So many “if onlys” in her life.
The death she’d been seeking for years claimed her in an explosion of shattering pain.
* * *
Kir forced himself to wait before he demanded to know why he’d seen Chelsea Gallen storming from the clinic when he’d pulled up. Lynne was already as thin as a whippet. He didn’t want her losing any more weight. Squashing his curiosity, he’d led her into her office and insisted she eat a large helping of the chicken pot pie he’d made along with a salad.
He was ridiculously pleased when she polished her plate. As if he’d managed to achieve some wondrous achievement.
Man, he had it bad.
It wasn’t until he’d packed away the dishes that he finally coaxed her to reveal the details of her confrontation with her former receptionist. Within a few minutes his temper was rising. By the time she was done, he was standing in the center of the office with his hands clenched and his blood boiling.
“So anyone could have the keys to the clinic?” he growled.
Lynne sat on the sofa, her face pale. “If Chelsea wasn’t lying.”
He sent her a confused glance. “Why would she lie?”
“I warned her when I gave her the keys that if she lost them, I’d have to have all the locks changed and that she would have to pay for the expenses. It’s not only going to be costly, but it’s a hassle I don’t need right now.”
“It could be revenge,” Kir agreed. Chelsea had struck him as the sort of vindictive person who’d take pleasure in causing Lynne problems. But her relationship with Nash had also proved she was willing to sacrifice her pride and morals to please a man. Maybe even to please a friend. “It could be she gave them to someone and didn’t want to admit who had them.”
Lynne twisted her hands together. “The killer?”
“It’s possible.”
There was a long silence as they considered the dangers of having the keys in the hands of a murderous monster. Then Lynne heaved a frustrated sigh. “Or maybe she just lost them.”
“Yep.”
“Going around in circles. Again,” Lynne muttered. Then she frowned. “I almost forgot. Chelsea did have an interesting theory.”
“What’s that?”
“She thinks Nash was killed because of his connection to the drugs that were stolen, not because he was a chosen victim.”
“Not bad,” Kir said. It was true that Nash didn’t really fit the profile of the other victims. “If the killer feared Nash might have information that could expose him, it would make sense to get him out of the way.”
Lynne narrowed her eyes. “You don’t believe it.”
“No.” He reached into his front pocket to remove the list that had supposedly come from his father. Then he moved to sit next to her on the sofa. “I went back over this,” he said.
“And?”
“And I don’t think it’s listing locations.” He pointed to the first initials. “There’s an S. H.”
“Sherry Higgins.”
His finger moved down. “R. D.”
“Randi Decker.”
He moved to the next line. “M. R.”
She nodded. “Madeline Randall.”
“N. C.”
“Nash Cordon.” Lynne shuddered, her face going from pale to a sickly gray as she reached to touch the next initials on the list. “D. R. L. G. I’m next.”
Kir stuffed the paper back in his pocket, swiveling on the sofa to grab Lynne’s hands. “You need to get out of town. At least until the killer is found.”
She was shaking her head before he ever finished speaking. “You know I can’t do that. I have a business. The sanctuary. My house.”
He’d already anticipated her arguments. “Your father could return to Pike to take care of things.”
“And where would I go?”
He cupped her cheek in his hand. “We could stay at my condo in Boston.”
He heard her breath catch, as if she’d been caught off guard by his offer. Why? Surely she understood he intended for them to be together? Whether it was here or somewhere else.
Before he could assure her that she was stuck with him, she was pulling away from his lingering touch.
“We can’t hide there forever.”
He stared down at her. Hiding away with this woman forever sounded like a perfectly reasonable life choice to him. “Why not?”
“Kir . . .” Her words trailed away as the sharp sound of sirens blasted through the air. Lynne jumped to her feet and raced to the window. “Now what?”
“Let’s find out.” Grimly Kir straightened and pulled on his leather coat. It was obvious he wasn’t going to convince her to leave Pike this minute. They might as well discover what had happened. Perhaps the sheriff had actually done her job and was on the way to arrest the killer.
His lips twisted into a humorless smile. It seemed unlikely.
Lynne bundled herself in her coat and boots, and they headed out of the clinic. He was relieved to notice that Bernadine was at her desk in the outer lobby and he could hear one of the interns in an exam room. He didn’t like the thought of anyone in the clinic being on their own. Not when there was a crazed killer stalking Lynne.
Together they climbed into his SUV and Kir followed the fading sound of sirens. Ten minutes later they pulled to a halt in front of a line of low, brick buildings. Most were empty, but it looked like one was used as a café and another had the name of the local real estate company painted on the window.
In the parking lot was not only the sheriff’s vehicle, but an ambulance and the news van.
Kir climbed out of the SUV with a frown. Surely the killer hadn’t struck again already? He stepped toward the official vehicles only to be distracted as Lynne headed directly toward Parker Bowen, who was opening the back door of the van.
“Has there been another murder?” Lynne bluntly demanded.
Parker shook his head, looking almost disappointed. “Not this time.”
“What do you mean?”
