Beverly Barton 3 Book Bundle

by Beverly Barton

  “Wait,” Thomasina called to her sister.

  “No, I’m not waiting. I’m calling the police. It’s something you should have already done.”

  “We’ll call the police and tell them everything,” Thomasina said. “But … but I have no way to prove that Brandon is the one who sent me the notes and gifts and sketches.”

  “Who else could it be? He’s an artist and it would have taken a very talented artist to have drawn those wicked, sickening pictures. And he’s flirted with you for months now, hasn’t he? And when he got your message today, he didn’t come to you and deny he’d been the one sending you this stuff, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t, but—”

  “We’ll call Chief Nichols, tell him everything and let him take it from there. Just tell him that you think these things are from Brandon Kelley, but you can’t be sure.”

  “That’s just it, Amanda. I’m not sure. Not now. What if it was someone else all along?”

  “Then the police will find out who.”

  “Will they? How? How will they find out? What if he keeps sending these things? What if—”

  “First things first. Let’s get the police involved and go from there.”

  Thomasina nodded. “I have to be back at school by seven.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s already after six. Maybe I should wait until tomorrow to call the police.”

  “No, you will not wait. Call and cancel your class tonight.”

  “I can’t. I’m giving a major test tonight. I have to be there.”

  “Okay. We’ll go to the police station first. You take your car and I’ll follow you in mine. We will talk to the police, tell them what’s happened, leave this stuff”—she glowered at the envelope’s contents lying on the table—“then whatever paperwork needs filling out, you can do tomorrow. But the sooner the police know, the better for you.”

  Thomasina gathered up the items, shoved them back into the ripped envelope and said, “Let’s go.”

  Bernie arrived at Robyn’s new apartment, located on Main Street in downtown Adams Landing directly above the town’s only bookstore. Many of the second levels of the downtown buildings had been converted into apartments over the past ten years, and since living so close to her fitness center was ideal for Robyn, she’d jumped at the first available apartment. After getting out of her Jeep, Bernie walked across the sidewalk and opened the street-level door that led up the stairs to the second floor of the building. As soon as she headed up the stairs, she heard voices and recognized two of them—her sister’s and her mother’s. Both women were talking at the same time, both issuing orders. Then she heard the shuffle of feet, several pairs of feet, and the sound of furniture being dragged. There was no telling who all was up there. Between the two of them, her mother and sister had probably invited half the people they knew to “come over and help us.”

  If it wasn’t for the fact that she’d never hear the end of it if she didn’t show up this evening, Bernie would have gone straight home. She was physically and mentally exhausted, having put in a ten-hour day. Despite the evidence the ABI had collected, they were no closer to discovering the identity of Stephanie Preston’s killer than they had been nearly a week ago when her body had been discovered. Everyone working on the case was becoming frustrated, and frustration led to squabbling among her deputies—especially between Ron and Jim. Charlie had refereed several sparring matches between them in the past few days, but after tomorrow Charlie would be gone, back in Huntsville at the ABI substation. He’d done all he could do here in Adams County and although he would continue to be in charge of the case, he’d simply drive back and forth whenever necessary, instead of staying in town. After all, it would probably be several months before all the DNA evidence was processed and unless new evidence came to light before then, they had hit a dead end in their investigation.

  When Bernie reached the top of the stairs and moved down the hallway to the first apartment, she found the front door open, making it unnecessary for her to knock. She glanced inside and saw a crowd of people, along with her immediate family. Paul Landon lounged on a bright yellow leather sofa. Yellow was Robyn’s favorite color. The others were working like little solider ants, each one following the queen’s and the princess’s instructions. Brandon Kelley was in there and at this precise moment he was helping her mother hang a painting over the fireplace. Raymond Long and his mother, Helen, were also inside the apartment, along with Reverend Donaldson, Ron Hensley, and Scotty Joe Walters.

