When Secrets Kill

by Zoe Carter

  He sat for another half hour, letting the supportive messages soothe him. Finally he went back to the house and changed into a T-shirt and jeans, dumping the suit in the trash. Lauren and CJ were sitting at the table, the basket of food Lauren had brought over untouched. She’d made a pot of coffee and they both had mugs in front of them. Trevor poured himself a cup and sat down, barely able to think, let alone talk.

  “I did that with the dress I wore to my mother’s funeral,” Lauren said, upping her chin at the garbage can. “Well, I buried it in the backyard.”

  CJ bit his lip. “These are my only pants that aren’t jeans. I’m gonna have to keep them.”

  The kid was so damned earnest that Trevor actually smiled. “I appreciate that you were both there.”

  “Of course,” Lauren said, putting her hand on his. She quickly snatched it away and picked up her mug.

  Trevor took a sip of his own coffee. Focus. “Let’s square away CJ’s alibi. It’s the only way the cops will keep investigating who killed Tammy.”

  “We can wait till tomorrow,” Lauren said. “Today can be about Tammy.”

  “I need to do something. If we’re going to pinpoint when Tammy was killed, we need to go door to door around town and ask if anyone remembers when they last saw her. Someone has to remember her. You did, Lauren. The blond hair stood out.”

  CJ grimaced. “That would only do me good if it’s after June 7. The night Tammy blew me off at Sarah’s party I got really upset and took off. I drove out to Hillsboro, a nothing town about six hours from here. I stayed in a cheap motel for three days and used my credit card for everything, even the pack of gum I bought at the convenience store across the street. If someone is sure they saw Tammy after the 7, maybe we can get proof from the motel that I was far away then.”

  Trevor nodded. “If I have to go to every shop on Main Street and get in everyone’s face, fine.”

  “Count me in,” Lauren said.

  Charlie’s ears perked up from his bed by the table, and he let out a short bark just as a pickup truck came down. Good. Mack Girge was here. He watched the man park by Trevor’s car and step out. Rugged-looking, in his early thirties, at least six foot three and very muscular. No one would mess with him. Or CJ while he was around.

  “That’s Mack Girge,” Trevor said, gesturing out the window. “A neighbor suggested him for making recommendations for the Double G—buying equipment, utilizing the pastures and purchasing cattle and other livestock. He’s a former marine who used to have his own ranch. I want you to work with him today, CJ, and soak up what he says. He’ll be calling me later with his report on the place.”

  “Got it,” CJ said as they headed out to meet the guy.

  After introductions and a short tour of the ranch, CJ and Mack went into the barn as Trevor and Lauren got into the truck to head into town.

  “Did you hire him as CJ’s bodyguard while you’re gone from the ranch or is he really making recommendations?” Lauren asked.

  “Both,” Trevor said.

  Lauren squeezed his hand.

  * * *

  On the way into town, Lauren told Trevor about seeing the in memoriam post for June Gissler and that she was meeting her old best friend tomorrow morning.

  “I’ll trail you. Just in case,” he said.

  “So we’re back to working together?” she asked.

  “Looks like I have no choice.”

  “You don’t.” She appreciated the smile he shot her. Those smiles were few and far between and, man, did his entire face change.

  “Besides, we’re working together right now to try to pinpoint when Tammy was last seen alive,” Trevor said. “Might as well start on one end of Main Street and work our way down, and then go back up the other. Someone will remember seeing Tammy.”

  With photos that CJ sent via text of Tammy with her dyed blond hair, Lauren and Trevor started in Sunnyside Coffee and went to six shops only to hear, “Sorry, no. I don’t recognize her.” Finally, a stop in the library was a success. The librarian, wearing a pin that said Senior Reference Librarian L. Pologgio, who’d given Lauren the judgmental stare down a few days ago, did remember her. Apparently, Tammy had come into the library often. The librarian hadn’t connected the news of the young woman found murdered in the woods with the girl who’d come in looking for memoirs by veterinarians, and, no, she didn’t read the Townsend Report. Too much bad news hurt her stomach, she told them.

