by Julie Miller
With a sigh he made no effort to mask, Howard settled back behind the wheel and pulled out onto the road leading away from the prison. “Hungry for an early dinner? My treat. Jefferson City’s got this great new restaurant on top of one of the hotels downtown. You can see the Capitol Building and almost all the riverfront. Day or night, it’s a spectacular view.”
The answering rumble in her stomach negated the easy excuse to say she wasn’t hungry. Instead, she opted for an honest compromise. “Dinner would be great. But, could we just drive through and eat it in the car? I need to get home and let the dogs out. And we still have a two-and-a-half-hour drive to Kansas City ahead of us.”
Howard had seen the wrongful death and manufacturer’s negligence lawsuit his brother had started for her through to its conclusion. And though she’d trade the 9.2-million-dollar settlement for her parents in a heartbeat, she was grateful to the Bratcher, Austin & Cole law firm that they’d gotten the company to admit its guilt in their construction of the faulty wing struts on the small airplane that had crashed, killing her parents instantly.
And though Howard’s interest might have as much to do with the generous percentage his firm had received from the settlement, Rosemary appreciated his attempts to be kind. However, her gratitude didn’t go so far as to want to encourage a more personal connection between them. She’d thought Richard Bratcher was her hero, rescuing her from the dutiful drudgery of her life, and she’d fallen hard and fast. Richard had been her first love...and her biggest mistake—one she never intended to make again. But her business relationship and friendship with his older brother, Howard, shouldn’t suffer because of it. She glanced across the seat and smiled. “Is that okay?”
Knowing her history with his brother, Howard was probably relieved she hadn’t given him a flat-out no. He nodded his agreement, willing, once again, to please her. “Fast food, it is.”
Almost three hours later, Howard pulled off the interstate and turned toward her home on the eastern edge of Kansas City. Although it was nearly eight o’clock, the sun was still a rosy orange ball in the western sky when he walked her up onto the front porch that ran clear across the front of her ninety-year-old bungalow.
From the moment the car doors had shut and she’d stepped out, she could hear the high and low pitches of her two dogs barking, and was eager to get inside to see them. She had her keys out and her purse looped over her shoulder when she realized Howard had followed her to the top of the stairs, waiting to take his leave or maybe hoping to be invited in for coffee.
What one woman might see as polite, Rosemary saw as suffocating, maybe even dangerous. As much as she loathed going out in public, she hated the idea of being trapped inside the house with a man even more. No way was she reliving that nightmare. With the dogs scratching at the other side of the door now, anxious for her arrival, Rosemary turned and lifted her gaze to Howard’s patient expression. “Thank you for going with me to Jefferson City.”
“My pleasure.”
“Do I owe you some gas money?”
He chuckled. “Not a penny.”
Finally getting the hint that this was goodbye, he leaned in to kiss her cheek. But Rosemary extended her hand instead, forcing some space between them. “Good night, Howard.”
He gently took her hand and raised it to his lips to kiss the back of her knuckles instead. “Good night. I’ll pick you up tomorrow?” he asked, releasing her from the gallant gesture and pulling away.
Right. More papers to sign. “I can drive, you know.”
“But the drive will give me a chance to explain the trust fund and scholarship you’ll be setting up before you sign anything.” There’d already been plenty of explanation and she’d made her decisions.
“Howard—”
“That way you won’t have to spend any longer than a few minutes at the office.”
Now that was a selling point. Rosemary nodded her acquiescence. “I’ll be ready. See you then.”
She waited until he was backing out of the driveway and waved before turning around to unlock the door. She typed in the security code to release the alarm, but her hand stopped with her key in the lock. She wasn’t alone.
Was he watching her? Would there be another vile message waiting on her answering machine?
I see you, Rosemary. Thinking your money can buy you security. Thinking those dogs will keep you safe. One of these days it’ll be just you and me. I’ll show you how justice is done. I’ll take you apart piece by piece.
With her shaking hand still on the key, she glanced up and down the street at the peaceful normalcy of a summer evening in the older suburban neighborhood. There was an impromptu ball game in the Johannesens’ front yard across the street. Mrs. Keith was out trimming her shrubs while her husband washed the car in their driveway.
Squinting against the reflection of the sunset in her next-door neighbors’ living room window, Rosemary caught the shadowy silhouette of Otis or Arlene Dinkle. The brief ripple of alarm that had put her on guard a moment earlier eased. The Dinkles had lived next door for years, and had been friends with her parents long before Rosemary had moved back home to care for her teenage brother.
Unable to get a good look at which of the couple was eyeing her, Rosemary exhaled a sigh of relief and waved. They’d watched over her for a long time, including that night Richard had attacked her and she’d run to their house to call the police, fearing he’d come back after he’d stormed out. Her wave must have been all the reassurance the Dinkles needed to know she’d arrived home safely. The shadow disappeared and the blinds closed.
Breathing easier now, Rosemary unlocked the door and went inside. “Hey, ladies. Mama’s home.”
Her smile was genuine as she locked the door behind her and dropped to her knees to accept the enthusiastic greeting from the German shepherd with the excited whine and the miniature poodle leaping up and down around her.
