by Paula Graves
She stopped in front of him, pocketing her truck keys. “From whom?”
“Your friend Kelly. Apparently she has a matchmaking streak.” He gave her a mock stern look. “Not very discriminating in her choice of suitors for you, though. You should talk to her about that.”
His tone was light enough, but a darker emotion roiled beneath his words. He hadn’t come here for a reason as frivolous as courtship.
“What do you want?”
“The Ridge County Medical Examiner’s office is as leaky as an old rowboat,” he said, rising to let her go up the steps. He followed her to the door, his footsteps making the old boards creak. “The girl was strangled. And she was pregnant.”
She stopped at the locked front door and turned to look at him. “The M.E.’s office isn’t that leaky.”
“My boss knows people.”
Right, she thought. The Gates. When she had a chance to concentrate on something besides solving Renee Lindsey’s murder, she should take a harder look at the new P.I. agency in town. She had a feeling it wasn’t quite as ordinary an operation as the people in town seemed to think.
“I can neither confirm nor deny any of that.” She turned her back on him as she unlocked the dead bolt, hoping he’d take her words and posture for the dismissal she intended.
He didn’t. His hand covered hers as she reached for the doorknob. “Know what I’m wondering?”
She turned to look at him, her heart thudding heavily in her chest. “What are you wondering?”
“I’m wondering whether, once the M.E.’s office gets the DNA results on Ariel Burke’s unborn child, they discover Ariel’s baby and Renee’s baby had the same daddy.”
Chapter Seven
Cain could see in Sara’s expression that the same thought had already occurred to her. How could it not? Two teenage girls, both pregnant, murdered by strangulation at Crybaby Falls? Sure, there were eighteen years between the murders, but Purgatory wasn’t like a big city where murders happened every day.
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Sara warned, as if reading his mind. She opened the door and gave a brief, forward nod of her head. He took that as an invitation and followed her into the cabin.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from the old place, given the time-worn state of its weathered exterior, but inside, the cabin offered a rustic, welcoming warmth. Colorful woven rugs hung like art softened the exposed log walls. The sofa was old, with a patina of use, but when Sara waved him to it, the springs were still good and the cushions just the right balance between soft and firm.
“The last thing you need to do is stick your nose into this case,” Sara said without preamble.
“It’s what I’m paid to do.”
“A lot of cops never stopped thinking you got away with murder eighteen years ago,” Sara reminded him as she settled in an overstuffed armchair across from the sofa. She tucked her legs up under her, displaying a distracting level of limberness that drew his gaze to the toned curve of her thighs so temptingly displayed by her snug jeans.
He dragged his gaze back up to meet hers. “Your father, you mean.”
“He wasn’t the only one.”
“Too bad, because I had nothing to do with Renee’s murder.”
“Your alibi was shaky.”
What was this, an interrogation? Did she think he was guilty of killing Renee, too? “What did you do, talk your daddy into letting you look at his files on the case?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I spent the morning reading his notes on the case.” Her lips tightened into a thin line of annoyance at his tone.
Good, he thought. Don’t want to be pissed off all by my lonesome. “I’d have thought you of all people would have the details memorized, since she was family.”
“I was fourteen when she died. My dad didn’t exactly bring his work home to us. He wanted to keep us separate from that world.”
“But you went and became a cop, anyway.”
“Yeah.” She plucked at the hem of her T-shirt, the movement stretching the cotton fabric over her firm, round breasts. He averted his gaze from the tempting sight, waiting for her to continue.
He heard her soft sigh. “Before this morning, most of what I knew about the case came from Donnie. But he wasn’t capable of being objective about his sister’s murder.”
“Did he think I was the killer?”
She looked surprised by the question. “No. He thought his parents were grasping at straws trying to get the police to keep after you. Renee had only good things to say about you. She told him people didn’t know who you really were, how nice you could be.”
Tears pricked his eyes, catching him off guard. He looked down at his hands and cleared his throat. “I was home with my father the day she died.”
“You didn’t mention your father when you talked to the deputies.”
“He’d been drunk. He wouldn’t have remembered.” And even if he had, he would probably have lied to the police just to make Cain suffer. The old man would’ve gotten a kick out of seeing him stuck in jail for as long as it took the cops to sort things out.
If they managed to sort it out at all.
“You didn’t want to try explaining something like that to the cops?”
“If they’d questioned him, he’d have made me pay, one way or another.”
The skin around her eyes contracted. Not quite a full flinch, but enough. “I see.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Feel sorry for me. I chose to stick around here with him. I could have left almost any time I wanted.”
“So why did you stick around?”
He changed the subject. “Are the cops questioning anyone else about Ariel Burke’s pregnancy?”
“Your leaky old rowboat didn’t spill that information?”
“Just wondering who’ll get railroaded this time. She have a boyfriend?”
Sara didn’t answer, but he was beginning to understand what her expressions and physical tics meant. Her eyes narrowed slightly. That meant he was right. Ariel Burke’s boyfriends—current and ex—would be getting a visit from the Ridge County Sheriff’s Department.
