by Mary Burton
Margaret studied Lexis through the screened door. “What can I do for you?”
“Ms. Margaret Miller?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m with Lane Producers. Sorry for the late night visit but my flight just arrived from LA.”
Margaret folded her arms. “Why are you here?”
“We do documentaries on country music stars of the past. Your sister Annie Rivers Dawson’s short-lived career came to our attention the other night when my boss was watching the news.”
Margaret’s gaze narrowed. “Everyone saw that. I’ve been hearing about it day and night since.”
“I saw the show of you and Ms. Wainwright.”
Margaret frowned. “It wasn’t a show for me. I was damned mad at her.”
Lexis had guessed Margaret would be sensitive on the subject and knew she had to handle this with extra-soft kid gloves. “I could see you were upset. Must be painful.”
Margaret twisted a brass button on her sweater. “You’ve no idea.”
“Maybe I do. I lost my sister.” Bits of the truth enhanced credibility as the right outfit did. “It’s been fifteen years, but there’re days when it feels like yesterday.”
Margaret’s chin raised a fraction. “Yeah. It hurts. Especially when all you had were bones to bury. But no one cares about that.”
“I care. In fact, I did a little digging on your sister’s short-lived career and I must say I was impressed. She was a star on the rise.”
The hard lines burrowing into Margaret’s forehead softened a fraction. “That she was. Ask anyone and they’d tell you she was an angel.”
“No doubt.”
“Why are you here?”
“We, the other producers and I, were talking about Annie over coffee last night. We were all thinking she could be the subject of a documentary. She was talented, beautiful and now she’s gone.”
Her eyes widened with delight. “You want to make a movie about Annie?”
“This is all preliminary, but I thought it would be worth it to talk to you.”
“What do you want to know about Annie?”
“I want to know about her as a woman. Her hopes and dreams. What she loved about music and singing. You knew her better than anyone.”
“That’s true.” Margaret frowned. “This ain’t gonna be one of those tell-alls, is it? I don’t want you bashing Annie.”
“I’d never dream of bashing her. I want to tell her story.”
Margaret hesitated and then pushed open the screened door. “Come on in. I got mementos I can show you.” Inside, the sweet scents of a baking cake greeted her. “Can I get you a lemonade? I was about to have one.”
“I’d love one.”
The hallway sported dozens of framed pictures featuring two young girls and their parents. Beyond the living room furnishings were older, threadbare on the arms, and looked as if they’d been purchased in the seventies. The carpet was gold shag and the chair rail trim on the walls an avocado green.
Margaret appeared with two glasses of glistening lemonade. “I’d offer you cake but it isn’t cool yet. Today’s my momma’s birthday and I always bake her a cake.”
“How old is your mom?”
“She’d have been eighty-two. She passed this time last year. She left me her house. I’ve lived here my whole life.”
Lexis sat with Margaret on the couch, accepted the lemonade, sipped, and smiled when the cold bitter wetness hit her tongue. “Are those pictures of you and Annie?”
Margaret beamed. “They are. That one is of Annie and me. She was nine and I was three.”
Lexis studied the picture of two little girls dressed in matching sailor suits. Annie’s blond hair shimmered in contrast to Margaret’s dull brown hair and whereas Annie’s smile was radiant, Margaret’s was goofy and awkward. Annie’s arm was wrapped around Margaret’s shoulders but it wasn’t a casual easy touch. Annie looked a bit stiff and strained as if she wasn’t crazy about her little sister.
“She was good to me,” Margaret said. “So sweet. She was always thinking about me.”
“You two grew up in this house?”
“Yes. We had the same momma but different daddies. That’s why we look different.”
Lexis didn’t miss the threads of apology and shame. “I think you look a great deal alike. Especially around the eyes.”
“Really? You think so?”
“I do.” Lexis shifted her gaze to another picture. Again two girls. Annie had bloomed into a stunning young woman whereas Margaret still sported that goofy grin as well as thick glasses. “Must have been hard when she moved out to live on her own.”