  “Do you remember the last time you saw Tammy?” Trevor asked. “The date?”

  “Actually I do, because it was my anniversary,” the librarian said, stacking a pile of books beside her. “She was taking out books on college prep and veterinarians, and I mentioned that my husband used to dream of being a vet but became a salesman instead, and that it was our thirty-second anniversary.”

  “What day was that?” Lauren asked.

  “June 8.”

  “Are you absolutely sure it was the girl in this picture?” Trevor held up his phone for the woman to take another look.

  The librarian nodded. “Oh yes. All that blond hair. And I complimented her on that ring,” she added, pointing at Tammy’s hand. And the ring Trevor had bought her.

  Finally. Tammy had been alive on June 8.

  “Oh, Lauren?” the librarian called as they were about to walk out.

  Lauren turned back.

  “I’m sorry about all that terrible business you went through,” the librarian said, clutching a book to her chest. “When you were locked up for the murder. That must have been awful.”

  Lauren’s eyes widened. “It was. And thank you.”

  Trevor held the door open for Lauren and they stepped out in the blinding sunshine.

  “Huh,” Lauren said. “All this time, since I got out of jail, I thought the assholes of this town were staring and whispering and judging. But maybe some of them felt sorry for me. I can understand that. I felt sorry for me.”

  Trevor nodded. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys. They reveal themselves eventually, though.”

  I owe you one, L. Pologgio. Not only had she given Lauren back something vital, but she’d noticed Tammy.

  “Okay, so CJ left for Hillsboro on the seventh,” Trevor said. “Tammy was seen alive on the eighth. I’m sure the cops will say he could have driven back to Thornwood Heights and killed Tammy and then drove back.”

  “Probably. But if CJ has receipts from the motel or getting gas or buying something with a credit card, we could make the timing impossible. Then the cops will have to rule him out as a suspect and start looking for her killer.”

  “The eighth was the first day I called the police after my mother said she hadn’t been home in three days. If only I’d flown home that day and found her, she might be alive.”

  “You can’t do that to yourself,” Lauren said.

  But he couldn’t ignore the thought. If only. If, if, if.

  By the time they’d gone into every shop on the other side of Main Street, only one other person had recognized Tammy, a hairstylist in the Hair & Now salon who’d caught a glimpse of her walking and thought she needed corrective color, that the tone was a little too brassy. Same day.

  The coroner’s report determined her to be in the woods for a few days before she was found. It was possible that the eighth was the date of her death.

  While Lauren went to Sunnyside Coffee to get them iced coffees, Trevor crossed the street to a narrow alley between the pharmacy and the bakery to call Paretti and inform him what they’d learned. Paretti hesitated for a telltale moment, then said he’d check into CJ’s receipts in Hillsboro and let him know what he found out. Trevor had a hunch that Paretti was okay enough and would check into those receipts—and that he’d not bother telling Lewton, who’d likely discourage him from wasting his time,
that he was doing so.

  Four hours later, Paretti called back while Trevor was at the ranch, going over the written report Mack Girge had emailed about his recommendations for the Double G. According to Paretti, CJ was still a viable suspect, even though gas and food receipts had him six hours away on the seventh of June.

  “We can’t rule him out,” Paretti said. “Unfortunately, we have no other viable suspects. Perhaps it’s unlikely that CJ Spinner is the killer. He has no rap sheet and people we spoke with say that he was not a drug user. Given the cocaine found by Tammy’s body, we do believe she was killed in a drug deal and that her killer has likely left town.”

  Tammy didn’t use drugs, he wanted to scream. Breathe. Control. “So case closed,” he muttered. “That’s what you’re saying? You’re going to let an eighteen-year-old girl’s killer get away with it?”

  “The case isn’t closed, Mr. Gallagher. However, we don’t have any leads. I did go through the Catch of the Day reservations and receipts to see if anyone would jump out in terms of being the rich older stalker that friend of Tammy’s had mentioned. But unfortunately, as you know, no one did.”

