Siren's Secret

by Debbie Herbert

  No string, no plastic container. But the dead squirrel still bled under the oak tree in its bed of pine needles.

  * * *

  The morning felt like a total waste with nothing but blind alleys. Tillman had visited most of the fired employees and returned to his office, completely frustrated. When his deputy wandered in for a chat, Tillman took the opportunity to quiz him on the Bosarge family.

  “What do you know about Lily Bosarge?”

  Carl scratched his chin. “Can’t say I know much at all. Pretty girl, but distant.”

  “What about her sister?”

  “She’s a mean one, all right. ’Bout a year ago she went in Floyd’s bar looking for Johnny Matthews. Seems she took exception to something he’d been saying around town about Lily.” Carl chuckled. “Jet’s a real spitfire. Told Johnny to keep his mouth shut or his new gal would get an earful about his sexual incompetence. Matthews has never lived it down.”

  Tillman remembered the SOB from high school. Always bragging on his supposed sexual conquests. He drove a rusted Camaro with an exposed muffler he thought sounded cool as shit.

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” he said. “Did you know either of their parents? According to the background check you ran, their house has been passed down through the decades in a matriarchal line.”

  “Can’t say I do. They’ve always kept to themselves.”

  He probed again. “So you didn’t know Adriana or Olivia Bosarge? Their names precede Jet and Lily’s on the house deed.”

  Carl narrowed his eyes. “Why the twenty questions?”

  “Just curious. Shelly, their cousin, lives with them and is Eddie’s aquatic therapist.”

  “Is that what they call swim teachers now?” Carl snorted. “Aquatic therapists?”

  “She’s got a B.A. in exercise physiology and a master’s degree in physical therapy.”

  “All that learning just to play in the water?”

  Tillman fought down the hot need to further defend Shelly.

  “Why did you want a background check? You never ask without good reason.”

  Tillman fidgeted. “I was at their house last night. They have lots of expensive stuff lying around.”

  Carl folded his arms. “Big deal. There’s always been talk that the Bosarges were wealthy from trust funds handed down through generations. What were you doing there anyway?”

  “I took Shelly out to dinner.”

  “No wonder you were so touchy about her being a therapist,” Carl said with a wink.

  Tillman pulled a file toward him, signaling it was time to get back to work. After his deputy left, he studied the photo of his father receiving an award for his many years of service. People remembered him with fondness. It wasn’t fair that less than a year after this picture was taken, he’d had a massive coronary and left behind two people so dependent on him.

  He resignedly turned back to his computer. Carl was right. He was making something out of nothing. If the Bosarge family was ridiculously rich, it was none of his business.

  Still, he couldn’t leave it alone. Once his curiosity was aroused, he had to find answers.

  Tillman retrieved his phone and pulled up the pictures he’d taken at Shelly’s. She had damn near caught him in the act. He downloaded the photos on the computer and enlarged them on-screen. Most of the vase had been filled with corroded coins, old buttons and bits of green-colored glass. Tillman had photographed a few of the more pristine, legible coins.

  The first coin he examined was gold and engraved with lions and castles, dated 1617. To his untrained eye, it looked as if it might be Grade 1 with an estimated worth of nearly two thousand dollars.

  Tillman let out a low whistle, trying to calculate how many identical coins were scattered in their home. The coins were recovered from the Spanish galleon Nuestra Señora de Atocha, which sank during a hurricane near the Florida Keys on September 6, 1622. The Grade 1 Atocha coins were salvaged from the innermost portion of a treasure chest that had protected them from saltwater damage. He skimmed an article on Atocha shipwreck artifacts until he read about the color and clarity of Atocha emeralds.

  No, it couldn’t be.

  Impatiently, he again pulled up the Bosarge photographs and found what he had earlier thought were chips of green sea glass scattered in among the coins.

  Emeralds. If he took one of the pieces to a gemologist, Tillman was sure the expert would confirm their value.

