Devil in the Deadline

by Walker, LynDee

  “Naturally. Keep me posted?”

  “Of course.”

  We fell into easy silence, each lost in our own thoughts.

  The room was set up like an altar.

  They cut out her freaking uterus.

  My inner Lois grew surer by the cicada chirp that Way of Life was tangled up in this.

  “Where was the cow’s blood?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?” Aaron furrowed his brow.

  “The cow’s blood y’all found at the murder scene. Where did the scrapings come from? The walls? The corners?”

  He sighed. “The altar. And the floor all around it.”

  Huh. I pondered as Aaron guided the boat back to the dock.

  I told him goodnight and continued the debate the entire way home.

  Darcy pawed at my foot, and Emily’s comment about a group being in on the murder together surfaced as I bent to pick up the dog.

  “I’m lobbying Bob for hazard pay,” I told Darcy, grabbing the phone and hoping my brilliant psychologist friend wasn’t busy.

  Two glasses of wine later, Em and I had rehashed everything I thought I might know about Jasmine, Golightly, and lots of things in between.

  She listened as I described every rabbit trail in this crazy forest, her earring clicking against the receiver when she nodded occasionally.

  I took a breath after I described my chat with Aaron. “So. That’s where I am.”

  “Girl. You have had a week. Do I need to come up there?”

  I laughed. “I think I’m dealing. Mostly, I want to figure this out. If you want to help play detective, hop a plane. But otherwise, you can stay there and keep your phone on.”

  “There’s a lot here, Nicey.” Papers rustled. “You say no way the autistic guy is your killer. You’re sure about that?”

  “So are the detectives. They’re going along with it because the brass wants a show.”

  “And you’re okay with that?”

  I gnawed my lower lip. No. But what else could I do?

  “I’m pissed. But also in a corner.”

  “Sure.” She didn’t sound even a little convinced.

  “Okay, I’m going to talk to my boss,” I said. “I can’t tell which way is forward anymore. But you said last time we talked if it was a sacrificial thing there was probably more than one person. I blew that off because the cops started off so focused on a serial. But the abortion, the murder scene, the freaky amateur hysterectomy—the church fits it better. ”

  “It’s logically sound. Not that most murderers are horribly logical folks,” Emily said. “I think you still have two distinct possibilities here. One is you do have a serial. It’s not like they kill someone every day. The second victim makes that more likely. It sounds like your cops are still leaning that way, but without knowing what else they’re keeping from you, I can’t say it’s more likely than your theory. Two is this poor woman did run away from the religious outfit. Or maybe even some other one. But you really need a rock-solid connection before anyone is going to take you seriously.”

  “These people are into some bad stuff, Em,” I said. I’d glossed over the nitty-gritty because I was paranoid about Girl Friday’s seeming psychic powers. “Really bad. Stuff Kyle’s guys have a hand in.”

  “And Kyle is helping you with this, but Kyle’s not the one you slept with.” It wasn’t a question. She clicked her tongue. “I might hop a plane. At the very least, grab a charger for your phone and the rest of that bottle. We’re going to be a while getting you straight.”

  “I’m not crazy, am I?”

  “Nah. But you sure are tangled up,” she said. “Talk to me.”

  I did. I told her as much as I dared about Joey, and how much I wished I wanted Kyle as much as he seemed to want me. My mom. My grandparents. The dog, my bloodtype, Shelby, the blogger, my bra size. Words streamed out for an hour.

  “It’s a good thing you get paid for listening to people ramble,” I finished. “You’re good at it.”

  “Everyone needs a good ear now and again.”

  “So, how do I fix it?”

  “What do you think you need to do?”

  “Aw, come on, Em,” I said. “I want advice, not head shrinkage.”

  “What I would do for myself in that situation might be entirely different from what you need to do to be happy.”

  “Right now, I really want to talk to my mom.”

  “I think that’s a wise start.” She spaced the words out.

  “I know. You think Kyle’s right and I should call my grandparents.”