  He forced himself to thank the rookie for trying, then hung up, ready to put his fist through the wall. The cops needed to be focusing on the rich stalker—that was the only lead they had. But Paretti was right—he and Lauren had tried and had gotten nowhere.

  Whoever had killed Lauren was damned slick and knew what he was doing.

  Trevor had to be slicker and smarter. And he had the night in front of him to come up with a way to suss out this guy.

  * * *

  At eight thirty the next morning, Lauren sat at a round table for two at Sunnyside Coffee, Trevor at the table beside her, earbuds in, ostensibly listening to music and reading the Gazette. Lauren glanced around. There was no sign of Mackenzie Wattman yet. She pulled up the photo on her phone from Mackenzie’s Facebook page. Mackenzie was thirty-eight, with a dark brown bob with a fringe of bangs and blue eyes. She wore a letter necklace, an M dangling from a gold chain.

  Last night, Lauren had done a little more research into June Gissler. She’d also been from the trailer park and had a history of running away and truancy. The few photos Lauren had been able to find were school pictures. June Gissler had been a pretty dark-eyed, dark-haired teenager who wore bright red lipstick.

  What happened to you? Lauren wondered. Did you run away, determined never to step foot in Thornwood Heights again?

  Or is that your skeleton in the boathouse? she wondered grimly.

  Every time the door to Sunnyside Coffee opened, Lauren’s head shot up from her iced mocha and her phone, but it was never Mackenzie. The woman was ten minutes late.

  Fifteen.

  Twenty.

  Twenty-five. Thirty.

  Just as Lauren was about to text Mackenzie, her cell phone pinged with a text—from Mackenzie’s number.

  Sorry, can’t make it after all. Please don’t bother me again.

  What? What the hell?

  Lauren texted back. Why? What happened?

  No response.

  She slid over to Trevor’s table and held up her phone so he could read the texts. “What could have happened between yesterday and now?” she whispered. “Why wouldn’t Mackenzie want to talk to me about what her friend had been like?”

  “She sounds scared,” Trevor whispered back. “From the ‘don’t bother me again,’ it sounds like someone spooked her off from talking to you.”

  Lauren glanced around, wondering if that person was in the coffee shop, sitting at a table and drinking an espresso. She shivered. “Like the person who attacked CJ and left the warning note.”

  Trevor nodded. “But what would the old disappearance have to do with Tammy’s murder?”

  “Remember I told you I saw Tammy talking to Victor Townsend behind the old office not long before he was killed? Maybe that. Maybe she knew something about the missing girls. Or a missing girl. That was the big secret story he was working on.”

  “Shit,” he said.

  “All I know is that someone must have seen the in memoriam that Mackenzie had posted in the Gazette and wanted to make sure she didn’t talk to a reporter about a girl who had been forgotten for twenty years.”

  She slowly looked around the coffee shop again. The place was packed. Was Tammy’s killer watching her right now? Was June Gissler dead?

  “Wait,” she whispered. “Our theory is awfully coincidental.”

  Trevor glanced out the window, then back at Lauren. “Where did you call Mackenzie from to set up today’s meeting?”

  “From my office,” she said. “Why?”

  “Because maybe someone is listening.”

  She’d been bugged? Oh hell.

  * * *

  Xan McMullen, Lauren’s IT guy and all-around tech wizard, promised he’d come by the Townsend Report office by the end of the day to see if there was, indeed, a bug planted. Apparently, Xan had trained his adorable beagle in the K-9 art of electronics detection; if there was a transmitter in the office, Xan had said, then Techno would find it in minutes for the price of a bacon-flavored dog biscuit. Lauren had bought three from the specialty pet-supply shop a few doors down.

  She’d spent most of the day with her laptop in a quiet area of the library, working on posts for this afternoon and the morning. Now, as she walked around her small office, looking for anything that resembled a tiny camera, she was surprised to glance up and see Isleigh Martin Townsend, Victor’s widow, standing outside and scowling at her through the window. Crap. Lauren had enough on her plate right now. Isleigh wasn’t easy to deal with under the best of circumstances.

