Trixie finally gave in to Memphis’s charm and gave him a dimply smile. Taylor saw why she didn’t do it much. Her teeth were brown and visibly decayed.
“I’d be happy to show the lady to her room,” she said.
Memphis shook his head. “No, that’s fine. Jacques has her bag. I’m going to give her a quick tour.”
“I’ll leave you, then,” Trixie said. Taylor watched her walk away, wondered if perhaps she’d had scoliosis as a child and been forced to wear a brace. It was rare to see such good posture. Her glance went down the length of the woman’s body, and then she saw the reason. The left shoe’s sole was four times thicker than the right. Her left leg was dramatically short. To make up for it, Trixie had developed the carriage of a queen. Taylor could only imagine the pain she’d experienced growing up.
As if she knew Taylor was watching her, Trixie looked back over her shoulder for a moment, casting a dark glance at the new interloper standing in her entrance hall. Taylor was a bit taken aback. While not overtly friendly, Trixie hadn’t seemed hostile until that moment. Taylor made a note to be wary around her.
Memphis watched Taylor, and he’d obviously seen Trixie’s angry glance. He sought to reassure her, spoke quietly.
“Trixie’s a good woman. She has been with the family forever, since well before I was born. She was our governess when we were growing up, frightened us all into submission. She has no one, no family, nothing. So when we were grown, Mother took her as her personal maid. She took over running the whole place from the housekeeper several years ago. She’s very protective of the family, just doesn’t take to strangers. She’ll come round. I’m not here very much, but it looks like she has things well in hand. Let’s see the rest of the place.”
He gave her a brief tour of the downstairs—the dining room, the armory, the public viewing rooms with the history of the castle carefully imprinted on each, then they walked to the back of the castle, down a long hallway lined with deer skulls and antlers. Taylor wasn’t against hunting, per se, just wasn’t an aficionado herself.
Did you shoot all of these?
“Oh no. See the plaques?”
Taylor looked closer. To the right of each skull was a hand written note. She traced the line up the hall–Meek age 3, Meek age 4, Meek age 5.
A pet?
“Of sorts. The deer drop their antlers every year. It’s always been tradition to gather them up and place them on the wall, attached to the skulls of deer that have passed or been shot. You see how big he got—Meek sired half the herd.”
Meek had grown to a fine twelve-point buck before his death at the ripe old age of fifteen.
“Some people collect plates,” he said with a shrug.
My mother collects Limoges teacups. She started when she was a girl. The display cases are ridiculous.
She paused and looked back up at the remnants of Meek.
I think I like the antlers better. More character.
He smiled and led her to a set of stone stairs. This took them up a flight to a quiet wooden door with a coded lock. He gave her the code; this would be her path into and out of the castle.
The family rooms were no less opulent, but much more modern and comfortable than the public rooms of the castle. While still traditional, with wooden panels on the walls and elegant plasterwork on the ceilings, there was leather and glass and dark wood, with more contemporary paintings and cornice-work, with tiny feminine touches that set the private rooms apart.
The whole aspect was decidedly uncobwebby. She had to laugh. Her parents’ huge house in Nashville, long empty but still theirs, just waiting for Taylor to come to her senses and accept her fortune, would fit twice into the private rooms of Dulsie Castle.
“What’s so funny?” Memphis asked.
With a smile, she wrote Humility.
“Humility? I thought you liked the place.” He pretended to be hurt.
It’s lovely, Memphis. A bit grander than I’m used to, but lovely. Where do I sleep?
“Ah, I’ve been saving the best for last. Come and see.”
He held out a hand, which she accepted, and he pulled her along down a hallway, up another flight of stairs to another long hallway. The ancient oak, wide planked floors, glossy with a patina befitting their age, were covered by a thick gorgeous yellow-and-red wool and silk runner that she wanted to lie down on.
“Your chamber, my lady,” Memphis said, stopping in front of a large wooden door. It was arched, the handle wrought iron, with a square wooden peephole traversed by a tiny iron fence. She’d seen less grand front entrances on some of the stately Belle Meade mansions at home.
