Tar Heart (A New Hampshire Mystery Book 3)

by Mira Gibson

  “It’s fine, I just got out of class,” she said off-handedly. “You need a sitter?”

  “For a few hours. I know the roads are getting worse-”

  “Hang on,” she quipped, but Holly couldn’t tell if the girl was speaking to her or her friend. When she heard Mary’s muted voice, hushed and urgent, she decided the girl wasn’t speaking to her. “I can come now. Text me the address.”

  As Holly assured her she would, she heard the girl in the background whispering questions—How many hours? and Where’s the house? and Do they have food?—followed by the faint sounds of Mary slapping her off.

  “Later,” she said into the mouthpiece then the phone went quiet and Holly realized the girl had hung up.

  She was quick to text the address then, leaning back while cradling Tucker, she gently slipped her cell into her pocket.

  Her nephew was conked out, but she managed to scoop him into her arms without waking him. After carrying him to his crib in the downstairs playroom and gently laying him on the blankets, she watched him for a beat and wondered if he’d make it through his nap without having an accident. She had been avoiding diapers, training him to let her know when he needed the toilet, overseeing the task and helping him wipe thoroughly, offering him elaborate praise for being a big boy. But he might not have control over his bowels while asleep and the thought of him waking up soiled pained her so she made quick work of stripping him out of his pants, wrangling a diaper on and up his spindly legs, and fitting him under the blankets.

  Wearing Rose’s clothes, bathed in her sister’s perfume, living in the house that had been her sister’s home, tending to Rose’s son in a manner she imagined was identical to her twin compelled Holly to rush from Tucker’s room—high-heels tapping across carpet then clicking over hard wood floors as she rounded the living room and padded up the stairs.

  When she reached the master bedroom, the eerie notion that she had slipped into Rose’s life as easily as pulling on a robe was too strong to shake. Not only was she mirroring her twin, but she was also daring to investigate her sister’s secret life, which could reveal aspects of Rose’s personality she might not be able to handle.

  Whether out of a need to embody another layer of her twin’s psyche or to escape it, Holly grabbed a plastic bag of cocaine from the nightstand drawer, pinched out a breath of powder, and, placing her fingertips to her nostrils, sharply inhaled.

  The hit stung her brain, livening her senses, but not enough so she took a bill from the cash envelope beside her revolver in the drawer, rolled it, and used her debit card to scrape the powder into a line after tapping a heap onto the table.

  Leaning over the nightstand and angling the bill to her nostril, she snorted the line clean off the marble surface and when she straightened up, rubbing her nose and widening her eyes, she felt like she was buzzing, amped-up to barrel into Diamonds and demand answers.

  The doorbell chimed, startling her.

  How long had she been seated on the edge of the bed, envisioning her assault on the faceless man who had stolen Rose’s life?

  Bolting to her feet, she tucked her revolver down the back of her jeans, slapped the nightstand drawer shut, and walked briskly through the hallway and down the stairs, spilling into the foyer where the bell was chiming lazily again and again.

  When she drew the door open, she was faced with a scraggly girl—bleached hair, stringy and falling at bedraggled angles onto her shoulders, sharp blue eyes intensely holding her gaze, brows plucked into a surprised arch, reserved eagerness in her expression.

  After inviting her in—Mary marveling her way through the foyer as if it were a museum—Holly noted the rusted-out Audi that had dropped her babysitter off, as it reversed in a careless arch before popping into First gear. Sunlight bounced off the windshield and the vehicle was puttering away before Holly had gotten any sense of the driver.

  In the living room, Mary seemed to be appraising the furniture when Holly joined her. But she straightened up and began itemizing, “Emergency numbers, snacks, toys, rules, and special instructions,” as though they were pressed for time.

  “Well, you have my cell number,” she said kindly, though the girl’s militant approach slightly unnerved her. “If there really is an emergency, please call 911 first, of course. Kitchen’s through there. And everything you’ll need for Tucker is in here.”