“Hey, Duchess. Hey, Trixie. I missed you guys, too.” She spared a few moments to rub their tummies and accept some eager licks before rising to her feet and doing a quick walk through the house with the dogs trailing behind her.
She really should have no worries about an intruder, especially with the yappy apricot poodle and the former K-9 Corps dog who’d been dismissed from the program because of an eye injury on hand to guard the place. If the dogs weren’t alarmed, she shouldn’t be, either. Still, she checked all the rooms, including the guest suite upstairs, before she set her purse down beside the answering machine on the kitchen counter.
No blinking red light.
“Thank goodness.”
Her day had already been long and troubling enough without having to deal with another message from the unwanted admirer she’d picked up the night after news of her settlement being finalized had appeared in the Kansas City Journal. And she was certain the police department was tired of her calling in to report the disturbing calls. She knew she was tired of hearing the subtle changes in their tone once she identified herself. The officers were sympathetic when they saw her name in the system as a victim of domestic violence, but seemed to think she was some kind of crank caller when they read her abuser was dead and that she had once been a suspect in his murder. They probably thought she was some sort of paranoid crazy lady—or a woman desperately seeking attention when, in reality, she’d be far more content to fade into the woodwork.
The advice from the officer she’d finally been connected with had been to keep a log of the calls and let her know if she thought they were escalating into something more serious. If she’d known when Richard Bratcher’s controlling demands were going to escalate into violence, she might have been spared a split lip, a broken arm and... She ran her fingers beneath the collar of her blouse, resting her palm over the old scars there. Talk about a sudden and unexpected escalation. But when images from that horrific time tried to surface, Rosem
ary pulled her hand away and stooped down to busy her fingers and brain with the much more enjoyable task of petting the dogs and rubbing their bellies.
After a happy competition for her affection, Rosemary kicked off her sandals and relished the cool tile under her toes. With both dogs dancing around her, she unbolted the back door and opened the screen door to let them out into the fenced-in yard to run around.
The warm breeze wrapped her eyelet skirt around her knees and caught the wispy curls escaping from her bun and stuck them to the warm skin of her cheeks and neck. With the nubby concrete of the patio still warm beneath her feet, she glanced up at the sky and tried to gauge how long they had before nightfall. While Trixie sniffed the perimeter of the yard and the big German shepherd loped along behind her little buddy, Rosemary walked to the edge of her in-ground pool and dipped her toes into the water. As tempting as it might be to cool off in the pool, she hated to be out after dark. Besides, Duchess and Trixie had been on their own for most of the day and deserved a little one-on-one attention. A few games of fetch and tug-of-war before bedtime would do just as much to help her forget these restless urges to prod the truth from her brother, rail against the fear and loneliness that plagued nearly every waking moment and live her life like a normal person again.
Laughing as Duchess barked at a rabbit in the Dinkles’ backyard garden, startling Trixie with her deep woof and setting off a not-to-be-messed-with barking from the smaller dog, Rosemary opened the storage unit at the edge of the patio where she kept pool and outdoor pet supplies. One of the shelves was dedicated to a sack of birdseed, grooming brushes and a stash of dog toys.
She pulled out the tennis ball Duchess loved to chase and gave it a good toss, watching the dogs trip over each other in their eagerness to retrieve the faded yellow orb. Then she reached inside for one of Trixie’s squeaky toys and gasped.
The last rays of sunlight hitting the nape of her neck could have been shards of wintry ice as she snatched her hand away from the gruesome display inside.
“I don’t understand why this is happening,” she whispered through her tight throat.
But she couldn’t pull her eyes away from the tiny stuffed animal—tan and curly coated like her sweet little Trixie—hanging from a noose fashioned out of twine from the cabinet’s top shelf. Nor could she ignore the typed message pinned to the polyester material.
I know what you did.
You don’t deserve to be rewarded.
You can’t escape justice.
Who would...? Why would...?
Duchess dropped the slobbery ball at her feet, and the dogs buffeted her back and forth, eager for her to throw it again. When she didn’t immediately respond, the German shepherd rose up on her hind legs to help herself to another toy inside the cabinet, and Rosemary snapped out of her shock.
“Down, girl. Get down.” Rosemary pushed the black-and-tan dog aside and closed the cabinet doors. Then she latched onto Duchess’s collar and swung her gaze around the yard.
Was someone watching her right now? Was some sicko out there getting off on just how terrified he could make her feel?
She led the dogs to the side gate with her to check the front of the house. No doubt picking up on her alarm, Trixie barked at nothing in particular. At least, nothing Rosemary could make out. She saw regular, light evening traffic out on the street, with all the cars driving slowly past because of the kids playing nearby. The Keiths had gone inside. There was no visible movement in the Dinkle house next door.
Rosemary’s breath burned in her throat. This had gone beyond excusing those calls as some drunk who’d read her name in the paper. Somebody wanted her scared? He’d succeeded.
“Duchess, heel. Trixie?” The German shepherd fell into step beside Rosemary as she scooped up the poodle. “No one’s going to hurt you, baby.”
