by Stacy Green
But she always was.
The voice of fear continued to nag Jaymee.
Another thump on the stairs, and she cut through the hall, skirting the antique desk. Royce Newton’s office door was closed; he was probably out of town, again. The stairs were just on the other side. Jaymee stopped short. Nerves threatened to choke her.
A red, gooey blob marred the bottom step. Blood. No, couldn’t be. Jelly. Had to be jelly. But Rebecca would never have left the mess on the expensive wood.
Jaymee’s heart beat double time. The blobs continued up the stairs in a strange pattern. Had Rebecca hurt herself? Jaymee took another unsteady step, but a hiss of anger stopped her. She caught herself on the banister to keep from face planting on the wood steps.
A mournful yowl sent a shiver of terror from her spine to her toes. Silas, Rebecca’s finicky Persian cat, sat halfway up the stairs, eyes narrowed. Brownish-red spots marred his white fur, and his front paws were covered with the crimson goop.
“Poor kitty. What happened? Did you hurt yourself?” She reached for the cat, but he hissed again and turned tail up the steps. Jaymee followed.
Halfway up, a foul smell saturated the air. The scent was so dense it seemed to have its own mass, much like the inescapable Mississippi humidity. Jaymee’s throat convulsed; she covered her nose and breathed through her mouth. The smell intensified with every step, taking on the odor of rotting sewage. Silas’s bloody paw prints continued up the stairs and across the hall to the Newton’s bedroom.
A memory stirred, twisting its way through the recesses of Jaymee’s mind. She knew this smell, knew the way the scent permeated the soul and made its way down into the gut.
Something terrible is in that room.
The door stood open just enough for the cat to squeeze through. Morning sun streamed through the massive picture window, bathing the room in a prism of light. More bloodstains glistened on the oak floor.
An icy sensation rippled down Jaymee’s spine. She tried to swallow, but her parched throat refused to work. If Silas had lost that much blood, he wouldn’t be running around the house. She fumbled toward the door, heart trying to pound its way out of her chest. The putrid odor had grown so strong it coated her mouth. Bile built in her throat.
The smell of death.
Her father and brother hunted, and as a small child, she’d made the foolish mistake of running to meet them when they’d returned from a weekend trip. In the back of her father’s black pickup truck lay a massive buck, gutted, tongue protruding out of its mouth. Her brother tried to stop her from seeing, but it was too late. The stench hit Jaymee full force, and she threw up on the side of the truck. Her father had spanked her.
Death lay inside that room. Every muscle, every nerve, begged Jaymee to turn and run, but anxiety propelled her forward. With a pale, shaking hand, she slowly pushed the heavy bedroom door open. The silence was so loud Jaymee feared her head might burst.
Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw sprawled out across the king-sized bed, wrists and ankles anchored to the bedposts.
Rebecca.
Tears and sweat stung Jaymee’s eyes even as ice-cold terror took up residence in her veins. Vomit churned in her stomach. She couldn’t look away.
Rebecca’s flaxen-colored hair spilled across the pillow. Her pale skin bore violent red slashes. Dried blood stained the white, silk sheets. Purple bruises covered Rebecca’s throat and chest. Her hands were clenched into permanent fists of agony, and her eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling, her mouth slack.
Jaymee clamped her hand over her mouth. Her employer’s resemblance to Lana had never been more brutally obvious. The long legs, blond hair, high cheekbones, and sunny smile were all frozen in grotesque shock, just as Lana’s had been in the pictures Jaymee forced Cage to show her.
Dead. Both of them.
Silas sat on the edge of the bed staring at Jaymee. Rebecca’s blood. That’s what had stained his beautiful, white fur. He’d been mourning his master, no doubt trying to get her to pay attention, to wake up.
Jaymee fell to her knees and heaved, even as she crawled away from the nightmare in the bedroom.
Get out, get out, get out.
She crawled down the hallway, gagging and spitting. The Newtons kept a home phone in the kitchen. Tears blurred her sight as she stumbled down the stairs, clinging to the banister for support. Her weak knees finally collapsed, and she tumbled down the last three steps, banging her head along the way. Stars burst in front of her, but Jaymee rolled to her hands and knees. She had to call the police.
