”
“That’s not possible,” Marilyn said.
“What do you mean?”
“Jake Marcott’s killer is dead.”
Chapter 32
The Dewey home, in a suburb of Salem, was in an older neighborhood with well-kept lawns and neat houses, most built in the sixties. A robust, auburn-haired Pat Dewey Jr. met Rachel and Dean at the door and invited them into his mother’s living room.
“Mom,” he said to the plump, rosy-cheeked lady with sad brown eyes and gray-streaked auburn hair, “Lieutenant McMichaels and Sergeant Alsace are here.”
Marilyn Dewey looked up at them from her wheelchair and motioned to the nearby plaid sofa. “Please, have a seat.” She glanced around at the numerous stacked boxes that littered the room. “And excuse this mess. You know I’m in the middle of moving.”