  His mind jumped to Shelly at the restaurant as she ran her fingers through her hair, an emerald flashing on the right hand. The square-cut design and gold filigree band had an heirloom vibe. Was it made from a seventeenth-century treasure relic?

  He paced the room and pondered what it meant, if anything. First, the stuff might only be antique replicas, not especially expensive. Second, the women’s ancestors might have been wealthier than what anyone in Bayou La Siryna had previously guessed and Shelly and her cousins were living off that prior bounty.

  He had no right to think anything illegal was going on.

  But he did.

  More startling, he recalled the silky feel of Shelly’s long hair—the color and length of which perfectly matched the strands recovered on China’s body. The thought unnerved him. Had he become a jaded, cynical man who believed the worst of everyone? Shelly was kind, compassionate and worked hard to help the elderly and disabled. Hardly killer material. On the other hand, her cousin Jet was a piece of work. Too bad that woman’s hair was short and black instead of long and blond.

  Still, he had to consider everyone a suspect, even someone as sweet and innocent as Shelly.

  * * *

  I have to find him.

  If she had the nerve to try to trick a killer, this should be a leisurely swim in calm waters. Shelly marched briskly into the Englazia County Sheriff’s Office before she talked herself out of action. It wasn’t really much of a deception after all, somebody was after her. No one paid much attention as she went down a few hallways and found his office. The door was ajar and, in spite of everything, her heart rate accelerated at the sight of Tillman. He was bent forward in his chair, staring intently at a computer.

  If only she could tell him everything. As much as she hated deceiving him, it had to be done. She knocked smartly on the door and entered. “Sorry to interrupt. May I speak with you a few minutes?”

  Gray eyes slammed into her own, inquisitive and probing. He stood and motioned to a chair. “Sure. Have a seat.”

  Shelly sat down, crossing and uncrossing her legs as Tillman rounded the desk and sat in a chair opposite her.

  “What brings you here this morning?”

  Shelly was disconcerted by his unreadable expression. His manner and voice were somewhere between friendly and professional, not at all like last night. Maybe it would be easier this way. “I need your help.”

  Tillman said nothing but continued to regard her searchingly.

  Shelly fidgeted with the handle on her purse. Best to just get it over with. She set her purse on his desk and then froze at the eight-by-ten colored glossies spread across its surface.

  The bodies of two dead, mutilated women lay exposed, both missing eyes. The redheaded woman she’d never seen before but the other—

  Shelly inched one of the glossies closer. “It’s her,” she gasped, clasping a hand to her mouth as bile rose in the back of her throat. That heart-shaped, delicate face; the long black hair and scarlet lips... The last time Shelly had seen her was when she’d tucked her plastic-encased body between two rocks undersea.

  “You knew this woman? China Wang?” Tillman’s sharp tone broke through the morbid reverie.

  Shelly shook her head at once. “No,” she answered quickly. She scooted her chair farther from the desk to avoid seeing the photos again.

  “But you said ‘it’s her,’” Tillman said.

  “I meant it’s her as in the victim. That’s all.”

  His lips compressed into a single line. “There are two victims and
photos of two different women there. Yet you singled out one of them.”

  Damn, he was far too sharp. Why did she have to be attracted to someone in his line of work? “I recognized China from the newspaper pictures. That’s all.” There, that lie would have to do. She rushed on, forestalling more questions. “I know you’re busy. The reason I’m here is that I want to look at recent arrest photos of men.”

  He furrowed his brow and frowned. “What the hell for?”

  Shelly went into the spiel she’d perfected while driving over. “I’ve been getting weird phone calls for several weeks. They’re getting more frequent and in the last couple, he threatened me. And then this morning—”

  “What did he say?”

  “That he’s watching me.”

  Tillman went still and spoke quietly. “Did he threaten bodily harm?”

  Shelly thought fast. She had to make this convincing enough that he’d let her see those arrest pictures. “He said he’d get me and...and do things.”

  “What things?”

