Find Me

by Debra Webb

  "I can certainly see how it would be difficult to choose anyone else standing on a stage next to her. She is stunning." Sarah felt sick to her stomach.

  Alicia's mother motioned around the room. "She has so many trophies and crowns." She sighed. "She was crowned Miss Youngstown High School at the homecoming game." She moved to an enormous curio cabinet and indicated a glittering crown sitting atop a velvet pillow. "She loved getting dressed up from the time she could walk."

  Sarah surveyed the numerous crowns, would have shifted her attention back to the roses, but something out of place snagged her curiosity. A pink pillow, four shelves down, was empty. All the rest displayed a shimmering crown, but not that one.

  "I don't know what happened to that one," Rachel offered, obviously noting Sarah's focus there. "I've searched this house twice over and I can't find it. I even accused her brothers of having misplaced it but they swear they didn't touch it."

  Part of her needing to reach out, Sarah put a hand on the woman's arm. "I'm sure you'll find it." She wished she could say the same for her missing daughter. Sarah's every instinct blistered her senses with the impression that this would not end well.

  "I sure hope so," Rachel lamented. "She won that crown in seventh grade." She drew her eyebrows together. "Or was it eighth? She'll remember and she won't be happy to learn it's misplaced."

  Conner practically dragged Sarah out of the room after that. He kept apologizing for their having stayed so long. When they reached the front door, Rachel Appleton asked, "Are you going to put Alicia's picture in your magazine?"

  Sarah paused. The other woman's expression was so hopeful that she couldn't say no. "Yes. With your approval, of course."

  The woman beamed even as her lips trembled with fear. "Alicia would like that a lot. Just a minute." Rachel hurried off in the direction of the bedrooms.

  "We have to go," Conner urged. "The chief needs to know about this. He's not going to be happy you touched that card."

  Sarah didn't care what the chief thought, she couldn't stop obsessing on that missing crown. "We'll go in a minute."

  This felt wrong. It was more than the missing girl… it was about the crown somehow. And the roses. She felt it deep in her gut.

  "Here."

  Sarah hauled her attention to Rachel as she burst back into the room. She held out a small photograph. Sarah accepted it. Alicia Appleton's Top Model smile radiated from the wallet-size photo as if it were ten times its size. This girl would walk into a room and own it with nothing more than that smile.

  "That's her favorite." Rachel glowed with pride. "She would be mortified if you didn't use that one."

  "This one's perfect." Sarah delivered her best attempt at a reassuring smile.

  Rachel's face fell as if the weight of maintaining the hope was too much for her. "You don't have any more questions?"

  The woman was lonely. Lonely and terrified. Terrified that no one would be able to find her daughter.

  Before it was too late.

  Emotion burned Sarah's eyes. "I may be back with more questions. If that's all right."

  Rachel nodded. "Come any time. I'll be here." The distraught mother glanced around her living room. "When she comes home, I want her to find me right here waiting."

  Waiting, Sarah knew, for things to be the way they used to be.

  "Thank you, Ms. Appleton."

  Rachel Appleton reached out this time… rested her trembling fingers on Sarah's arm. "I know what other people say… but…" She moistened her lips, blinked back the shine in her eyes. "But I'm glad you're here."

  There. Right there, Sarah realized, was the compassion that Connor spoke about so avidly. No matter that her daughter was missing, this woman still reached out to Sarah to make her feel welcome.

  The look that passed between them as they stood, touching, was something else Sarah recognized all too well. Sheer desperation… absolute terror.

  Sarah was unconditionally certain of one thing in all this… if she wasn't found soon Alicia Appleton would die.

  Very soon.

  And Rachel Appleton would never, not in a million lifetimes, recover.

  CHAPTER 15

  Youngstown Public Safety Office, 12:22 P.M.

