As she put away the food and cleaned up her dishes, she thought again of alibis. If even one of the murders took place while her father was on one of his frequent trips out of town, then he would no longer be a suspect.
With this thought in mind, Shelby decided to snoop around in her father’s office. Located at the back of the house, the room had been off-limits to everyone for as long as Shelby could remember.
For a moment she lingered, her hand on the knob, aware that a childish taboo was about to be broken. Turning the knob, she walked into her father’s private sanctuary.
It smelled like him, of strong cologne and expensive bourbon. She flipped the switch on the wall, a desk lamp coming to life and illuminating the room. The walls were adorned with pictures, photos of Big John with political allies and enemies, images chronicling the life of a power hoarder.
Shelby was surprised to discover one wall dedicated to his family. Professional portraits of them together as a group, and individual snapshots of each of the children in various poses. She walked from picture to picture, oddly touched by the display in a room where he spent so much of his time alone.
She smiled at the picture of herself seated at the piano, her face expressing utter distaste. She’d taken piano lessons for only a month, and had hated each and every one. Another photo showed her and Michael together, him playfully making rabbit ears behind her head.
“Michael.” She breathed his name softly, remembering all the times he’d championed her against Olivia’s tormenting ways, all the times he’d placed himself in the position to receive the punishment for something she had done.
She just couldn’t find it in her heart to think he might have anything to do with the swamp serpent murders. Michael was a man of the cloth, had taken solemn vows, and there was no way she could imagine him using a knife rather than a rosary.
No, she couldn’t believe Michael had anything to do with any of this. She didn’t want to believe anyone she loved could have anything to do with any of this.
She turned her attention to the desk drawers, feeling like a thief as she began to search for records, daily planners, anything that might tell her where her father was on the nights of the most recent murders.
As she searched the desk, she was aware of the ominous rumbles of thunder and the brilliant lightning flashes that pierced the heavy draperies at the windows. Within minutes rain pelted the side of the house.
It took her nearly an hour to go through the contents of the desk, then she turned her attention to the massive file cabinets against one wall. “Bingo,” she whispered as she spied a large folder containing internal revenue forms for the past twenty years.
Her father was nothing if not frugal and many of the trips he took were tax deductible. She knew if she dug around enough she’d find material supporting every claim he took, including dates of his travel.
It took her another hour to finally find what she was looking for, and eagerly she wrote out the dates, year by year for the past twelve. She had placed everything back where she had found it and had just turned off the light when she heard a noise. Different than a rumble of thunder, more intrusive than the gentle rain, it sent an ominous shiver walking up her spine.
She froze. Heart pounding frantically. Seconds passed as all kinds of scenarios rocketed through her head. What better way to silence her permanently than to sneak away from a neighbor’s party and kill her?
The Whalens’ house was less than a five-minute drive away. Easy for a guest to disappear for twenty or so minutes. How easy for the killer, to dispose of her, race back to the party, then be with the family when they discovered her dead body.
She took a step out of the office, wishing she’d thought to turn on a light in the downstairs hallway. A flash of lightning showed the hallway empty. Taking another step, she listened. Nothing. Maybe it had simply been her imagination.
She started for the stairs that led to her bedroom. The noise came again, louder this time. Stumbling, she fell to one knee, her heart nearly bursting out of her chest. The back door. The noise came from the back door. The jiggle of the doorknob, the brush of a large body against the wood. Somebody was trying to get in.
Another noise penetrated her consciousness. The rattle of paper. She looked down and realized the sheet of paper crackled as her hand trembled uncontrollably.
If she had any courage at all, she’d grab a knife from the kitchen drawer and confront whomever was outside. But Shelby wasn’t a fool. She’d seen those horror movies, and always scoffed at the heroine’s stupidity in confronting the horror head-on.
Shelby preferred crawling into a hole rather than direct confrontation with a killer. Unfortunately, a hole wasn’t available. She jumped as someone banged on the door, all pretense of trying to be quiet gone.
“Shelby?” a familiar voice called.
The voice broke the inertia that had gripped her and she ran to the door. She unlocked it and flung it open to reveal Billy, his hair and clothing wet from the storm. “Billy, you scared me half to death,” she exclaimed as he swept by her and into the kitchen. “What are you doing here?” She closed the door and turned to face him.
He grinned sheepishly. “I’m not sure. I got worried, started thinking all crazy thoughts.”
Shelby smiled. “I know, the same thoughts crossed my mind.”
“What time do you expect your family home?” he asked.
“I don’t know, probably by midnight. Why?”
“Because I intend to stay here with you until they get home.”
“Billy, that’s not necessary. Besides, you’re all wet. You need to get out of those clothes.”
His wicked grin flooded her with heat. “That’s exactly what I had in mind.”
Chapter Seventeen
Billy. He was her first thought when she awakened the next morning. Her bed still held his scent, the pillow next to her still retained the imprint of his head. He’d sneaked out of her window the night before as her parents’ car had pulled up the lane toward the house. And between the time he’d arrived and the time he had left, there had been magic.