  “It’s not like I haven’t made my opinion about that abandonment issue known for years,” she said.

  “I can’t.”

  “You can. You don’t want to. You’re afraid of rejection. Which is perfectly understandable. You’re also holding a grudge. Again, understandable. But not healthy. And kind of childish. I love you, but it’s true. And this is starting to affect other aspects of your life.”

  A dull ache took up residence in the back of my throat, matching the heaviness in the pit of my stomach.

  “I don’t want to hurt Kyle,” I said finally. “I love Kyle. I think part of me always will. It’s complicated.”

  “I think it’s simpler than you want to admit.” She wasn’t arguing, exactly, but her voice was firm. “You keep telling me there are all these obstacles to being with Mr. Mystery.”

  “But he’s—” I paused. “You don’t understand, Em. We just click so well. He fits.”

  “Uh-huh.” She paused. “What’s his last name, Nicey?”

  “Not fair,” I said. “You don’t know everything, and you’re turning me into a country song.”

  “Look, sweetie, I’m not saying this is your fault. Commitment phobia as a result of paternal abandonment issues is so common I can’t go a week without a new case walking in. You want to conquer it? Call your mother. Call your grandmother. Then let me know why you want the guy it can’t work with more than the one it could.”

  “Emily—” I stopped, my stomach twisting into a boy-scout-worthy knot. Damn.

  “I’m here if you need a sounding board, doll,” she said. “But I can’t tell you what to do.”

  “Can you tell me where to look for this murderer? That’d be awesome all by itself.”

  “I’d stay with the church,” she said. “I think you’re onto something. The reverend might be in the thick of it, or he might not know anything about it. What you need is a friend on the inside.”

  I nodded agreement. If only that were as easy to come by as question marks this week.

  “Thanks, Em. Love you.”

  “Back at you, girl. Holler if you need me.”

  I clicked off the call, putting the phone down and picking the dog up.

  Staring at the bright reds and blues in the abstract of a mother and child Jenna had painted, I wanted nothing more than to curl up in my mom’s lap, tell her all my worries, and have them fixed with a lollipop and a kiss. Maybe I wasn’t such a grownup, after all.

  I turned Emily’s last words over in my thoughts, sifting my fingers though Darcy’s fur. A friend on the inside. Elise and Ben were the only people who hadn’t been rude, and she’d seemed less drink-the-kool-aid than him. I set Darcy down and went to pick through my wardrobe for pants that covered my ankles, a tunic, and some flats. I’d found two of the three when my doorbell rang.

  Nine-thirty. I checked my hair and lip gloss in case it was Joey and rushed to my teensy foyer.

  A glance out the windows along the top of the door put my heart in my throat. I fumbled with the locks and threw the door wide.

  “Mom?” I swooped her into a fierce hug. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  18.

  Revelations

  My mom is a walking ball of energy—five-seven in flats, she only looks short next to me. She’s the picture of grace and confidence. In my almost-thirty years, I’d seen very few things rattle her.

  Certainly nothing enough to make
her fly halfway across the country unannounced. In June. She’s a wedding planner—that’s like a CPA taking off on a lark in early April. My stomach clenched, and I squeezed her tighter.

  She stretched on tiptoe and clung to my shoulders like she might never hug me again.

  I knew the feeling, a thousand memories of her frail, chemo-weakened frame barely filling my arms making me thank God for the seventy billionth time I still had her to hug.

  I held on for a long minute before I stepped back and took in the makeup-free face half-hidden behind her sunglasses. In the dark.

  “It’s always good to see you,” I said. “But, um…”

  She put a hand on my face, not removing the shades.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  Indeed we did.

  I grabbed her stuffed-to-the-seams overnight bag and ushered her inside, Darcy sniffing her ankles.

  She bent and fluffed the dog’s fur, then followed me to the living room, smiling at the half-empty wine bottle. “I think we need another glass, love.”

  I settled Mom on the sofa and scurried to the kitchen to fetch one, stopping short when I stepped back into the living room. Her beautiful blue eyes were barely visible through puffy, scarlet-rimmed slits in her face.