  Kale closed his cell phone. Things at Conner and Sons were still rolling along smoothly without him. He didn't like spending this much time away from work… but it was the only way he could keep up with his new project. This time of year, Saturdays, sometimes Sundays, were required to prep for the coming season.

  Sarah Newton paced the chief's office, annoyed that they were being made to wait yet again by a member of law enforcement.

  That was the other thing about people from New York. They thought everything had to happen now. Life here didn't move at that pace. Patience was more than a virtue; it was a way of life. Like waiting for the snow to finally melt away for the last time each spring. Slowly hauling up a lobster trap, each turn of the hydraulic lift increasing the anticipation of a rich catch. Watching the sun slowly sink into the deep blue sea at the end of the day.

  She wouldn't understand any of that.

  Learning to appreciate those things was the only way he'd kept his sanity after his father's accident.

  Long-buried emotions attempted to surface. He pushed them away and immediately adjusted his attitude. Coming back here and following through on his responsibilities had been the right thing to do. No regrets.

  People like Sarah Newton wouldn't understand that level of commitment. They lived for the moment.

  He followed her movements back and forth in the room. Maybe he wasn't giving her enough credit. Her life was… different from his. That was all. She had no family obligations. She apparently poured everything into her work. Ultimately, she was free to make her own choices. She could live her life the way she chose.

  Maybe that was the appeal. He envied her freedom.

  But he didn't regret his choices. He couldn't regret doing the right thing.

  As he watched her, he wondered about the demons that drove her. Last night he'd gotten a glimpse of a vulnerable side. But only a glimpse. She was strong. Determined and deeply committed to accomplishing her goal here. What would it be like if that fierce determination was focused on a connection with another human being? Images of frantic sex acts transposed themselves in front of his eyes.

  Kale blinked. What the hell was he doing?

  Luckily for him, Chief Willard strolled into his office smelling of winter, cold air, and chimney smoke. "Sorry for the wait." He propped a smile into place and closed the door behind him. "I'm pleased to finally have the opportunity to meet you, Ms. Newton." He looked from her to Kale and back. "What can I do for you today?"

  She glanced at Kale to see if he was going to start. He motioned for her to go ahead. This was her theory; he wasn't about to take her glory—or her derision when the chief dismissed her hypothesis with fact. Kale had had a chance to think about the scenario and he felt certain the chief, as the one before him, had investigated any anonymous gifts. Maybe they didn't do things around here the way they were done in New York, but things got done just the same.

  Maybe if Kale stopped thinking about what a great ass Sarah Newton had, his conclusions would come to him a little faster and save the trouble of bugging the chief.

  "Rachel Appleton received a dozen red roses from an anonymous sender this morning," Newton informed the chief. When that didn't get the hoped-for reaction, she added, "The message on the card was Deepest regrets."

  The chief seemed to consider the news as he leaned against the closed door, the file he carried clutched in both hands. "Did you check to see if all the cards with all the flowers and the mountain of other gifts were signed? Seems to me that would be the only way your suggestion might be relevant in some way or another. Wouldn't you say?"

  Frustration sketched itself across Newton's face, demonstrated itself in her posture. "There's a vase exactly like it sitting on the counter at the Gerard home. Wouldn't you s
ay there's a strong likelihood the card will read the same way?"

  The chief flicked a glance in Kale's direction.

  "We looked through the kitchen window," he explained, resisting the urge to shift his weight from foot to foot as he'd done back in Sunday school when asked to stand and respond to a question to which he didn't know the answer. As he had then, he tried not to look as guilty as he felt. His job was to keep Sarah Newton out of trouble, not to let her run unchecked through the village.

  "All that means"—the chief pushed away from the door and moved around behind his desk—"is that someone wanted both families to be aware of their concern."

  "So you're not going to check it out."

  This wasn't a question. It was a challenge. No, an outright accusation. Kale looked from her to the chief, braced for an explosion.

  "The fact of the matter is we've already checked it out." He reclined in his chair, gestured for the two of them to have a seat.

