Tangled Threat (Mills & Boon Heroes)

by Heather Graham

  Now the tales were underway. Mark was telling them well. Maura allowed herself to survey his audience.

  There were—as there had always been, so it seemed—a group of young teens, some together, some with their parents. There were couples, wives or girlfriends hanging on to their men, and sometimes a great guy admittedly frightened by the dark and tales and hanging on to his girlfriend or wife or boyfriend or husband, as well. There were young men and women, older men and women—a group of about twenty-five or thirty in all.

  She couldn’t help but remember how her group had been about the same size that night twelve years ago—and how they had all reacted when they reached the History Tree.

  She had screamed—so had several people.

  Some had laughed—certain that the swinging body was a prop and perhaps part of a gag set up by the establishment to throw a bit of real scare into the evening.

  And then had come the frantic 911 calls, the horror as everyone realized that the dead woman was real and Brock trying to herd people away and, even then, trying to see that the scene wasn’t trampled, that as a crime scene it wasn’t disturbed...

  Only to be arrested himself.

  Tonight, Maura had her camera; she also had waivers signed by everyone in the group. She’d been lucky that night—everyone had been happy to meet her and Angie—and they all wanted their fifteen minutes of fame. They were fine with being on camera with Angie Parsons.

  They were still by the campfire.

  She was thinking about Brock.

  Determining how much she was going to video after Mark’s speech, she looked across the campfire to the place where the trees edged around the fire and the storyteller and his audience.

  Brock was leaning against a tree, arms crossed over his chest, listening.

  He was no longer wearing a suit; he was in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt—he could pass himself off as a logger or such. Her heart seemed to do a little leap and she was angry at herself, angry that she could still find him so compellingly attractive.

  Twelve years between them. Not a word. They weren’t even friends on social media.

  He must have sensed her looking at him. She realized that his gaze had changed direction; he was looking at her across the distance.

  He nodded slightly and then frowned, shaking his head.

  He didn’t want to be on camera; she nodded.

  She turned away, dismissing him.

  She tried to focus on the words that Mark Hartford was saying.

  The stories were the same. Until they came to the History Tree.

  There, a new story had been added in. Mark talked about the tour that had come upon Francine Renault.

  He wasn’t overly dramatic; he told the facts, and admitted that, yes, he had been among those who had found her.

  The story ended with the death of the cook, Peter Moore, who had stabbed himself and been found in the freezer, his favorite knife protruding from his chest.

  A fight had gone too far, or so the authorities believed, and Moore had killed Francine. And then later, in remorse or fear that prison would be worse than death, he had committed suicide.

  On that tragic note, the story of the History Tree ended. As did the nightly tour.

  Mark then told his group that they needed to head back—there had been some trouble in the area lately and the management would appreciate it if guests refrained from being in the forest at night and suggested that no one wander the woods alone.

  As they began to filter back, Maura saw that Brock didn’t go with the others.

  She might have been the only one to note his presence; he had apparently followed silently at a bit of a distance, always staying back within the trees.

  She turned when the group left. As they headed back along the trail, Brock stepped from his silent watching spot in the darkness of the surrounding foliage. He walked to the History Tree.

  He stood silently, staring up at it, as if seeking some answer there.

  Mark was asking if the tourists wanted coffee or tea or a drink before they called it a night.

  Angie had already said yes.

  Maura turned away from Brock purposefully and followed Angie and Mark. Once they reached the lodge, she would beg off.

  All she wanted to do that night was crawl into a hole somewhere and black out.

  Her room and her bed would have to do—even if she didn’t black out and lay awake for hours, ever more furious with herself that she was allowing herself to feel...

  Anything about him. Anything at all.

  * * *

  “I’VE SEEN SOME strange things in my day,” Rita Morgan, the medical examiner, said. She was a tall, lean woman, looked to be about forty-five and certainly the no-nonsense type.

  “Many a strange thing, and some not so strange. Too many bodies out of the ocean and the rivers, a few in barrels, some sunk with cement.” She pursed her lips, shaking her head. “This one? Strange and sad. As long as I’ve done this, been an ME, it still never ceases to amaze me—man’s inhumanity to fellow man.” She looked up at Brock and Flannery and shook her head again. “Thing that saves me is when I see a young person get up and help the disabled or the elderly—then I get to know that there’s as much good out there as bad—more, hopefully. Yeah, yeah, that doesn’t help you any. I just... Well, I can show you the remains. I can’t tell you too much about them. No stomach content—no stomach. I had disarticulated bones with small amounts of flesh still attached—and a skull.”

  She stepped back to display the gurney that held the remains of a young woman’s life, tragically—and brutally—cut short.

  “It looks as if she was killed a long time ago—but from my brief, she was only missing about three months,” Brock said, looking from Flannery to the medical examiner.

  And then to the table.

  Bits of hair and scalp still adhered to the skull.

  “Decomposition is one of those things that can vary incredibly. I believe she was killed approximately two months ago. Particular to situations like this, the internal organs began to deteriorate twenty-four to seventy-two hours after death. The number of bacteria and insects in the area have an effect on the outer body and soft tissue. Three to five days—you have bloating. Within ten days, insects, the elements and bacteria have been busy and you have massive accumulations of gas. Within a few weeks, nails and teeth begin to go. After a month, the body becomes fluid.”