  She led Mary into her nephew’s playroom and tried not to feel embarrassed when the girl furrowed her brow at the crib.

  “He’s four?” she questioned, though quietly, respectful that the child was sleeping.

  “He is,” she said softly. “But he’s a bit behind developmentally speaking.” She neared the girl as if confiding. “He still wears diapers when he naps.”

  She expected Mary to snort in judgment or at the very least cock her brow, but the girl’s gaze softened with understanding, as she nodded.

  “I can do diapers,” she said easily. “Where are the wet-wipes?”

  Holly walked her through the supplies and their various hiding places, and soon Mary followed her into the foyer where Holly searched the closet and selected one of Rose’s winter coats—a gray woolen walker with mink trim—all the while reiterating that she didn’t expect to be gone for more than a few hours.

  “I’d prefer it if you kept downstairs,” she added. “And please, no guests.”

  Mary looked her up and down, an envious grin spreading across her face. “You look like money.”

  The comment reminded Holly of her purse, which she had left on the kitchen table so she hurried through the house and snatched it, feeling strangely annoyed it wasn’t her sister’s.

  Her wallet was tattered she noticed, drawing it out of the cracked, faux-leather handbag as she returned. The bills inside looked fuzzy and faded, calling to mind how she had accidentally washed the thing a few weeks back, remembering her wallet only after the machine had run a full cycle.

  Offering Mary a twenty, she said, “Keep him away from the lake. The ice isn’t frozen over.”

  “This is more than a few hours worth,” she pointed out, tucking the bill into her jeans.

  “We can work it out later. Thanks again,” she said, stepping out and nearly slipping on the icy landing. These heels would be a trick to walk in.

  When she reached her Saab, she didn’t climb in behind the steering wheel, but rather stared at it, debating. Decisively, she stalked through the snow to her sister’s BMW, fishing the car keys out of her purse, and climbed into the luxury vehicle.

  At the end of the driveway, Holly pulled up the Diamonds website on her cell to memorize the address then took off. The drive northwest seemed to happen without her, she was so deep in thought, though her trembling hands often anchored her back into reality.

  Situated on the canal connecting Squam Lake to its twin, Little Squam, the three-story brick structure didn’t look right, as she angled the BMW into its icy parking lot and rolled to a stop.

  It was quite obviously an abandoned mill.

  Holly counted twelve windows spanning the first floor, as snowfall quickly accumulated on the windshield. The glare from the sun made it impossible to tell whether or not any lights were on inside the building.

  She would’ve driven off, chalking this excursion up to a lost cause, if there hadn’t been a handful of vehicles scattered across the parking lot, their makes and models implying that those who came to the old mill had cash to burn. She spied a white Lexus and a black BMW that resembled the one she was driving except that its windows were darkly tinted. The other cars were parked too far away for Holly to guess their brands, but they boasted the same class.

  The entrance was a set of double-doors, oak and arching and trimmed with aluminum, which she noticed were ajar, the door on the left propped with a cement block.

  Nervously and overcome with the craving that had been nagging at her the entire drive, Holly reasoned she would need a huge boost just to get out of her car, much less set foot in the building s
o she riffled through her purse for one of the drug baggies, tapped the white powder onto the crux of her hand, and aligned it with her nose, sniffing hard and wincing when the coke stung her brain.

  A moment later, she stepped confidently out of her sister’s BMW, though it wasn’t lost on her this was insane. She should’ve given the envelope to Lucas, passed her theories on to him, let the police handle this. But then again, she wasn’t even sure of what exactly needed handling. Was her sister’s killer inside? Or had the note, the cash, the embossed insignia of the escort service been nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence and not at all relevant to Rose and Benjamin’s murders?

  But her intuition extinguished all doubt and compelled her to place one heel in front of the other, as she gradually crossed the slick asphalt, dusted with a thin layer of snow.

  When she reached the propped door, drawing it open, she saw the first floor was an empty warehouse. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, but despite the glare she noticed an alcove directly across from where she was standing.

