Her Silent Spring

by Melinda Woodhall

  Her Silent Spring

  A Veronica Lee Thriller: Book Four

  Melinda Woodhall

  Her Silent Spring Copyright © 2020 by Melinda Woodhall. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Melinda Woodhall

  Visit my website at www.melindawoodhall.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: December 2020

  Creative Magnolia

  For Timmy

  Chapter One

  The door to the Frisky Colt Diner swung open and a young woman stepped out onto the dimly lit sidewalk. The clattering of dishes and the smell of stale coffee wafted out into the cool night air behind her as Mack’s heart began to race.

  Sinking lower behind the wheel of his Ford SUV, he kept his eyes on the server’s slim figure, watching as she made her way to the battered bike rack by the curb. Despite the absence of a lock, her secondhand bike was still parked just where she’d left it.

  One of the many benefits of living in a small town like Sky Lake. Everyone feels safe. No crime. No need to fear strangers.

  The thought brought a cold smile to Mack’s face. The night he’d been anticipating had finally arrived, and little Darla Griggs was blissfully unaware of his presence on the dark street behind her.

  Starting the Ford’s engine, Mack eased away from the curb and circled the block at a leisurely pace. He knew exactly how long it would take for Darla to pedal to the end of Fullerton and turn right onto Hidden Fork Road.

  From there it would be a bumpy twenty-minute ride out to old lady Murphy’s boarding house. Mack knew the route by heart.

  He’d watched Darla every night for the last two weeks, and as a hometown boy he was well acquainted with the lonely roads she travelled each night after her long shift at the busy diner.

  I think it’s about time someone offered the poor girl a lift.

  Turning onto Hidden Fork Road, Mack sat forward in his seat. Overhanging tree branches cast thick shadows on the two-lanes ahead, but he could make out a dark figure in the distance.

  Looks like she’s already found my little surprise.

  Darla crouched next to her rickety beach cruiser to examine the back tire. The deftly inserted nail had done its slow but steady job.

  The Ford’s headlights lit up a dogwood tree in full bloom behind Darla, illuminating a cluster of pristine white blossoms that hung heavily on the branches above her head.

  Glancing back at the approaching vehicle, Darla lifted a small hand to shield her eyes from the glare as Mack brought the SUV to a stop beside her.

  “Everything okay here?”

  Darla stood and looked into the SUV’s open window with wary eyes. Her mouth softened into a relieved smile when she recognized Mack’s concerned face in the vehicle’s dark interior. The smile told him she remembered seeing him in the diner just as he’d expected.

  “Oh, I’m okay.” She raised her delicate eyebrows in a rueful grimace. “Unfortunately, my bike isn’t.”

  “Well, it looks like you could use a ride, young lady.” Mack’s voice was firm. “Where you headed?”

  He arranged his face into a curious frown, as if he didn’t already know where she was going. Murphy’s Boarding House was about two miles ahead, just past the turn off to the popular lake that had given the little town its name.

  “I’m staying at Murphy’s just up the road.”

  She looked again at her tire and shrugged her narrow shoulders.

  “It’s not that far.”

  Leaving the Ford’s engine running, Mack opened the door and jumped down onto the rough asphalt. His pulse quickened as he circled around the back of the SUV and surveyed the deflated tire.

  He allowed himself one quick look at the face he’d come to know so well, then dropped his gaze back to the bike, worried she would be spooked by the hunger in his eyes.

  “I know the place,” Mack confirmed, hefting up the bike and carrying it toward the back of the Ford. “I’ll drop you off seeing I’m headed in that direction.”

  Not giving Darla the chance to protest, he loaded the beach cruiser into the rear and climbed back into the driver’s seat. Only then did he look over to see that she was still standing in the same spot, her forehead twisted into an uncertain frown.

  “Come on,” he called through the open window. “I can’t just leave you out here. If anything happened to you, I’d feel responsible.”

  A rustling in the bushes behind her started Darla’s feet moving toward the Ford. She pulled open the door and stood looking into the front seat with wide eyes, then hesitated.

  Holding his breath, Mack waited in silence. He didn’t dare speak, sensing she could turn and flee at any minute, like a deer who’d just heard the crack of a branch under a careless hunter’s boot.

  The moment of uncertainty seemed to pass as quickly as it had come, and with a resolute nod of her head Darla climbed into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut behind her.

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  Her words were accompanied by the shy smile Mack had seen her wear when serving tables at the diner. It was that smile that had drawn his attention. That and her big blue eyes that reminded him of another girl, and another dark night near Sky Lake.

  Mack’s foot pressed down on the accelerator before Darla had a chance to buckle her seatbelt, his heart galloping like a racehorse in his chest. He’d waited so long to get her alone, to get her far away from the suffocating atmosphere of the diner.

  Glancing over at the soft, pale skin of Darla’s bare knee, only inches away from his hand on the gear shift, Mack felt lightheaded. He forced his attention back to the road, knowing the detour he was about to take would raise alarm bells, silently rehearsing his excuse.