  Bernie released an exasperated huff and shook her head. She was surprised that Jim hadn’t come over and brought his son with him. It seemed that most of the good-looking, single men in Adams Landing were in her sister’s apartment.

  Her father came toward her, stepped outside into the hallway and closed the door behind him. “If I don’t get out of there for a few minutes, I’m going to have to shoot somebody and I don’t want it to be your mother or your sister.”

  Bernie chuckled, then rose on tiptoe and kissed her father’s cheek. “Rough day, Dad?”

  “If your sister ever wants to move again, I’ll hire professionals to move her.” He motioned to the apartment. “There are half a dozen men in there and each one of them is showing off for Robyn. Hell, they’re like a bunch of little boys wanting to be chosen for a team. They might as well be screaming, ‘Choose me! Choose me!’”

  “Robyn has that effect on men.” Bernie shrugged. “She can’t help it because she’s beautiful like Mama and men find her irresistible.”

  “Yeah, but she could put a stop to all of that nonsense if she’d narrow the field down to one man at a time. Your mother never dated half a dozen guys at the same time, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Things were different when Mama was dating.”

  “If you’re about to tell me anything about your sister’s love life, don’t.”

  Bernie put her arm around her father’s waist and hugged him. “She’ll eventually settle down, find herself a husband and give you and Mama some grandkids.”

  Her dad hugged her. “What about you, honey?”

  “What about me?”

  “When are you going to find yourself a nice guy, get married and have some kids? You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

  Bernie sighed. “I’m thirty-two, Dad, not fifty-two.”

  “What do you think of Jim Norton?” R.B. asked.

  Bernie eyed her father skeptically. “What’s Jim Norton got to do with—”

  “I like him, Bernie. Don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, I like him. But I’ve only known him for a week.”

  “So, get to know him better. Ask him out. Women do the asking now, don’t they?”

  “He’s not interested in me. Besides, Robyn already asked him out. They went to dinner at River’s End this past Monday.”

  Brenda Granger opened the door from inside Robyn’s apartment, stuck her head out and called to them. “There you are, R.B. And Bernie … when did you get here? You two come on in. We’ve just about got everything finished and I’ve unloaded all three picnic baskets and put out paper plates so everybody can start eating.”

  “We’ll be there in a minute,” R.B. said. “I’m sure you won’t run out of food. You brought enough to feed a small army.”

  “Well, we are feeding a bunch of strapping young men and I’m sure they all have healthy appetites.” Brenda slipped out into the hall and pulled the door almost closed. “Bernie, Raymond is here. He was asking about you. You should go in and make a point of talking to him.”

  Bernie groaned. “Mama, Raymond Long did not come here tonight to see me or talk to me. He’s here for the same reason all those other men are here—because of Robyn.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve told Robyn quite specifically that Raymond is yours and she’s to keep her hands off him.”

  “Mother, you didn’t!” Bernie wished a hole would open up in the floor and swallow her.

  “Brenda, for goodness’ sake.” R.B. glanced sym
pathetically at Bernie.

  “I have two unmarried daughters and no grandchildren,” Brenda said. “Robyn has too many men in her life and Bernie has none. I have to do something, don’t I?”

  “You can stop playing matchmaker,” Bernie told her mother. “Stop interfering in our lives. Robyn likes being single and playing the field. She loves being the belle of the ball and keeping half a dozen guys dangling on a string. And I like my life just the way it is, too, so butt out!”

  Bernie turned around and headed down the hall.

  “Bernadette Granger, you come back here,” her mother called after her.

  Bernie paused when she reached the stairs, glanced over her shoulder and said, “Tell Robyn I’ll stop by this weekend and see her new place.”

  As she headed down the stairs, she heard her mother say, “R.B., go after her. Talk to her.”

  When Bernie reached the bottom of the stairs, she heard her father’s footsteps behind her. She opened the door, walked outside and waited for him on the sidewalk. When he caught up with her, he grinned sheepishly.

  “I guess I’m as guilty as your mama, aren’t I? I was trying to hook you up with Jim Norton.”