  Crossing towards it and keeping on the balls of her feet to soften the clicks of her heeled boots, she detected the faintest music and when she reached the alcove where she noticed a set of stairs, she realized the music was coming from the floor above.

  Jazz.

  She ascended the stairs quickly, heels clicking against steel treads. As she rounded the landing, she came to a black door, the insignia of a woman’s silhouette painted in purple across it.

  Adrenaline flooded her veins and she couldn’t still her shaking hands.

  She took a few deep breaths that didn’t help then nervously grasped her sister’s necklace where it hung over her clavicle, feeling its cool, silver shape and grazing the pad of her index finger over the jagged opal. It didn’t calm her, but was just the encouragement she needed to dig deep, push her anxiety down, and yank the door open.

  The club was shabby. Roughly a dozen women in lingerie as gaudy as the bras and panties she’d discovered in her sister’s dresser, were lazing about, flaunting stiletto heels and holding cocktails.

  The lounge was bathed in incandescent pink light that cast a rosy glow over the entire room—the white, leather booths and settees arranged haphazardly, white cubes positioned beside them, black wall-to-wall carpeting, gauzy curtains draping from the lofty ceiling here and there to accent the decorum. None of it could distract from the overall dreary, stained quality.

  The door slammed shut behind her and she flinched.

  All eyes were suddenly on her.

  Holly glanced from face to face, vaguely aware there was a bar at the side of the lounge, which she could easily escape to, flee from the laser glares of these women, whose expressions were shifting from disbelief to marked hostility—snorted laughs, raised brows, pointed hatred.

  One woman whose jet-black hair spilled over her lace-encased breasts made a performance of setting her martini on the nearest white cube, sighing and standing as if she were about to speak for everyone. With an air of authority she advanced on Holly, swaying her hips and not at all shy about her virtual nudity. The thin strips of black lace over her chest and privates barely covered her.

  “You’ve got some nerve,” she hissed, grabbing Holly’s arm so roughly that Holly wobbled, knocking back against the door.

  “I’m not-”

  “I thought we were clear on this,” she cut in. “You got your money-”

  “It was from you?” she asked confusedly, trying to free her arm. The woman wouldn’t let go. “You wrote this note?”

  Holly didn’t get far scrambling for the note in her jeans. The other woman pulled her by the arm then shoved her towards a hallway past the bar.

  As the woman prodded her onward, shoving and pulling her with brassy alternation, Holly realized they thought she was Rose, which meant the hooker who was now shoving her into an office believed her twin was alive and therefore couldn’t have pulled the trigger.

  But that didn’t mean the man seated at the business side of the desk hadn’t done it.

  “Look who decided to show her fucking face,” she barked, pushing Holly deeper into the office. “Ron, you guaranteed us.”

  Releasing her, the hooker began pacing like a pent-in bull, as Ron, who had the unremarkable quality of an automotive mechanic yet wasn’t dressed for the part—instead donning what looked like a mobster’s suit as though his life was a poorly planned Halloween party—placed his telephone in its cradle on the desk and widened his deep-set eyes at Holly in such a way that told her he also assumed she was her twin.

  He looked shocked.

  And he was doing a poor job of tempering his reaction, as he straightened the knot of his emerald tie where it sat flush against his starched, black dress shirt. Pulling himself together, it seemed.

  “Leave us,” he ordered without a trace of the clunky New England accent Holly had expected. The woman gaped in astonishment and threw her hands up, but Ron merely flicked his fingers and she buttoned up her objections and left the room, closing the door without another word.

  Alone with him, Holly’s heart started punching up her throat.

  He pressed a button on his desk phone and spoke loudly in what sounded like broken Russian—embracing his costume?—then leaned back in his chair with an air of amusement, grinning at her as if he had conquered his shock.

  “What are you doing here?” He clasped his fingers together over his taut stomach and tilted his head as if waiting for a child to respond.

  Confrontational, she stated, “You’re dead to me,” quoting the note to provoke him into taking responsibility.