“You said Renee had a secret boyfriend.” Sara leaned forward. “And she never told you anything about him? Never hinted who it might be? Clearly she considered you a friend. Donnie said Renee told him you were one of the few people she felt she could trust.”
The burning sensation returned to his eyes. He made a show of rubbing his forehead to hide his reaction to her words.
“You didn’t know that, did you?” she asked gently.
Apparently she was learning to read him, too. “I knew she trusted me, or she wouldn’t have bothered with me at all. Renee showed you how she felt by the things she did, not the things she said.”
“So the father of her baby might not have realized how much she cared for him. She might never have told him.”
He looked up sharply. “She slept with him. If he knew anything about her at all, he’d have known exactly how much she loved him. She wasn’t the kind of girl who did something like that without it meaning everything.”
“So you and she never...”
“No. We never.” He managed a rueful smile. “Not from my lack of trying. But she didn’t love me. Not like that. She told me I didn’t love her, either. Not the way I would love the right person someday.”
“She was a romantic.”
“Yeah, she was.”
“Do you know when she met the guy she loved enough to sleep with?”
“I think she was already in love with him before she and I ever became friends.” He’d forgotten that fact, he realized. Mostly because she’d never come right out and said so, but it hadn’t taken long to realize she was nursing a secret passion for someone.
He’d just never learned who that someone was.
“I kept asking her, if she and Mr. Right were so meant for each other, why couldn’t she tell me who he was? She’d just give me this serio
us look and tell me love was complicated and I’d understand someday.” He looked up suddenly at Sara, realizing how much he’d revealed to her with very little effort on her part. “You’re good, Detective Lindsey. Very good.”
Her lips curved slightly. “It helps that you’re not my prime suspect.”
“Do you have a prime suspect?” he asked, curious.
“Not for Renee’s murder.”
“What about for Ariel’s? A boyfriend, maybe?”
“I need evidence before I start naming suspects.”
“I heard she was a cheerleader.”
“That’s right.” Sara nodded.
“Renee wasn’t anything like that. She wasn’t one of the popular girls. Too quiet for that.”
“I remember.”
“She had long brown hair. What about Ariel?”
“Blond and cut short for cheerleading.”
He looked at her through narrowed eyes. “So, if you were a profiler looking at the two victims, you wouldn’t see much in common.”
“Except they were pregnant and killed by ligature strangulation at Crybaby Falls.”
“Copycat?”
She gave him a considering look. “Maybe. Though a real copycat might have done his killing three days ago on the actual anniversary. To make a statement, I mean.”
He rubbed his jaw, realizing at the scrape of his beard against his palm that he hadn’t shaved that morning. Falling back into old habits, he thought with an inward grimace. He needed a haircut, too. And he’d been throwing on any old pair of jeans in the morning since he’d been assigned this case, grabbing any ratty T-shirt and ignoring the scuffs on his boots rather than taking care to present a neat and polished outward appearance the way the Army had taught him to do.
Falling back into old habits he’d thought he’d put behind him.
“What are you thinking?” she asked curiously.
He shot her a sheepish grin. “Believe it or not, I was thinking that since I came back here to Purgatory, I’ve been letting myself go. Forgetting to shave, not spit-shining my boots, waiting too long to do the laundry—”
To his surprise, she laughed. “Reverting to your sloppy high-school self, you mean?”
He liked her laugh, the low, throaty sound sending a pleasant rippling sensation down his spine. He smiled back at her. “I guess maybe so. Don’t want to let it go too far, though.”
“I had trouble leaving my parents’ house to come back here this afternoon because my mama cooks for me every time I go there.” She shot him a sheepish look. “My old room still looks the same, even. I could move right back in like nothing has changed.”
“But everything’s changed.”
“Not all for the worse,” she said after a brief silence.
“No, not all,” he agreed.
She dropped her feet to the floor. “I’m going to make coffee. Want some?”
“Sure. I take it black.”
She slanted a smiling look at him. “So do I.”
They settled into a surprisingly comfortable silence while Sara brewed the coffee in the adjacent kitchen. The coffeemaker looked ancient, apparently a fixture that had come with her inherited cabin. But the strong, hot brew she delivered into his hands a few minutes later left nothing to be desired. “Good coffee.”
“I was surprised myself,” she said with a glint of humor as she sat across from him again, cradling her mug between her hands. “I guess new isn’t always improved.”
“You think I should give up this case and let the cops handle it.”
She looked at him over the top of her cup, her dark eyes hard to read. “As much for your own sake as for the good of the investigation.”
“I’m not giving up. I can’t.”
She lowered the cup, cradling it in her palms on her lap. “I didn’t think you would.”
“So why don’t we work together instead of against each other?”
Her brow furrowed. “Together?”
Clearly not an idea she cared for, he realized with a flicker of dismay. He supposed it was one thing to let him into her house and give him a cup of coffee, but another thing altogether to trust him to have her back in an investigation.
Especially the investigation of a murder he was once suspected of committing.
“Never mind,” he said as the silence stretched between them. He set his coffee cup on the low table between them. “Thank you for the coffee. I’ll be on my way.”