“I cried for days. But she kept promising that she’d come back and see me and I could come see her. We were less than thirty miles apart but it felt like a million miles.”
“I heard she did well in Nashville.”
“She did. She started singing in a local church but quickly found work in the honky-tonks. She sang and looked like an angel.”
“I also heard she was a songwriter.”
Pride had Margaret standing straighter. “She was. I kept all her songs in a scrapbook.”
“Could I see them?”
“Sure!” She set down her lemonade and hurried to the back of the house. Seconds later she emerged with a large and well-stuffed yellow scrapbook. Margaret indicated they sit on a couch of shabby crushed velvet.
Margaret laid her hands on top of the book, drawing in a deep breath as if she were touching a Ouija board and summoning Annie’s spirit. “I can imagine her sitting right here when I read her songs.”
Lexis peered over Margaret’s arm as she opened the book. The pages were jammed with publicity shots, handbills for gig nights, and bits of ribbon and flattened flowers. Margaret had a story about every picture as she turned each page. In Margaret’s stories, Annie played the role of angel and heroine. However, the letters sent to Rachel painted a woman who wasn’t afraid to get involved with an unavailable man.
In the center was a stack of handwritten songs written on napkins, scraps of paper, and a diner menu.
Lexis studied the samples and knew if she had one she could authenticate the letters.
“When did she start dating Bill Dawson?”
Margaret frowned. “They didn’t date long. Fact, Momma and I were surprised when she called saying she’d gotten married. Right out of the blue. We were stunned. But he was a nice enough fellow and Momma wanted her to have security. Being a singer is a tough life, even if you got talent.”
“A pretty woman like Annie would have dated more than one man.”
Margaret giggled. “The boys loved Annie. Loved her.”
“She never confided in you?”
“Not about boys she dated. I asked, of course, but she said I was too young. When I pushed she did say she had a special Sugar she liked.”
“Sugar?” Lexis slowly turned a scrapbook page as if the name had no meaning.
“She blushed when she spoke about him but she never did tell me his name. Even wrote a song about him. She said one day I would meet him.”
“That must have been Bill Dawson,” Lexis suggested.
“Must have been.” She frowned. “But I never could picture the two of them together. He was stiff. But she said she loved him. Momma and I didn’t get invited to the wedding. Of course, when Momma and I finally saw her after the wedding, Momma guessed right off about the baby.”
“Was Annie excited about the baby?”
Margaret’s face glowed with appreciation. “She was. Said she’d find a way to be a big star and a great momma.”
“What was Bill Dawson like? You said he was stiff.”
“Nice enough. Kept saying she didn’t need to sing no more because he was gonna make them rich. I could tell he loved her more than she loved him. But that was the way it always was. Boys was always falling for Annie and she kept moving along like none of them mattered.”
Lexis thought about the letters. She’d
read the first few and based on them alone Annie had loved one man.
The phone rang and Margaret frowned.
“Feel free to get that. I’ll sit here and look at the book if that’s all right?”
Margaret hesitated. “Sure. It’s the best way to get to know Annie.”
Margaret vanished around the corner to a kitchen phone mounted on the wall.
Lexis turned the pages of the book searching for a loose scrap of paper with Annie’s handwriting on it. She soothed her guilt with the promise that she’d return the sample as soon as she’d authenticated the letters. In her mind she was doing Margaret a favor. If Rachel was fighting for Jeb there was a good chance he was innocent and the real killer remained free.
She turned the scrapbook page to find a crumpled sheet of notebook paper filled with lyrics written in thick dark ink that reminded her of the letters. She carefully tugged the paper free, cringing when it crinkled and then tucked the sheet of paper in her purse.
From the kitchen Margaret’s voice was low and nervous. Carefully Lexis turned the page hoping for a picture with Annie and her Sugar. There were plenty more pictures but most were of Annie on stage. Margaret’s voice grew more animated. The receiver slammed into a cradle.
