by Susan Shay
Now he was angry for something that was as natural to her as his square jaw and sexy voice were to him. She couldn’t help it, but she also couldn’t keep secret what she knew. Closing her eyes, she plunged in. “At least there’s one thing that’s a blessing, Keegan. They weren’t r-raped...until after they were dead.”
Opening her eyes, she searched his face, but the signs she looked for were missing. She’d hoped to find relief, maybe even gratitude. Instead, his jaw was tightly clenched, his eyes narrowed and the line along his cheekbones stained red. More than angry, he’d become enraged. So much for gratitude.
With an oath, he yanked the vacuum from her hand, flipped on the switch, turned his back to her and started working with a vengeance. No use staying there when he wasn’t listening.
After wishing once more she could make him understand, she walked through the rows of books toward the front of the store. She loved her job there. For years, her only friends lived in books. When everyone else she knew—including her family—was either frightened to death of her or thought she was too weird to live, she had always been able to lose herself in a good book.
She’d read across the spectrum, from autobiographies to fiction, horror to romance. And she loved everything about them, not only the words, but the way they looked as they stood spine to spine on a shelf or waiting on her bedside table. The way they felt when she held one in her hand and turned the page to learn its innermost secrets. The way they smelled—sometimes like fresh paper and new ink, sometimes a little musty, as if they had been hiding their knowledge for a long, long time, waiting only for her. She even loved the weight of each book as she hugged it to her, or fell asleep in bed at night and it landed on her face with a soft plop.
So this had been the perfect job for her. Surrounded by friends who didn’t judge, get angry, or ignore her. She only hoped she wasn’t about to do something to mess that up.
When she reached the front, she nodded to a woman browsing through the greeting cards, then stepped into the office. From the angle of Miriam’s desk, Cassie could see she was staring bleakly at nothing. She knocked lightly on the open door. “Did you get your call made?”
Miriam jumped, then whipped around to face her. “Yeah, I did.” Her sigh spoke volumes, but about what, Cassie wasn’t sure.
“Everything okay?” She didn’t want to pry, but when the smile Miriam usually greeted her with didn’t show up, she knew something was wrong.
“Not really, but I’ll survive.” Miriam glanced at the phone, shook her head, then sucked on her bottom lip a moment. “Did you need something?”
“I just had an interesting conversation with your brother. It seems the police have reason to believe that Lucy’s and Sharon’s deaths weren’t accidental. They were murdered. And they think that the same person might have killed them both.” She paused, wishing she didn’t need to finish what she had to say. “Miriam, they believe that Stone Hill might have a serial killer.”
As she watched, Miriam’s face drained of color. “They think the same man killed both women? Why? They weren’t killed in the same way, were they?”
Cassie swallowed hard, then forced a breath into her lungs. “Because both of them were instrumentally raped.” That was enough. She didn’t need to know more, did she?
“Oh, God.” Great tears streamed down Miriam’s face as she began sobbing.
Cassie hurried to kneel by her side, to offer her a shoulder to cry on. “They didn’t know it, Miriam. They were gone before it happened. I promise.” Of course, that didn’t mean that they weren’t tortured before they died, but at least they hadn’t suffered through the rape itself.
“Good,” Miriam whispered as she reached for the tissues on her desk. “I wouldn’t have wanted Sharon, or anyone, to...”
“What the hell—” Keegan roared from the doorway, anger contorting his features. “You told her, didn’t you? What is the matter with you? You promised you’d keep it to yourself.”
Slowly, and with as much dignity as possible, Cassie stood. “No, I didn’t promise. And why should I? The women of Stone Hill have to be warned. It’s only right.”
He looked uncertain for a moment. “Well, that’s not up to you. It’s a police matter. And it could be that they don’t want to start a panic.”
Unable to damper her resentment, Cassie stepped toward him. “Start a panic? What do they think women are going to do when someone else disappears, then dies? Especially when it seems the police don’t have a clue? Do they think women are all so stupid, that unless they announce it, we won’t notice? Don’t be ridiculous.” Unable to stand still any longer, she stalked past him, bumping him out of the way with her shoulder so she could get through the door.