Memphis pushed the door open, and Taylor was, quite simply, blown away. She’d grown up with the trappings of wealth, but this was far beyond what she’d ever been privy to. It was everything a castle room should be.
On closer inspection, they were actually in a suite of rooms, all gorgeously, sumptuously decorated. The ceilings were twenty feet high, paneled, covered in elegantly detailed roundels. The plasterwork was ornate and intricate, bordering on rococo, with draped silk and paintings of cherubs on clouds, a mini Sistine Chapel. The walls were soft golden oak, also in panels that were interspersed with silk tapestries. She could get lost in the stories they portrayed.
The front area held a sitting room. A couch faced a television, but she barely glanced at it after the rest of the room caught her eye. Warm butter-colored leather chairs with a small table and reading lamp faced a virtual library of books surrounding a large stone fireplace, a fire already crackling and putting out warmth. There was a ladder to reach the uppermost shelves.
She went to the tomes immediately, running her fingers over the spines. All of her favorites were there, all the books she and Memphis had discussed over the past several months.
She had a flash of emotion, both affection and sympathy, for all his trouble. This was seduction at its highest—the simple act of memory. When someone remembers what you’ve said, has actually taken the time to listen and stow away the information for recall later, well, that was beyond flattery. That’s what a real relationship was about.
She saw that there was a small theater section as well, with all of her favorite movies on DVD. To her right, there was a large casement window, the sheer curtain drawn. She walked to it and spread the drape back, her breath catching in her throat. The view was stunning—if warped a bit by the glazed glass. She had a complete panorama of the mountains, the valley, the river, the deer park, the sheep, the incoming storm. If she looked far to her right she could see the estate’s grass tennis courts. She shivered and pulled her sweater closer around her. If she could have designed a view to be perfect, this would fit the bill.
It was the most romantic place she’d ever seen.
She turned to Memphis, saw he was waiting anxiously for her to say something. Anything.
Without thinking, she went to him and hugged him, hard. He slipped his arms around her back and held her. Not like a drowning man, the way he had in the past, but gently, suitably. She could feel how happy he was that he had pleased her.
“Thank you,” she managed to say, and kissed him on the cheek. He stared into her eyes. They were of a height and matched together well. He swallowed hard, and she knew she needed to move away, right now, before things went to a place she wasn’t willing to travel.
She stepped back and rasped, “Thank you,” again.
He pulled himself together, the pain shooting through his eyes and across his face plainly before he stowed it away and grew cheerful again.
“But you haven’t even seen your bedroom or the en suite. Come, I’ll show you the rest.”
The rest was fit for a princess. A duchess. A queen. And this was just a guest suite; she couldn’t imagine what the real aristocracy got. Her wooden bed was king-size on a platform with a pale yellow silk canopy, the bathroom travertine, limestone and glass, with a dual-head shower and separate massive soaking tub, actually long enough for her to lie down. The
closet held more surprises, these more practical—a pair of shearling-lined bottle-green Wellies and a hip-length gray North Face down jacket.
“I wouldn’t want you to ruin your best coat. This will do for you to play on the estate, should you choose. It’s a bit muddy out there, and the weather is unpredictable at best.”
You’ve done too much, Memphis. Too much.
She sat on the edge of the tub to try on the boots.
“It could never be enough, Taylor. You deserve the world. If I could give you that, were it in my power, I would. Instead, I present you with rubbers.”
His blue eyes were sparkling. The teasing, flirting Memphis was back. She almost sighed in relief. That she could handle. Thoughtful, tender Memphis was too much for her to bear.
He turned to leave. “Dinner will be at seven. Things can get a bit draughty, so bring a sweater. I’ll see you in an hour.”
The door closed quietly behind him.
Leaving her sitting alone in an opulent castle bathroom, one boot on, one off, staring after him like the sun had gone out of the room.
