“Scott Sinclair.” Jonathan said the name slowly. “Why is that name so familiar to me?”
“I don’t know. He’s Nicholas Sinclair’s brother. You know, the mystery writer. According to Nick, he lives on income from a substantial trust.”
Jonathan snapped his fingers. “Of course. Ethan is his trustee, and I’ve audited his account. Troubled young man.”
“That would be the one,” Taylor said as the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” Chase said.
When he returned with Livy in tow, Taylor’s heart sank. Livy couldn’t have picked a worse time to show up. “I wasn’t expecting you, chère.”
“I was on my way to have dinner with Kate and Charlie and thought I’d drop these files off.”
Mom cleared her throat. “I remember the code phrase, so can the play acting.” She turned to Taylor. “Did you call Livy first?”
Taylor shrugged. “Seemed logical. She told me to call Ben.”
Mom nodded. “Is that why she’s here?”
Taylor sighed. “No . . .”
Her mother waited. Why did Taylor feel like a ten-year-old caught in the cookie jar? Instead of a grown woman who solved crimes. It was time her mother knew.
“I’m profiling a murder case for the Memphis Police Department, and Livy brought the file to me.”
Her mother’s mouth formed an O.
“It’s what I do.”
12
Twelve rings and no answer. Nick’s thumb hovered over the end button. Finally, he pressed it. After he’d returned home from meeting with Livy Reynolds, he’d checked his caller ID. Maybe yesterday wasn’t the first time Scott had called. He’d found three numbers he didn’t recognize. Two turned out to be businesses, and now, the third one didn’t answer. He might as well get back to writing.
That almost made him laugh. He’d risen at five with writing in mind and had some success putting words on the screen. But now it was four o’clock in the afternoon, and all he could think about was Taylor, picturing her raven hair loose from the French braid, the stubborn tilt of her chin. And that brought on the guilt. Which had made for a blank page for the last hour.
Not interested in her? Yeah, right.
Maybe she’d meet him tomorrow for lunch. They could compare notes on Scott. Nick scrolled to her name and pressed call before he changed his mind.
She nearly took his head off when she answered. “Did you tell Scott where I am?”
“Of course not. Why?”
“I received another one of those packages. Here. At my mother’s house. Same poetry, same photos, plus a new one with ‘I know where you are’ written across it.”
He flinched. She thought Scott sent it, but if he was drinking, would he have enough presence of mind to track her to Logan Point? “I don’t think my brother sent that to you, but if he did, I’m sorry.”
“If you didn’t tell him . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Taylor, I didn’t tell him. I haven’t found him yet.” Nick stared at the number he’d found on his caller ID. “Was there anything new in the package?”
Taylor hesitated. “Now is not a good time to discuss it. I’m in the middle of something. Can I call you back?”
“Meet me for lunch tomorrow, and we can discuss it then.”
“Are you kidding? I’m still not sure you didn’t tell him where I am.”
“I may have a lead on his whereabouts.” Nick paced his office floor.
Quiet ensued. “I’m listening.”
“Tomorrow. Noon. A place called Blues Espresso. It’s quiet, plenty of privacy. I’ll text you the address.”
“That lead better be good.”
He disconnected and texted Taylor the address. Taylor had the wrong person in her sights. And finding Scott was the only way to prove it—an easier task to plan than to accomplish. Nick’s shoulders dropped. If he didn’t find his brother before tomorrow, he would tell her about the poem.
“What do you mean, it’s what you do?”
Taylor tapped her cell phone. She wished she’d told Nick her doubts about Scott being her stalker instead of barking at him. She’d also hoped his call would give Mom time to move on to something else. In her dreams. Slipping the phone into her pocket, she turned to face her mother.
“I help catch criminals, Mom. I go to crime scenes, and I create profiles on both the victim and the criminal. And right now I’m the victim, and I need to figure out who tracked me to Logan Point. And how.” She schooled her voice, using her best teacher tone.