****
Twyla Tomball expertly slid the mug of beer to her customer, giving it just enough twirl for show. With what she hoped was a flirty wink, she nodded at the jean-clad mechanic leaning against the bar. “I’ll start your tab, Guy.”
For ordinary people, this late in the afternoon was nearing the end of the day. But when the sun stopped trying to blot out the comfortable dimness inside Jerry’s Bar and the room filled with smoke, hers was just beginning.
Kind of like a vampire in the old black and whites, she lived for the night. Of course, she didn’t explode or burst into flames when daylight hit her. But like those old vampires, she took her pleasure where she could find it.
Except blood isn’t my first choice when it comes to bodily fluids. She cracked up at her own crude joke. She’d have to remember to tell Steve that one. Where was he, anyway?
With a glance at the Budweiser wall clock—the one with the pictures of fat-assed horses instead of numbers—she saw it was past time for him to be there.
She just hoped he hadn’t gone to the grocery store and been trampled to death in the stampede. The Tuesday before Thanksgiving was a double whammy in their shit town. Not only was every frickin’ housewife in Stone Hill out looking for the turkey with the most white meat, every old fart in town was doing his weekly shopping to take advantage of the senior citizen discount.
She’d have to be starving to death or totally out of cigarettes before she’d mess with a store full of walking carcasses. Shivering at the vision of hundreds of elderly people with foul breath, hair that fell out by the handful, and wrinkly skin flaking off in all directions, she pulled herself a half-mug of beer.
“Dammit, Twyla. I told you to go easy on that stuff while you’re working,” Jerry bitched from his bar stool near the TV.
“Oh, go smoke yourself to death,” she muttered as she picked up the bar rag and started wiping the smooth surface. As long as she did her job, what difference did a beer now and then make? There had to be some reason she stayed in this stupid town working in this stupid bar. It sure wasn’t the fat pay check or the fascinating conversation with the locals.
Turning her back on the old fart, she grabbed her bag, fished out her lip gloss, slicked on a coat, then jabbed her fingers into her hair to tousle it. Customers tipped better when her hair looked as if she’d just had a rough toss between the sheets. And when she’d started wearing open-toed stilettos instead of boots with her tight jeans, tips had practically doubled. She’d probably need that money after a couple of years for the foot doctor, but until then, as long as she kept a good supply of slut-red nail polish, she’d be doing okay.
The door opened regularly as the rush began. And her heart started beating. The after-work guys crowded up to the bar along with the old farts who wanted to pretend they were still alive, and she got busy pouring beers and yelling drink orders at Jerry, who’d finally gotten off his ass.
Then Steve was there.
Funny how he showed up every time, looking all cute and dressed up like a college boy going to try to make it with some chick for his first time. But when they were alone together, when they were doing the dirty, it was very obvious she wasn’t his first. Thank God.
“Hey, sailor. Lookin’ for a good time?” she teas
ed as she slid a bottle in front of him. She waited to see if he’d quirk his mouth at her and show his cute dimple. One of his cute dimples, even if right now she couldn’t see her favorites...on his ass. Bingo!
His eyes glittered dangerously, sending a thrill all the way to her toes. “Sure am, darlin’.”
She leaned across the bar, pushing her breasts up and enhancing her cleavage. “Well, that’s me,” she whispered huskily.
He glanced at the fat-assed horse clock while sipping from the long neck. “How late you gotta work?”
Letting her voice drop deep in her chest, she gave him the sexy smile she often practiced in the mirror and lowered her eyelids to half-mast. “I’m here until midnight. Just like every night.”
As he stepped back from the bar, he gave a curious glance toward the door. “I’ll be in that back booth over there. When you get your break, come find me.”
Buzzing with anticipation, she dropped her gaze to the zipper in his jeans. No action there yet, but during break time, she’d do something about it. With the light in back burned out, the table he was taking was mighty dark. No reason they couldn’t put her fifteen minutes of freedom to good use.