  “It’s okay, Dad. And you can tell Mama later that I’m sorry I lost my temper with her.”

  “It’s this Stephanie Preston murder case, isn’t it? It’s got you all tied in knots.”

  “It’s bad,” Bernie said. “It’s not just having no real leads in the Preston case that has me so concerned, it’s the fact that I’m worried sick the murderer will kill again.”

  R.B. glanced up and down the sidewalk, then said, “Let’s go into the bookstore and sit in the coffee shop and get ourselves something to drink.”

  Bernie glanced upward toward the second story of the building. “You’ll be missed.”

  “Your mother told me to come talk to you and that’s what I’m doing, aren’t I?”

  “She meant talk sense to me about Raymond Long, not discuss business with me.”

  “I won’t tell her if you won’t.” R.B. put his arm around Bernie and led her to the front entrance of the bookstore.

  Once they were seated at a table in the back, they ordered two decaf coffees and a couple of cheese Danishes. The coffee shop was empty except for the cashier cum waiter, so they had plenty of privacy.

  “Want to tell me what’s going on?” R.B. asked. “Why are you concerned there will be another murder?”

  “Because Jim thinks we may have a serial rapist/murderer on our hands.”

  “And he thinks this because…”

  “Because we found out that there was another woman, Jacque Reeves, over in DeKalb County who was raped and murdered about three months ago.”

  “And?”

  “And her physical description was similar to Stephanie Preston’s. Long dark hair, slender, young, pretty. She came up missing and sixteen days later, her body was found out on a lonely country road. Her throat had been slit and her body posed, with one hand covering her … down there … and her other arm draped over her breasts.”

  “What about sketches, photos, gifts, notes?”

  Bernie shook her head. “If there were any, they weren’t found.”

  “So maybe it’s just a coincidence that there are some similarities. Maybe it was two different guys who killed Stephanie and the Reeves woman.”

  “And what if it’s the same guy? He could kill again and soon. How am I going to stop him if I have no idea who he is?”

  “What does Jim think? And what about Charlie Patterson’s opinion?”

  “Charlie is going to look into the case over in DeKalb, check all the records, interview Jacque Reeves’s parents and siblings and ex-husband,” Bernie said. “And Jim thinks we need to start treating our case as a potential serial killer case.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I do not want to jump the gun and create panic in town. And you know word of this would leak out no matter what precautions I took. People are upset and worried enough as it is, but what if Jim’s right? My God, Dad—”

  R.B. reached out across the table, grabbed Bernie’s hands and held them in his. “Now, you listen to me, Bernie Granger, you’re the sheriff and you have all the right stuff in you to handle this job. Follow your Granger instincts. They won’t let you down.”

  “Dad, I—” Her cell phone rang. Her father released her hands. She yanked her phone from the belt clip and answered it. “Sheriff Granger.”

  “Sheriff, this is Roy Lee Nichols. You remember me, don’t you?”

  “You’re the police chief in Verona.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. And I’ve got some information I think you might find interesting.”

  “Do you? And just what would that be?”

  “Well, it’s not that I know all that much about the Stephanie Preston case, since y’all have kept most of the info confidential, but word gets around within the law enforcement community and I’ve heard things.”

  “Chief, I don’t mean to be rude, but could you get to the point?”

  He chuckled. “Sorry, I tend to go on and on. My wife’s always fussing at me about it.” He cleared his throat. “We got us a stalking case over here in Verona. Seems somebody’s been sending notes and gifts and some ugly drawings to one of our nice young ladies.”

  “Gifts and notes and—what kind of ugly drawings?”

  “Sexual drawings,” the chief said. “Pretty rough stuff.”

  A chill raced up Bernie’s spine. “The gifts—what kind of gifts?”

  “She brought in an ankle bracelet, but said she threw away the other things.”

  “Did she say what they were?”

  “Yeah, just a minute. I wrote it all down.”

