Tin God; Skeleton's Key; Ashes and Bone

by Stacy Green

  “But all the fakes and the cartridge case,” Dani said. “It’s obvious that’s what Nick was working on. And what if there’s something bigger at play here?”

  Gina’s eyes narrowed, gaze flashing between the two women. Dani looked intently at her fingernails, but Jaymee didn’t break eye contact. Let the captain lay into me right now. Getting into a shouting match sounds like a blessing.

  “I think there is,” Gina finally said. “But I’m still not sure I buy the Dixies being involved. The guy in prison was arrested for meth. Now that’s something the Dixies would want a piece of. Maybe his antique thing was just a side job.”

  “But…” Cage had been quietly eating his brownie while simultaneously giving both women the grudging stink eye. “That might not matter.”

  “Explain,” Gina said.

  “If Nick finds out this guy’s behind the false antiques or knows someone who is, he won’t stop digging until he’s uncovered everything. I guarantee you that. What if his investigation led him to the Mafia? To specific members? What if that’s the something bigger at play?”

  Pain shot up Jaymee’s right arm. She’d been clenching the chair. Her knuckles popped as she flexed her fingers and tried not to sink into a full-blown panic attack.

  “That would explain the quality of the job,” Gina said. “Someone knew how to clean up the victim’s blood, even got a fair amount off the upholstery. In a wicked storm. That takes balls.”

  “Stop.” Jaymee couldn’t take any more. The fear she’d been struggling with all day was trying to devour her again. “Your victim has a name. It’s Nick. He’s been taken by some crazy, power tripping manic, and you’re sitting here mulling possibilities and talking about him like he’s a statistic.”

  “I’m sorry.” Gina’s eyes softened. “It’s just easier for us to compartmentalize.”

  “Jay, have you had any sleep?” Cage said. “You look like you’re about to keel over.”

  She shook her head. Her throat hurt too much to talk anymore. Helplessness overwhelmed her, and she dug her fingernails into the chair’s vinyl seat pad to remind herself she still had some sort of control.

  “She hasn’t eaten much either,” Dani said. “Why don’t we go back to your house? We’ve told Cage and Gina all we know.”

  “I need to look for Nick. You still have people out there, right?”

  “Yes,” Gina said. “Our assets are still limited, but they’re looking. I have to be honest with you. I don’t expect to find anything. Whoever’s taken him was skilled enough not to leave any obvious trace evidence at the scene. And it’s been nearly twenty-four hours. I want you to understand—”

  “No.” Jaymee steeled herself. “I won’t hear it. Nick is alive.”

  Cage didn’t meet her eyes. Gina nodded. “I hope so.”

  * * *

  Jaymee stared out of Dani’s depressingly tinted windows, watching the town pass by in a blur. Residents were still cleaning up; others watered their dry lawns. The storm hadn’t brought a drop of much-needed rain. Jaymee absentmindedly thought she needed to water the rosebushes.

  “So you want me to make us a late lunch?” Dani parked the truck in Magnolia’s drive.

  “Actually, no,” Jaymee said. “I promise I’ll eat later, but I don’t think I can right now. I just want to sleep. And I think I want to be alone.” She gave Dani a pleading look and hoped she hadn’t hurt her friend’s feelings.

  “Fair enough,” Dani said. “I’ve got a project for the historical foundation I need to work on. But I don’t like the idea of you staying here alone right now. How about I come back and make supper?”

  “That works.”

  Jaymee headed up the drive, heart and feet weighted down like cinder blocks. The various plants lining the house’s winding drive looked wilted, their baby blossoms dying in the dry spell. She’d have to water them later. Right now, she was going to lie down. At least she could stop her spinning thoughts from making her feel like vomiting.

  Mutt whined to go out, and Jaymee obliged him before collapsing on the couch. The living room, usually so bright with its peaceful yellow walls and the English ivy Penn had grown for years shining in the bright light of the wide windows, seemed drab and lifeless. Even the ivy sagged, as though it realized something terrible had happened.