  Darla settled her purse on her lap, gripping the cheap leather with both of her small hands, and stared out the window even though there was nothing to see but the same dark tangle of trees she rode past every night on her way home.

  “So, Darla, how long have you been working at the Frisky Colt?” Mack asked, clearing his throat, which was dry and tight with anticipation.

  Darla turned to face him. The uncertain frown was back.

  “How’d you know my name?”

  He dropped his eyes to her chest. Her face flushed a pretty pink as she looked down to see the plastic name tag pinned to her brown polyester uniform. She giggled and raised a self-conscious hand to brush back a wayward strand of short, dark hair.

  “Well, I guess it is pretty obvious,” she said, relaxing back against the seat. “And I’ve seen you at the diner. You’re there a lot, too.”

  “You like working there?’ he asked, hoping to keep her talking, wanting to draw her attention away from the road.

  “Yes, sir,” she said with a nod. “And I sure do like the tips.”

  “Oh, no need to call me sir.”

  Mack saw the turn-off to the lake coming up on his left. He took a deep breath and kept talking.

  “You can just call me Mack. That’s what my daddy always called me.” Mack looked in the rearview mirror to make sure the road was clear. “It’s kinda like a nickname, I guess.”

  “Well, my daddy never called me anything,” she muttered, her eyes shifting back to the da
rk night outside her window. “Never met the man actually.”

  Turning the Ford onto Sky Lake Trail, Mack cleared his throat, sensing her stiffen next to him.

  “Just gotta make a quick stop,” he murmured before she could ask where they were going. “It’ll just take a few minutes. Save me driving back this way later. I’ll have you home before you know it.”

  The lie slipped from his tongue without so much as a stutter. He felt Darla’s eyes studying him, but he concentrated on the road ahead. Minutes later he made another left and began to bump the Ford down a rutted dirt road.

  No matter how far you go, the road always leads back home, doesn’t it?

  The Ford crunched to a stop in front of a sagging gate. One of the rusty hinges had come loose, and the wood had split open.

  “Where are we?”

  Darla’s blue eyes widened as she took in the dented sign screwed onto the fence post.

  “What’s Silent Meadows Farm?”

  “It’s my family’s farm,” Mack said, offended by the disdain he heard in her voice. “It used to be a grand place, before…well, before my daddy had to sell off most of the land.”

  Thrusting open his door, Mack stepped out onto the rocky road and pushed the gate back. The old hinges issued a high-pitched creak that echoed like a scream through the still night air.

  Glad there’s nobody else around here to be bothered by the noise.

  Jumping back in the Ford, he ignored the growing tension in Darla’s small shoulders as he steered the big vehicle around the side of a dilapidated farmhouse.

  A waxing crescent moon hung over the gabled roof of the old building; its frail light enabled Mack to see that more wooden shingles had fallen off since his last visit. The place was falling apart bit by bit, just as his father had.

  He guided the Ford past the back porch and came to a sudden stop on a scruffy patch of grass. The headlights lit up the long, sloping lawn that stretched out before them.

  “Is that a…a graveyard?”

  Darla pointed a small finger toward the black, wrought iron fence that ran along the west side of the property. The pale arch of a headstone was clearly visible beyond the fence, as was a weathered sandstone cross which had tilted precariously on its base.

  Mack shut off the engine, and a blanket of darkness settled over the yard as he turned to face Darla.

  “That’s the family cemetery.”

  He could smell the faint scent of her perfume as he spoke, and he had to swallow hard before he continued.

  “Lots of old farms have private cemeteries in Kentucky.”

  He adopted a confident tour-guide tone as he tried to calculate how long it would be before she tried to run.

  “There are more than 13,000 cemeteries in the state. Most of them are privately owned like that one. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  The light from the dashboard revealed an alarmed expression on Darla’s pretty face. She shook her head, sinking back against the seat.

  “No thanks. I’ll just wait here while you get whatever it is you need.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “I’ve got a blister, so I don’t feel like walking around.”

  Mack sighed. A hard edge entered his voice as he stared toward the cemetery.

  “You know, that’s where my daddy ended up.”

  Even at a distance he could see the marker that stood guard over his father’s grave. As always, the thought of his father sent a jolt of resentment through him. The old man had ruined his life and tarnished the family’s legacy.

  “He was a…a weak man,” Mack heard himself say. “Too weak.”

  Clearing his throat, he glanced at Darla’s face. He thought he saw pity in her eyes and held her stare, trying to decide if it was time.

  “What happened?” Darla murmured. “I mean, how’d he die?”

  “He died of shame, I reckon,” Mack said, his chest tightening at the thought of his father’s disgrace. “Dropped dead not long after leaving the state penitentiary over in Eddyville.”

  Mack thought he saw surprise in her eyes at his admission, and then the pity was back. He didn’t like pity. It was a wasted emotion.

  “I don’t look like I come from criminal stock, do I?”