  Kale waited to see if Newton would accept. She didn't. So he stood.

  "And?" she prompted.

  "The deliveries were made by two different floral services. So you know"—he laid the folder he'd been holding on his desk—"there were seven anonymous gifts sent to the Gerard family. So far there've been four to the Appletons. Deputy Brighton is monitoring any contact with the families."

  That blew her theory full of holes. "None of these anonymous gifts," Kale ventured, "have any connection to the murders twenty years ago?" He knew the answer before he asked the question. He'd been in on the briefing in the beginning. Aspects of possible connections had already been considered. But he wanted her to hear that.

  Willard shook his head. "There are some similarities, that's true. But, so far, there's no reason to believe the two are connected."

  "You don't think it's strange…"—Newton leaned forward and braced her hands on the front of his desk—"that the victims twenty years ago received the same flowers from an anonymous sender and now that exact scenario is playing out again?"

  "Right now," the chief allowed with infinite patience, "the answer is no. If we could prove the cards from twenty years ago carried the same message and were signed with the same handwriting as the ones today, maybe. But we can't do that. The Burgesses moved away. No one knows where they ended up. And the Petersons have both passed on. There's no way to confirm or to rule out the possibility."

  "What about the handwriting on these two? Were the messages written by the same person?"

  "We believe they were. But so were two of the other anonymous gifts both families received. Some folks don't sign cards because they're not looking for a thank-you or any other sort of gratification. They just want to express their sympathy and concern."

  Newton straightened, blew out a perturbed breath, and started that tension-building pacing once more.

  "Chief." Kale hated to heap any more worries on the chiefs plate, but he needed to know about last night. "Someone attacked Ms. Newton at the chapel last night."

  Willard's face pinched. "At the chapel?" He shifted his attention to Newton. "Are you all right, Ms. Newton?"

  She scarcely stopped her pacing to say, "I'm fine."

  "Did you get a look at your attacker?" the chief wanted to know. "We'll need to file an official report so one of my deputies can look into this. I have to tell you, I'm genuinely surprised anyone would have done such a thing. I hope you'll accept my apology. Folks around here don't generally do such things."

  She shook her head. "He was wearing a ski mask." She paused, then sent a pointed stare straight at the chief. "But he got a look at the bottom of my shoe." The pacing resumed. "Don't worry about a report. It doesn't matter."

  The chief shook his head, worry sagging his shoulders. "Ms. Newton," he said wearily, "I'd like you to take a seat." She turned toward him. "And I'm going to go over a few details with you that until now haven't been released to anyone beyond those involved with the investigation. Then you'll see why we aren't putting any credence in any kind of connection to the murders from two decades ago."

  Kale watched as Newton visibly conceded and took a seat. He settled into the one next to her. Tension crackled through him, making his pulse jump. Did the chief have something new on the case? Why hadn't he been informed?

  "Twenty years ago," the chief began, "the bodies of two young ladies were discovered at the chapel." He rummaged around on his desk and selected another folder then passed it to Newton. "Each body was stabbed, slashed, or gouged sixty-six times. Precisely sixty-six times," he reiterated. "But the fatal wound was the one inflicted when the killer removed the victim's heart. The organs were never found."

  Kale tried to take a breath, Failed. Why hadn't the chief told him that part? Did the others know? Newton said nothing to this revelation.

  "Since those files were destroyed," the chief continued, "I've written a detailed report of all that I recall." He paused for Newton to consider the in-depth report from those murders.

  When she glanced up once more, he went on, "There were no other markings, no other evidence. Nothing. Other than the victims being female and the lack of evidence, these murders share no significant similarities to Valerie Gerard's."

  Newton closed the folder and placed it back on the chief's desk. "This is the reason," she suggested, "you've been so certain the murders weren't related."

  He nodded. "These"—he passed to Newton the folder he'd been carrying when he entered the office—"are the photos from the Gerard scene. There's more."

