Poisoned Ground Series, Book 6

by Sandra Parshall

  He shook off the memories and told Brandon, “Call it in. We need Dr. Lauter, and Dennis with his camera, and four more deputies.”

  “What am I gonna do about her?” Brandon nodded at the dog.

  “I’ll take charge of her, I guess. I’ll see if I can find a tie-out or a leash.”

  Brandon patted the dog’s head as Tom took hold of her collar.

  While Brandon headed back to the car, Tom swept his gaze over the yard and surrounding fields, alert for movement, anything that shouldn’t be there. The Kellys had about twenty acres where they maintained a small apple orchard and grew corn, tomatoes, and other kitchen crops to sell at the local farmers’ market. They also had a miniature greenhouse for growing vegetables in winter and a big chicken coop for egg-layers. The coop, where the hens were shut up at night to protect them from foxes, sat next to the greenhouse about a hundred yards back from the residence. A couple dozen chickens pecked and scratched the ground in front of the coop and drank from a low, wide trough.

  On a flagstone patio beside the back steps where Marie Kelly lay, a table and chairs were already covered with a tarp for the winter. Other than the two dead bodies, Tom spotted nothing unusual in the yard, nothing disturbed or out of place. But he caught a whiff of an acrid odor—something burning. Following the smell, he noticed that the back door of the house stood open, with only the storm door guarding the entrance.

  Letting go of the dog’s collar, Tom moved around Marie’s body and mounted the steps. Through the screen door he saw a burner on the electric range glowing red hot beneath a saucepan. A plume of dark smoke rose from the pan.

  Tom yanked open the door and crossed to the range in five strides. He grabbed a pot holder from the counter and slid the saucepan away from the heat with one hand as he switched off the burner with the other.

  The liquid in the pan had evaporated, and heat had welded chunks of vegetables to the bottom. Assembled on the counter next to the stove were a loaf of homemade bread, a head of leaf lettuce, and two knives. Marie must have been starting preparations for an early dinner when the killer showed up. Did she hear shots from the yard, run out to help her husband, and get hit before she could reach him? Was she murdered only because she could identify the attacker, or had the killer come here intending to shoot both the Kellys?

  And why? Why in God’s name would anybody kill these people?

  Tom set the pan in the sink and found a plate in a cupboard to cover the top and contain the smoke and odor.

  He yanked a dog leash off a hook by the back door, but before he took it outside he glanced around for signs of a disturbance that would point to a robbery. The kitchen had an old-fashioned, homey look, a perfectly preserved artifact of the mid-twentieth century. The only thing that caught Tom’s attention was a file folder open on the table, exposing a printed document. In the center of the document, a butcher knife stood straight up, its tip penetrating the paper and the red gingham oilcloth, and anchored in the wooden tabletop.

  Tom stepped over to examine the document. The first page bore the logo of Packard Resorts, stylized type bordered by graphics of a bikini-clad woman on water skis and a man skiing down a snow-covered slope. Skimming the boilerplate language that laid out Packard’s plans for an elaborate rural resort in Mason County, he found a clause stating that all offers were contingent on the company obtaining every plot of land necessary for completion of the project.

  Without disturbing the knife, Tom used the tip of one gloved finger to lift the first sheet. On the second page, he found the amount of Packard’s offer for the Kellys’ land. He gave a low whistle. Almost two million for twenty acres of pasture, apple trees, and cornfields. The company must badly want the land to offer this kind of money.

  He caught a movement from the corner of his eye and jerked away from the table, a hand going to his pistol. The intruder, a black-and-white rabbit, bigger and plumper than any wild rabbit he’d ever seen, hopped past Tom as if indifferent to his presence. It made its way to a feeding station in a corner of the kitchen and settled into crunching green pellets heaped in a bowl. A second rabbit, pure white, hopped into the room, freezing for a second when it saw Tom. Then it took a wide detour around him on its way to the food.

  Great. He had to do something about these rabbits as well as the dog and a yard full of chickens. As long as they had food and water, the chickens could stay where they were until the Kellys’ son and daughter decided what to do with them. But the rabbits and dog couldn’t be left here.