She stirred languidly, knowing she needed to get up, but reluctant to leave the cocoon of Billy that surrounded her. For a couple of splendid hours there had been no swamp and town and there had been no killer. It had been just a man and a woman making love and whispering lover talk while a gentle rain pattered its rhythm on the roof.
She’d wanted it all to last forever, but knew that was the fanciful dream of a fool. Like the storm in the night, gone before dawn, there was no forever for her and Billy, no future at all. Always the faces of the swamp victims would be between them, and the knowledge that somebody in her family was responsible for the deaths.
Thinking of the swamp serpent, she remembered the piece of paper she’d written on the night before, a list of her father’s travel dates for the past twelve years. Billy’s unexpected appearance had made her forget about it, but now it preyed on her mind, making further sleep impossible.
Getting out of bed, she grabbed her robe and pulled it on then hurried over to the desk where the paper awaited her attention. She rummaged through her briefcase and pulled out the sheet of paper where Billy had written the dates of the murders. Laying the two pieces of paper side by side, she began to compare the dates.
It didn’t take long to see that on the dates of all the murders Big John had been at the mansion, not out somewhere on the road. There was nothing in the dates to cast doubt on his guilt. She stared at the papers, her heart echoing the dull thud of dreadful certainty.
As much as she wanted to deny it, she knew there was more than a strong possibility that her father was the swamp serpent. She needed to talk to somebody, somebody other than Billy. She needed to talk to somebody who loved their father, someone who had grown up in the house. Michael. She wanted to talk to Michael.
It didn’t take her long to shower and dress, and soon after she was on the road driving toward Michael’s rectory. No re
mnant of the storm the night before remained. The sun was brilliant, the sky unmarred by clouds, making her feel as if she’d dreamed the thunder, the lightning…Billy.
Michael’s church wasn’t far from the mansion. Like the Longsford house, the church was bordered on the back by the swamp. It was a simple structure, complete with an oldfashioned bell tower. A short distance from the church was a well-kept little cottage, and it was here she assumed she would find her brother, probably preparing for the morning services.
She knocked on the door, then looked at her watch. It was just after eight. She knew the morning mass didn’t start until ten, so hopefully Michael would have time to talk to her.
He opened the door and his face immediately lit with a warm smile. “Shelby, what a surprise. Come on in, I was just about to sit down for breakfast.”
“I don’t want to intrude,” she said hesitantly.
“Intrude?” He took her by the arm and ushered her in. “You could never intrude. Have you had breakfast?” he asked as he led her into a small but cheerful kitchen.
“No, but I’m not hungry, although I wouldn’t turn down a cup of coffee.”
He grinned. “You’ll probably turn down a second cup once you get a taste of my coffee. Sit down.” He gestured her into a chair at the bright yellow enameled table. “So, to what do I owe this honor?” he asked as he poured them each a cup of coffee.
Shelby hesitated, unsure where to begin, what she wanted to say, what she needed to hear from him. She twisted the mug between her hands, wishing there was an easy way to tell him her suspicions.
“Shelby? What’s wrong?” Michael’s hand reached out and touched her arm, his eyes gazing at her warmly. “I can tell you’re troubled. What can I do to help?”
She smiled, as always touched by his support, his concern. “There’s nothing you can do to help, except listen. I need to tell somebody about some things I’ve been thinking. I need some objectivity.”
Michael leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his coffee. “Objectivity about what?” he asked as he placed the cup back down.
“Big John.”
Michael winced, a rueful smile curving his lips. “Ah, you don’t make things easy, do you?”
“I also need to know that whatever I say will be kept in strictest confidence,” she added.
“Shelby, I’m accustomed to hearing confessions. I keep confidences as part of my job.”
She nodded, then took a moment to collect her thoughts, get them in order to tell Michael. It took her only minutes to tell him about Tyler and his connection to the swamp murders. She explained about the erased computer files, Big John’s affair with Marguerite Boujoulais and finally the flowers she’d found in her bed and those that had been delivered to her. As she spoke, Michael’s expression remained impassive, only his blue eyes flashing emotions too deep, too dark to release.
“I checked Big John’s travel for the past twelve years and not one murder took place while he was out of town. Michael, I know it sounds crazy, but I think maybe he’s the swamp serpent killer.”
Michael sighed, leaned back in his chair and touched the collar around his neck as if for comfort. “God forgive me, but I’ve entertained the same thought.”
“You have?” She looked at him in surprise. “But why?”
“I’m not sure, nothing specific, just a gut feeling that won’t go away. Big John was always so vehement in his distaste of the swamp district. He fought long and hard to keep the community center from being built, a fight he lost.” Michael smiled wryly. “Of course, now he embraces the center, aware that being associated with it can’t hurt his political image. It struck me after the last murder that Big John has hatred as his motive, opportunity in that the mansion is close to the murder sites, and I’ve seen him walking in and out of the swamp in the evenings many times.”
“Have you told any of this to Bob?”
