by Mallory Kane
As she moved farther away from the Visitor Center, the darkness intensified. She had a flashlight in her purse beside her weapon, but she didn’t want to attract attention. She moved forward slowly, waiting for her eyes to adapt to the dark.
The moon peeked out from behind a cloud just as she stepped onto the path that decades of horny high-school kids had beaten. It was at the edge of the area that had been cleared for the new convention complex.
The moonlight helped, but the trees cast dense shadows and the heels of her sandals kept catching in roots and vines.
Behind her she could hear the faint sounds of the DJ’s music. In front of her, she heard water.
The creek. She was almost there. Almost to the small clearing on the creek bank where Wendell had died. She suppressed a little shiver.
Don’t be such a wimp, Gillespie.
So what if Wendell had died down here? She wasn’t superstitious, nor was she a fraidy cat. The night, the situation and the specter of murder were just slightly creepy.
A twig snapped behind her. She froze and slid her hand into her purse. The chill of the steel reassured her. She wrapped her fingers around the handle of her little Smith & Wesson.
“Debra?” she whispered.
Only silence greeted her.
She waited a few seconds, but nothing moved. There wasn’t even a breeze to stir the trees. The utter silence was eerie—unnatural.
Suddenly, she heard footsteps to her left. Her fingers tightened around her gun as she swung it toward the sound.
“Who’s there?”
Chapter Seven
Cade heard Laurel call out. He was twenty paces behind her and although her pale bare shoulders were easy to see even in the dark, twenty paces was too far. He didn’t know what Debra’s game was, but someone was targeting Laurel. Whoever it was, he was targeting them.
Trees rustled and twigs crunched just a few feet away. He swung his weapon, but he couldn’t see anyone. Was it Debra? Had she chickened out and run away?
He didn’t think so. The crunching told him the person was bigger and heavier than Debra. The footsteps sounded stealthy, rather than panicked.
He turned his full attention back to Laurel. She slipped almost silently through the thickening underbrush. He liked the way she moved. She didn’t waste time or energy on swaying her hips or swinging her hair. He appreciated that. He’d never been impressed by women who flaunted their bodies or their looks.
Laurel’s femininity and strength were apparent in the shape of her small, compact body. The curve of her shoulders, the gentle swell of her biceps and the firmness of her triceps. As he traced her slow advance, he thought about how silky and firm her shoulders had felt under his hands and how supple and sexy her body had felt pressed against his as they danced.
She stopped and cocked her head, as if listening to something he hadn’t heard. Then she started forward again.
An instant later she was gone.
Laurel! Cade’s heart crashed against his chest wall. One second she was there and the next—
His first instinct was to surge forward yelling her name. But he had to stay quiet. If someone had attacked her, the only thing he had on his side was surprise.
Had Debra’s call been a trap? Cade slid his weapon out of his holster and eased forward, all his senses concentrated on the last place he’d seen her.
He was thankful for the cloak of darkness, but he wished the moon would come out again. He needed just one split-second of light to get his bearings.
As if granting his wish, the moon peeked out from behind a cloud, lending pale light and sinister shadows to the overgrown area where Laurel had disappeared.
He held his breath and waited, while his nerves screamed and his muscles cramped. Then his eyes caught a shadowy flicker that was out of sync—moving in the wrong direction. He swung his weapon toward it, just as he heard a quiet gasp.
“Oh, God, Debra!”
Laurel. He had no time to chase shadows. Gripping his gun in both hands, he headed toward Laurel’s voice. Silvery moonlight lay like a layer of dust over two figures on the ground.
“Laurel?”
She started and twisted around. “Cade?” Her eyes glittered in the pale moonlight. “Oh, Cade, she’s dead.”
“Are you sure?” He swept the area around them with his gaze, his ears tuned to any odd sound. But everything seemed quiet. Shifting his stance, he dug a small, high-powered flashlight out of his pocket.
She nodded. “No pulse.”
Her voice was shaky but calm. He was sure she’d seen her share of dead bodies in her job, but this was different. Even if she hadn’t liked Debra, she’d known her.
Cade crouched beside her. “Did you see anything? Hear anything?”
“I tripped over her.” Anguish laced her voice.
Cade shone the flashlight’s beam on Debra’s face.
“Look at her, Cade. Her face, her lips.” She carefully lifted an eyelid. “Petechial hemorrhaging. She was strangled.”
Cade nodded as helpless anger burned in his chest. Debra didn’t deserve this. She’d been trying to help.
“May I see your flashlight?” she asked.
He handed it to her and watched as she swept the light across every inch of Debra’s face and neck.
“Check out her neck,” he said. “The bruising.”
She nodded. “I think her hyoid bone is broken.”
“Just like Wendell.”
Laurel met his gaze, her eyes wide and filled with horror. “Just like Wendell,” she whispered.
IT WAS WELL after midnight by the time Cade had rounded up all the reunion party guests, gotten the medical examiner down from Three Springs to pronounce Debra dead and cordoned off the crime scene.
Laurel began questioning the guests while he processed the scene. The editor of the weekly Dusty Springs newspaper had been recording the reunion activities, so Laurel had him set up his video camera to record her interrogations for the record.