She checked the separate entrance that led to the basement apartment where Stephen had lived when he’d gotten older. Good. Bolted tight. Then she took the dogs inside the kitchen and locked both the screen and steel doors behind her before punching in the code to reset the alarm. She flipped on the patio light, gave the dogs each her own rawhide chew and walked straight through to the front door, turning on every light inside and out.
Verifying for a second time that every room of the house was empty, Rosemary returned to the kitchen to brew a pot of green tea and fill a glass of ice to pour it over.
Her hands were shaking too hard to hold on to the frosty glass by the time she’d curled up on the library sofa with the dogs at her feet and the lights blazing. She should turn on the TV, read a book, sort through another box of papers and family mementos that had become her summer project, or get ready for bed and pretend she had any shot at sleeping now.
Rosemary deliberated each option for several moments before springing to her feet and circling around behind the large walnut desk that had been her father’s. She opened the bottom drawer and pushed aside a box of photographs to unlock her father’s old Army pistol from its metal box. It had been years since he’d taken her and Stephen target shooting out at a cousin’s farm in the country, so she couldn’t even be sure the thing still worked, much less remember exactly how to clean and load it. Still, it offered some measure of protection besides Duchess and Trixie. She pulled out the gun, magazine and a box of bullets and set them on top of the desk.
Then, even if they thought she was some sad, lonely spinster desperate for attention, she took a long swallow of her iced tea, picked up the phone and called KCPD to report the latest threat.
Chapter Two
Detective Max Krolikowski was a soldier by training. He was mission oriented. Dinkin’ around on a wild-goose chase to see if some woman had talked to some guy about a crime that had occurred ages ago, just in case somebody somewhere could shed some new light on the unsolved case he and his partner from KCPD’s Cold Case Squad were investigating, was not his idea of a good time.
Especially not today.
Max stepped on the accelerator of his ’72 Chevy Chevelle, fisting his hand around the steering wheel in an effort to squeeze out the images of bits and pieces of fallen comrades in a remote desert village. He fought off the more troubling memory of prying a pistol out of a good man’s dead hand.
He should be in a bar someplace getting drunk, or at Mount Washington Cemetery, allowing himself to weep over the grave of Army Captain James Stecher. Max and his team had rescued Jimmy from the insurgents’ camp where he and two other NCOs been held hostage and tortured for seven days, but a part of Jimmy had never truly made it home. Eight years ago today, he’d put his gun in his mouth and ended the nightmares and survivor’s guilt that had haunted him since their homecoming.
Max had found the body, left the Army and gone back to school to become a cop all within a year. Getting bad guys off the streets went a ways toward making his world right again. Following up on some remote, random possibility of a lead on the anniversary of Jimmy’s senseless suicide did not.
“Whoa, brother.” The voice of his partner, Trent Dixon, sitting in the passenger seat across from him, thankfully interrupted his dark thoughts. “We’re not on a high-speed chase here. Slow it down before some uniform pulls us over.”
Max rolled his eyes behind his wraparound sunglasses but lifted his foot. A little. He snickered around the unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. “Tell me again why we’re drivin’ out to visit this whack job Rosie March? She’s hardly a reliable witness. Murder suspects generally aren’t.”
Tall, Dark and Hard to Rile chuckled. “Because her brother—a convicted killer with motive for killing Richard Bratcher—is our best lead to solving Bratcher’s murder, and he’s not talking to us. But he is talking to his sister. At least, she’s the only person who visits him regularly. Maybe we can get her to tell us what he knows. Besides, you know one of the best ways to investigate a cold case like t
his one is to reinterview anyone associated with the original investigation. Rosemary March had motive for wanting her abusive boyfriend dead and has no alibi for the time of the murder. She’d be any smart detective’s first call on this investigation. It’s called doing our job.”
Max shook his head at the annoyingly sensible explanation. “I had to ask.”
Trent laughed outright. “Maybe you’d better let me do the talking when we get to the March house. Somehow, I doubt that calling her a whack job will encourage her to share any inside information she or her brother might have on our case.”
“I get it. I’m the eyes and the muscle, and you’re the pretty boy front man.” Max plucked the cigar from his lips as he pulled off the highway on the eastern edge of Kansas City. “I’m not in the mood to make nice with some shriveled old prune of a woman, anyway.”
“Rosemary March is thirty-three years old. We’ve got her driver’s license photo in our records, and it looks as normal as any DMV pic can. What logic are you basing this I’d-rather-date-my-sister description on?”
Max could quote the file on their person of interest, too. “Over the years she’s called in as many false alarms to 9-1-1 as she has legit actionable offenses, which makes her a flake in my book. Trespassing. Vandalism. Harassing phone calls. Either she’s got a thing for cops, she has some kind of paranoia complex or it’s the only way she can get any attention. Whatever her deal is, I’m not in the mood to play games today.”
“Some of those calls were legit,” Trent pointed out. “What about the abusive fiancé?”
“Our murder victim?”
“Yeah. Those complaints against Bratcher were substantiated. Even though someone scrubbed the photos and domestic violence complaints from his file after his death, the medical reports of Miss March’s broken arm, bruises and other injuries were included as part of the initial murder investigation.”