  In the yard, the dog began to howl, a mournful, bewildered cry.

  “Sheriff?” Brandon called. “You inside?”

  Stepping over to the screened door, Tom said, “I’m going to do a walk-through, then I’ll be out.” He tossed the dog leash to Brandon, who caught it before it could land on Marie Kelly’s back.

  Nothing appeared amiss in any of the downstairs rooms. Every piece of furniture and every rug looked old, not shabby so much as well-used. Upstairs, Tom found all three bedrooms neat and undisturbed. The son’s and daughter’s rooms looked as if they were still occupied by teenagers, with Redskins pennants and posters of motorcycles on Ronan Kelly’s walls, and framed photos of landscapes and wildlife decorating Sheila’s. Like her father, Sheila was, or had been when she was younger, an amateur photographer. The brother and sister were in their thirties now, living elsewhere.

  Before this day ended, Tom would have to call them and tell them over the phone that their parents were both dead.

  Chapter Three

  Rachel felt like a gawker, a crime groupie, standing in the weeds beside the road with Robert McClure and Joanna.

  A couple hundred yards of yellow police tape strung along the front boundary of the Kelly property snapped and trembled in the wind. The only people Tom had allowed in were his chief deputy, Captain Dennis Murray, several other deputies, and Dr. Gretchen Lauter, Mason County’s medical examiner. Joanna had ridden down the road with Rachel, and McClure had followed in his car, to find out about the gunshots they’d heard. Rachel would have left by now if Tom hadn’t asked her to wait and take temporary custody of the Kellys’ dog and two pet rabbits.

  Trying to ignore the contentious chatter between McClure and Joanna, Rachel stuffed her hands into her jacket pockets to keep them warm and glanced up at the towering dark clouds. She wanted to go home, to get away from this quiet little farm that had been transformed in seconds into a place of violent death.

  “I can’t get over this,” McClure murmured, shaking his head. “I actually heard the shots that killed them. And I brushed it off. I was sure it was just a hunter—”

  “If you knew Lincoln and Marie at all,” Joanna said, “you wouldn’t have been so quick to shrug off gunshots over here.” Tears glistened in her eyes, and her face flushed with the effort of clamping down on her emotions.

  “Yes, Joanna.” McClure sighed. “I’m woefully ignorant, and of course you were right to be worried. I talked to them earlier today, incidentally. About the land sale.”

  “Oh?” Rachel looked at him with new interest. “They weren’t going to sell to Packard, were they?”

  “Never.” Joanna cut off McClure’s response. “It was not going to happen. You were wasting your breath, Robert.”

  “Well, now you’re the one who’s mistaken.” McClure spoke with the smugness that Rachel had always detested. “Marie called me yesterday and told me to have a contract drawn up for them to look over. She was thinking about Lincoln’s future needs, as his condition worsened. I brought it over this morning, and I feel sure Marie was favorably inclined.”

  “No.” Joanna shook her head. “I don’t believe it for a minute. That’s wishful thinking.”

  McClure issued another sigh, this one heavy with disappointment. “It’s all beside the point now, unfortunately. I’ll have to start over with their heirs.”

  “What’s unfortunate is th
at two decent, kind people are dead. I’m so sorry it’s creating extra work for you, Robert.”

  McClure pressed his thin lips together and didn’t answer.

  Rachel was surprised he’d gotten anywhere with the Kellys. She’d known them only because she was their veterinarian, but she was aware of their reputations as ardent environmental crusaders. They campaigned against anything that threatened the natural beauty of their rural mountain community. Rachel couldn’t see the Kellys surrendering their land to a developer who wanted to make it part of a luxury resort. But she kept her thoughts to herself, having no interest in arguing with McClure.

  “Here comes Tom.” Joanna pointed up the driveway.

  With a canvas tote slung over a shoulder, and holding a cat carrier with one hand, Tom tugged the reluctant dog toward them on a leash. Several times Bonnie stopped, looked back at the house, and whined. Poor girl, Rachel thought. The dog had just lost her whole world, but would anybody care about her broken heart?

