Marisa asked, “What are you going to do now? I hate to say it, but I think Ed might be right. It could be nothing.”
Jack exhaled and nodded. “I hate hearing you say it. But . . . it seems everyone else agrees with you.”
Marisa gave his shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “Even the great Jack Stratton can be wrong. Don’t take it so hard. Are you going to the dress fitting today? The itinerary wasn’t all that clear.”
“No, I get a reprieve. It’s just for the ladies. Alice said it’s to make absolutely sure that everyone has the right shoes, earrings, and all that jazz to avoid any surprises and fire drills on the big day. I can just see Erica inspecting the troops. I’m so glad I don’t have to go.”
“See?” Marisa smiled and gave his shoulder another squeeze, her fingers drifting all the way down his arm and across the back of his hand. “Your luck is getting better.” With a wink, she strolled toward the west parking lot, an extra sway in her hips.
Jack turned toward the east lot, where the Charger was parked with Lady waiting inside. His jaw was set in a determined line. So what if everyone else thought he was wrong? He didn’t care. Something was strange about that house, and he was going to find out what it was. Right now.
12
Jack parked the Charger in front of the rental house just as he had on the night of Donald’s attack. Lady had gotten quieter after they turned onto the driveway, and now she wasn’t making a sound.
The sky above the mountain was bright blue, but that same dark feeling crossed over Jack as he got out of the car and looked up at the faded red house. His gaze traveled up to the two jet-black windows on the second floor. On one of those fixer-upper shows Alice had recently taken to watching, the host said the front windows of a house were “portals to its soul.”
If that’s the case, this house is possessed. Those blacked-out windows look like the portals to Hell.
Jack pressed the button on the dash to release Lady’s harness and open her door. The locks clicked and the rear door swung open, but Lady didn’t get out.
“To me!” Jack called. Lady stayed in the car. “What’s the matter, girl?”
Jack walked around to her door.
Lady turned her head to the side and gave him a look that he could only interpret as, What do you think, stupid? I’m not going in there.
“I don’t want to either, but we have to. Come.”
Lady stayed put.
“What is up with you?” Jack grumbled. He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of his landlady’s homemade dog biscuits. Without a doubt, the peanut butter bacon bomb biscuits were Lady’s favorite snack. But he hadn’t had to resort to this trick for a while.
Lady’s eyes lit up, and she shot out of the car. Jack dropped the cookie for fear of losing his fingers, although he knew Lady would never intentionally bite him. The dog caught the biscuit before it hit the ground.
After noisily munching it down, Lady turned back toward the car.
“That’s not how it works.” Jack attached the leash to her collar. “Come on.”
Lady planted her feet. Jack grabbed her harness and half carried the enormous dog to the steps. But when Lady let out an earsplitting roar, he set her down.
“Look, dog.” Jack squared off with her as she glared back at him. “Alice needs us. Alice.” Lady whined.
Jack was almost certain Lady could understand him, but there was no way he was going to keep arguing with a dog. “Fine. Stay out here, you baby. I have to go in. I don’t want to go in alone, but I will.” He turned and stomped up the steps. Lady stayed where she was.
Jack punched in the code to the lock box. Morrison would be furious if he found out what Jack was doing, but right now, Jack didn’t care. He pushed the front door open. What he was about to do was perfectly legal. Morrison had declared the house was no longer a crime scene, so Jack had offered the homeowner double the usual fee and rented the house for the week.
He flicked on the living room lights. Everything had been straightened up, and there was a guest basket with candy and popcorn on the coffee table. Jack walked across the room and opened the door to the room where he had found Donald.
A larger area rug had been placed over the floor. It wasn’t new, it was worn and dusty, probably taken from another room in the house, but of course they’d had to remove the smaller one that Donald had bled all over. And that wasn’t the only change.
The twisted art gallery is gone.