****
After a long run through the late morning, Keegan showered and put on nice pants and a shirt. After all, Thanksgiving was a time to dress up, right? he thought as he applied aftershave. Having had only rare glimpses of Cassie in the last three days wasn’t the only reason he wanted to look his best. So what if when he had seen her, she’d gone the other way or stomped past with her lips pressed together so tightly he’d have had to use the Jaws of Life to part them? She wasn’t the reason. The reason was Thanksgiving.
With a wry smile at himself in the mirror for being such a liar, he straightened his cuffs and picked up the jacket he’d tossed on the back of the chair. Too bad Stone Hill didn’t get cold enough for wool so he could wear something that really looked cool. The light fabric would have to do, and so would he.
After sliding his arms into the sleeves, he straightened the collar and pulled the front together. He glanced at his watch. Almost three o’clock, the time Miriam decided on for dinner.
Very carefully, he picked up the flower arrangements he’d bought for the occasion. With everyone else bringing something for the eats, he hated to arrive empty handed.
The colorful ceramic turkey, filled with flowers where the tail feathers belonged, was a little unwieldy, but the white pumpkin was easy to manage—except when opening doors. Thankfully, the flower shop put them both in one open box.
Balancing the box in one hand, he opened the bedroom door. Without checking, he knew the apartment was empty. Just as Aunt Hattie had always done, Miriam left early to start the meal. He’d even thought he heard the front door thump sometime way before the sun came up, but he might have been dreaming, and he hadn’t bothered finding out.
After stepping out of the apartment, he locked up, then turned toward the back of the building and the community room that had been built on sometime in the distant past. He could walk down the winding halls to get there, but since it was a beautiful day out, he decided to cut across the courtyard.
Once in the open, he took a deep breath of fresh autumn air. While it lacked the sweet fragrance of summer, he enjoyed the aroma. There was even a hint of smoke underlying the spicy scent of dying leaves. The day was nearly perfect, with the temperature in the low forties, the sun bright, the sky light blue, and the breeze just active enough to let him know it was still around. He almost wished he had farther to walk, but short of another turn around the block just for the fun of it, and the off chance of having to explain to someone why he was taking his flowers for a stroll, he had very little time to enjoy it.
When he reached the community room, he deep-sixed the idea of balancing the flowers on one hand while he maneuvered the door with the other. Maybe, if he bumped it the right way, Cassie would open it for him and he could get her alone for a minute. At least it was worth a try.
Even though he knew she was trying to con the people of Stone Hill, there was something about her that drew him. Like, uh, maybe her face? Her body? Her sweet personality? Rolling his eyes at how easily he could be read by anyone in the vicinity, he bumped the door with his knee.
“Coming.” The word was muffled, but definitely female. His heart thumped a little. If he was very, very lucky, and the gods were smiling, Cassie would open the door for him. Maybe he could pull her outside for just a moment so he could explain. But how did you tell someone why you’d become angry, when there was no logical reason for it?
He certainly hadn’t wanted to tell Miriam about the serial killer. Stupid as it was, he’d thought that as long as he was living in the same apartment with her and working with her every day, he could keep her safe—and she wouldn’t have to know. Wouldn’t have to have the picture of their ugly deaths burned on her brain, as he did his.
Just the look on his sister’s face, pale as ice except for the eyes, red-rimmed from crying, had made him want to hurt whoever had caused it. And even though Cassie hadn’t caused it, really, she had been the person who’d started it. Close enough.
Miss Marcie, tall and lean and a hundred and fifty years old, opened the door, then stood with her hands on her hips. “Why, looky who’s here. Well, come in, boy. Don’t just stand there.”
She waited for him to step into the room, but before he could open his mouth, she whisked the box from his hands. “Here, Ruthy, take these and put them on the table, one near each end.” Turning, Miss Marcie stalked back to the kitchen.