Taylor didn’t bother unpacking, decided the best use of her hour alone was to warm her feet at the fireplace, reveling in the smoky smell. She knew they used to burn coal here, tribute from the cottars who were forced to dig and burn peat for their own fires—slow, smoldering and smoky—that would last for hours. The timbers above her fireplace had a coating of black that wouldn’t come off. She assumed the family left it to stay true to their roots, or maybe they were load-bearing. But this was a crackling wood fire—pine, from the scent of it. The wood sizzled and popped, the flames danced, making her feel completely at home.
Her throat hurt, and her head was aching. She went to her bag and retrieved the pills she needed. Percocet if the headache was horrible. Fioricet if it was only mild. Ativan for the panic. Found a fresh pitcher of water and swallowed the pills. She had a small bar to herself, with multiple variants of amber liquor in crystal decanters, handmade labels placed in front to identify the contents. Dalwhinnie. Oban. Glenmorangie. Bunnahabhain 18. Macallan 21. Laphroaig 12. Scotch. She hated Scotch. Beer. Where was a beer when you need it? She pulled open the cabinets. Of course, a concealed refrigerator, fully stocked with Diet Coke, bottled still water and Heineken. She knew she shouldn’t mix the meds with alcohol, but was more worried about showing up to dinner with liquor on her breath. Thinking caffeine might just help the pills’ efficacy, she grabbed the Diet Coke instead.
She sat back in front of the fire, her head angled so she could see both the rain begin to fall outside and the flames leaping into the flue. Sipped on the soda. Realized she hadn’t checked in with Baldwin. Realized that for the first time in a month, she felt like she could breathe.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sam Loughley was patiently waiting for Stuart Charisse to finish his lunch so they could get back to work. She didn’t have much of an appetite, had settled for a bag of chips out of the vending machine. Salt and fat, that matched her mood.
They had three bodies to post this afternoon, one of whom was the hit-and-run victim from yesterday. Sam might have thought to recuse herself had the lab been staffed to capacity, but as it was, she was two doctors and one death investigator short. The remaining MEs were all sharing duties in order to allow them some actual time off. Which meant Sam got stuck with double shifts five days a week until she got some budget work cleared up and another couple of MEs hired. Sometimes she wondered if she should turn the shop over to someone else, an administrator, but the idea of giving that level of control to a stranger made her numb with worry.
Marcus Wade was planning to attend the post. Sam liked all of the players on Taylor’s team, but she had a soft spot for Marcus. He hadn’t gotten jaded yet. She hoped that would never change, that he could keep part of himself innocent, separate from all of the horrors they saw on a daily basis.
Plus, he laughed at her jokes.
The Jaguar, an older model XJ6, hadn’t been found. It was probably sitting in someone’s garage, groaning from the beating it took. Cars don’t like to hit people almost as much as people don’t like to be hit by cars.
She went to the computer and started reviewing the case details. A late entry by the death investigator, Keri McGee—whom she’d stolen away from Metro’s crime lab a month earlier when her favorite ’gator took a bigger and better job in Alabama—caught her eye.
Victim has $1,000 in cash in her pocket, in a plain white envelope. Ten brand-new one hundred dollar bills. One bill seems to have a stain on it, blue, as yet unidentifiable. Sent to lab for testing.
Now that was weird. The woman had been dressed in nice but utilitarian clothes, designer-label slacks and a blouse, both with the label cut, indicating she’d bought them at a steep discount from an outlet store. Her wool coat had a Macy’s label, but it was threadbare, lived in, and about five years out of style. She wore black sneakers, the soles nearly worn through but with brand-new cushioned sports inserts inside, which screamed that she was on her feet all day.
Walking around with a spare thousand bucks in her pocket? No way.
Sam went back to the woman’s body, looked at her feet. Sure enough, they were covered with calluses. Her hands were also rough and cracked, the nails short and neatly filed. Menial labor then, maybe in a restaurant kitchen. Hard way for a middle-aged woman to live. Especially if she was undocumented. The simple fact that her family had clammed up was a clue that she wasn’t in the States legally.