The sketches were no longer there; the tape had been removed from the walls. Jack suspected the pictures were in police custody, but he was sure Castillo wasn’t doing anything with them. Ed was pinning all his hopes on the computer forensics department catching the real guy who rented the house. But trying to trace an IP address was a long shot. There was lots of software available to mask your true location. The fraud department had already come up empty on the credit card used to rent the house. Whoever was doing this knew how to cover their tracks.
Which made it all the more likely that they were up to something more than drawing pictures. And yet it seemed the entire police department had bought in to Castillo’s theory—nothing more than a paranoid artist with a redneck alarm that accidentally injured a cop—but Jack wasn’t buying it.
He walked over and opened the closet door. The art supplies and easel were gone, leaving only dust. A woman in a bathtub lying down to take a shower. It made no sense . . .
Jack walked around the ground floor. The kitchen was cramped and dated, with tacky green wallpaper, and no dishwasher. Instead there was a sign over the sink that declared that no man had ever been shot by his wife while doing the dishes. I’ll have to tell Alice that one.
In addition to the living room, there were two small rooms on the first floor and a half bath with just a sink and toilet. No shower, no tub. No way for Donald to see what he says he saw. Jack headed upstairs. Maybe that knock to Donald’s head made him forget he went up? But even if he did go up, he got beaned downstairs, so that would mean he went upstairs first. It still didn’t make sense, but Jack continued up the old wood staircase, the stairs creaking and groaning underfoot. There were three little bedrooms upstairs, sparsely furnished and all featuring tacky 1950s’ wallpaper like the kitchen. The smell of mothballs assaulted his nose.
Jack’s footsteps echoed off the wood as he walked down the hall to the bathroom. He grabbed the doorknob but it didn’t turn. He jiggled the knob and applied force, and the door opened with a loud click.
The bathroom looked as dated as the rest of the house, but it was clean. Fresh towels lay folded on a small wooden stool. The scent of lemon wafted from tiny wrapped soaps inside a gift basket with toiletries and a note to enjoy the stay and a plea for good rental reviews. A few tiles were cracked and chipped, but overall, not the worst room in the house.
A shower curtain was drawn across the length of the old clawfoot tub. As Jack reached for the curtain, the room dipped into darkness. A thick cloud had passed by outside, blotting out the sun and its light through the small window.
That was unnerving.
Yanking the curtain back with a rattle of metal clips, Jack stared into the empty cast-iron tub.
Nothing. What did I expect? A body? A bloody knife?
Half relieved and half unconvinced, he pulled the curtain closed.
Somewhere downstairs, the floorboards creaked. Jack drew his gun. Another sound came from downstairs, but he couldn’t make it out. Sticking close to the wall to minimize the creaking of floorboards, he crept down the hallway. He pressed his back against the wall as he descended the stairs to the living room. Lady stood there, trembling slightly and staring into the room where they’d found Donald.
“Hey, girl,” Jack whispered as he holstered his gun.
Lady kept staring at the open door, her ears lying flat on her head. She sniffed the air, her nose twitching wildly. A deep, low growl rumbled in her massive chest, her hackles rising with each moment. Jack walked up beside her and the do
g slowly walked forward.
At the room, Lady stopped in the doorway and peered around. Her head hung lower and her front paws were spread like she was ready to pounce. She sniffed the air and walked to the middle of the rug. She scratched twice and barked—the signal Alice had taught her to show she’d found something.
She probably still smells the blood. Jack bent over and grabbed the edge of the rug. Lady moved over as Jack folded it in half and dragged it aside, a flurry of dust particles falling like snow with the movement.
Lady walked again to the middle of the floor, scratched twice, and barked.
Jack looked at her, puzzled. As far as he could figure, the spot she was scratching was two feet away from where Donald had fallen. He knelt next to Lady and examined the floor. Everything looked fine . . . except for a little chip missing at the end of one board.
Taking out his knife, Jack slipped the blade between the boards and pried up. A six-inch section of the board tipped back, revealing a metal ring. Lady’s claws ticked off the floor as she whined and backed up.
Jack grabbed the metal ring and pulled.