  A beautiful, blue Greek vase sat next to the ivy. Tall, with a fancy name Jaymee couldn’t remember. During a trip to Jackson, she’d admired it in an expensive store she’d never buy anything from. Nick had surprised her with it at Christmas, hugging her while she cried silly tears.

  Their last conversation had been the cusp of an argument, and Jaymee’s shitty attitude ate at her. She’d known Nick was a workaholic going into this, and it wasn’t right of her to expect him to leave Jackson for small-town life. But they’d been making it work, most of the time.

  Her jaw ached with the need to sob. Gina’s dark, pity-filled eyes flashed through her mind, and she clenched her teeth harder.

  Nick can’t be dead. We’ve already sacrificed so much. Fate wouldn’t be this cruel.

  He would be found, and she’d get over her issues with his job. She didn’t want to live without him.

  Her phone started to ring. Joseph Stanley’s name popped on the screen, and she almost dropped the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Jaymee. Hi there.” Joseph Stanley had an odd cadence to his speech, and she could never quite place the accent. Sometimes he sounded decidedly northern, with his truncated words, but the phrases she heard him toss around were southernisms, as Cage’s dad liked to call them.

  “Mr. Stanley, how can I help you?”

  “I heard about your boyfriend missing. Bad stuff.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And I know my timing is probably lousy, but I’ve just got word my boss is heading into town, and my place really needs cleaning. Anyway, could you hop on over here and help me out? I’ll pay you double, and maybe it’ll take your mind off things.”

  Her heart jumped. Maybe she could use the time to snoop in Stanley’s house. See if she could find anything that disproved the story he’d given Gina.

  “Sure. Will you be there, or will I need to let myself in?”

  “I’ve got to run to the store in Natchez. My boss’s got a gluten allergy, and Roselea doesn’t have a Whole Foods store yet. But I’m working on them!”

  She assumed he meant the city council.

  “I hope you win that argument. And I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  11

  Jaymee drove to the southern side of Roselea, in the newer development of what she called cardboard cutouts. Most of them were nearly identical, their only unique features a different color of shutters or trim or in the rare case, flashy gray or red vinyl siding instead of the standard white or tan. The yards were well kept and about as original as the houses. It seemed like all of the residents competed for most boring landscaping: lawns cut precisely, flowerbeds terraced with brick or stone, each plant perfectly spaced out and well shaped. Apparently the homeowners association didn’t allow a blossom out of place.

  The sameness always made Jaymee feel like she’d entered the Stepford zone, where all the women were housewives, perfectly coiffed and well-mannered. Of course that wasn’t the case, but the area still made her skin crawl.

  Joseph Stanley lived in a barely finished house on the outskirts of the new addition, backing up to a field of wildflowers bordering the side of the division. In the early spring, the field consisted of newborn grass and flowers still working to bloom.

  For an outsider, Stanley was the trusting sort. Jaymee parked in the garage and punched the code he’d given when she first started cleaning for him into the keypad. The house was quiet. Chest taut with nerves, a stream of frightening memories rushed her: months ago, walking into Evaline, the uncharacteristic silence almost as terrifying as what she’d found in the bedroom.

  She took a deep breath and calmed herself. There were no dead bodies in t
his house. Still, she moved bracingly, pulse beating too fast. Joseph Stanley wasn’t much of a decorator. He lived alone, wasn’t married, and according to him, lived for the job. Last time she was here, she’d left a vase of flowers, just to give the house some kind of welcoming feel. Stanley had left the vase on top of the fireplace, but he’d let the flowers die. The poor things had dried to husks.

  Jaymee couldn’t understand the appeal of the open floor plan. Why would a person want the kitchen sink visible from the front door? Speaking of kitchen sinks, Stanley’d left his full of dishes for her. Swell. Last time he’d pulled that, he hadn’t bothered to pre-rinse.

  The digital clock on the microwave reminded her she had only an hour before he returned. If she was going to snoop, clean, and be gone before then, she needed to get moving.