  Kale tensed, startled. When had the chief made this decision? The last Kale had heard she wasn't to know that one detail. Now she would understand that Kale had not been completely honest when she asked him to describe the scene. Didn't bode well for their tenuous working relationship. Then again, apparently there was a lot he hadn't known.

  She studied the photos briefly then shot a fleeting look at Kale before passing the file back to the chief.

  Oh, yeah. He was going to hear about this.

  "What's your theory on this undisclosed detail?" she asked. She didn't look surprised or moved in any way.

  "I've spent the past two hours on a conference call with our Bureau liaison and the state forensics folks. The consensus is that Valerie Gerard likely knew her killer. This murder was personal. And that's the way we're investigating it."

  A flicker of surprise showed on Newton's face. "No more curse theories?"

  The chief adopted a long-suffering face. "Folks are going to believe what they believe, Ms. Newton. All we in law enforcement can hope for is to ferret out the facts."

  "Is there anything else you're keeping from the press?" Her tone was nothing short of skeptical. Obviously she wasn't convinced she'd gotten the whole story even now.

  The chiefs hesitation had Kale turning to him. There was something new. Being kept in the dark, under the circumstances, put him at a serious disadvantage. Giving the chief credit, he was neck deep in alligators in this investigation. He didn't have time to hold Kale's hand by keeping him apprised of every update. Kale had to keep that in mind. In truth, he'd just as soon never have known that one part.

  "There is one other thing." The somberness of the chiefs tone set Kale further on edge. "Let me forewarn you, Ms. Newton. If a single word of this gets out before I personally release it to the press, you will be sitting in jail for the duration of your stay here."

  "You have my word," she said immediately.

  Kale felt himself holding his breath.

  "Valerie Gerard's cause of death was ultimately massive hemorrhaging and exposure. But the autopsy revealed another piece of evidence, not directly tied to cause of death." He unlocked the middle drawer of his desk, reached inside and pulled out an envelope. He passed it to Newton. "This item was found in the victim's throat."

  What the hell? Kale got up and moved to stand next to the chief's desk so that he could look over Newton's shoulder as she withdrew a photo from the envelope.

  The round metal object looked like a
large coin. Parts of what might have been a narrow cloth band lay next to it in the photograph.

  "It's a medal," Newton suggested. "Like in the Olympics."

  Willard nodded. "The lab was able to raise the inscription. It's a medal Valerie received for winning a spelling bee in the fourth grade."

  Kale couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You've confirmed that this medal"—he tapped the photo—"is in fact the one Valerie won back in fourth grade? Not some kind of duplicate?" This just wasn't possible. This meant…

  "It's the one. The date and name of the school are inscribed. We checked with the Gerards and verified the location of where it was kept in the home. When we searched the home the medal was missing."

  Kale put his hand over his mouth, then let it fall uselessly to his side. "That means it was someone here… someone we know."

  "It would seem so," Willard agreed. "But we're not limiting our investigation by that factor. Yet."

  "At this point," Newton spoke up, "you actually have no evidence to connect Valerie Gerard's murder with Alicia Appleton's disappearance. Or to the murders twenty years ago."

  "None."

  "She could have run away from home," Newton theorized. "Or been abducted for other purposes."

  Willard nodded. "All we can do is react to the tips that come in and whatever we dig up, which, I don't have to tell you, is not looking good. We have absolutely nothing to go on in Alicia's case."

  "If her disappearance is related to the murder, the sooner you nail a suspect the better chance you'll have of finding her alive. So," Newton pressed, "the real questions are, who would this medal have been relevant to?" Her attention lingered on the crime-scene photos. "Who would have known where it was kept and subsequently gained access to that location? And who among those might have had motive to dislike both girls?"

  Willard chuckled, but Kale recognized its severe lack of enthusiasm and total absence of humor. "You keep it up, Ms. Newton, and I'll be recruiting you for my staff."