by Herron, Rita
She glanced at her hands which were shaking, then cursed. Sunlight glinted off a droplet of blood on the cuff of her blouse.
Cold dread enveloped her, and she pushed up her sleeve and saw the marks Eaton had left on her wrist when he’d grabbed her. His rough fingernails had pierced her skin enough to draw blood.
What if he had her blood on his fingers or her DNA underneath his nails? Or on his bed somewhere?
She slapped her forehead in disgust. She had been in such a rush to leave before his caregiver arrived that she hadn’t noticed the blood or missing earring.
A rookie mistake.
She yanked on her jacket to ward off the winter chill and hide the bloodstain, then climbed out of her vehicle and walked across the parking lot toward the shops and restaurants, struggling for an explanation in case Ryker asked. But she drew a blank. If she was the last person to see Eaton alive, she would be considered a suspect.
Stop panicking. He was a sick old man and probably died of heart failure or respiratory distress. Natural causes.
It wasn’t as if she’d poisoned him or strangled him. He’d been alive when she left.
She needed to talk to Gayle, Eaton’s caregiver. Find out what she knew about him. Maybe he’d talked to her while he was ill. Even confessed his sins . . .
But first, she wanted to question Agnes Stanley, the owner of the Treasure Chest antique store. Agnes had been around Seahawk Island for as long as anyone could remember. She knew the history of the island and had served on the town council when Eaton had been the lighthouse keeper.
Maybe she could fill in the blanks about the man’s activities twenty-five years ago.
Marilyn crossed the parking lot then turned onto the sidewalk, the January wind rolling off the ocean whipping through her. In the summer the park, stores and restaurants were packed with tourists and locals, but today the area was practically deserted. A few people lingered over lunch at the café, and the coffee shop was busy.
She ducked inside the Treasure Chest, and wove through the mixture of furniture, local artist’s work, beach décor and handmade jewelry. Customers browsed the store while an older couple stood debating over a selection of farmhouse clocks. A middle-aged woman with graying hair stood studying several prints of the lighthouse and pier.
Marilyn feigned interest in a silk shawl draped over an antique armoire in the corner while the owner rang up purchases and then assisted the couple. Finally when all the customers left, she approached the owner.
Judging from her gray bun and wire rimmed glasses, Agnes Stanley looked past retirement age although she seemed energetic and agile. Sunspots dotted her hands, a sign she’d worshipped the sun in her youth.
Marilyn offered her a smile and introduced herself.
“I know who you are,” Agnes said with a scowl. “I’ve seen you on the news.”
Marilyn shrugged off the woman’s disapproving tone as a lady with dark brown hair entered the store holding her daughter’s hand. Recollections of her own mother and how hard she’d worked to take care of Marilyn taunted her.
Her mother had been so terrified for her that she’d made her keep quiet about what she’d seen.
But that memory tormented Marilyn every day. And no one was going to stop her from uncovering the truth.
Ryker had to talk to Marilyn. Dammit, they’d danced around the same case before and gotten through it, but he had a bad feeling about this investigation.
If Marilyn had been the last person to see Eaton alive, learning what they’d discussed might be key to solving this murder.
If it was a homicide.
The ruling wouldn’t be official until the autopsy, so no need to jump the gun.
Still, he pressed Marilyn’s number. Her phone rang three times, then a fourth, and then rolled to voice mail.
“We need to talk,” he said curtly, then hung up.
While he waited on the ME’s ruling and the crime team’s report, he’d meet with Agent Manson. The Darling case was definitely homicide. Whoever killed the girls had gotten away with murder for over two decades.
That didn’t sit well in his gut.
If Mr. Darling was responsible, the case had been personal and an isolated event.
If not . . . if other girls around that age had disappeared over the past two decades, they might be dealing with a serial predator.
He needed to interview people who’d known the girls and their family before the teens went missing. He was tempted to start digging around on his own, but it would be a waste of time to interview people Agent Manson had already questioned.
Heaving a weary breath, he phoned Caroline. “Have you found other cases similar to the Darlings?”
“You mean, are we dealing with a serial killer?”
“That crossed my mind.”
Her breath rasped out. “I have looked for similar cases, but so far haven’t made any connection.” She paused. “What was the case you caught?”
He relayed what he knew so far. “Will wait on the autopsy report and forensics before proceeding.” And he’d talk to Marilyn. But he didn’t plan on sharing that with Agent Manson. At least not yet.
He owed Marilyn that much.
“Anything new on the Darling case?” Ryker asked.
“I’ve done some research on Deborah and Candace Darlings’ classmates and teachers. According to the original police report, the school counselor made some interesting comments. I’m on my way to talk to her now.”
“Text me the address and I’ll meet you there.”
“That’s not necessary, Detective,” Agent Manson replied. “I can handle it.”
“Listen,” Ryker said, annoyed. “Neither of us asked to be paired, but two heads are better than one.”
A heartbeat passed. “All right. Let’s meet.”
Ryker almost chuckled. She was prickly, but she probably had pressure from her boss to accept help from the locals.