  When Tom reached Rachel he set down the carrier and handed her the canvas tote that held a couple of bags of rabbit pellets and some canned dog food. “I believe you know these three critters.”

  “This is Betty and Patch.” Rachel leaned down to look in at the rabbits. They huddled together at the back of the carrier, bodies trembling, noses twitching. Taking the leash from Tom, Rachel stroked the dog’s head and murmured, “Hey, Bonnie. It’s okay, sweetheart. We’ll take care of you.”

  The dog looked up at her with mournful eyes. Rachel saw red stains between the toes on both of the dog’s paws. Bonnie had stepped in blood.

  “Are you going to tell us what happened here?” Joanna demanded of Tom. “Were they really murdered? It just doesn’t seem possible. Who would want to kill them?”

  “Could it have been murder-suicide?” McClure asked.

  “What?” Joanna rounded on him. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “You just said nobody would want to kill them, so what else—”

  “Can you tell us anything at all?” Rachel’s question silenced McClure.

  Tom ran a hand through his thick black hair, his gaze flicking from Rachel to Joanna to McClure. “No reason you shouldn’t know, I guess. Yes, it was murder. They were both shot—by a third party, no doubt about that. We’ll need statements from all three of you to pin down the time the shots were fired. We’ll take care of that later, after I’m done here.” To McClure, he added, “Were you here to see the Kellys earlier today? Did you bring a contract with you?”

  “Yes, and of course I’ll answer any questions you have. Just call my office and make an appointment.”

  Yeah, as if that’s going to happen, Rachel thought.

  “You’ll have to come to headquarters,” Tom told McClure. “I’ll let you know when I expect you to be there.” He turned back to Rachel. “You need any help getting them in the car?”

  “No, I’m fine. Go back to work. I hope you can make it home for dinner.”

  Tom gave her a quick kiss and started up the driveway toward the house. Bonnie whimpered and strained at her leash, trying to follow him.

  “No, girl.” Rachel stroked her head. “You’re coming with me.”

  “I also have work to do,” McClure said to no one in particular. “I can’t stand around here all day.” He turned to leave.

  “Robert?” Joanna called after him.

  He looked back.

  “My shotgun wasn’t loaded.”

  “Well, isn’t it nice to know that now.” His spine rigid, he strode to his black BMW a few feet away. When he made a U-turn on the two-lane road and sped off toward town, he almost sideswiped an ancient brown station wagon that was pulling up.

  “Oh, Lord.” Joanna eyed the three women in the station wagon. “Here come the Jones sisters. Why didn’t I leave when I had the chance?”

  “I have an excuse to go.” Rachel nodded at the animals. “I need to take care of them. They’re scared to death.” She wished, too late, that she’d avoided that phrase.

  “Look, honey, I want to talk to you about a few things. Would you drive me back to my place so I can get my car and follow you home?”

  Rachel didn’t want to rehash the land controversy or speculate about the murders, but she couldn’t say no to her best friend in Mason County if she needed someone to talk to. She handed Joanna the dog’s leash. “Sure. Help me with the animals.”

  The three older women climbed out of their vehicle and hurried toward them, blocking their path to Rachel’s Range Rover.

  “Oh, my goodness, what do you have there?” Summer, the youngest of the sisters, leaned close to peer into the carrier. The others, Winter and Spring, looked over her shoulders. The sisters shared the same finely cut features and large dark eyes, but in other ways they seemed as different as the seasons they were named for. Spring, the second oldest—Rachel guessed she was approaching seventy—defied age with shoulder-length hair dyed bright gold, ample makeup, and brilliantly hued clothes that would have better suited her forty years ago. Summer, younger than Spring by at least ten years, was probably in her late fifties. Her rosy skin had few wrinkles, and only faint streaks of gray here and there dulled her dark brown hair. Something about Summer, a soft childlike quality, always made Rachel want to speak soothingly to her.