A three-foot-square section of the floor lifted on hinges. He expected to find a hideaway for money or moonshine. Instead he stared into the ashen face of a recently deceased woman. Her bloated body was wrapped in clear plastic.
Lady let out a mournful howl.
Jack had seen death many times before, and it never got any easier. But the terrified expression frozen on the dead woman’s face made his hand shake. Her mouth was twisted into a long-silenced scream, and her gray eyes were forever staring to her left . . . at a second woman’s body, also wrapped in clear plastic.
13
Aunt Haddie clapped her hands with delight. “You’re going to be a lovely bride!”
Even with Alzheimer’s marching slowly through Aunt Haddie’s brain, she still had a way of bringing out the best in Alice, just like she had when Alice was a small, frightened foster child in her care.
“Would you like more water?” Erica asked Aunt Haddie.
The elderly black woman shook her head. “I’m fine, thank you.” She was sitting in a comfy chair at the side of the room, watching the seamstress make the final adjustments to Alice’s wedding gown.
Bright lights flashed in her face as Philip captured the moment with his camera.
Blinking and rubbing her eyes, Aunt Haddie said politely, “Perhaps you should focus on the bride, young man.”
Alice felt like an angel. The fit-and-flare dress was dove-white satin with a lace overlay and a sweetheart neckline. The beaded bodice hugged her curves and accentuated her tiny waist. Lorenzo Soriano had made Alice submit a detailed questionnaire to get to know her a bit before he even started sketching a design, and it showed in the dress. It was perfect in every way, but more specifically, it was perfect for her. It was feminine but not too revealing and didn’t overpower her petite frame. The skirt had a fluidity as she moved that only a designer gown could deliver. Alice held out the lace overlay of the skirt, marveling at the craftsmanship. The lace was handmade and encrusted with tiny pearls and Swarovski crystals. It was spectacular. The same lace had been used for her chapel-length veil.
The photographer snapped a picture of her as she sighed with pleasure at her reflection in the mirror. “Please do me a favor, Lenora?” Alice asked. “Tell your father what an amazing job he did designing my bridal gown. It’s so beautiful. And it makes me feel beautiful.”
Lenora smiled. “My father will be pleased to hear that.”
“Alice, you are stunning.” Erica clapped her hands together. “Absolutely breathtaking.”
Aunt Haddie sat forward in her chair. “Your father designs the dresses and you sew them, is that right?”
Lenora shook her head. “I only make the alterations. This fitting is a good example. Alice lost a few pounds since the last fitting. Brides get nervous, it happens. I need to take it in a bit. But my father is the master. He not only does the creative design work, he does his own cutting, fabrication, and sewing, though he gives all the credit to the lacemakers, beadworkers, and embroiderers. Without them, he says, he only has pretty dresses that remain just a dream. My mother helped him, too, until a few years ago.”
Alice imagined the skilled hands needed to create such intricate artistry.
“I have a wonderful idea,” Erica announced. “We should get a shot of Alice in her gown with Lorenzo at his studio. The master with his masterpiece!”
Lenora smiled and nodded, a gleam in her eye. “That would be very nice. He would like that.”
Philip exhaled loudly and lowered his camera. When he spoke, he had the air of a curmudgeonly teacher who’d grown weary of having to explain things to people he considered beneath him. “For lighting, it would be preferable if Lorenzo came to my studio and not the other way around.”
Lenora shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. My father would love to meet you, but he is a very private man. A bit of an introvert, I’m afraid. You will get much better photographs if he’s comfortable, and he would be much more at ease in his own surroundings.”
“I’m certain it would be no bother going to his studio,” Erica said firmly, resuming her staring contest with Philip. “You charge an extra fee for location shooting, after all.”
“Because of the added challenges it presents,” Philip fired back.
“Then it’s settled. I just have to find the time.” Erica smiled.
Alice tried not to make a face. Not only had Erica gotten her way, but she had managed to boost her paycheck in the process. The bigger the invoice for the wedding, the bigger her commission.