  I poured wine into both glasses and handed her one, a thickness in the air between us.

  She opened her mouth, then shook her head and closed it again, dropping her eyes to the floor.

  Puzzle pieces rained into place.

  Of course.

  How could I be so stupid?

  “I got it.” I put a hand on her shoulder.

  Amazing, the things we can miss if we don’t want to see them.

  “No, I have to tell you something, sweetie.” She pulled in a hitching breath. “I came here to talk to you, and I’m not chickening out this time.”

  “It’s about my father, right?”

  Tears sprang up and spilled over in the same instant. She nodded. “God, I hoped I was wrong.”

  “Back up. Wrong?”

  “About you finding him.”

  “Finding—I didn’t find him.”

  “Then how did you know that’s why I was here?”

  I raised one hand to my temple. “Why do I feel like an Abbott and Costello routine? Can we start at the beginning?”

  She shook her head and squeezed my hand. “There’s not enough wine in Virginia for that, baby.”

  I laughed. “I don’t want to hear the details of my conception, thanks. But I just clicked a few puzzle pieces here. I always assumed I’d never met him because he was a deadbeat, or maybe because he was young and had grown up and had another family.”

  The tears about the ATF raid in Waco. The absolute freak-out that led to the hot mess in front of me.

  “I was wrong, huh?” I asked.

  “He wanted to get married.” She drew another shaky breath. “He was older than me, and so sure the money would never dry up. Parts would never run out.”

  I furrowed my brow. “I thought you met him at school?”

  “I lied.” She hid her face in her hands. “Please don’t be mad. You were always so curious about everything. I didn’t want you to go looking. Protecting you has been my first priority since the first time I saw you.”

  “Questions about everything except him.” I shook my head. “How’d you miss that?”

  “I suppose I took it as a gift from God and went on with my life,” she said. “Always, with seven million questions every day, from the time you could talk. I could have picked your career path when you were in kindergarten. Reporter or therapist. But now that you mention it, why didn’t you ask?”

  I threw my hands up. “We never even got a Christmas card. Why should I give a second thought to anyone who could treat us that way? We didn’t need him, right?”

  I worried, growing up, that it hurt my mom. My father not being around. My grandparents disappearing. She never let it show, never said a word—but that didn’t mean she didn’t feel it. I decided if I loved her enough, they wouldn’t matter. We took care of us. We didn’t need anybody but each other.

  She smiled, tears still dripping down her blotchy cheeks. “Right.”

  “He was an actor?” Among the few things I knew about my grandparents was that my mom’s dad was a film producer. They lived in Malibu. They told my mother, who wanted to have a baby on her own at seventeen, that it was a mistake and I was an “embarrassment.” That was it. Oh, and my grandmother had nice handwriting.

  If I knew little about them, I knew nothing about my father. Donor? I’d always thought that a more relevant term. Em offered “sire” once when I spilled my guts to her, but that sounded too much like I should be training for the Kentucky Derby.

  An actor. Of course. My height, my crazy striking eye color.

  “So, he asked you to marry him.” I spaced the words out, just as unsure I wanted to know as she seemed to be about wanting to tell me. I snatched my glass off the table and gulped a few swigs of Moscato. “But you didn’t want to?”

  “I didn’t know much about anything except I didn’t want an abortion, and I wasn’t old enough to get married,” she said. “He went nuts. Totally off the deep end. His parents were very conservative. Ultra religious. I didn’t know until you came along, but that’s why he was with me. Didn’t like the starlets because they were ‘impure.’”

  “When you say ‘nuts’…?” I swallowed more wine, my throat suddenly rivaling the Sahara in lack of humidity.

  Her face fell, her eyelids following. “He screamed. Called me…awful names. Words I don’t say. Threw things. My father asked him to leave. It was the last nice thing Daddy did for me.”

  Her shoulders shook with soft sobs, and I pulled her close, my cheeks heating with indignant anger. What an asshat. We were far better off without him.