Once the medical examiner had left to transport Debra’s body back to Three Springs for an autopsy, Cade did a preliminary walk-through of the crime scene. He found Laurel’s purse with her gun still in it. But the moon stayed behind the clouds, and rain started to fall. Cade had to respect the fine balance between preserving evidence and trampling all over any clues in the dark. He left Shelton guarding the crime scene and came in to see how the questioning was progressing.
As he approached the small conference room in the Visitor Center, Mary Sue Nelson breezed out the door. She gave him a flirtatious smile, then laid her hand on his arm and transformed her face into earnest sadness.
“How tragic,” she said. “Poor Debra. I suppose you know her husband was having an affair.”
Cade shifted slightly—just enough to get away from her touch. “Oh?” he said noncommittally. “Did you tell Laurel—Special Agent Gillespie?”
“Why, I don’t remember.” Mary Sue dug in her purse and came up with a crisply folded tissue. She touched the corners of her eyes. “I’m so distraught. I just can’t believe she’s gone.”
Cade pushed open the conference room door.
Laurel had leaned back in her chair and was twisting her hair up into a knot at the back of her head. She let it go and its wispy ends framed her face softly. Then she arched her neck.
“Long night,” Cade said.
She nodded as she rubbed her eyes. “Long weekend. And I have a feeling it’s going to get longer.”
Cade acknowledged the newspaper editor with a nod. “Dave, thanks for staying and taping the interviews. You know not to tell anyone what you heard.”
“Sure thing, Cade. Want me to leave the camera?”
He looked at Laurel who shook her head. “I think we’ve talked to everyone.”
“You know, I never did see Kathy Adler,” Dave said.
Laurel scanned her list. “No, but her husband said she’d gone home.”
“Okay.” Dave yawned. “See you tomorrow.�
��
After he left, Cade turned to Laurel. “What do you think about Kathy disappearing?”
She shook her head. “You saw her. She was already tipsy at the beginning of the party. In that state I don’t think she could have overpowered Debra and strangled her. But we definitely need to talk to her as soon as possible.”
“So what about the others?” Laurel rubbed her temples with her fingertips. “You know, any of our usual suspects could have killed Debra.”
Cade bit off a curse. “What do you mean?”
“The DJ lowered the lights once the dancing started.”
“Yeah,” he said. He remembered being glad the lights were dim while he was holding her in his arms on the dance floor. That memory stirred his libido and he had to force his gaze away from the delicate shadow between her breasts.
“Everybody seems to have developed night blindness. Not a single person remembered any of our suspects being in the room during that time.”
“Langston?”
She shook her head. “Swears he never left the room. But he wouldn’t name anyone specific he was with. The only time I remember seeing him is when he was dancing with Kathy. I was deliberately watching people and I can’t tell you whether anyone disappeared before I left to meet Debra.”
“What about the couples? Didn’t they vouch for each other?”
“Sure. Most of the guests didn’t seem to have a clue what was going on. But our usual suspects were careful not to implicate anyone—or alibi anyone. So we have no witnesses. The only one who has an airtight alibi is Debra’s husband. He was in a conversation with the DJ about music during the time she was killed.” She rubbed her temples again. “All we have to rely on is physical evidence.”
“Well, we may have solved one mystery.”
“Really? What?”
“Debra was missing a fake fingernail.”
Laurel sat up straight. “A French nail?”
He frowned and shrugged.
“They have white tips,” she said. “Like the one I found in my room.”
“I don’t know. I already gave it to the ME.”
“Which hand?”
“Right.”
Laurel shook her head. “I can’t believe it was Debra who broke into my room.”
“Is it easier to believe she could knock Misty out and leave her there?”
“No. I can’t imagine her doing anything sneaky or violent. Not to mention the skill it would have taken to pick that lock at the B&B.”
The bed-and-breakfast—of course. “Hang on a minute,” he said. “Maybe she didn’t have to break in. Holder is Fred’s brother-in-law. I’d forgotten that. Fred’s sister died several years ago, but Debra could have gotten a key from her uncle.”
“Well, we’ll know when we get the ME’s photos. You did tell him to photograph the hand with the missing nail, didn’t you?”
“I went one better. I got some instant shots. I keep a camera in my pickup.”
“You took pictures?”
She didn’t have to look so surprised that he’d followed basic procedure and taken crime-scene photos. He opened his mouth but she obviously read the irritation on his face.
“Sorry. Of course you did.”
He pulled the small stack of photos out of his shirt pocket.
Laurel took them. As she spread them out on the table he stepped behind her and leaned over. When he did, her evocative gardenia scent assaulted his nostrils. Damn, did she have to smell so good? Forcing himself not to press his nose against her hair, he pulled back an inch or so.
“There’s the shot of her hand.” He pointed over her shoulder. “I need to get a digital camera, but right now this is the best I can do.”
“It’s good enough. Her nails are pink, not French.”
“I thought you said they all had the French ones.”