Parker shrugged, removing his expensive trench coat and replacing it with a heavy parka. “Looks like a hit-and-run.” He headed toward the driver’s door and pulled it open.
“Are you leaving?”
“This is second-team stuff,” Parker told her, pointing toward the aged sedan that had just pulled into the parking lot.
A young woman with long blond hair and an eager expression jumped out and headed toward the deputy, who was draping crime-scene tape across the alley between the café and an empty building. Parker got in the van and drove away.
Kir shook his head in disgust. “He’s a real winner.”
Lynne turned her attention toward the EMTs who were leaving the alley and heading toward the waiting ambulance. She sucked in a shocked breath as they got near enough to see the patient strapped to the gurney they were pushing.
“Oh my God, is that Rita?”
Kir’s breath hissed between his teeth as he caught sight of the woman’s ashen face heavily flecked with blood. He felt as if he’d just been punched in the gut. “I’ll be back,” he muttered, shoving his way through the gathering crowd.
By the time he reached the ambulance they had loaded Rita inside and closed the doors. Damn. He had to discover which hospital they were taking her to. Jogging toward the front of the vehicle, he was abruptly halted as the sheriff stepped directly in his path.
“Get out of my crime scene,” Kathy snapped.
Kir cursed as the ambulance drove away. “Is Rita going to the hospital in Grange?”
“I’m not telling you anything.”
Kir whirled back to face her, deliberately towering over her. He was done pandering to this woman’s petty need to push people around. If she didn’t feel competent to do her job, she should quit. She was putting the entire town in danger.
“Dammit, she was a friend of my father,” he snarled. “Maybe his only friend at the end. If she’s been hurt, I’m going to make sure she gets the medical care she needs.”
Kathy flushed at his fierce tone. “She doesn’t need a doctor, she needs an undertaker,” she snapped. Kir jerked in shock and the woman released a harsh sigh. “I’m sorry,” she forced herself to mutter before turning and walking toward the alley.
Kir stood still, trying to absorb the unexpected pain. Poor, sad Rita. She’d spent years being punished for marrying the wrong man. She should have had a chance to redeem her future. To find peace.
Instead she’d been run down in an alley. Where was the justice in that?
Justice. The word echoed through the back of his mind. Yes. That’s what she deserved.
Turning on his heel, Kir scanned the group standing next to the crime-scene tape. He focused in on the clutch of elderly men who were watching the scurry of officials with obvious impatience. He was betting they were waiting to return to the café and finish their lunch. Or maybe they’d been in the middle of a card game.
They seemed the most likely to know something.
He strolled to stand next to the group, trying to look casual. “Did anyone witness the accident?”
A man who Kir was guessing to be in his sixties with a ruddy face and watery blue eyes shook his head.
“Nope. Chester was taking out the trash from the lunch crowd when he saw Rita lying behind the dumpster.”
Kir was about to ask where he could find Chester when he was struck by something the man had said. “Behind the dumpster? You’re sure?”
The man frowned, as if he assumed Kir was one of those morbid people who took joy in tragedy. “Yeah,” he reluctantly answered. “Chester said she was jammed against the wall. He nearly didn’t see her. He just caught a peek of her boots sticking out. Terrible tragedy.” With a shake of his head the man turned away, closing ranks with his friends, who eyed Kir with suspicion.
Kir sighed before making his way back to Lynne, who reached out to grab his hand.
“Are you okay?”
“Rita’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.” She squeezed his fingers. “A hit-and-run?”
Kir glanced toward the alley where the sheriff and her deputy were already clearing away the crime-scene tape.
“That seems to be the general assumption,” he muttered.
Lynne stared at him in confusion. “Is there a reason you don’t believe it?”
His jaw tightened as the crowd hurried back into the café and the officials crawled into their vehicles to drive away. It was as if nothing had happened.
Was it because Rita King had been the town drunk, without money or friends? Or just because there was nothing left to do but plan the funeral?
And why couldn’t he accept that it’d been nothing more than a tragic accident? Did it have something to do with his unresolved grief for his father?
He sighed. So many questions without answers. It made his brain hurt.
“Rita was found behind the dumpster,” he told Lynne. “How did she get there?”
She blinked, puzzled by his refusal to accept the obvious. “The impact of the car . . .” Her words trailed away. “Well, she could have been thrown there.”
“I suppose.”
He was trying to imagine the force it would take to shove a woman behind a dumpster when Lynne reached out to give his arm a gentle squeeze.
“What now?”
He shook away his morbid thoughts, telling himself that it was sheer paranoia to assume this was more than some tragic accident. “I’ll take you back to work, then I’m going to make sure someone contacts Rita’s daughter,” he told Lynne with a shudder. “I don’t want the poor woman left in the morgue.”
She regarded him with concern. “Are you sure you should be driving? You’re pretty shaken up.”
“I’m fine.” He turned to lead Lynne back to the SUV. “You can call me when you’re done, and I’ll pick you up.”
They crawled into the vehicle and Kir switched on the engine.
Lynne heaved a small sigh as she watched the last of the gawkers drift away. “I’m sorry, Kir,” she murmured softly. “Rita deserved better.”