  She waved a hand and brushed aside the question. “Anyway, this morning when I went to the grocery store some guy came up to me as I was getting in my car. He gave me this creepy grin and said he’d give me a call later. I’m sure it was him.”

  Tillman shot out of his chair. “Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I got in my car and took off.”

  “You didn’t look to see if he got in a car so you could get the license plate number?”

  Her back stiffened. “Don’t shout. I’ve had a rough morning. Just let me look at the mug shots and see if one of them is the guy.”

  He ran a hand through his already-rumpled hair and let out a frustrated sigh. Abruptly, he strode to the door and stuck his head out, calling for someone to bring the arrest book.

  She’d done it. She should be relieved. Instead, guilt pierced her sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. Beneath the anger, she knew Tillman was concerned and worried.

  I had to. I have to find the killer. She tried to convince herself she was doing the right thing and perhaps Tillman would understand one day.

  Shelly rose. It would be easier on both of them if she went to the records room alone to view the photographs. If she recognized the killer she could proceed with the plan to frame him. She would file a complaint and plant his knife in either his house or car. When the cops came to arrest him, they would find it and realize he was the serial killer.

  As she rose and grabbed her purse from the desk, she caught a glimpse of Tillman’s computer screen. Her mouth dropped open and she leaned forward for a closer look. A dozen photos from her living room were displayed: their coffee table with some of the contents from the vase scattered on its surface, the shelves with antique china and the fireplace mantel with its collection of rare swords. Several coins and pieces of jewelry were enlarged on the screen.

  Her ears rang and she felt weighted down, as if she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Tillman said something, but it sounded as if he was far away and she couldn’t comprehend the words. Someone’s hands were on her shoulders, guiding her downward. She was sitting in a chair again. Tillman’s face wavered before her.

  “Shelly? Take deep breaths.”

  She inhaled sharply and stared into those dark gray eyes. Anger and hurt, but mostly anger, broke through the stupor. “Why?” she asked hotly. “Why did you come in our home and take those pictures?”

  His face hardened. “Because you have priceless artifacts lying around worth thousands and thousands of dollars. Because of the way your cousin got angry and acted secretive, gathering those maps and papers and sweeping out of the room. Something’s not right with—”

  “You had no right! If we’re filthy rich and want to fill our home with expensive stuff it’s none of your damn business.” Of all the nerve. The man didn’t even show a speck of remorse for being such a low-down sneak.

  He held up a hand before turning his attention to the doorway. A young officer stared back and forth between them.

  “Just leave the cart here,” Tillman ordered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Shelly’s face burned with a mixture of embarrassment and anger as the officer wheeled the cart to them and left. She drew up a chair and opened the first of two thick books, deliberately ignoring Tillman. He muttered something unintelligible and strode over to the window, his back to her.

  Good. She could concentrate better without him crowding her. She scanned every photo carefully, sure she would remember those eyes, that beak nose and dark curly hair. By the end of the first book, hope trickled away. Shelly opened the second book and went through the same process until she’d turned the last page.

  He wasn’t there. All of this was for naught. She scraped back her chair and gathered her purse.

  “You didn’t see him?” Tillman walked toward her. “Describe him and we’ll be on the lookout.”

  “Forget it,” she snapped.

  “C’mon, Shelly,” he said softly, only a yard away. “I’m sorry about the pictures. You’re right. It’s none of my business. Guess it’s my cop training that makes me so hard-nosed about getting to the bottom of everything. You’ve got to understand. I’m trying to catch a serial killer. Anything out of the ordinary catches my eye and I have to check it out.”

  In spite of her anger, Shelly was dismayed to feel the same old pull drawing her to this man. How easy it would be to forgive Tillman and feel his arms wrapped around her once more. But she saw now it would never work. The lies would always come between them. Better to end it now.

  “Don’t call me. Don’t ever come to see me again.”