She rose with him, following him to the door. When he turned to look at her, she was frowning at him. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
He almost laughed. “Don’t worry yourself. My feelings are just fine.” He gave a nod and headed out to his truck, a grin spreading over his face at the thought of her concern.
Imagine if she knew some of the things he’d endured growing up.
* * *
SARA’S CELL PHONE rang five minutes after Cain drove away. The number was a local one, not familiar. Not Cain’s, as she’d hoped, given how lousy she was feeling about the way he’d left.
“Sara? This is Becky Allen. You remember, Jim Allen’s wife? We talked at the party the other day.”
“Of course,” Sara replied, wondering how the coach’s wife had gotten her cell phone number.
Becky’s next words answered that question. “You mother was nice enough to give me your number. I just wanted to check in with you after what happened at the party the other night. That terrible news just—well, I was just thinking it was so much like what happened to Donnie’s sister all those years ago, and hitting so soon after the anniversary of Donnie’s death...” Becky trailed off to a soft sigh, as if she couldn’t figure out how to say what she wanted to convey.
Torn between irritation at the reminder of all she’d lost and guilt at feeling irritated by honest attempts to be thoughtful, she pasted a smile on her face, though no one was there to see. “I’m fine, Becky, thanks. You’re sweet to worry about me, but it’s the Burkes who can probably use everyone’s concern these days.”
“It’s just so horrifying. I’m to the point I don’t even want my own child to go to Purgatory High now.”
“You can’t possibly have any kids in high school yet,” Sara protested, thinking of how young the coach’s wife had looked at the party.
“I do. Jeff is already a senior.”
“Wow. Where’s the time gone?”
“Beats me,” Becky said with a rueful laugh. “Listen, I’ve got to get back to work, but if you’re going to stick around town for long, you should come have dinner with Jim and me. Jim thought so much of Donnie, and I know he’d want to have you over before you head out of town. How long are you staying?”
“Awhile, at least,” she answered carefully, thrown by the invitation. While Donnie had been one of Jim Allen’s star players on the Purgatory High School baseball team, teachers and students hadn’t made a habit of socializing. It wasn’t as if they were old friends looking to catch up.
Then again, she hadn’t been living in Purgatory since she was eighteen years old, and it was a pretty small town. Both Becky and Jim had been Purgatory students themselves, several years ahead of her and Donnie. Class president, homecoming queen, Miss Purgatory High—all those milestones that constituted royalty in a small town. Jim had been the baseball star, the good-looking kid who’d played a couple of years in triple-A before giving up the dream of a professional career and coming back to marry his high-school sweetheart.
No wonder they both kept themselves looking good. They had a reputation to live up to. Royalty didn’t get to let themselves go.
“I’ll get with Jim and we’ll make a date,” Becky said brightly. “Talk to you soon.”
Bemused, Sara hung up the phone and turned to survey the cabin, thinking about Becky’s question. How long was she planning to stick around Purgatory?
* * *
CAIN’S GRANDMOTHER’S cabin was only minutes away by truck, a vivid reminder of how small Purgatory, Tennes
see, was compared to Atlanta. He could get everywhere in Ridge County faster than he could have driven from his apartment to the construction company where he’d worked. And many places on foot, too, for that matter. Sara’s recently inherited cabin, for instance, was just a short hike over the hill from where his Airstream was parked on Mulberry Rise.
He wondered what she was doing right now.
When he pulled up beside the Airstream, he saw his grandmother’s old station wagon was gone. A glance at his watch suggested why—it was nearly five on a Sunday, which meant she and the girls had gone to church for the evening services. For a woman some of the more superstitious folks in these parts considered a white witch, his grandmother had always been strict about her church attendance, and if he’d been home when she set out, she might have given him a stern talking-to about his own backsliding ways.
He smiled at the thought as he climbed the stairs to his trailer, but his smile faded when he spotted a plain white envelope tucked into the space between the door and the frame.
As he started to reach for it, his recent training kicked in, and he withdrew his hand, giving the envelope a quick once-over. Digging in his jacket pocket, he pulled out his multiblade knife, withdrew the small set of tweezers tucked into the handle and clamped the envelope between the two small tongs, tugging it free of the door.
There was no writing on either side of the envelope, and the flap hadn’t been sealed shut. Using the hem of his T-shirt to hold the envelope, he pulled up the envelope flap with the tweezers and took a look inside.
A piece of plain paper sat tucked inside the envelope. Cain pried it out with the tweezers and read the three typewritten lines.
Look in your grandmother’s woodbin. Imagine what might have happened if I’d called the police.
Alarmed, Cain slid the note back into the envelope and carried it with him down the steps and around his grandmother’s cabin. Near the river-stone chimney sat his grandmother’s woodbin, where she and the girls stored their firewood. He used his T-shirt to lift the lid of the bin and looked inside.
At first, he saw only pieces of chopped wood stacked neatly inside. But a closer look revealed the edge of a plastic bag peeking out from between a couple of the logs. He reached down and moved aside the top piece of wood, staring in mounting dismay at what lay beneath.