Kir gripped the steering wheel, a sick regret in the pit of his stomach. “She did.”
Chapter 22
Lynne finished the last appointment and was waiting for Kir to pick her up by five thirty that evening—nothing less than a miracle. She waited in the lobby until she saw his SUV pull into the parking lot, not about to take any chances. Then, after locking the doors and switching on the alarm, she hurried to join him in the thankfully warm vehicle.
“Did you locate Rita’s daughter?” she asked as she closed the door and buckled her seat belt.
Kir pulled out of the lot, his face lined with weariness. “I didn’t talk to her, but the deputy at the sheriff’s office said they’d contacted her, and she was on her way back to arrange the funeral.” He sent her a quick glance. “The deputy also told me your truck has been released. You can pick it up tonight.”
Lynne swallowed a rude word. “About time.”
“We’ll take my dad’s truck to get it and then run it back to his house. I need to grab some clothes anyway.”
“Okay.”
They drove to her home and after taking King out for a quick walk, they exchanged the SUV for the old pickup and headed to the impound lot behind the sheriff’s office. Twenty minutes later they both pulled to a halt in front of Rudolf’s old house and were entering through the front door.
Lynne arched her brows as she pulled off her boots and slipped out of her heavy coat. The shabby furniture and old carpet were the same, but there was a new layer of white paint on the walls and the yellowed blinds had been replaced with new curtains. It was amazing how the simple touches had refreshed the room.
“It looks good in here,” she told Kir, turning in a slow circle. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
His lips twisted as he took off his coat and tossed it on a chair. “Solve crimes.”
She studied him with a flare of sympathy. He looked .. . subdued. As if the pressure he’d placed on himself to expose the killer was taking a heavy toll. Without considering what she was doing, Lynne walked forward to wrap her arms around his waist. “I’m pretty sure that’s like brain surgery,” she assured him. “A talent that takes both training and experience.” “Unfortunately.”
Lynne rested her head against his chest, feeling the soft brush of his lips over her hair. Instantly the lingering chill was chased away. It wasn’t just the warmth of his body seeping through her sweater. Or the strength of his arms as they wrapped around her. It was the familiar scent of his skin and the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.
He wasn’t one of those guys she usually dated. He’d put his unpredictable, reckless childhood behind him. Now he was solid and loyal and utterly dependable.
A man who a woman chose for the long haul.
Her heart missed a beat, but before she could panic at the direction of her thoughts, Lynne was distracted by a red flash across the room. “What’s that blinking light?”
Kir glanced around. “Where?”
“Next to the television.”
Kir dropped his arms and turned to discover what she was talking about. “Oh.” He shrugged. “It’s my dad’s answering machine. I thought I deleted all the messages.”
“Maybe someone was trying to get ahold of you.”
“Why not call my cell?”
“They might not have your number.”
“True.” With obvious reluctance he crossed the carpet and bent over the stand that held the old-fashioned phone and machine along with the usual pad and pencil to jot down notes. Her own father had kept a phone just like it until he moved to Florida. Some things you just couldn’t change. Kir pushed a button, then another one when nothing happened. “I always forget how to operate this thing. I’m pretty sure it was invented in the Stone Age.”
Lynne was about to move and help him when the sound of Rudolf’s voice stopped her in her tracks. He sounded as if he was standing in the room
with them as the older man told the caller to leave a message after the beep. She closed her eyes, but even as she struggled against the wave of pain, a breathless female voice echoed through the room.
“Hi . . . um . . . Kir . . . this is Rita. Rita King,” the woman said. “I just found something at your father’s grave you should see. I think they’re from the killer.” There was the sound of rough breathing, as if Rita was walking as she was talking. “Okay. I’m going home, so when you get this come by. Or we can meet at the bar tonight.” There was an awkward pause, as if the woman wasn’t used to talking on the phone. “Yeah, so talk to you later.”
There was a long beep as the message came to an end and Lynne released a shaky breath. “Rita.”
Kir glanced down at the machine. “The message was recorded at eleven thirty. She must have called right before she died.”
Lynne pressed a hand against her stomach, trying to imagine what had happened.
Obviously, Rita had her old friend on her mind. Whether it was because of Kir or some other reason, they would never know, but she’d decided to visit his grave. Once she was there, she’d found something—or rather some things—that had alarmed her. She’d called Kir and . . .
What?
Gone to the café and randomly been run over?
No. Lynne didn’t believe it. Granted, Rita had probably been distracted by what she’d found. But the chances that she’d wandered in front of a moving car were astronomical. Not when she’d just discovered evidence that might unmask the serial killer.
“You were right,” she told Kir. “Rita’s death wasn’t an accident.”
Kir frowned, pacing the small living room with short, jerky steps. “What the hell did she find?”
“She said ‘they’re’ from the killer,” Lynne reminded him. “Which means more than one thing.”
He came to an abrupt halt. “Letters.”
Lynne nodded. It was the first thing that came to her mind. “It’s possible.”
“Why would they be at the grave?”
“Because the killer is still writing them, and in his mind, that’s where your father is.”
Don't Look Page 23