Her mother lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “No, Taylor, what you do is teach psychology, not run around masquerading as some kind of policeman.”
Taylor ground her back molars and counted to ten. “Mother . . .”
“Actually, Allison,” Livy said, “Taylor is one of the best victim profilers in the country. That’s why I asked for her help in this case.”
“Is Livy right?” Awe tinged Chase’s voice.
“You bet she is,” Ben chimed in.
“They’re laying it on a little thick, but . . . yeah, I’ve written a few papers on victim profiling and helped solve some cases. You can google me.”
Her mother’s lips pinched together. “And so your extracurricular activities have come home to roost. None of this would have happened if you’d just come home and gotten a job teaching at the University of Memphis.”
Leave it to Mom to state the obvious.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. After Ben and Livy left, Taylor took the case file Livy had compiled on Albert Duncan Ross to her bedroom and started work on it. At the same time she tried to process the threat to her life. With Scott basically out of the picture, she’d returned to square one. Which should make Nick happy.
Except she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Scott knew something.
That evening she took her usual spot at the dinner table and glanced around, studying each family member. What little civility Chase and Jonathan had shown each other earlier in the day had evaporated. Chase hadn’t said five words, instead focused on picking at his food. She wanted to tell him to eat, that he needed more meat on his skinny bones. Her gaze shifted to Jonathan, who was lost in his own world. Nothing wrong with his appetite. Only her mom kept the conversation going, her voice a little too loud, a little too bright. Creating her own reality again.
And then, there was the empty seat at the end of the table for Ethan Trask. She’d been surprised when her mom had indicated he might join them for dinner. He was already late, if he was.
She startled when her mother tapped the side of her goblet.
“Attention, please.” When everyone looked up, her mom continued, “Taylor, I want to apologize.”
She swallowed her surprise. “For what?”
“For the way I reacted this afternoon. You’re a grown woman, perfectly capable of deciding what you do with your life.”
She stared blankly at her mother. Who was this person and what had she done with her mom? Allison Martin changed her mind about as often as it snowed in July.
“And from what I read on the internet this afternoon, you do what you do really well. I’m proud of you. And I promise I’ll try not to worry.”
Her mom was proud of her. Taylor worked her mouth, but nothing came out. She cleared away the lump that threatened to overcome her. “I . . . will hold you to that. And thanks. I never expected you to approve.”
“Didn’t say that, but I’ll try to get there.”
“Well, I’ve always been proud of you, Sis.”
Taylor beamed at Chase as the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” Jonathan said. “It’s probably Ethan.”
Energy filled the dining room when Ethan entered. Her mom even seemed to bloom with a smile that radiated from within. Her suspicion that something was going on between the two deepened.
Since he and Jonathan had been college roommates, Ethan would be in his mid-forties, younger than Mom. A golden ta
n set off Ethan’s salt and pepper hair, and she bet he spent a fair amount of time working out as well—definitely no little potbelly like her uncle’s.
Jonathan nodded her way. “You remember Taylor.”
“How could I forget anyone as lovely as this young woman?”
Like honey, Ethan’s voice flowed warm and smooth. He reached his hand toward her ear, and a quarter materialized in his hand. “Especially one who has money coming from her ear.” He handed her the coin.
Taylor pasted a smile on her lips as she took the money. Even when she was a child, his magic trick had made her skin prickle. Probably because he invaded her space.
Ethan took the vacant seat. “Jonathan told me about the problem with Scott, and I’m truly sorry. I feel like it’s my fault.”
“Your fault?” Taylor and her mother spoke simultaneously.
He nodded. “I’m the one who suggested he attend Conway University. He’d straightened up and showed an interest in criminal psychology, and since your mom has given you rave reviews, I recommended Conway. Thought in a new place, he might straighten up. I assumed he would tell you of our connection. Never occurred to me he might become obsessed with you, but I probably should have anticipated the possibility, since he’s done it in the past.”