  Downstairs was an easy search. The boring house didn’t have any built-ins, and the furniture was minimal, with very little space to stash a secret something. Jaymee quickly checked all the drawers in the kitchen and the one small cabinet in the dining area. The only things inside were kitchen items. She hurried upstairs, her shoes sliding on the plush, new carpet. She’d forgotten to take them off. Too late now.

  Of the two extra bedrooms, Jaymee knew he used one for an office and the other as a very sad-looking guest room. She started with the office. The metal filing cabinet was locked, and he’d taken his laptop with him. His large and modern desk, made of the laminate wood so many people seemed to love, took up half the room. She rifled through the desk drawers finding typical office stuff, several chocolate bars, and a large bag of Skittles. She’d never had guessed Skinny Stanley had a sweet tooth.

  An encyclopedia-sized book of Mississippi history lay tossed aside on the desk, Stanley’s stopping point marked with a large, white sheet of paper covered with various diagrams.

  It looked like Stanley had been reading a particularly boring section on Mississippi industry. Jaymee barely glanced at it; she was more interested in the paper. It was actually a printed topographical map of the Semple property. Hand-drawn grids were scattered over the map, and Jaymee assumed they marked areas of planned development. In the far corner was a funny looking dollar sign drawn with wisps protruding from the left side. She supposed that was the spot for the main resort, but it was a strange location. The only access on that side ran between the Ashers’ and Rileys’ properties, and it was a dirt road. Stanley and his boss evidently assumed they’d have no problem creating public access.

  Jaymee thought back to Dylan’s dark scowl as he talked about Norton getting the support of someone powerful. She had a feeling that person might be Dylan’s father, Mayor Asher. That would explain why the company planned on bulldozing their way in, and why the project had faced such minimal resistance from the city council. Until now. She had little hope Dylan would succeed, but she admired his efforts.

  None of this had anything to do with Nick. She stuck the map back inside the book and checked the last drawer. Stanley had dumped some personal items in here, including several pictures. Jaymee flipped through them. Crinkled with age, the pictures featured a much younger looking Joseph Stanley at some sort of formal event. He wore a smart looking black tuxedo, was ten pounds heavier—a nice look on him—and sported a lovely if generic-looking blond date. The print date on the back of the pictures told her they were twelve years old, but nothing indicated a specific date or a location.

  Her fingers stalled on the last picture. Stanley again, beneath a banner that read, “Congratulations Wyatt Booth,” and standing shoulder to shoulder with a handsome, middle-aged man who looked very familiar. The man was tall, his personality resonating through the photo. Stanley seemed to fade away next to him, and Jaymee noticed the people milling around the duo looked at the man with a sort of reverence that made her feel uneasy.

  Where have I seen him before?

  She couldn’t think of the answer, and she needed to get moving. She dropped the pictures back into the drawer, made sure the room appeared untouched, and went across the hall to Stanley’s bedroom. More basic items, along with an unmade bed and a couple of days’ worth of laundry on the floor next to the empty hamper. Jaymee checked the nightstand, finding only books she had no interest in, and the dresser drawers. Last was the closet. Its order surprised her given Stanley’s apparent lack of interest in using the hamper. Shoes lined up neatly at the bottom, dress shirts and slacks in one section, and then casual clothes. Extra sheets and blankets on the shelf.

  A distant popping, like popcorn in the microwave, made Jaymee freeze. She listened for the sound of Stanley’s footsteps but heard only the quiet popping noise rolling through the house. The windows were open, Jaymee remembered.

  These houses are close together. Someone’s popping popcorn.

  Christ. Suburbia had less privacy than the trailer court.

  Standing on her tiptoes, she felt around the closet shelf. At first, she touched nothing but fine dust, stirring up motes that immediately went up her nose. Then, in the corner, something round and metal, cool to the touch. Excitement pounding in her head and hand shaking, she retrieved the item.

  Her stomach plummeted to the floor. It was a Confederate belt buckle, exactly like the one in Nick’s cardboard box that Dani had said was fake.