  He shot her a friendly nod, adding, “And don’t come back. Yet here you are. Why?”

  Though she sensed her tone would waver badly, she forced, “What did I do that was so awful?” up her throat and fought like hell to read his expression.

  His dark eyes flared.

  Gradually, he stood, coming into his full height, which was alarmingly taller than she would’ve guessed. Then, as if a flip had switched, he charged at her, rounding the desk and advancing.

  She couldn’t back up fast enough. Her shoulder blades slammed against the door. He grabbed her face with one meaty hand, seething and angling over her.

  “What did you do?” he challenged, spitting each word through his teeth. Then, raging, he screamed, “Is this a fucking joke? You want me to tell you what you did? You fucking know!”

  With his hand squeezing her cheeks together she didn’t have a prayer of explaining, pleading that she wasn’t Rose. Why the hell did she think she could play this off? Waltz in as her sister?

  Another spike of adrenaline rushed through her veins, but fight or flight didn’t kick in. Her muscles felt like stone. She was petrified and the revolver tucked down her jeans might as well have been a million miles away.

  Trading her face for her throat, his hand clamped tightly, cutting off her air supply, as he whipped a gun to her chin, metal pressing hard against her jaw, Holly whimpering.

  Terrified, she breathed, “I’m not who you think I am,” but the look on his face—brows rising and mouth curling into an insulted snarl—told her that Ron assumed she was speaking metaphorically.

  Before she could clarify to save her skin, he warned, “If you come here again, I won’t make the same mistake.” He glanced down the length of her, squeezing her throat, then tossed her aside, tucking his weapon down his waistband and pacing away.

  Jolting at the opportunity, she threw the door open, barreled down the hallway, a fresh surge of adrenaline flooding her veins so fiercely she thought she might faint before she reached her car.

  After spilling through the lounge—hookers glaring and snorting good riddance—she careened into the black door and didn’t breathe until she was in the stairwell. She let out a shuddering cry, keeling over, her eyes misting with tears in delayed reaction to having almost gotten herself killed.

  She muffled her sobs, pushing on, running down the stairs then throu
gh the warehouse and tumbling out into the blinding afternoon.

  How could Rose have gotten involved with a place like that, with a horror like Ron?

  Her skin was crawling as she walked briskly through the blizzarding snowfall to Rose’s BMW, her thoughts turning towards her nephew. She could curl up beside him in his crib and sleep forever.

  Or could she?

  The thought of being in that house, wearing Rose’s clothes, and continuing to live this life she had never asked for, sickened her. Bile stung the back of her throat, but she swallowed hard, climbing in behind the steering wheel.

  Maybe she would pack up Tucker’s things, gathering only the essentials, move him into her modest house on the lake, leave the memory of her sister behind in that estate.

  She resolved to call Lucas as soon as she got Tucker situated at her house, her real home. Then and only then would she explain to him Rose’s involvement with Diamonds and the man named Ron who had likely killed her.

  As she swung out of the parking lot, she immediately recognized the incoming vehicle—a beat-up Audi. It was the one that had dropped Mary Cole off at the house. She slammed on the brakes, eyeing the driver.

  Piercing, cat-like eyes stared back at her, but the girl must have stepped on the gas, because the Audi lurched, tearing through the parking lot.

  But Holly had gotten a good look at the young woman, who was unmistakably Benjamin’s mistress, the one she had seen in his hotel room.

  Bracing the headrest and angling her gaze through the rear windshield, Holly spied the young woman slam her car door shut. Teetering on chunky heels, her legs long and bare, she made her careful way towards the entrance doors where she vanished inside.

  Holly was reeling.

  Mary Cole was friends with the girl.

  The girl worked at the same escort service as Rose.

  Had the girl known Rose?

  Had Benjamin discovered his mistress and wife were moonlighting at the same seedy establishment?

  Dizzying revelations complicating the finest thread of logic, which she had only just barely grasped—that Ron had driven to the house that night then the resort—gripped Holly with mind-bending anxiety.