  “The skull retains a mouthful of teeth,” Brock noted.

  “Yes, which is why I believe decomp had the best possible circumstances. Lots of earth—and water. Rain, maybe. Even flooding in the area where the body was first left. As I said, there’s no way to pinpoint an exact time of death. It’s approximately two months’ time. I also believe, per decomp, that she was left out in the elements—maybe a bit of dirt and some leaves were shoveled over her. It’s been a warm winter, and the soil here can be rich—and as we all know, this is Florida. We have plenty of insects.

  “The question is, after all that decomp in the wild, how in the world did she come to be in sheets at an industrial laundry? But that’s your problem. Mine is cause of death. Not much to go on, as you can see, but enough.” She pointed with a gloved hand. “That rib bone. You can see. The scraping there wasn’t any insect—that was caused by a sharp blade. There’s a second such mark on that rib—would have been the other side of the rear rib cage. In my educated estimation, she was stabbed to death. Without more tissue or organs I can’t tell you how many wounds she sustained—exactly how many times she was stabbed—but I do imagine the attack would have been brutal, and that she probably suffered mortal damage to many of her organs. There’s no damage to the skull.”

  “Were there any defensive wounds you were able to find on the arm bones?” Brock asked.

  Flannery was standing back, letting Brock ask his own question
s, since the detective had already seen the remains and spoken with the ME earlier.

  “No, there were no defensive wounds, Special Agent McGovern,” Dr. Morgan said. “She was stabbed from behind. She might never have seen her killer. Or she might have trusted him—or her. It was violent assault, I can tell you that. But—I am assuming that she didn’t want to be stabbed to death—she had to have been taken by surprise. She never had a chance to fight back at all. Some of what I’ve been saying I’m assuming, but I am making assumptions based on education and experience. I’m the ME—you guys are the detectives. Can’t help having an opinion.”

  “Of course, that’s fine, and thank you,” Brock said. “The sheets are at the lab? Still being tested?”

  “Yes. They can’t pinpoint the sheets to a certain hotel because too many of them buy from the same supplier.”

  She covered the remains.

  She looked at Brock curiously, studying him. Then she smiled broadly. “You came out all right, it seems.” She glanced over at Flannery. “Despite what you did to him.”

  “Hey, I acted on the best info I had at the time,” Flannery said.

  “Rash—hey, he was a newbie at the time. Didn’t know his—oh, never mind. But good to see you—as a law enforcement officer, Agent McGovern.”

  “Well, thank you. I’m sorry, did we meet before?” he asked her.

  She shook her head. “I was new in this office. But I assisted at the autopsies for both Francine Renault and the cook, Peter Moore...” She left off, shrugging. “I knew that they’d brought you in—one of the summer kids. Because you were seen in some kind of major verbal altercation with her. And arrested, from what I understand, on a tip.”

  She didn’t exactly sniff, but she did look at Detective Flannery with a bit of disdain.

  “I say again, I acted on the best info I had at the time. And yeah—I guess he came out all right,” Flannery said with something that sounded a bit like a growl in his voice. He eyed Brock, as if not entirely sure about him yet.

  “I spent only one night in jail. Trust me, I spent many a worse night in the service,” he assured Dr. Morgan and Flannery.

  Flannery looked away, uncomfortable. Dr. Morgan smiled.

  “Thank you,” he told her. “If there’s anything else that comes to mind that might be of any assistance whatsoever...”

  “I’ll be quicker than a rabbit in heat,” she vowed solemnly.

  He arched his brows slightly but managed a smile and another thank-you.

  Brock and Flannery left the county morgue together. They’d come in Flannery’s official vehicle; it would allow them to bypass heavy traffic if needed, Flannery had said.

  Brock preferred to drive himself, but that day, while Flannery drove, it gave him a chance to look through his notes on the victim.

  “She stayed at the Frampton Ranch and Resort three months ago,” he murmured out loud. “Her home was St. Pete. She wasn’t reported missing right away because she was over eighteen and had been living alone in St. Augustine, working as a cocktail waitress—but hadn’t shown up for work in over a week. Says here none of her coworkers really knew her—she had just started.”

  “The perfect victim,” Flannery said. He glanced sideways at Brock. “The other missing girls... You have the information on them, too, right?”

  “Yeah, I have it online and on paper. I have to hand it to Egan. He believes in hard copy and there are times it proves to be especially beneficial.”

  “And saves on eyestrain,” Flannery muttered. He glanced Brock’s way again. “You know, I asked for you specifically. Hope you don’t mind too much. Can’t help it. Still think there’s something with that damned resort, even if I can’t pin it. Well, I mean, back then, of course, it had to do with the ranch. Francine Renault worked there—and died there. But...that tree has seen a lot of death.”

  He said it oddly, almost as if he was in awe of the tree. Brock frowned, looking over at him. Flannery didn’t glance his way, but apparently knew he was being studied.