  The oldest sister, Winter Jones, squared her shoulders and took in the crime scene tape, the four Sheriff’s Department cruisers parked by the road, and finally the dog. Although she wasn’t as tall as Rachel, she seemed an imposing presence with her white hair pinned back into a knot and a long black coat draping her body to mid-calves. “Why are all these police cars here? And where are you taking Lincoln and Marie’s pets?”

  Winter sounded affronted, as if someone owed her an explanation for this rip in the fabric of her day.

  “I’ll put the animals in the car,” Joanna said as she took the carrier from Rachel. She edged past the sisters, pulling the dog with her, and left Rachel to handle their questions.

  From experience Rachel knew they would keep her here for an hour if she let them. When one of their cats had an appointment at the vet clinic, however routine the visit, Rachel had a standing arrangement with the staff that after twenty minutes someone would knock on the door and summon her to a nonexistent emergency or a phone call that couldn’t wait.

  “Has something happened to the Kellys?” Spring asked.

  “I’m afraid so.” Up the road, Joanna waited beside the Range Rover, trying to restrain the dog. Rachel realized the vehicle was locked and Joanna couldn’t get the animals into it.

  Summer stood with eyes downcast and one fist bunching the fabric of her blue coat. Her hands showed only a touch of the arthritis that had swollen her sisters’ knuckles into knobs.

  Rachel answered Winter’s question. “Mr. and Mrs. Kelly have been shot. I’m afraid they were both killed.”

  Spring gasped. Winter stared at Rachel, grimacing as if she’d blurted a string of obscenities. Summer ducked her head.

  “Was it a hunting accident?” Winter asked. “We heard gunshots earlier, before we went into Mountainview, but that’s not unusual at this time of year. Or any other season, for that matter, but it certainly is worse with Thanksgiving coming up next week. Some idiot man is out and about every day, shooting at those harmless wild turkeys.”

  “I don’t know anything for certain. I’m sorry, but I have to leave. I need to take these animals someplace where they can calm down and feel safe.”

  Rachel took a step toward the Range Rover, but the Jones sisters weren’t finished yet.

  “Perhaps it was a robbery,” Spring speculated. “Is anything missing?”

  “Oh, dear.” Winter pressed a hand to her cheek. “This is frightening. We live so close, and we don’t have guns in the house to protect ourselves.”

  Summer sniffled and touched a handkerchief to h
er nose.

  “Oh, stop blubbering,” Winter told her.

  “I don’t know exactly what happened.” Rachel spoke more forcefully this time. “And I have to go now.”

  Winter wouldn’t give up. “Hasn’t Tom told you anything?” Gesturing toward the Range Rover, where Joanna waited with the dog, she added, “And what about Joanna? She has a gun, but she’s still a woman living alone. If some maniac is running around shooting people—”

  “There’s no reason to panic.” But Rachel couldn’t be sure of that. Maybe they all had reason to panic but didn’t realize it yet. Why was she bothering to reassure them?

  Spring shook her head. “We’re too close for comfort.”

  “Keep your doors locked, just to be on the safe side.” Lame advice, but Rachel wanted to get away from them before they freaked her out too. “I’m sure Tom will find the person who did this. Take care.”

  As she clicked her remote to open the Range Rover’s doors, the Jones sisters began a conversation among themselves. Rachel pulled open the rear hatch and slid the carrier holding the rabbits into the back of the vehicle while Joanna coaxed the reluctant dog to jump in. Just before she climbed into the driver’s seat, Rachel heard Winter say, “I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with Jake Hollinger and that absurd fight over his property line.”

  What was that about? Rachel was almost curious enough to ask, but she reminded herself she had other things to do. Police work was Tom’s job.

  Chapter Four

  Tom leaned over the steps where Marie Kelly sprawled facedown, steeled himself for what felt like a violation of his mother’s old friend, and slid his hands under her chest and hips. He tried not to breathe in the rank odor of the blood that saturated her blouse and sweater around the exit wound.

  On the other side of the steps, Dr. Gretchen Lauter leaned over and spread her gloved hands, ready to catch Marie and ease her onto her back. Lincoln Kelly’s body waited in the hearse that would take the couple to the state medical examiner’s regional headquarters in Roanoke for autopsy.