2
Jaymee huddled in the porch swing, knees drawn to her chest, untouched glass of water in her hand. She couldn’t go back inside that house. Not right now. A steady stream of techs carried evidence out of Evaline into an official-looking white van. Her overheated skin felt numb, her lungs exhausted. Had she been screaming?
“Miss Jaymee?” A portly man with thinning hair and a pink scalp leaned against the porch railing. “I’m Detective Charles. You ‘member me from church?”
Her gaze flew to meet his. His dark sunglasses hid his eyes, but he offered her a friendly smile that accentuated his double chin. Detective Charles and his wife always sat in the fifth pew on the left. She held the Bible and sang while he mouthed the lyrics.
“I remember.”
“Been a while since I seen you there, so I wasn’t sure.”
She pressed her lips together. Racked with guilt for giving her daughter up and full of hate for her cruel father, Jaymee had let the entire congregation know what she thought of the self-righteous man who’d made Jaymee’s life miserable from as far back as she could remember. She hadn’t been back to church since, and Charles knew it. The whole town did.
He sat down next to her on the porch swing, the wood sagging beneath his weight. His proximity made her feel boxed in and nervous. Charles smelled like hot cinnamon and woodsy aftershave mixed with sweat.
Politely as she could, Jaymee sank into the corner of the porch swing and studied the detective. Charles was on the other side of forty and sliding full speed down the hill. Wrinkles lined his eyes, and sweat shined on his forehead. He dabbed his face with a dingy handkerchief. “I know you’re upset, but can you tell me everything that happened this mornin’?”
She didn’t want to, didn’t want to think about Rebecca, bound and dead, her neck bruised and broken. Or how easily it could have been Lana lying there. A chill slid across Jaymee, and she forced her lips to move. “The house was so quiet when I got here.”
Jaymee recounted the last hour, with Charles jotting notes down on a yellow notepad. There was a coffee stain on its cardboard back. “You come here every Tuesday?”
“Yes. Rebecca closes for cleaning.” She swallowed the rock-sized lump in her throat. “Closed. She closed for cleaning.”
“What about her husband, Mr. Royce? You deal with him much?”
Jaymee shrugged. “He’s out of town a lot. Sometimes he’d be in his office. He cleans it himself.”
“You know if he’s out of town right now?”
“I think so. Rebecca mentioned it last week. Fat Jonas would know.”
Charles coughed. “Fat Jonas?”
“Tour guide. House servant. Butler. Gossip.” Jaymee rubbed the tears rolling down her cheek. “Pretty much knows everything that goes on in Evaline.”
“He normally off on Tuesdays?”
“Yeah.”
A miserably hot breeze drifted through the live oaks. Charles huffed and wiped his face again. His skin turned a darker shade of pink. “I think I’d rather have the dead calm heat without the hot wind.”
Jaymee nodded. The swarthy detective swabbed his face once more. It was soaked. “You should get some water, Detective.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that soon as we’re done. You think of anything else that seemed off when you showed up?”
Looking across the wide porch, Jaymee struggled to think about something other than Rebecca’
s dead body. An azalea in the cracked marble planter fluttered in the hot wind.
“The planter.” Jaymee jumped to her feet knocking her glass of water onto the porch.
Charles stood too, moving quickly for a man of his size. He stepped in front of her and blocked her path. “Hold on, stay right there. What planter?”
“Rebecca’s marble one–there.” She pointed to the expensive pot filled with blooming azaleas. “It was knocked over and cracked when I got here. Maybe the killer tripped or something.”
“All right.” Pen scratched across paper. “That’s good, Jaymee. You remember anything else? Know of any enemies Mrs. Newton had? Problems?”
She couldn’t sit back down. “No. She loved showing off Evaline and meeting all the visitors. Oh, God. Could it have been one of them?” Jaymee’s mind began to race. “Tours were open last night, maybe–”
“But Fat–Mr. Jonas–he’s here until all the visitors are gone, right?”
“Right.”