“They did. Debra must have had hers redone sometime today.” She sat back and her hair brushed Cade’s cheek. Gardenias whirled around his head, just like when he and she were dancing. He straightened and stepped away. Another few seconds and he’d be looking for a cold shower. He cursed under his breath. He had to do something to stop this ridiculous and extremely inconvenient physical attraction to her.
He spoke through gritted teeth. “So it could still be hers. I guess she’d have to redo them if she lost one?”
She sighed. “We have to rely on the DNA.” She gathered up the photos and handed them back to him.
He nodded toward the video camera. “Any decent info on that thing? An eyewitness? A confession?” He was kidding—sort of.
She sent him an ironic glance. “At least three people told me in strictest confidence that George Honeycutt is having an affair. Nobody knows who with, and everybody is sure Debra knew about it.”
“What did Honeycutt say?”
Laurel squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “He seemed genuinely broken up. In shock. Almost as devastated as her dad.”
“Yeah, I talked to Fred while the ME was working on her. He said she’d been upset about something. When he asked her about it, she told him everything was okay, that she was stressed out about the upcoming reunion.”
“I asked George if she’d seemed upset or worried and he said she was always upset about one thing or another.”
“Did you ask him about Ann Noble?”
She nodded. “He seemed shocked. Said he barely knew her. He appeared to be telling the truth.”
“I’ll check with Fred. He never liked his son-in-law. He always complained that George was too controlling.”
“Controlling?”
“According to him, George didn’t want Debra to leave the house at all without him.”
“That could be ominous. Makes me wonder how she managed to get away during the party. We should go over his interview together. His answers were pat. Maybe too pat. I want to study his body language.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “How is Fred holding up? I only saw him for a few seconds.”
“She was his only child. Her mother died a few years ago.”
“Poor Fred.”
Cade assessed Laurel. She looked like she was about to collapse. Her hands were shaky and her face was pale.
“Speaking of holding up—what about you?”
Laurel’s jaw tightened and she looked down at her hands. “I’m fine. I shouldn’t have let Debra go out there by herself. I should have insisted that we meet before the party, or made her talk to me on the phone.”
“You couldn’t have known what was going to happen. You can’t blame yourself. She must have told someone that she was meeting you.”
“Or someone saw her leave and followed her. I heard footsteps running past me just before I tripped over her body.”
“Yeah, I heard them, too.”
“Did you see anything?”
“It was too dark. But it sounded like a man. Too much noise for a woman.”
“So what next? Roust Kathy out of bed and grill her?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think there’s anything else we can do tonight. You haven’t had a full night’s sleep since you got here. I say we turn in and start fresh in the morning.”
“We should go over the interviews.”
“We will. But not tonight.”
Laurel rubbed her face and twisted her hair up. “Aren’t you concerned that the person who killed Debra will run off—or worse, go after someone else?”
Cade spoke through gritted teeth. “Yes. But what do you suggest I do about it? Put everybody in town in jail?”
“No, of course not.” Her cheeks turned pink. “But what if the killer runs?”
“Then we’ll know who he is, because everybody else will still be here.”
She sent him a withering look.
Cade shrugged, then picked up the video camera and opened the door.
With a sigh, Laurel stood and followed him out into the empty main lobby of the Visitor Center.
“What about Ann Noble?” h
e asked as he held the exit door open for her and then led the way to his pickup. “She never showed up. Nobody mentioned her?”
Laurel shook her head. “Nobody. I asked Ralph where she was but he acted like he was the last person in town who would know her whereabouts.”
“I wish we could find someone who’s seen them together,” Cade said.
“Me, too. Ann says she’s sleeping with George Honeycutt. George denies it, and Ralph would rather leave himself without an alibi than betray his ‘unnamed lady friend.’ So who do you think is lying?”
Cade reached around her to open the door. “All of them.”
LAUREL SNUGGLED DEEPER into the handmade quilt Cade had given her and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to pretend the light shining in through the window wasn’t the sun. No such luck.
It had taken her forever to get to sleep the night before. It was after 2:00 a.m. when they’d gotten back to Cade’s house. Then they’d argued over where she would sleep. She’d won that round. There was no way she’d have gotten one wink of sleep lying in Cade’s bed while he tried to fold his long body onto the couch.
He’d finally relented and given her a quilt and a pillow, still grumbling about her stubbornness.
When he’d come out of the bathroom, she’d caught a glimpse of him in his dress pants and no shirt. She’d listened to him moving around in the bedroom while her brain turned each sound into a video. She heard him kick off his shoes, heard the soft sound of fabric sliding along skin—his pants.
Then a drawer opened and closed, and she heard more fabric rustling, and finally, the quiet creak of bedsprings when he got into bed.
Her mind had obsessed over what he wore to bed. He’d gotten something out of a drawer. Boxer shorts? Pajama bottoms? Another pair of those sexy gray sweatpants?
She’d groaned quietly as a bone-melting thrill streaked through to her core and reminded her of how safe, how sexy, how feminine she’d felt when they’d danced. Argh!
She’d stuck her head under the covers that smelled like him, and forced herself to think about Debra’s murder. The concentration it required to mentally trace the steps of the killer had settled her mind and she’d finally fallen to sleep.