  As she stared, a whisper of smoke drifted through the open window. She hoped it came from a barbeque and not an idiot burning brush or trash in this dry weather. That didn’t go over so well in suburbia. A trash burner could count on a visit from the police.

  The belt buckle wasn’t the only thing Stanley had stashed on his closet shelf. Jaymee found several Confederate bills and a grubby swatch of material bearing a chevron from what looked like a Confederate officer’s uniform. Everything looked properly old, but Jaymee had no way of knowing for sure.

  Another whiff of smoke breezed through the room, stronger this time, tinged with the stink of gas or maybe kerosene. So it is an idiot burning something. Hopefully, he’ll get arrested.

  Jaymee stared at the items in her hand, mind racing, the dilemma overwhelming her. She needed these items to show to Dani, but if she stole them, Cage couldn’t use them for evidence. But having the items to trace might be a lead to Nick. It couldn’t be coincidence that he’d been researching the fakes, made an appointment with Stanley—who just happened to have similar items to Nick’s—and now Nick was missing. Even if Stanley had an alibi, he probably had a partner. So Nick finds out about their business, comes down to Roselea to confront, and then gets attacked.

  It makes sense, Jaymee tried to tell herself. She wiped sweat off her forehead.

  Doubt pounded at her head. Was any of this really a motive to silence Nick?

  People have done worse for less. She’d seen that first hand.

  The smoke suddenly smelled much more acrid and heavy. Startled out of her head, Jaymee realized the smoke was actually visible in the room, drifting in like a gray ghost.

  And it wasn’t drifting from the window.

  12

  As if emerging from a paralyzing nightmare, Jaymee staggered to the bedroom door, feeling drunk with fear. She’d left it cracked open to give herself a buffer in case Stanley came home early. It felt warm to the touch, the handle hot as an oven rack. Smoke oozed around the door and straight into her lungs.

  Jaymee coughed, hard.

  The gentle popping she’d heard only a minute earlier escalated, harsh and mocking her stupidity. A hiss as strong as a hundred bull snakes followed, the sound rippling through Jaymee like an electric jolt.

  Fire. The house is on fire.

  She stuffed the belt buckle and money into her jeans pocket and slammed the bedroom door shut. As if the cheap particle wood would protect her.

  Part of her wanted to open the door, see how far the fire had spread downstairs. Maybe she could manage to weave through it and get outside.

  Why hadn’t Stanley’s smoke detectors gone off?

  Her head whipped toward the door and then to the window. The fire’
s heat already pressed against the door, making her skin sweat. Her heart sprinted. Her lungs raced to keep up, chest heaving until her ribs throbbed. Panic turned her brain to a single, deafening command: Get out!

  Smoke now flooding the room, Jaymee staggered to the open window and breathed the semi-fresh air. Outside the day was still beautiful, the cerulean blue sky a brilliant contrast with the smoke-filled terror surrounding Jaymee.

  The house was a two-story, a good forty-foot jump. She’d easily break both her legs, possibly more.

  But she wouldn’t die of smoke inhalation, with her body cooked.

  In the distance, sirens wailed. Fire Station Two that served the subdivision and outlying area was five minutes away, in normal traffic. “Help!” Her scream echoed over the copycat rooftops, sucked away with the southern breeze. “Help!”

  A dull roar came from somewhere deep inside the house, followed by the sound of wood splintering, as if the house were being ripped in two, and something heavy falling.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks as she fought with the window screen. Her blood pressure beat in her head, her breathing wild, each gasp a desperate plea for survival. The latch stuck, the flimsy material blocking her one chance at escape. She looked wildly around the room for something sharp enough to tear the screen.

  There was nothing.

  “Help me!” She screamed again. “I’m upstairs!” Rearing back, she kicked the screen with all her strength, busting a hole wide enough to get her fingers through. Frantic, sweating and choking, she tore at the screen.

  The smoke had a life of its own, wrapping around her and sucking away at her senses until her eyes stung and confusion slithered into her head.