  “And he disappeared into religion?” I guessed when she sat up and swiped at her eyes.

  She nodded. “I don’t know where. I don’t keep in touch with anyone who knows him. When you were born, I got a postcard from Colorado. It said Jesus knew what was best for us both.”

  “So when the Waco thing was big news…” I trailed off.

  “I was a basket case, wondering how I might explain it to you, hoping he wasn’t there.”

  “He wasn’t?”

  “No. I tracked down a woman who used to be a secretary at the studio, who talked to his mother and called me back. They wouldn’t tell me where he was—fine—but they said it wasn’t there. I’ve watched TV church productions for him for the past several years. He’s handsome. Charismatic. Photogenic. It seems like a perfect fit for him. But if that’s what he’s doing, he’s behind the scenes. I have yet to run across him on a program.”

  The last piece.

  “So when Mrs. Miller called and told you Kyle and I went to Golightly’s church, you flipped.”

  “Oh, Nicey.” She took my hand in both of hers and squeezed. “You look so much like him. I was terrified you’d walk into him. I called and bawled at you like a nut myself. Forbid you to go back out there. Forbid you!” She dropped her head back and laughed. “I raised you. I bet you’ve been back since I talked to you. If you went with Kyle, you’re chasing a story, as much as I’d like to hope it was a social thing.”

  “So you came to see me.” I felt the corners of my lips turn up in a soft smile.

  “I had to warn you. And I couldn’t do it over the phone. I’ve owed you this conversation for many years, baby girl.” She downed the rest of her wine and tipped the glass toward me.

  I poured. “I appreciate the heads up. And I love any excuse to see you. I’ve missed you something awful lately. But can we talk about something else now?”

  “Please.” She glanced around. “Your house is still the same.” Her eyes fell on the shelf in the hallway. “You have your beach glass.”

  “Always.” I put an arm around her and leaned my cheek on her head.

  “Want to tell me about your gentlem
an friend?”

  “Pardon?” I sat up and raised an eyebrow at her.

  “The one who was here Sunday afternoon when I called. Who’s not Kyle.” She patted my knee.

  “How did you—” I began, then waved one hand. “Never mind. You know all.”

  “This is J of the extravagant Christmas gift, yes?” she asked.

  I sighed. First Emily, now my mother.

  Dear Universe, I get it. You can stop now. Love, Nichelle.

  Standing, I turned for the kitchen and smiled over one shoulder. “We need another bottle.”

  I slipped out the next morning with my gym bag slung over one shoulder, leaving a coffee mug and a note on the counter for my mom. She was staying until tomorrow. If I could knock my copy out early, I’d have time to run to Way of Life to look for Elise and still be back in time to take mom to dinner.

  Two hours later I’d ap-chagi’ed off all of last night’s wine, showered, and bounced my foot through the news budget meeting. Staring at the blinking cursor on my blank computer screen, I waged a silent battle with myself. Emily was right. I’d never knowingly printed anything untrue, and my skin felt a size too small at the thought of the story the PD’s command staff wanted me to write.

  But Girl Friday had hinted at it since Monday, so surely she’d be all over the arrest. Aaron had warned me it would go to all the TV stations first thing this morning. Charlie, who was desperate to have something I didn’t about this case, would blast it from here to Timbuktu. The right thing, or the easy thing? I didn’t want Andrews bitching at Bob because it looked like I’d fallen down on the job. Enough tension already stretched between the two of them for an acrobat to do cartwheels across.

  I huffed out a sigh and grumbled a few of my favorite swearwords.

  Laying my fingers on the keys, I stuck strictly to the facts.

  Richmond police continue to search for leads to the identity of a young woman found brutally murdered in an abandoned building at Belle Isle Historical Park last week.

  Detectives made an arrest in the case Wednesday, holding the young man who originally called in the body discovery as a person of interest in the investigation. RPD Public Information Officer Aaron White didn’t release the man’s name, but in an exclusive interview with the Richmond Telegraph last week, the suspect said the victim was his friend.