“Then he or Mr. Newton should have been the last to see her, unless a visitor stowed away.”
“The private wing of the house is locked to guests. Only the Newtons and Jonas have keys.”
“You don’t?”
“Didn’t want one. My luck, I’d lose it.”
Charles nodded. “Don’t blame you. Too many valuables in this place to risk that.” He sat back down on the porch swing. “Tell me about Royce Newton. He and Rebecca get along?”
Jaymee massaged her throbbing temples. Her headache would be full blown soon, and she didn’t have any aspirin. “Far as I know. I think she was lonely.”
“Why?”
“Like I said, he traveled. She always talked a lot when I worked. I don’t think she had many real friends.”
“When was the last time you saw her, Jaymee?”
“Yesterday afternoon. She came into the diner where I work for a piece of pie.”
“How late are you usually here Tuesdays?”
“Until the afternoon.” Tuesdays were usually the best day of her week. Rebecca always insisted Jaymee have a late snack and iced tea with her. She didn’t think Jaymee got enough to eat. Another lump lodged in her throat. “I usually take a break, have tea with Rebecca. She insists. Then I leave for my shift at Sallie’s.”
“And nothing seemed wrong last time you saw Rebecca?”
“I told you, no.” Jaymee paced the enormous wraparound porch, making sure to avoid the private entrance where most of the techs were hovered. The thought of Rebecca’s strangled body lying in the master bedroom, a place the woman had once called her sanctuary, nauseated Jaymee.
If she lived to be a withered old lady, she’d never forget the sight of Rebecca’s body. She’d suffered unimaginable pain. Just like Lana. A fresh wave of sorrow swept over Jaymee. Now she would have two graves to visit.
“I need to know everything you saw today,” Charles said.
“I’ve told you everything.”
He ignored her. “You came straight down and called 911 from the kitchen?”
“Yes.”
Charles said something else, but she didn’t hear it. Her attention was focused on the man standing on the other side of the crime scene tape. Jaymee had spent years honing her ability to keep her anger harnessed, but white-hot rage lit up her veins as the man raised his hand in greeting. Her right foot shot forward, fists clenched, her body ready to attack.
“You all right?” Detective Charles’s voice doused Jaymee with icy calm. She closed her eyes and counted to ten.
“I’m fine. Why is Reverend Gereau here?”
“I called him,” Charles said. “Thought you might want some counseling after what you saw.”
Jaymee barely caught the scream before it left her lips. She couldn’t go off on a cop, and he’d just been trying to help. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”
She hadn’t seen Reverend Penn Gereau, pastor of Roselea Baptist, up close in a few years. He rarely came into the diner, and when he did, he sat as far away from Jaymee’s glare as possible. Though still tall and lean, he’d aged. His shoulders stooped more than she remembered, and gray had taken over his dark hair. Lined with deep wrinkles, his bright eyes looked on Jaymee with intense pity.
She didn’t want it. Jaymee would never forgive the reverend for siding with her father over Sarah’s adoption. Gereau had been in on the lie, and Jaymee was foolish to ever believe otherwise.
“Jaymee.” His deep voice was cautious, his smile wary.
Laying into Gereau now was low-class and selfish, and she wasn’t about to disrespect Rebecca’s memory. “Reverend. Thanks for coming, but I’m fine.”
His smile sagged, making the creases around his mouth stand out. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.”
Years of pent-up anger raged inside Jaymee’s heart. “I’m all right, thank you. Please save your counsel for Royce. He’ll need it.”
Charles made a sharp sound in his throat. “We’ve been unable to reach him.”
Royce was a suspect. Cops always looked at the family first. She couldn’t imagine Royce hurting Rebecca, but Jaymee had been betrayed by someone she once adored. What did she know?
“I’ll try to reach him if you’d like,” Gereau said. Blocked off by the yellow tape, he stood uncomfortably, arms crossed over his short-sleeved dress shirt, moisture beading in the wrinkles of his forehead. His stare made Jaymee’s skin burn.
“I need to get to work.” She couldn’t stay here a minute longer. Rebecca’s body was too close, and Gereau’s presence had thrown gasoline on the already flaming fire.