  “Well, bad stuff happens there,” Flannery said.

  “Right—because bad people like the aspect that bad things happened there.”

  “You think it should be chopped down.”

  “It might dissuade future killers.”

  “Or just cause them to leave their victims somewhere else,” Flannery said. “Or create a new History Tree or haunted bog or...just a damnable stretch of roadway.”

  “True,” Brock agreed.

  “What drives me crazy is the why—I mean, we all study this stuff. Some killers are simply goal driven—they want or need someone out of the way. Some killings have to do with passion and anger and jealousy. Some have to do with money. Some people are psychotic and kill for the thrill or the sexual release it gives them. Years ago, it was just Francine. Now, that Francine—I didn’t find a single soul who actually said they liked her, but it never seemed she’d done anything bad enough to make someone want to kill her. She seemed to be more of an annoyance—like a fly buzzing around your ear.”

  “Maybe she was a really, really annoying fly—buzzing at the wrong person,” Brock said. Then he reminded the detective, “Peter Moore committed suicide. There was no note—but maybe he did do it, because he was afraid of being apprehended, or felt overwhelming remorse or was dealing with an untreated mental illness that led him down a very dark path. Seems to me that everyone accepted the fact that he must have done it—though he sure as hell didn’t get his day in court.”

  Flannery glanced his way at last. “But you don’t think that Peter Moore killed Francine any more than I do.”

  Brock hesitated and then said flatly, “No. And I knew Peter Moore. He hated Francine, but he held his own with her—he didn’t really have to answer to her. He was directly under Fred Bentley. I don’t think he killed Francine. I don’t even think that Peter Moore killed himself.”

  Flannery nodded. “There you go—see? There was a reason I needed you down here. Damn, though, if it doesn’t seem like homecoming somehow.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I can’t just buy the theory that Peter Moore did it, either. In my mind, the killer might have helped him into that so-called suicide. No prints but Peter’s on the knife in his gut, but hell, the kitchen is filled with gloves.”

  “So it is.”

  “That beauty is back, as well,” Flannery said, glancing his way once again.

  Brock didn’t ask who Flannery meant. That was dead obvious. Maura.

  “Did you ask her up here?” Brock asked him.

  “Me?” Flannery was truly surprised. “I barely met her back in the day, and she was fairly rattled when I did... Well, you were there. You didn’t ask for her to be here? I’d have thought, at least, that the two of you would still be friends. You were hot and heavy back then, so I heard—the beautiful young ones!”

  “I hadn’t seen her since that night until I saw her again late yesterday afternoon—out by the tree.”

  “Ah, yes, she’s with that web queen or writer—or whatever that little woman calls herself,” Flannery said. He looked over at Brock. “Is that what they call serendipity?”

  Brock didn’t reply. He was looking at his portfolios on the missing women. He’d already read through them on the plane, but talking things out could reveal new angles.

  “All right,” Brock said. “Maureen Rodriguez was out of the house and just starting a new life. So she wasn’t noted as missing right away. But Lily Sylvester was supposed to check in with her boyfriend. She’d come to the Frampton ranch because she wanted to see it. She stayed at a little hotel on the outskirts of St. Augustine one night after her visit, and then she was supposed to meet with a girlfriend at a posh bed-and-breakfast in the old section of the city. She never showed that day and her friend called the cops right away.”

  He flipped thr
ough his folders.

  “Friends and family were insistent about Lily,” Flannery told him. “She was as dependable as they come. Is,” he added. “We shouldn’t assume the worst.”

  But it was natural that they did.

  “All right, moving on to Amy Bonham. She stayed at the Frampton ranch. She told one of the waitresses that she was excited about a surprise job opportunity the next day. She was supposed to be heading in the other direction—toward Orlando and the theme parks. She also stayed at a chain motel the night right after she was at the Frampton ranch and disappeared the next day. I know you certainly looked into her ‘job opportunity.’”

  Flannery nodded. “We’ve had officers interviewing people across more than half the state.”

  “But no one knew anything about it.”

  “No. But the waitress at the Frampton ranch—Dorothy Masterson—swears that Amy was super excited. Dorothy believed that she was looking for work at one of the theme parks.”

  “And you checked with all the parks.”

  “Of course. Big and small.”

  Brock went on to his third folder. “Lydia Merkel.”

  Flannery nodded; he’d already committed to memory most of what Brock was still studying.

  “Lydia. Cute as a button.”

  “You met her? You knew her?” Brock asked, frowning.

  “I met her briefly—I was in St. Augustine. The wife had her nephews down and I was taking them on one of the ghost tours. Lydia was on our tour. All wide eyes and happiness. Can’t tell you how stunned I was when the powers that be called me in and told me that we had another missing woman—and that I recognized her.” He glanced quickly at Brock. “You know how it goes with missing persons reports. Half of the time someone is just off on a lark. There’s been a fight—a person has taken off because they want to disappear. But I just don’t think that’s the case.” He was silent. “Especially since we found the remains of Maureen Rodriguez.”

  “And you can’t help but think that Frampton Ranch and Resort is somehow involved.”