Before Philip could reply, Aunt Haddie cut through the professional bickering with an airy wave. “Lenora, I’m curious, how long does it take to make a dress?” she asked.
Philip crouched down and started to take shots of Lenora working.
“It depends on the design,” Lenora said. She carefully lifted the delicate fabric as she pinned it. “My father designs many dresses, and when a bride sees the one she likes, he’ll customize it for her.”
Philip lay on the floor, but as he angled his camera to take an upward-facing photo, Aunt Haddie’s foot shot out and kicked him in the backside. Philip rolled in Haddie’s direction and glowered.
“Oops!” Aunt Haddie shrugged innocently. “I wouldn’t take a photograph from that angle. It might show a little too much of Alice, if you know what I’m saying. And then her fiancé, Jack, might get a little agitated. Did you know he carries a firearm at all times?”
Philip, red in the face, stood up and checked his camera for damage. “I was getting a shot that included Lenora’s face,” he stammered. “She looks down at the fabric as she works, so I needed to get beneath her.” He knelt down and focused in on Lenora’s face. “It’s an action photo.”
“I’m certain that one will be lovely.” Aunt Haddie gave Alice a little wink, and Alice smiled at her gratefully.
Then Erica took out her tablet and started to stab at it with the stylus, and Alice’s smile faded. She felt as poked and prodded as Erica’s tablet. Her wedding planner had become her handler. Every day, Alice boarded a roller-coaster, and she couldn’t get off until Erica released her, tired and slightly nauseated. Each item on her to-do list was synchronized, color-coded, and linked to software that pushed out automatic updates to social media and beeps to her phone. Any deviation from the schedule brought things to a grinding halt and put Erica into warp speed.
When they were first working out the details of the schedule, Alice had made certain there was plenty of time for her and Jack. But then the complexity of the wedding grew and grew, and Erica kept slashing those precious minutes away, until Alice hardly saw Jack at all.
And right now, she needed him, she needed to feel the reassurance his presence brought her. He could encourage her like no one else. She was exhausted, frazzled, and about to lose it. She and Jack had an hour set aside for dinner tonight, and if Erica thought
she was going to sacrifice it—
Alice’s phone rang from a silver tray on the table. The Batman ringtone. A call from Jack!
“I’ve got it!” Erica announced, but it wasn’t that she was answering the phone for Alice. “I found a time slot for a quick photoshoot at Lorenzo’s. You’ll just have to push back your dinner with—”
“Not a chance.” Alice shook her head. “I hear ya, but it’s not happening, Erica. I get one hour with Jack and I’m not giving it up. One hour, no discussion.” She could feel her heartbeat in her ears, and she was surprised by her own tone of authority.
The phone stopped ringing. Erica folded her hands in front of herself and leveled her gaze at Alice. “You heard Lenora say how much this would mean to her father. Think about how much work has gone into that dress.”
Alice’s emerald eyes flashed with anger and frustration. She was standing in a designer dress she’d never dreamt of, to be worn at a lavish wedding she couldn’t even fathom was to be hers. It was as if she were on an island and Jack and the wedding they had envisioned for themselves were drifting farther and farther away from her.
All eyes were on Alice. Her ponytail bobbed from side to side as she shook her head. I am not packing my bags and going on Erica’s guilt trip. Nope, nope, nope.
Lenora shifted uncomfortably. “My father would understand if it doesn’t work out,” she explained, careful to avoid eye contact. The shy young woman clearly didn’t like being used by Erica as leverage.
“We can go another day,” Alice said, her voice rising. “Any day. I’ll go after the meal. I’ll go at midnight. I don’t care. But I need to spend some time with Jack.”
Erica looked to Aunt Haddie.
“Don’t go looking at me,” Aunt Haddie said. “I know that look in Alice’s green eyes. That’s her ‘I’ve made up my mind’ look, and you should believe me when I tell you that no one is going to get that girl to do something once she’s decided on the path she’s going to take. Even the angels would have to go to the good Lord for help.”
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