Michael shook his head. “It’s eaten at me for so long, but I haven’t told Bob anything.” Torment etched his features. “I keep telling myself I’m only speculating, that I really don’t know anything for sure. But I’m so afraid there will be another murder and that blood will be on my hands.”
Shelby pushed her coffee cup aside, unable to drink with the turmoil inside her. She hadn’t realized it until this moment, but she had come here hoping Michael would tell her that her suspicions were ridiculous, that their father couldn’t possibly be a killer. “I have to go to Bob,” she finally said, a deep weariness tugging at her. “I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t and somebody else ended up dead. I have to at least tell him Big John is a strong suspect.”
Michael reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “It’s a horrifying thought, isn’t it? That the man who sired us and raised us could be a man who preys on the weak, pitiful people of the swamp.”
“There’s a part of me that finds it so hard to believe, and yet there’s a part of me that finds it too easy to believe.” She squeezed Michael’s hand. “And I think that’s the saddest part of all, that I can believe he’s capable of such a thing.”
“You know if it’s true, Mama and Olivia will be destroyed by it.”
Shelby nodded and withdrew her hand from his. “I know, but I can’t keep silent and let more people die. Mama and Olivia will survive, and I can’t allow the murders to continue.”
“So this exonerates Billy,” Michael said.
“Yes.” She rubbed the center of her forehead, again feeling a weariness of spirit, an ache of pain that wasn’t physical. “But Billy is so angry about the deaths in the swamp. The people who died were his people, his friends, his family. I’m afraid of his anger, afraid I might be defending him against another charge.” As much as she loved Michael, as close as she felt toward him, she couldn’t tell him that her greatest fear was the spillover of Billy’s hatred destroying the memories of the passion they had shared.
“Ah, Billy will be all right. He’s a survivor. Like us.” Again his gaze was warm on her. “When are you going to tell Bob what you think?”
“Probably this afternoon. I can’t put it off any longer. Even Tyler suspected Big John, and there is too much circumstantially to ignore.”
“I’ll go with you, if you want,” he offered.
She shook her head. “That isn’t necessary.” She stood. “I’d better get out of here and let you prepare for your morning service.”
“I’m glad you stopped by,” he said as he walked her through the small living room and toward the front door.
“You’ve got a nice place here, Michael,” she said as she looked around the cozy room.
“It’s small, and the bathroom and kitchen need updating, but the church purse isn’t exactly bulging, so I make do.”
“It feels like a home,” Shelby said. As she turned toward the front door her gaze fell on the cherry-wood secretary. The writing surface was cluttered with a variety of items—envelopes, bills, pens and paper clips. But it was the sight of one particular item that caused Shelby’s blood to run cold. Pale blue stationery. It was the same kind of paper that had accompanied the flowers. Exactly the same.
“I’d better get home,” she said, hanging on to her composure in desperation. She vaguely heard him say goodbye as she turned and walked toward her car.
Had Michael sent the bouquet? She fell into the car seat and started the engine, fighting a wave of nausea. Not Michael. Dear God, surely Michael wasn’t involved in any of this. Please, don’t let Michael be a part of the madness, she silently begged as she drove away from the church property. But the presence of the stationery refused to be silenced in her mind.
Along with the clamoring of the stationery came other memories. Michael, sitting at the dinner table, saying that he thought the killer was performing an act of mercy. Was it possible that the verbal abuse from Big John over the years had somehow made Michael snap? Was he now committing horrendous acts of murder and confusing them with acts of mercy?
It had been bad eno
ugh when she’d thought her father was responsible for the crimes, but to think Michael might be involved sent a dagger through her heart. Michael had been her sanity, her hero when they were growing up.
As always when she was upset, the first person she wanted to see was Billy. She stopped at the first pay phone she reached and called him, nearly sobbing in relief when he answered.
“I need to talk to you,” she said.
“What’s wrong?”
“I…I don’t want to go into it over the phone.” She needed his arms around her taking the chill from her body, she needed his strength buoying her to brave the face of her monster.
“I’ll meet you in your backyard.”
No questions, no need for explanations. She needed him and he was there. She drove home, her mind a chaotic mass of confusion. Thoughts of her father, of Michael and of Billy all swirled in her head.
Was it possible it had been Michael she’d seen on that night so long ago? Certainly the sight of her beloved brother stabbing a man to death would have been enough of a trauma to cause instant repression and horrible, haunting nightmares.
She parked her car and ran for the swamp without a backward glance at the house. Billy waited for her at the edge of the property, his arms open as if he knew her torment, recognized her need to be held.
For a long moment she remained in his arms, wondering what madness it was that drove her here to him and where the madness would eventually take her. Reluctantly she stirred from his embrace and stepped away. He took her hand and led her toward a fallen tree trunk, where together they sank down amid the jungle of greenery.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I went to see Michael. I wanted to talk to him about my father, my suspicions.” She shuddered as she remembered that moment when she had spied the stationery. “I was getting ready to leave and saw that on his writing desk he had a stack of the same kind of stationery that came with the dead roses.”
Billy nodded, appearing unsurprised. “You knew Michael was a possible suspect.”
Passion In The First Degree Page 19