Not a huge surprise. Though the laws were stringent now, for a time, Tennessee had possessed the most lax immigration regulations in the country, to the point of allowing thousands of undocumented workers to get driver’s licenses with just a pay stub and water or electric bill to “prove” residency. They’d come from all over the United States, and south of the border, to purchase that little piece of plastic that said they belonged. No more; the laws had changed and were practically draconian in comparison. Proof of citizenship was required now.
But in its wake, the initial freedoms had left behind a massive gang problem. Mainly members of MS-13. Not a nice bunch of folks. Sam saw the vestiges of their march for primacy almost daily.
She heard whistling from the corridor, and a few moments later, Marcus appeared, his floppy brown hair under a University of Tennessee baseball cap, Stuart hot on his heels.
“Sorry I’m late,” Marcus said. “Crazy morning. Did you hear about it?”
Sam shook her head. She’d been well lost in her own thoughts. “No, what happened? You catch a break on our hit-and-run?”
Marcus glanced at the naked body of their Jane Doe. “No, not her. Though I do have a name, Marias González. Guatemalan. Undocumented. She lives over in South Nashville, Antioch area, near Nolensville. I’m heading there after the post. No, the big excitement was we got the guy who left that jump drive at Café Coco, the one with all the kiddie porn on it? Remember?”
Sam did remember. What sort of idiot went to public computers, popped in a jump drive and looked at pornographic pictures of children, then managed to leave the jump drive behind? That was beyond her comprehension. Metro had been trying to make an arrest in the case for almost two months. Taylor had told her the man was a true sociopath and extremely dangerous—trying to get away with such a personal act in public was indicative of his narcissism.
“Yeah, he’s a grad student at Vanderbilt. Looks like an Abercrombie and Fitch model, all square jawed and handsome. He wasn’t so pretty crying his eyes out, I’ll tell you that. Stupid fool. We’re going to wrap up a whole ring of local and national pedophiles with the information on his computer. Lincoln’s combing through the hard drive for Sex Crimes right now.”
“That’s wonderful news. One less creep on the street.”
“You said it, sister. He’s a piece of work. So let’s talk about Marias here. What’s her story?”
Sam gestured toward the computer, where the file was still open. “Did you see the note Keri left about the $
1,000 in her pocket?”
“Yeah, I was there when they found it. The stain? Looks like it came from a dye pack to me.”
Sam stopped and looked at Marcus. “You mean from a bank robbery?”
“Exactly.”
“Ah,” she said.
“Ah is right. So you can imagine what’s going through my head.”
She could do exactly that. In addition to phantom kiddie diddlers romancing their twisted psyches in the coffee shops, the Regretful Robber continued to wreak havoc all over Metro.
“You think she’s in on the robberies?” Sam asked, pulling on her gloves and signaling to Stuart to prep for Ms. González. Sam went to look at the X-rays. “Typical crush injuries on the X-rays, compound fractures of the tibia and fibula on both legs, the femurs also cracked. Skull fracture. The jackpot will be her brain. I’m expecting a large subdural hematoma. All that pressure and nowhere to go.”
“I suppose it’s possible she was the robber. Though the guys in Special Crimes have been working under the assumption that it’s a man.”
“You know what happens when you assume.”
“Ass. You. Me. Got it.”
“But if she’s involved, why come to the CJC? With your family in tow?”
“They were going to force her to confess?” Marcus said.
“Maybe. Or maybe she saw something she wasn’t supposed to, or her car was one of the ones that had been stolen. The $1,000 could have been remuneration—that is this guy’s M.O.”
“Also possible. But I think it was something more. Did you see the fibers they collected from her pocket?”
As they talked, Sam did her external on the victim, looking carefully for anything that wasn’t consistent with the accident. She made notes of cuts and bruises, saw nothing out of the ordinary, and signaled to Stuart, who took up his scalpel and opened the woman like he was pulling down a zipper. Marcus took an involuntary step back to avoid the splash of blood that welled over the edges of the incision.
Where All the Dead Lie Page 10