  She turned away, but not before hearing his sharp indrawn breath and witnessing regret in his eyes. Good, she hoped he felt as bad as she did, although that was highly unlikely. Tillman Angier was too perceptive and too dedicated to his sheriff job for them to have a relationship. More important, he couldn’t be trusted. And to think she’d felt guilty earlier about lying to protect her shape-shifting. At least she hadn’t invaded his privacy like he had done to her.

  Too damn bad his kisses made her toes curl and heart race. The risk of seeing him wasn’t worth the pleasure of his touch.

  Or so she tried to convince herself.

  * * *

  Tillman erased all the Bosarge photos from his cell and computer and dove into the pile of paperwork on his desk with a hollow ache in the pit of his belly. He tried to view the case objectively. What possible connection could Shelly have with the prostitute or a violent perp? She was educated, respected and financially secure. If she had a hidden proclivity for violence or sexual crimes, her name would probably have come to his attention at some point. But instead, he’d watched her for months, observed her many small acts of kindness with Eddie and other clients. No one had anything but good to say about Shelly Bosarge.

  If she was now the killer’s target, why would he switch the kind of victim he sought? Had Shelly witnessed something she shouldn’t have seen? Was she being framed by a psychopath? None of it made sense. The most likely scenario was that the blond hair wasn’t hers and the creep from the store wasn’t the perp. The two events were unrelated and mere coincidence.

  Too bad he wasn’t the type of man to believe in coincidence.

  Two hours later he grabbed his car keys, deciding he needed fresh air and a diversion. The thought of Shelly being in danger was driving him crazy. He’d check another name from the factory list.

  Forget her. No big deal. But he couldn’t stop remembering those accusing green eyes or worrying about her mysterious caller as he drove out for the interview.

  At 1724 Sea Way Court he parked in front of the cheerless shotgun house and opened the background file for a quick review. No criminal record on Pellerin, but his mother had a string of prostitution arrests.

  He swung open the cruiser door. Before his foot hit the crumbling pavement, people sitting on porches abruptly rose and went into their homes. Even a few chi
ldren, kicking around a football in a yard of weeds and sand, regarded him with solemn faces of distrust.

  Inside the sagging picket fence of the front yard was an old Chevy truck with an extended cab and faded blue paint. He glanced in the truck’s window as he passed—nothing but crumpled-up Cheetos bags and empty Coke bottles on the floorboard.

  He knocked on the door and waited, eyes roaming over years of accumulated junk on the porch: old plastic buckets, a cardboard box of broken Mason jars, wire—you name it, it was probably piled here somewhere.

  A mouse darted under a pile of old pillows and Tillman frowned. Chances were the place was likely infested with roaches and mice.

  Glancing at his watch, he saw it was after 3:00 p.m. Pellerin was unemployed so good chance he was in. Tillman rapped sharply on the door and heard excited yipping from deep inside. He waited a couple of heartbeats but heard no other sound. He knocked again, more insistent, and strained to hear any movement from within.

  A faint scraping noise, like a chair pushed against the floor, came from the front area of the house.

  “Melkie Pellerin?” he called out in a booming voice. If he had to fetch his bullhorn and use it to shame the guy into opening the door, he would.

  Approaching footsteps, the creak of a latch lifting, and Pellerin appeared wearing a rumpled white T-shirt and jeans, disheveled, wiry hair and the disoriented eyes of someone just awakened. His black-brown eyes sharpened as they focused on the sheriff’s badge at his eye level.

  “May I come in to ask a few questions?”

  Melkie hesitated, then grudgingly held open the screen door.

  “Ain’t got much time,” he mumbled in a voice like rusty nails scratching together.

  The yipping sound advanced and Tillman looked down. “What kind of dog you got?”

  “Chinese crested.” Melkie pointed to a worn sofa. “Have a seat.”

  Tillman schooled his features not to react at the filth or the smell of stale grease and fried bologna pervading the cramped quarters.

  Melkie sat in an old recliner across from him. “Here, Reb.” He gestured and the dog flopped down at his feet, still baring a mouthful of yellowed stubs at the stranger invading his territory.