“What? Scott’s done this before?” She wondered if Nick knew about this and had neglected to tell her.
Ethan’s face turned crimson. “I shouldn’t have said that. Scott’s my client.” He fiddled with his knife. “But you’re like family, and I would be negligent if I didn’t tell you to be careful around him.”
At least that solved the mystery of why Scott travelled across the country to attend Conway. She started to tell Ethan she no longer believed Scott was her stalker when Mom cleared her throat with a loud ahem.
“Have you read the Nicholas Sinclair book you brought me?”
Taylor had almost forgotten her mother’s ban on unpleasant conversation at the dinner table. “Not yet.”
“I have.” Ethan took the hint. “And it’s the best one he’s written.”
Mom turned to her. “So, when am I going to meet this new friend of yours?”
Taylor almost dropped the bowl. She didn’t want to encourage her mom into thinking she and Nick had some sort of relationship. “We’re not exactly friends. More like two people on the same mission. Could someone pass me the banana pudding?”
“When will you find out about the judge nomination?” Chase asked Ethan as he gave Taylor a wink.
She’d have to do something nice for her brother for directing conversation away from her.
Ethan forked a slice of roast. “Probably within the month. The waiting is about to kill me. Never dreamed I would be on the short list for a seat on the Tennessee Court of Criminal Appeals.”
“That’s only the beginning. I believe we are sitting in the presence of a future Supreme Court judge.” Jonathan raised his tea glass. “I think a toast is in order.”
“That’s a little premature, my friend.” A broad grin belied Ethan’s words as everyone raised their glasses. “And before I forget, I need your signature on a form first thing in the morning.”
Jonathan’s mouth twitched. “I’ve taken a few days off and hadn’t planned on coming to the office tomorrow. Just sign my name—you can write it as well as I can.” He turned to Taylor. “It’s a good thing he’s on the right side of the law. With Ethan’s talent for forgery, there’s no telling where he could be.”
“Certainly not on a governor’s judgeship list.” Ethan’s dry response brought a laugh. “I’ll wait for your signature.”
Taylor raised her eyebrows. “That’s an unusual talent. How did you develop it?”
“Your uncle exaggerates. It was something I had fun with in college but long since left behind.” Ethan tilted his head toward her. “Has your uncle ever told you how we came to be such good friends?”
“No.” Taylor leaned forward.
“I’m sure you remember that we were roommates at Memphis State, and one night your uncle crashed a frat party. He got suckered into playing Texas Hold ’Em, and by the time he called me, he’d already lost his shoes and was down to his pants.”
“What did you do?”
“I went and got him, of course. I wish you could have seen that tenderfoot running to get in the car.”
“They were using marked cards,” Jonathan growled as laugher erupted around the table.
“Maybe so, but you never got much better at poker.” Ethan directed his attention to Taylor’s mother. “I understand you’re having a picnic Saturday. Can anybody come?”
“Picnic?” Taylor paused with her fork in midair. She’d heard nothing about a picnic.
“It’s to celebrate Abby’s birthday, and now your homecoming too,” Jonathan said. “We’re having it down at the lake.”
At least it wasn’t at Oak Grove. The Martins hadn’t held a picnic since her dad left, but before that there’d been at least one every year under the oaks at Granna’s house with the whole town invited. In fact, the day he left . . .
Her mother broke into her thoughts. “Abby found some old photographs, and one thing led to another. She’s really excited.”
“I suppose everyone will be there.” Taylor could see it now. The prodigal returns. Might as well display her like a pinned beetle.
“I only posted information about the picnic at church.” Taylor groaned, and her mom raised her eyebrows and then turned to Ethan. “You know you’re welcome.”
After dinner, Taylor helped her mom with the dishes and then excused herself to take another look at the material Livy had dropped off and to write a preliminary report. If she could keep her mind off her own case.