  These were not the best of circumstances.

  The last time Lauren had run into Isleigh, model gorgeous with couture clothing to match, the woman had screamed bloody murder at her—literally. But back then, and “back then” was barely a month ago, everyone had thought Lauren was having an affair with Victor Townsend. Anonymous texts on his cell phone had made the fact that he was having an affair crystal clear. And now that Lauren thought about it, she had sounded like a jealous, angry mistress the day she’d publicly argued with Victor at The Fraser, but she’d been talking about the story he was hiding from her—not another lover. Add the murder weapon with her fingerprints on it, and of course Isleigh and everyone else had thought her guilty of Victor’s murder.

  Isleigh opened the door and came in like she owned the place; that was just her queen-bee way. As usual, Lauren was distracted by how incredibly beautiful Isleigh was with her caramel-colored skin and long black hair. Her shoes alone probably cost more than rent on this tiny office did for a year’s lease. Although Lauren had worked alongside Victor for two years, she’d never had much to do with Isleigh Martin Townsend. The Martin family was a lot like the Blakes—wealthy, snobby and socialized in circles that Lauren, in her twenty-five-dollar thrift-store jacket, didn’t move in.

  Isleigh looked around the tiny office and Lauren could tell the woman wasn’t exactly impressed. “I understand why you didn’t want to keep the Report going in the same office as before, but this is a step down.”

  There was no way that Lauren could have continued working in the original office. Victor had been killed there. Lauren had been framed for his murder there. Her life had almost been spectacularly ruined there.

  Lauren forced a bright smile. One word from Isleigh, and her father, Lucky Martin, would cut off the small line of funding he’d promised until Lauren could get the Report on its feet again. “It is cozy. And I have everything I need here.” She pointed to her desk and her laptop.

  “Well, I was passing by and thought I’d check the place out.” Isleigh mock shivered. “It might be different digs, but still. If I were you, I’d be nervous about working alone.”

  Out of respect for Isl
eigh, Lauren didn’t say what she had to her sister Jennifer when Jennifer had said the same thing. It wasn’t the story Victor was working on that had gotten him killed. It was a dumped lover who’d snapped. Yes, there was a connection between said lover, Jamie Chen, who worked for Blake Mining, and the Townsend Report. Jamie had been a source that Victor had originally met with for information on Blake Mining, which Victor had been hoping to write an exposé on. But Victor had been killed by jealous, dumped Jamie. Not because of the stories he was working on.

  Though in my case, someone is coming after me and Trevor because of the story I’m working on—Tammy Gallagher’s murder.

  Isleigh stared up at TownsendReport.com stenciled in gold letters on the wall behind Lauren’s desk. “This really was Victor’s baby. Sometimes I was a little jealous of how into it he was. He had the last laugh there, though, huh. The Report was the last thing I needed to be jealous about.”

  “Victor talked about you all the time,” Lauren said. Which was true. “Every time he finished a post, he’d say, ‘Isleigh’s going to love this one.’ Or ‘Isleigh’s gonna have my head over this story.’”

  Isleigh’s expression softened. “Well, that’s neither here nor there anymore.”

  Lauren glanced at Isleigh and heard the unspoken “But thank you for saying that anyway.”

  “You can do what you want,” Isleigh said. “I know my father already approved all this and is funding you for a while—but if you want my two cents? You’re crazy. Get a job at the Gazette. Thornwood Heights doesn’t need a controversial newsblog threatening to expose town secrets.”

  “Isleigh, with all due—”

  “Save it,” she interrupted. “The only reason I didn’t tell my father to shut this thing down was because Victor loved it so much, and no matter what, I did love him. My stepmother, Milan, would love to see the Townsend Report dead too. She always called it Victor’s ‘dirty rag.’ Maybe that’s why I talked Daddy into letting you try to keep it going. To piss her off.” The disgust on Isleigh’s face when she said her father’s wife’s name spoke volumes.