Hell, he didn’t care. Working the Darling investigation would distract him from the other woman in his life. The woman who drove him crazy. The one who’d gotten under his skin.
God, he wanted to trust her. To work with her, not against her.
But she’d crawled from his bed this morning, then lied to him two hours later about being at a possible crime scene.
And she could jeopardize his career if he didn’t listen to that voice in his head warning him to push her for the truth.
His gut told him that if Marilyn was investigating Eaton, there was a reason.
A big one.
Marilyn forced a congenial smile. Intimidating Agnes Stanley was not going to work. She needed her cooperation and trust, not her animosity. “Ms. Stanley, I’m researching a story about the island and its history, specifically the lighthouse. I was told you served on the town council twenty five years ago, and that you knew everyone on the island.”
Agnes peered at her with steely gray eyes. “That’s true. But a history lesson doesn’t seem like the kind of story you usually cover.”
Marilyn chuckled softly. “True. You must be referring to the series about the Keepers that aired. I tried to do the victims and their families justice. It’s hard for us to know what we’d do if one of our loved ones was a victim of a violent crime.”
The woman picked up a stack of hand embroidered handkerchiefs and began folding them. A ploy to avoid eye contact?
“That’s true, I suppose.”
“I’m interested in information regarding the man who used to run the lighthouse, Daryl Eaton. Did you know him?”
Agnes pressed the scalloped edge of a handkerchief with her thin finger. “I met him a few times, but I wouldn’t say I really knew him.” She gave Marilyn a pointed look. “I don’t think anyone really knew that man.”
“What do you mean?”
Agnes leaned clos
er, her voice a hushed whisper. “Mr. Eaton kept to himself. Didn’t make friends. Now why are you asking about him again?”
Marilyn waited until the woman and little girl walked to the rear of the store to examine a display of music boxes before speaking. “I think he may be connected to an unsolved murder that happened twenty-five years ago.”
Agnes emitted a soft gasp, her thin fingers shaking slightly as she hurriedly folded another handkerchief.
“Agnes, please talk to me.”
“I don’t know anything. “The shopkeeper blinked rapidly as if struggling to control her nerves.
“I think you do,” Marilyn said.
Agnes closed her eyes for a moment, then exhaled and finally looked up at Marilyn. “I heard he was dangerous.”
“Go on.”
Her eyes darted around nervously. “Good folks stayed away from him. Word was he was a charmer with the ladies when he was young. Then he turned mean. Some thought he was a killer, but others said he just took care of problems.”
Marilyn frowned. “What kind of problems?”
The bell on the door tinkled, and a robust man with a beard strode in. Agnes’s eyes widened in something akin to panic, then she began hurriedly stacking the neatly folded handkerchiefs into a basket on the counter, this time haphazardly, ruining the effects of her careful handiwork.
Marilyn touched Agnes’s arm. “It’s important, Agnes. If Daryl Eaton was dangerous and hurt someone, the truth about him needs to be exposed.”
Agnes shook off her hand. “If I were you,” Agnes whispered. “I’d find another story. Asking questions about Daryl Eaton could get you killed.”
The hair on the back of Marilyn’s neck prickled. She wanted to know more. But Agnes slipped from around the corner of the glass case and hobbled toward the man who’d just entered. He said something to the woman in a low hushed voice, and worry flashed across her face.
Marilyn smiled sweetly then tossed a wave to Agnes. “See you later, Agnes. Have a nice day.”
The man glared at Marilyn, his eyes boring into her as she left the store.
If Agnes said people had gossiped about Daryl Eaton, someone else on the island might know something.
Someone who might be willing to talk . . .
Ryker met Agent Manson at the Sugar Shack, a new little café that served coffee, pastries and deserts.
“Evelyn Morris seemed reluctant to talk,” Agent Manson said as they entered. “But once I explained that two of the Darling girls’ remains had been identified, she agreed to meet us.”
The scent of coffee and chocolate croissants assaulted Ryker, a potent combination that made his mouth water. He followed Caroline past several tables packed with patrons to a booth in the back corner.
Evelyn, a woman with short, wavy brown hair who looked to be in her late fifties, was the sole occupant. She kept running her finger around and around the rim of her coffee mug. An uneaten powdered scone sat waiting, but she hadn’t touched it yet.
He watched as she dipped one finger into the powdered sugar on the ceramic saucer and licked it off, her gaze wary.
Agent Manson gestured toward the booth. Ryker slid in next to the wall, and she claimed the aisle seat.
“Thank you for agreeing to talk to us, Ms. Morris.” Caroline removed an envelope from the inside of her jacket and laid it on the table.
The former school counselor fidgeted, her face paling. “I’m sorry they found those girls dead,” she said in a low voice. “But I suppose I’m not surprised.”
Ryker raised a questioning brow. “It is a tragedy,” he murmured.
“Why aren’t you surprised?” Agent Manson asked directly.