A commotion echoed up from the tree-lined drive where the police had blocked off the entrance to the grand house. Two officers were walking down the blacktop, hands outstretched and shaking their heads.
“Can’t be here, ma’am. Crime scene.”
“I’m picking up my friend,” came the angry response.
Jaymee glanced at Charles. “My neighbor, Crystal. She’s my ride.”
Crystal sidled up next to Gereau, her blond hair hanging loose around her shoulders. As usual, her skirt was too short and her tank top too tight. She flashed the pastor a teasing grin. Gereau nodded stiffly.
Crystal shaded her eyes to look up at the hulking mansion. “Got here as soon as I could.” She tilted her head. “Reverend Gereau. Fancy seeing you here.”
“I came to offer my services.” Gereau spoke to Crystal without looking at her.
Crystal raised her plucked eyebrow. Jaymee shot her a look before her friend said too much.
“You finished here?” Crystal returned her attention to Jaymee. “Sorry, but I’ve got to be at The Lotus in thirty.”
“I’ll have more questions for you,” Charles said. “Might be tomorrow morning before I can stop by.”
“I’ll be home,” Jaymee said.
Charles handed her his card. It was smudged and crinkled from his pocket. “You remember anything else before then, call me.”
She waved in acknowledgement and stepped shakily down the old steps. Her legs wobbled, and her feet moved so sluggishly she could have been wading through mud. Hoping her knees didn’t give out, she slipped beneath the tape.
“Let me help you to the car.” Gereau’s hand was on her elbow.
She recoiled at his touch. “No thank you, Reverend.”
“I just want to help.”
Her eyes stung. She blinked against the welling tears. “You helped enough already.” She grabbed Crystal’s outstretched hand.
“You all right?” Crystal led her away from Gereau, down the winding drive to her rusting Chevy Malibu. “I’ve seen some nasty stuff, but never a dead body.”
Jaymee shook her head.
“Damned Royce Newton.” Crystal yanked open the passenger door. “I knew that horny sonofabitch was trouble.”
She fell into the seat of Crystal’s ancient Malibu. The cool, processed air helped clear her head.
“You need to clean up a bit before y
ou hit Sallie’s.” Crystal carefully backed out of the drive. “Unless you’re taking the day off. Which you should.”
“Can’t afford to,” Jaymee yanked the sun visor down, groaning when she saw her reflection. She didn’t wear much makeup, but the small coating of mascara she’d put on had run down her cheeks leaving muddy tracks, and her lip gloss was smeared onto her chin. Most of her brown hair had escaped its loose knot.
Jaymee’s brush snagged in her hair. Her foggy brain was slow on the uptake, but Crystal’s words finally registered. “Hold up. What did you say about Royce?”
Crystal scowled at the antebellums as they drove down Rosaire Drive. “He’s a client.”
That was Crystal’s fancy word for the men she graciously allowed to pay her for sex. Her stripping at The Lotus couldn’t always pay the bills, and she figured if rich men wanted to cheat on their wives, they may as well do it with her. For the right price.
“Typical Roselea Righteous,” Jaymee spat. She’d given her father and Reverend Gereau the nickname when she’d renounced the church and everything the two men stood for. “Sitting in judgment while getting dirty on the side. Reverend Gereau probably knows all about Royce’s extracurricular activities too. Just another lie for him to protect.”
“Well, old Graybeard likes the kinky stuff,” Crystal said. “I don’t think his trophy wife was into that.” Crystal turned onto Forest Street heading into downtown Roselea. “But Royce is into something no good, and I think Rebecca might have found out.”
“What are you talking about?”
The light turned yellow, and Crystal hit the brakes. “Three, no, four nights ago we had a scheduled meeting in Vidalia.” Crystal often conducted her business in the small Louisiana town just across the Mississippi River. She claimed her rich clients preferred the location. “Royce couldn’t get it up. Too stressed, he said. Kept pacing the hotel room, running his hands through his hair.” She paused to study her manicured fingernails. “He does have great hair. Salt and pepper, all thick and wavy–”