  R.B. looked inquisitively at Bernie. “I think we may have gotten our first real break on the Preston murder case,” she told her father.

  “Sheriff?” Roy Lee Nichols said. “Those other gifts were a pearl necklace, a bottle of perfume, a tube of lipstick, and a bottle of fingernail polish.”

  “Do you have the young lady there with you now?” Bernie asked.

  “No, ma’am. She and her sister came in and told us what was going on and she’s coming back in tomorrow to file a formal complaint against a guy she works with over at the community college.”

  “What’s the woman’s name and who is the man she works with who she believes sent her those items?”

  “Her name is Thomasina Hardy. She’s a teacher over at the college. And the guy’s name is Dr. Brandon Kelley. He’s not a real doctor, just a fellow with one of those PhDs.”

  Chapter 11

  God knows she had tried her best to forget about Brandon Kelley, the notes, the gifts, and the sketches. But on the way to her Thursday night class, Thomasina had been able to think of little else. It didn’t help that it was getting dark early this evening, because of the gray storm clouds, or that more than half the trip from downtown Verona to the college was on lonely stretches of country roads. Music on the radio helped a little. It kept her from feeling totally alone and isolated. But nothing could erase from her mind the images of the sketches he had sent her today, especially not the one of her throat slit, with blood dripping from the wound onto her naked breasts. What kind of sick mind could produce such heinous artwork?

  If Brandon Kelley was her so-called secret admirer, then the man needed to be in a mental institution, not teaching art at the community college.

  But what if it isn’t Brandon? What if I’ve spent a week indulging in a fantasy that wasn’t even remotely possible? What if the police can’t find this guy? What if he continues stalking me?

  With a country-rock tune blasting away on the radio, the words and music nothing more than background noise, Thomasina gasped when she saw the heat lightning flash through the gray evening sky off in the distance. A shudder rippled up her spine. She was as nervous as a cat. Thank goodness she had listened to Amanda and gone to the local police. If she hadn’t allowed the foolishly romantic side
of her nature to build castles in the air when she’d received the first note, she wouldn’t be in this position now. But there was no point looking back, regretting what she had or had not done. She had already canceled her first class in the morning so that she could go back to the Verona police station and file a formal complaint. Chief Nichols had advised her to keep someone with her whenever possible until the authorities had a chance to investigate. If Brandon was her stalker, then perhaps just receiving a visit from a policeman would end his pursuit of her.

  And if it’s not Brandon?

  A loud boom of thunder rocked the car. Thomasina cried out and grasped the steering wheel with white-knuckled tension. Her nerves were frayed, the least little thing unsettling her.

  What was she so nervous about anyway? She was inside her car, with the doors locked, driving a familiar route on a safe road. She had a cell phone in her purse, as well as a can of pepper spray.

  She glanced at the lighted digital clock on the control panel. Twelve minutes till seven. She was running late, but being less than fifteen minutes from the college, she should make it there in plenty of time to give her students their test.

  Suddenly, without warning, her car pulled to the right. Simultaneously she heard the rumbling and felt the bumpiness that warned her of a tire going flat. No! This couldn’t be happening. Of all times, why this evening?

  Heaven help me!

  Knowing she had no other choice but to stop, she slowed down and searched the area for a place where she could safely pull off the road. Naturally, she’d had a flat tire in the middle of nowhere, not a house in sight. The houses out here in the country were spaced far apart, often separated by ten to twenty acres and even the new subdivisions had been constructed off the main road. All she could see to the right and left, ahead of her and behind her, were patches of woods and acres of cleared farmland.

  There’s a spot, she told herself when she saw a patch of level ground that had probably once been an old dirt road, but was now partially covered by grass and weeds. Acting quickly, she veered to the right, taking her car off the road and pulling to a standstill. Leaving the motor running and the lights on, she put the gear into park. As she lifted her hands from the steering wheel, she took a deep breath. Stay calm. You’re not in any danger. You can call for help.