Margaret came around the corner, flushed face and angry. Lexis cocked a brow. “Everything okay?”
“No, it is not.”
Lexis kept her hand steady, already wondering how she’d explain the stolen song notes if Margaret pressed. “What is it?”
A deepening frown added to her plainness. “That reporter. She wants to talk to me again.”
“Is that bad?”
“We met the other day and she told me she’d not cover the story until the DNA came back. Now she wants me to guess who might have killed Annie, if it wasn’t Jeb.” She curled fingers into fists. “It was Jeb. I know it was.”
“Did you ever see Annie and Jeb together?”
“I saw him once. It was the time I went to see her at her apartment, before the baby and before her marriage. He was there cutting the grass but he had a creepy way of staring at her. Made my skin crawl.”
“Did you ask Annie about him?”
“I did. And she said not to worry, that he was harmless.” Margaret’s lips flattened. “She was the sweetest girl in the world and it was her sweetness that got her killed. She didn’t see his evil, but I saw it then and I saw it at the trial. He killed her.”
Time had erased all Annie’s faults and magnified all Jeb’s sins. “Why?”
“He wanted her. Plain and simple.”
“Were there other men that gave her the creeps?”
“I heard her telling Momma that the bars were full of sloppy drunks. She longed for the day when she could sing on a big stage.”
Lexis turned a brittle scrapbook page to a picture of a very pregnant Annie who gently cradled her belly. “Whatever happened to Annie’s baby?”
“You’d have to ask her husband. He never would tell Momma or me. We begged him over and over to tell us. Momma was willing to raise the baby as her own. But he wouldn’t tell. Said it was none of our business. Momma was fixing to sue but then she had her stroke. She had to go to the home and I was too young. No judge would have given me that baby.”
“I’m sorry.”
Margaret slid the scrapbook back to her lap, smoothing her hand over it as if she’d done it a thousand times to calm frayed nerves. “If you don’t mind would you see yourself to the door? I’m getting one of my headaches.”
“Can I get you an aspirin or a water?”
She closed her eyes, smoothing her hands over the pink fabric covering. “No. Just leave. I do appreciate you coming.” Her voice had an otherworldly quality that sounded broken. “We’ll talk soon.”
“Okay.”
Slowly Lexis rose, feeling sorry for the woman. Annie’s death may have destroyed Jeb’s life but it had also destroyed Margaret’s as well.
Margaret moved to the window and watched the music film lady drive off. She glanced at her business card as she turned from the window. Despite the headache she was buoyed by the thought about somebody making a movie out of Annie’s life. “Sure would be special, Momma, if they made a movie.”
A movie made sense. Annie had been a star ready to take the world by storm. No telling where she’d be now if she’d lived. No telling. But safe to say she’d have been rich and living in a fancy house right here in Nashville. And she’d have taken care of her baby sister. No doubt about that.
Margaret moved back into the living room and sat on the sofa. Too bad Momma hadn’t lived to see this day. Too bad. She sipped her lemonade, squinting at the bitter sweetness. She opened the scrapbook she’d made of Annie and slowly turned the pages. The first image was of Annie and Margaret. They were both smiling for the picture but Margaret remembered enough to know they’d not been happy. Nine-year-old Annie had not wanted to wear an outfit that matched her three-year-old sister’s. She’d wanted to look older, like a grown-up girl she’d seen in a magazine.
But Momma had ruled the house then with an iron fist. She’d ignored Annie’s carrying on and crying during the whole drive from their home to the photographer’s studio. When they all pulled up, Momma had looked in the rearview mirror and threatened to beat Annie within an inch of her life if she didn’t smile like a damn angel. In the backseat, Margaret had grinned. As much as she loved and wanted to be Annie, she couldn’t help but enjoy it when she suffered.