Miss Ruthy took care of the flowers as instructed, then walked back to stand near him. Her thin white hair floated around her head as if it wasn’t really anchored, but held in place by gravity. And except for a few wrinkles, she hadn’t changed at all. Her gray eyes, behind her dime store glasses, were still sharp as ever. “It’s so nice to see you, Keegan. How’ve you been?” Her voice, unlike Miss Marcie’s shrill sharp, crackly one, was low. Hesitant.
“I’ve been fine.” He opened his arms for a hug.
Miss Ruthy hesitated only a moment before fulfilling his silent request, then stepped back and dropped her chin. “It’s nice to have you here, hon. Are you staying for a while?”
“Well, you nosy old thing, why don’t you just ask for his itinerary while you’re at it?” Miss Marcie snapped as she marched in with a tray of glasses.
He smiled at their familiarity while Miss Ruthy shrugged, then nodded. As long as he’d known them, Miss Marcie had harped, and Miss Ruthy had soothed. It was like coming home.
Miss Ruthy ran one hand over her hair, then smoothed her skirt in front—a sure sign she was about to ask Miss Marcie what to do next. Hoping to forestall it, he put his hand in the small of Ruthy’s back. “I think I’ll go into the kitchen and let the girls know I’m here.”
Miss Ruthy smiled pleasantly while Miss Marcie folded her arms beneath her ample bosom. “Well, I imagine they know you’re here. This place isn’t that big, you know. You ought to stay and help us get this table fit for company.”
Ignoring her, he started for the warmth of the kitchen, but before he could get there, he was stopped by Mack Loper, who stood up from his chair in front of the big screen TV. “Nice to see you again, Keegan. Going in to check on dinner?”
Keegan smiled at the affable old man, then glanced at the three other men watching from easy chairs and a couple of couches. “Nice to see you, Mack. You guys betting on the game?”
Mack grinned. “Naw. I used to try to get ’em to, but old stick-in-the-mud over there had to preach us a sermon every time, so I finally gave up.”
Realizing Vernon was listening closely, Keegan gave him a nod. “Who’s winning, Vern?”
“Score’s tied,” the retired sheriff answered, then glared at Mack. “And I didn’t preach anyone a sermon. I just reminded you that betting like that is against God’s law, and man’s. And I didn’t want to have to arrest you on a holiday. I’ve had enough of that
in my life.”
Keegan spoke to the other men, whom he recognized from their chess games at the bookstore, then walked on into the kitchen. As he pushed open the swinging door, deliciously scented steam enveloped him.
If he was picked up from anywhere in the universe, blinded and deafened and dropped into this kitchen on Thanksgiving Day with only his sense of smell to guide him, he would know where he was and what day it was. Filling his lungs, he heaved an enormous, grateful sigh. I have found heaven. And there was even a pair of angels. Miriam, wearing a full apron over her dress, was stooping to check the oven, and Cassie, whose apron covered her only from the waist down, was stirring something on the stove.
Then he did a double take. This wasn’t the same kitchen that Aunt Hattie had worked in. In place of the old-fashioned gas stove and oven and some of the cabinetry, there stood what looked to him like a professional unit with eight or ten burners and a double oven below. In the center of the room, where the old yellow kitchen table used to stand on its chrome legs, was a ceramic tiled island, which matched the tile that had replaced the counters around the rest of the room. Another part of Miriam’s inheritance spent to polish Steve’s ego, Keegan was quite certain.
Whistling, he caught the women’s attention. “For a moment, I didn’t know where I was, Sis. This is pretty snazzy.”
Cheeks red, Miriam glanced around, then nodded. “Steve wanted to cater and give parties in here for extra cash, so he thought we’d need a professional kitchen. We’re set up for catering, birthdays, weddings, whatever. But I didn’t have the time, and Steve...”
“Steve didn’t have the inclination.” Cassie finished, looking at Miriam for confirmation.
After Miriam’s nod of agreement, Cassie glanced over her shoulder at him.
He crossed the room, slid his arm around his sister, then gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Happy Turkey Day.”
Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Happy Thanksgiving.”