“Well, look how long it’s been and no word. The people on the island and the teachers, all thought—hoped—those girls just ran away,” Evelyn mumbled. “But back then, it was impossible not to be afraid that something bad had happened. The town was in a panic. Everyone started looking at everyone suspiciously. Wondering if it was the family or if a pedophile or rapist was stalking the girls in their neighborhoods and at school.”
Ryker remained still, letting the woman work off her nervous energy as she continued to dab the powdered sugar with her finger.
“So far, we’ve only recovered the skeletal remains of two of the girls.” Caroline gestured to photos of Deborah and Candace that she laid on the table. “These are the oldest two. Polly, the youngest, is still missing.”
Tears blurred the woman’s eyes. “I’ve thought about that family over the years, wondered if there was more I could have done.”
Ryker gave her a sympathetic look. “What do you mean?”
Her eyes widened as if she thought she’d said something wrong.
“I’m not judging,” he said softly. “We simply want to hear what you knew about the family. That might help us piece together what happened to the girls.”
“You think there’s a chance Polly might still be alive?” Evelyn asked hopefully.
Caroline gave a small shrug. “We can’t say. But learning what happened to Deborah and Candace might lead us to Polly.”
Evelyn reached for the scone and tore it into several pieces.
“Tell us about the family,” Ryker said. “According to the original police file, neighbors suggested that Mr. Darling was abusing the girls.”
A shaky sigh escaped the woman. “The girls never admitted that he did. But there was something going on in that house that wasn’t right.”
Dammit, they needed details, not just speculation. “Did the girls come to you for counseling?” Ryker asked.
The woman gave a sarcastic laugh. “No, as a matter of fact, I had to call them into the office. There were a couple of instances where . . .” She paused, indecision on her face. “I hate to talk ill of the dead—”
“But you want to help find their killer,” Agent Manson prodded. “So please go on.”
Emotions colored her face. “The Darling girls . . . well, a student in gym class claimed they were bullying her.”
Ryker hadn’t expected that.
Caroline drummed her fingers on the table. “Isn’t it common that abused children sometimes mimic the behavior of their abusers? That they in turn become violent or hurt others?”
Evelyn released another breath. “Yes, that’s true. That’s probably what was happening.”
Ryker contemplated her statement. So the Darling girls hadn’t been so darling after all.
If the allegations were true, this case might be more complicated than an abusive father.
Chapter Nine
Anger stirred deep in her belly as she read the text.
Marilyn Ellis is at the Village now. She’s asking questions about the Darling girls and the lighthouse keeper.
A cold wave of fear washed over her. She glanced around the hallway near the door to Marilyn’s condo, careful to keep her head ducked, her face directed away from the security cameras. She’d never broken into anyone’s place before, but she was desperate.
It was a damn good thing she knew people. People who didn’t mind crossing the line. People who could circumvent security systems. Sure, it had cost her, but it was well worth the price to have access to Marilyn’s home.
She checked the code she’d confiscated, punched the numbers into the keypad, then eased inside the foyer.
Surprise flitted through her at the clean lines. This was Marilyn Ellis’s home?
Her condo seemed sterile. Everything was neat and orderly. Nothing out of place. Sleek furniture.
Except for the handful of personal photographs on the mantle, it was almost as if no one lived here.
She itched to run her finger along the glass surface of the coffee table, to touch the perfectly lined up photographs of the woman who must be Marilyn’s mother that sat on the stone fireplace. Yet, she couldn’t leave finge
rprints.
She’d come here to learn more about the reporter. To find out exactly what Marilyn knew about the Darling girls’ murders.
Now two of those teenagers’ bodies had been found, the police were back on the Darling case like hound dogs who smelled blood. And Marilyn was right in the mix.
She couldn’t allow them to find out the truth. Especially about what she’d done.
She had her reasons. Good fucking ones. And she had no regrets. Well . . . maybe one.
But she couldn’t think about that right now.
She paused to stare at the face of the little girl in the picture. Marilyn. She must have been around four years old. She was running on the beach with the wind blowing her hair. She looked happy and carefree as she chased a rainbow colored kite.
Then another photo, a couple of years later. In this shot, Marilyn’s eyes looked sad and terrified as she stood on the pier facing the lighthouse.
Stop it. You can’t care about that nasty woman. She could expose you.
Although she couldn’t help but wonder what drove the tenacious investigative reporter. Why was she so interested in the Darling case, a case that was closed a long time ago.
Nerves tightened her muscles as a noise sounded outside the condo. She froze. There was no way Marilyn could have gotten home so quickly.
But she might stop in soon. Which meant she had to hurry.
Bypassing the photos, she checked the kitchen and desk drawer in search of a computer or files Marilyn might have on the case.
Nothing.
Irritated, she strode to the bedroom and searched the dresser drawers and closet. A beautiful wardrobe of dresses, skirts, suits and casual clothing. But no safety deposit box or safe.
She studied the bedroom again. Something seemed off. Everything was in place. Dresser and mirror and bed and nightstand, yet near the closet there was a bank of bookcases. She walked over and studied the neat rows of books. A book featuring lighthouses in the South looked out of place because it was facing the wrong way.