by Rita Herron
Then silence and a click.
She’d told Brent, and he’d seemed upset about it, but she’d shaken it off.
She removed the photographs from the broken frames and placed them in a drawer, then swept up the glass and debris.
Brent’s face faded in her mind, and Cal’s replaced it, giving her a warm feeling. Cal had been so passionate and loving, had made her feel warm and safe and sexy and . . . loved.
Things she’d never completely felt with Brent.
Her phone trilled. Hoping it was Cal, she hurried to answer it. But it was Aimee, her assistant.
“Mona, Anna DuKane just called and wants an appointment. She said something happened, but she wouldn’t tell me what.”
“Anna DuKane—why does that name sound familiar?”
“She’s the sheriff’s daughter,” Aimee said. “I heard some ladies talking about her at the memorial. She left town after Johnny Pike was convicted, and someone said she got married right after and hasn’t been back since.”
“But she’s back now?” That seemed coincidental, too.
“Yeah, word is her daddy’s real sick. Got a tumor that’s affecting his brain.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. Well, call her and tell her I’ll meet her at the office. You can text me the time when you talk to her.”
She hung up, then rushed to shower and dress. Anna had lived here thirty years ago, so she might have known Mona’s birth mother.
Cal knelt by the medical examiner as he studied Carol Little’s body.
“She was definitely strangled,” Dr. Wheeland said. “The killer used his bare hands this time.”
Cal frowned. “If it was the same unsub, he didn’t have time for his ritual. He was angry and wanted to get rid of her quickly.”
Dr. Wheeland examined Carol’s wrists and ankles. “I agree. Although there are stun gun markings, I don’t see rope burns or chain marks like on the other two.”
Cal imagined a scenario. “Let’s say the unsub is out looking for his next victim. He runs into Carol and realizes she’s the one writing about him.”
Dr. Wheeland nodded. “He may have realized she knew something that could expose him and he had to get rid of her. But she wrote about the killer dressing his victims in a wedding gown,” Dr. Wheeland added. “So why didn’t he dress her in a bridal dress?”
“He didn’t have time.” Cal’s adrenaline pumped. “That means he’s flustered, thrown off his game. So maybe he made a mistake, and we can use it to catch him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Cal made a mental note to look into Sheriff Buckley and probe Anna about their relationship. If there were secrets behind closed doors, he would find out. Carol Little’s family needed to be notified of her death, but his contacts told him Carol had no family. Both her parents had passed.
Hoping to find more information on her computer or in her notes, Cal drove to the inn where she’d been staying and walked up the azalea-lined sidewalk to the front. It was a two-hundred-year-old gray-blue Victorian home with turrets, windows that looked as if shadowy ghosts might be looking out, and swings and rocking chairs on the wraparound porch.
A sign pointed to gardens out back and a walking trail to the river. A statue of the man who’d originally owned and built the inn stood in the center of a garden, the story of the man etched on a marker. According to rumors, his ghost could be seen at dusk and dawn, wandering the property.
Cal stepped inside, impressed by the detailed molding and antique wood flooring, yet the painting of the falls and the prison that had once stood by the grounds looked eerie. That prison had flooded years ago and dozens had died.
The town didn’t commemorate that loss with a memorial, though.
A short, robust woman wearing an apron and a friendly smile swept in and introduced herself as the owner, Cynthia Humphries. “Are you looking for a room?”
He introduced himself. “I’m here about the recent murders.”
The woman shook her head. “It’s awful to have that happening in our town. Do you have a suspect?” she asked.
“We have some theories but aren’t ready to make an arrest.” Dammit, he hated to tell her they were no closer to finding the unsub than they had been after Gwyneth’s death. “Unfortunately, there’s been another murder. We found Carol Little’s body at the falls.”
Cynthia’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God, Carol is dead?”
“I’m afraid so,” Cal said.
Cynthia grabbed the edge of the antique sideboard for support. “This is horrible. She was such a nice lady. A little troubled, but she meant well.”
“What do you mean, ‘troubled’?”
Cynthia shrugged. “She didn’t share much, but one morning over coffee, I asked her about her family, and she said she and her father hadn’t gotten along.”
He wasn’t as interested in her family drama as what was on her computer. “Did she talk about the story she was working on?”
Cynthia smoothed down her apron. “Not really. I mean, she asked about Johnny Pike and the people in town. If everyone thought he was guilty.”
“Did you live here back then?” Cal asked.
“Actually, I did. My husband and I had just moved to town. He was a developer and built those cabins up on the river.”
“How did you think Sheriff Buckley handled the case?”
She looked at him as if that was an odd question. “I thought he did his job,” she said. “All the parents were in a panic. After the first murder, the counselors had their work cut out. Hysterical grieving teenagers and parents didn’t make a very happy town.”
But Buckley had been the hero. Had he set it up that way?
“Did you believe Johnny Pike was guilty?”
She chewed her bottom lip. “I don’t know. His mother was nice and insisted her son wouldn’t hurt a fly. But there was so much evidence. I thought they were going to lynch that boy.”