And so Annie, who’d tasted Momma’s anger once too often, had stopped her wailing and had smiled. She’d charmed the photographer who had all but ignored Margaret.
Every moment Annie had been alive, she’d cast a long shadow that had trapped Margaret.
Margaret set her glass down and glanced at her palms, slick with the condensation from her lemonade glass. Carefully she closed her eyes and felt the droplets against her skin, remembering the feel of Annie’s blood on her hands.
“Momma, you’d think after thirty years I’d forget, but I can’t,” she whispered.
On that long ago day, Annie’s blood had wiped away all her thoughts. It had mesmerized her. Taunted her. She’d never told her mother how Annie’s blood had pooled on the floor and splashed the walls. Never told.
At first she’d been shocked and broken and then she’d found herself thrust into the limelight. Annie’s death had turned Margaret into the story’s heroine. Poor girl, she discovered her sister’s bloodied house and found her infant niece howling. Bless her heart.
For a time, Margaret had been center stage. She’d been the one reporters had hounded and clamored to see. She’d been the star. For a time.
And then time distanced the world from the murder leaving Annie and Margaret forgotten.
She dried her hands on her skirt and turned the page of the scrapbook, smiling, imagining the warmth of the limelight that would beam on her soon. This time around, she’d see that no one forgot her. No one.
Deke parked on the corner, shut off the engine and sat in his car taking in the area where Dixie had been killed three nights ago. The yellow crime-scene tape strung by the techs was now gone. He’d wanted to secure the scene longer, but budget and manpower wouldn’t allow it.
Out of the car, he loosened his tie as he moved up the side street toward the stained stretch of sidewalk. Keys jangling in his hands, he studied the area trying to imagine the killer’s approach. Tall shrubs to the right could easily have hidden someone and in the dark the area would have been bathed in shadows. Crime in this area was low and there’d been no reported problems suggesting a predator stalked the area.
He moved up the sidewalk stopping short of the exact murder spot and squatted. Clean-up crews had removed most of the debris, but fading dark stains hinted to the blood that had stained the concrete.
The blood had drawn him back to the scene. There’d been so much. The splatter would have sprayed the killer and his clothes. In daylight, he’d not have gone far unnoticed but the darkness
would have given him enough time to get away.
The blood. Dixie’s mangled face.
Both would join the ghosts of the other atrocities he’d seen on the job and haunt him for the rest of his life.
The blood.
It characterized Dixie’s death but also Annie Rivers Dawson’s as well. The dominant image in Dawson’s crime scene photos had been the blood painting the floor and walls.
There were similarities between Dixie and Annie. Both singers. Blond. Beautiful. It was conceivable that the same person could have killed them but a search of the last thirty years had revealed no other crimes that fit this precise victim profile.
A killer could lay dormant for thirty years. It had happened before. But what would have been the trigger this time? Rachel had been publicizing her vigil for a good week. Had her flyer triggered the killer? Or had the killer never heard of Annie and simply been angry or jealous? The latter was the likely scenario.
Headlights shone behind Deke’s vehicle. He rose and turned in time to see a female officer get out of an SUV and open the back door to her vehicle. She unclipped a leash from her waist and reached in and clicked it onto the collar of a hound dog.
A cap covered the officer’s blond hair twisted and pinned into a tight bun. She stood about five eight, had a trim, lean body and moved with confidence as her hound dropped his nose to the ground and sniffed. Fresh-faced, her clear green eyes surveyed the scene before meeting Deke’s gaze. “Detective Morgan?”
Deke extended his hand. “Officer Phillips?”
“Yes, sir. And this is my canine Bo. I hear from your brother you’d like us to follow a trail?”
Police canines were a specialized unit. Whereas Rick’s dog had been trained in protection and apprehension techniques, others were trained to sniff drugs, explosives, or cadavers. Rick had told Deke to call Jessica Phillips. She and her dog Bo were two of the best trackers in central Tennessee.
“That’s right. A blood trail.”