  Mack’s mouth stretched into a sardonic smile.

  “But looks can be deceiving. Your daddy would have told you that…if you’d ever had one.”

  Recoiling at the scorn in his voice, Darla dropped her eyes.

  “I’ve gotta get home,” she said, twisting the strap of her purse with nervous fingers. “Mrs. Murphy will…she’ll be worried.”

  “Of course,” Mack said, although he doubted old lady Murphy would give little Darla Griggs a second thought.

  He figured the woman would likely sell the girl’s clothes to the secondhand shop to recoup the rent due and then be done with her. Girls like Darla Griggs came and went without anyone making a fuss.

  I’ll bet the greedy old bag will have the “Room Available” sign up in the window again within forty-eight hours.

  Leaning across Darla’s legs to open the glove compartment, Mack felt her shrink away from his touch. He kept his voice light as he reached inside and felt his hand settle over the syringe.

  “Just need to get something out of here so we can get you home.”

  No need to tell her he meant his home. She’d find out soon enough. It was always easier to let them believe everything was okay until the very last minute. No need to make a fuss, even if there wasn’t anyone around to hear it.

  Mack pulled his hand out and pushed the long needle into the pale flesh of Darla’s upper arm in one smooth move. He watched her blue eyes widen with pain, and then horror, as she looked down to see him holding the syringe.

  “What are you…”

  Darla’s eyelids drooped and her mouth slackened as the Fentanyl began to work its magic. The opioid would put her to sleep with almost immediate effect, and Mack figured she would be out for at least an hour, if not longer.

  There would be plenty of time for him to finish what he’d waited so impatiently to begin. Slipping out of the driver’s seat, Mack circled around to open the passenger side door.

  Watching him through heavy eyelids, Darla’s eyes filled with panic even as they began to close. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. Her weak protest faded into a soft moan, and then she was still and quiet.

  “It’s better this way,” Mack muttered, hoisting her over his shoulder and turning toward the house. “Now let’s go home.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The first red streaks of dawn fell over the cemetery just as Mack scooped up the last shovelful of loose dirt and dropped it on the ground in front of the headstone.

  Bending over, he smoothed the rocky soil, trying to erase any evidence that the ground had been disturbed. It had taken a lot of work to excavate the grave beneath his feet, and he was still shaken by the unexpected turn of events.

  His gritty eyes burned with fatigue as he stared down, barely able to make out the faint inscription engraved on the headstone. It made no difference; he knew the words by heart.

  Our Beloved Susannah

  Born 1878 – Died 1896

  Her virtue and grace were still in bloom

  Alas the fair maid found an early tomb.

  As a child Mack had always been curious about the young woman who had lived and died in the house a century before.

  He would stare at the weeping angel on the headstone and wonder what had happened to her. How had she died? Why had she died so young? What would she look like now, after all this time?

  But an hour before, when he’d stood over the old pine casket, his body coated with dirt and sweat, he hadn’t had the strength or the courage to lift the lid and find out.

  Instead he’d pulled Darla’s limp body down onto the splintered wood and scrambled up and out of the hole, anxious to finish his morbid chore and be gone.

  Looking down at the finished job, Mack sighed in tired relief.


  No one will ever suspect she’s here, and I’m sure Susannah won’t mind.

  While Darla’s wasn’t the first body he’d hidden in the old cemetery, it wasn’t something he made a practice of doing. He preferred to bury his secrets far away from the old farm, which had been in his family for generations.

  He had planned to keep Darla around for a few days. He’d hoped to make a tidy profit selling her on to a buyer that would pay top dollar for the fresh young woman.

  Unfortunately, he must have mismeasured the Fentanyl. Or maybe mixing it with the oxycodone had made it lethal. Whatever the case, Darla had gone to sleep, and she hadn’t woken up. It hadn’t taken him long to determine she never would.

  Carrying his shovel up to the porch, Mack propped it against the rail and stood on the top step, the wood bowing beneath his boots. He took a deep breath and surveyed the property, or at least what was left of it. The sight wasn’t impressive.

  Any of the land that had been rich and usable had been sold off long ago to pay legal bills and taxes, leaving only the dilapidated house and the family’s private cemetery for Mack to inherit.

  The old farm had fallen further into ruin after Mack had moved into town, no longer wanting to be associated with the old place.

  He’d been unwilling to waste the money he’d been squireling away to fix it up but hadn’t been able to let the old place go.

  At least not yet. Especially now that the little family cemetery contained more than just the bones of his mother, father, and other long-dead and forgotten ancestors.

  Walking back to the cemetery, Mack took another look around, feeling as if he was leaving something behind. He stepped to a simple marble stone and reached out a big hand to brush the dirt off the name etched across it.

  He traced the letters with a calloused finger. He had no real memories of his mother, but he sometimes dreamed of the thin, fragile woman he only recognized from the framed pictures still hanging on the walls of the old farmhouse.

  If you hadn’t died, maybe things would have been different.