Questions about it kept popping in her thoughts as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Like who was investigating the leads in the Coleman case back in Newton? Zeke was at a conference here in Mississippi, and Dale was still recuperating. She wished she’d asked. But she didn’t want to bother him tonight, and she wasn’t calling Zeke just to be blown off like always.
Although Zeke might have been right about Scott. She picked up Livy’s report. Just like Scott probably wasn’t involved in the Ross murder. Not unless he’d gotten mixed up in a drug ring in the two weeks he’d been back in Memphis. Livy had pulled several cases where the victim had been garroted, and they all had one thing in common—all were known druggies. Evidently someone wasn’t paying their drug bill. Ross had a history of not only using but selling as well. If they could find his supplier, they’d probably have his killer.
She reread the autopsy report. A horrible death that even clinical language couldn’t soften. Petechial hemorrhaging and not just at the ligature site. The small pinpoint dots of blood were also in the eye and eyelid area. Whoever killed him tightened and loosened the cord . . . played with Ross’s mind, indicating the murder was not only personal but sadistic. A cold-blooded, premeditated crime with a highly organized perpetrator. She opened a new document on her computer and started typing.
An hour later, a car door slammed. Taylor padded to the window, and as Ethan’s black Navigator pulled away, she caught a glimpse of Mom coming back to the house. Taylor wasn’t sure how she felt about her mother’s interest in Ethan.
Jonathan appeared from the shadows and got into his pickup, going in the opposite direction, toward Oak Grove. Tomorrow, or whenever Jonathan called another meeting, she would have to vote against him on the land. Not something she looked forward to.
Taylor moved to the other window and followed the pickup taillights until they disappeared around the rear of the house. Like the night before, the full moon illuminated the old two story. Chill bumps raised on her neck, and Taylor hugged her arms to her body as half-forgotten dreams surfaced of walking the halls, her shoes clattering on the hardwood floors, opening doors to empty rooms, inching down the dark basement steps . . .
She shuddered.
Maybe tomorrow she’d visit the place from her dreams
and confront the hold it had on her.
13
Dusk settled over the tree-lined boulevard as Nick searched for 1210 New York Street, the address reverse directory had given for the number on his caller ID.
Twelve-six, Twelve-eight. He slowed in front of an older, two-story house and found the street number on the doorpost. Twelve-ten. This was it. If he didn’t find Scott here, he might as well quit looking.
A 1940s porch, complete with wicker chairs and a swing, stretched across the front. Made for a time when people sat outside and visited with their neighbors, the furniture now boasted flaking paint and dry rot. A rattling window unit drew his gaze to the second floor, where it labored against the hot evening. The building appeared to be an older home converted into apartments. Unfortunately, Google hadn’t told him which apartment.
Nick tried the glass security door, found it unlocked, and stepped into the foyer. There appeared to be two apartments downstairs and a stairway that led to the second level. He could see one door at the top of the stairs and assumed it was another apartment. The muffled sound of a television came from the apartment on the left along with the odor of cigarette smoke. His rap on the door brought a flurry of barking and footsteps.
“Hush up, Daisy. Can’t hear nothin’ for your infernal barking. Who is it?” The woman’s voice, at least he thought it was a woman, rasped from the other side of the door. Nick formed a mental image of dyed hair, baggy eyes, and tobacco-stained fingers.
“Nick Sinclair. I’m looking for Scott Sinclair.”
“No Scott Sinclair living here.”
“Do you know if he lives in the building?”
There was a pause, and then a bolt rattled back. The door opened as far as the chain allowed. Nick stepped back, as much from the cigarette odor as the small Chihuahua that growled through the crack at the bottom of the door.
“Hush up, Daisy!” Watery blue eyes peered at him from a mass of wrinkles. “You the cops or a bill collector?”
“Neither.” He gave her his best you-can-trust-me smile.
“Like I said, there ain’t no Scott Sinclair living here.”
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