Had Carol discovered something that might suggest Pike was innocent? Was that the reason she was killed? It might account for the difference in the MO.
It also meant that anyone in town who didn’t want Pike to get that parole could have killed Carol.
Sheriff Buckley especially wouldn’t want the case to be overturned.
Cal considered Mona’s profile of the unsub, that he was looking for a wife. That detail didn’t fit with Buckley.
Yonkers was the one person of interest who did fit.
“I need to see Carol’s room.”
“Of course.” She snatched a ring of room keys, then led him up the stairs to the second floor. When she opened the door, the scent of a woman’s perfume swirled around him.
He half expected to see that the room had been ransacked. That the killer had been here covering his tracks before Cal could search Carol’s belongings.
But the room was neat and orderly, the bed made, a stack of notepads on the desk. He scanned the room for her computer but didn’t see it. Dammit, she must have had it with her.
Maybe it was in her car.
Cynthia hovered in the doorway, looking pale and clutching the doorknob.
“What kind of car did Carol drive?”
“A little red Toyota.”
Which was not outside. So if he found the car, he might find her laptop.
“Did Carol have any visitors while she stayed here?”
“Not that I saw. She left early every day to talk to people in town.”
“Thanks, Cynthia. I’ll lock the room when I leave.”
She pulled herself from her stupor and left him alone. He walked over to look at the notepads, hoping to find something, as he called the deputy. “See if you can find Carol Little’s car. A red Toyota. Her computer might be inside it.”
The deputy agreed, and Cal skimmed Carol’s notes. She’d written the names of the
Thorn Ripper’s victims—Tiffany Levinson, Candy Yonkers, and Brittany Burgess.
Johnny Pike’s name was at the top of one column, then she’d listed the evidence the sheriff had gathered against him. Fingerprints, photos of the victims, and a witness, Charlene Linder, who claimed that Pike had attacked her but she’d escaped. Though she’d left town before the trial, her written statement had clinched the case.
He skimmed more notes:
I tried to interview Sheriff Buckley, but he refused. So did his daughter, Anna. She was dating Pike at the time of his arrest and insisted that Pike wasn’t dangerous.
On another page, she’d created a chart with three columns, listing each of the three original victims and their parents’ names.
She’d uncovered the same information Deputy Kimball had about the families of the victims. She’d even circled Doyle Yonkers and written a question mark below his name as if she had her suspicions about him.
Cal texted Agent Hamrick and asked Dane to let him know if he saw Yonkers leave his property.
Beside Sara Levinson’s name, Carol had jotted THE BOAR’S HEAD in capital letters.
Cal quickly searched the rest of the room in case she’d hidden notes or a flash drive, but he came up empty.
Frustrated but determined, he headed outside to his Jeep to drive to the Boar’s Head. He punched the number he’d found in Carol’s room for her editor, Wally Gann, and asked to speak to him.
When he told Gann about Carol, the man cursed. “I was afraid she was going to get in trouble one day.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She wasn’t satisfied just covering small stories. She was intrigued with murder. She was relentless and pushed people until she got what she was looking for.”
Except if she’d uncovered something important, she’d taken it to the grave.
Mona stopped in Cocoa’s Café for coffee on the way to her office.
“I’m enjoying your show, Miss Monroe,” Cocoa said. “You got some interesting callers. Course most folks around here are freaked out about the possibility of another serial killer being in town.”
“I know. You’ve lived here a long time,” Mona said. “The teenage girls who died used to come in here, didn’t they?”
Cocoa’s dark skin glistened with perspiration as she set a tray of hot sticky buns on the counter.
Mona couldn’t resist snatching one as Cocoa handed her a steaming mug.
“I don’t mean to speak ill, but they were spoiled rotten and cliquish,” Cocoa said. “Still, they didn’t deserve to be killed and thrown away in the woods like that.”
Mona frowned. “They didn’t let just anyone into their group?”
“No, they were kind of a threesome. I remember a couple of girls who wanted to be in the ‘in crowd,’ but they snubbed them.”
“Do you remember the girls’ names?”
Cocoa wiped the counter with a rag. “One of them was Felicity Hacker. She was pretty but not striking like the others. She used to hang around and try to fit in, but . . . she never quite did.”
Mona’s instincts prickled. “I heard from someone that she got pregnant that year.”
“Yeah.” Cocoa sighed. “Poor thing. Think the baby was stillborn, although no one ever talked about it. Bernice at the hair salon said she thought she gave the kid away. Someone else said they thought she got rid of the baby.”
“Got rid of the baby how?”
Cocoa shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t like to gossip myself.”
Mona frowned. No wonder Felicity hadn’t wanted to talk to her.
“After that, she kept to herself. Owns that plant nursery outside town. Grows the prettiest roses. Her mama taught her to do that.”
Roses? Mona’s mind took a strange leap. If Felicity had been shunned by the girls, she could have killed them and framed Johnny Pike, and jammed the rose stems down their throats to teach them a lesson.
While she had Cocoa talking, though, Mona had to find out more about the students that year. “I’m sure Felicity wasn’t the only girl in Graveyard Falls to get pregnant while she was in school.”
Cocoa hesitated. “Like I said, I don’t like to gossip.”
Mona offered her a tentative smile. “I guess since I’m working with folks in town, I’m just curious about everyone.”
Cocoa sighed. “Well, I did hear that a girl named Charlene got pregnant when she was a junior,” she said. “Folks said her daddy was as mean as a snake, that he locked her up till that kid was born.”
Mona swallowed hard. She hadn’t found Charlene’s name at the county office. Was it possible Charlene was her mother?
“What was her last name?” Mona asked. “Did she have a boy or a girl?”
“I don’t remember her last name, but I think she had a boy.”
Mona’s hopes deflated. Although it might be helpful to talk to Charlene anyway. Perhaps she and Mona’s mother had bonded over their teenage pregnancies. “Where does Charlene live?”
“No idea. People said her daddy was so ashamed of her he moved them up in the mountains far away from anyone in this town. Other rumors spread that he killed Charlene and the baby and buried them in the hills.”
Mona fiddled with her purse strap, uneasy. “What about Kay Marlin?”
Cocoa’s brows rose. “You are curious, girl.” She spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Word is that Kay didn’t even know who the daddy was. I think her aunt or some other relative took the baby up north to raise it.”
Mona thanked her and drove to her office, contemplating what she’d learned.
When she arrived at her desk, Anna DuKane was waiting, looking upset, her complexion pasty.
“Come on in, Anna,” Mona said. “Can I get you some coffee or water?”
“Coffee would be good.” Anna rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “I can’t seem to get warmed up.”
Mona gestured for the older woman to get comfortable on the love seat while she went to the corner side table and poured Anna a cup of coffee.
“Sweetener or cream?”
Anna shook her head. “Just black.”
She poured herself a cup as well, stalling, giving Anna time to settle down.
When Mona handed her the mug, Anna took a quick sip, closed her eyes, and sighed as if she’d desperately needed the caffeine, then looked into her cup as if she were a million miles away.
“Tell me what happened,” Mona said.
“I found Carol Little dead at Graveyard Falls.”
Mona bit back her surprise “You went to the falls?”
Anna traced a finger along the rim of her cup. “Yes. I know it sounds crazy, but I . . . had to see the place again.”
“Did you know Ms. Little?” Mona asked.
A flicker of guilt in her eyes. “No, not really,” Anna said a little too quickly. “But she came to my father’s house for an interview. I didn’t want to rehash the past, so I refused to let her in.”
Anna jiggled her leg nervously, and Mona reached out and laid a hand on her knee. “Why didn’t you want to talk to her?”
“Because I was dating Johnny Pike back then. Everyone thought I knew he was a killer!” Anna cried. “They even thought I covered up for him.”
Mona couldn’t help but wonder the same thing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Cal was still contemplating Carol’s death as he entered the Boar’s Head.
The decor consisted of animals that had been preserved by a taxidermist, the faces and eyes so real that he felt like they were following him as he crossed to the bar.
It was obviously a common decorating scheme in this part of Tennessee.
Rustic wood floors, booths, battered wood tables, and cane-back chairs added to the primitive country look. A few people were eating lunch, a
nd three men in jeans and overalls drank beer at the bar.
He spotted a waitress with reddish-brown hair leaving one of the tables, carrying a tray of dirty dishes and walking toward a swinging door that led to the kitchen. He slid onto a barstool near the door.
The bartender, a young guy in his twenties with a sleeve of tattoos, slapped a napkin down in front of Cal. “What do you want?”
He wanted a beer but asked for coffee instead. Too much work to do. When the guy returned with the mug, he thanked him, then flashed his ID. “I’m investigating the murder of two women whose bodies were found at Graveyard Falls.” He showed him pictures of Gwyneth and Constance. “Did you see either of them in here?”
“No.” He gestured toward a picture of three fishermen showing off a huge catfish. “We mostly get hunters and fishermen.”
A heavyset man in jeans and a wife-beater T-shirt pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen, sweat pouring down his ruddy neck. When he saw Cal, his eyes flickered with disdain.
A second later, he came over to Cal. “I’m the owner, Burrell Fergis. Why you bothering my people?”
“Because two women were murdered and left at Graveyard Falls, and now the reporter, Carol Little, who wrote about the story was found dead there as well.”
Fergis’s jaw tensed.
“I think Carol came to this bar to talk to Sara Levinson.” Cal said.
Fergis looked away, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm.
“Shit. I was afraid something happened to that lady.”
“Why do you say that?”
“That little Toyota she was driving. It was still in the parking lot when I got here this morning.”
He hadn’t seen it. “Where?”
“In the back lot,” Fergis said.
Cal’s pulse jumped. “Did you talk to Ms. Little?”
“No. She wanted to speak to Sara. Got her all tore up.”
“What do you mean?”
“She asked all kinds of questions about Sara’s daughter and that Pike boy.”