by Mary Burton
“Explain.”
“In about thirty to fifty percent of the cases, the victim suffering from severe hypothermia gets confused and disoriented and actually believes they’re getting hotter. They take off their clothes. Of course this just accelerates heat loss, and they die that much faster.”
He thought about her peeling off the lightweight jacket, designed for Texas’s summer heat, and believing she was hot. He glanced at her discarded clothes and noticed the blouse had been ripped, as if she’d torn it off herself. “Be sure to run a rape kit. I don’t want any assumptions at this point.”
“Will do.”
“Signs of trauma?”
“None I’ve seen so far. No cuts or scrapes and no bruising. Like she just walked in here and closed the door behind her.”
At first glance, Rory had hung himself. Only a closer inspection revealed the hand of another. “Fingerprints?”
“I’ve not dusted yet. That comes next. But I’m sure I’m going to get a lot of prints. A place like this sees vagrants.”
“I’d like a tox screen run. I can’t believe she merely walked in here.”
Rio glanced toward her purse. “See her purse in the corner?”
He glanced toward the black bag, tossed on its side and the contents spilling out. “Yeah.”
“If she were going to kill herself, why bring in her purse? She’d not have needed it where she was headed.”
“Habit?”
“Maybe. But it seems she’d have not bothered. And her cell is missing and the interior contents missing, as if someone rifled through her bag, took it, and tossed her purse in here.”
“Maybe she lost her nerve. Maybe she was looking for a way out of here.”
Rio shrugged. “That option wouldn’t get my vote.”
Bragg nodded. “What about a driver’s license?”
“By the purse.”
He moved to the purse and spotted the license lying faceup. He shot a picture with his phone. Straightening, he studied the image. Sara Jane Wentworth. Age thirty-two. No denying the victim was Sara Wentworth.
The old picture of Greer and Rory came to mind. “Find any pictures at the scene. Photographs?”
“No.”
“Make sure you bag all the clothes and her belongings. I want to go through them all.”
“Sure. And did the officer tell you about the tape?”
“What tape?”
“An audiotape was playing when the officers arrived.”
“What was on the tape?”
“A woman’s voice. She kept saying, ‘I love you, Sara.’”
“What did the voice sound like?”
Rio glanced toward the officer outside the freezer door. “Key up the tape.”
The officer nodded and seconds later they all heard, “I love you, Sara.”
Bragg listened, almost fearing he’d hear the rusty, whiskey quality of Greer’s voice. But this voice was older and the Texas accent deeper.
“Any idea who the voice belongs to?” he said.
“None. That’s for you to figure.”
He nodded. “How long do you think she’s been in here?”
“The cold will make that a hard one to pin. At least hours.”
He studied the icy walls now dripping with the heat streaming in from the door. “What powered the freezer?”
“A big generator with enough gas to run for another twelve hours.”
“I’ll leave you to the scene. I want to go outside and trace the steps into the building.”
“Will do, Ranger Bragg.”
Bragg threaded his way through the growing number of cops assembling in and outside of the warehouse. This bizarre death scene would soon make the news.
He spotted Winchester as the other Ranger pulled up in his black Bronco. Out of his car, Winchester stopped and surveyed the scene. The Ranger’s scowl deepened as he studied the warehouse.
Bragg shrugged, knowing soon the heat of the day would make getting around tedious. “It’s like DPS said. Female frozen to death in a freezer.”
“It’s going to be one hundred and ten today.”
“Officers tell me the temperatures in that freezer dropped below zero.”
“Frozen to death in the Texas heat. Do you think she did it on purpose?”
“No.”
“We need to talk to her family and find out if she had a history of suicide attempts.”
“Agreed,” Bragg said. He gave him the victim’s details.
“And you are sure it’s Sara Wentworth?”
“If the victim is not her, then she’s her twin.” He pulled off his rubber gloves. “Look at the generator used to power that freezer and find out if anyone in the area has bought one recently. Got to be easier to track than the rope.”
Winchester’s gaze cut through the crowds, searching. “Where’s her car? If it’s here, it should be roped off.”
“Hasn’t been found.”
“She sure didn’t walk here.”
“No, she did not.” Bragg stared at the dilapidated building, listened to the rush of cars from the interstate as the heat intensified the rotting scents of nearby garbage. “We need to find it.”
“Sure.”
Bragg shook his head. “Hell of a place to end up.”
It wasn’t hard to locate Sara Wentworth’s parents. They lived ten miles north of Austin in the Hyde Park area, an older upscale area reserved for those with money.
He drove past the neighborhood’s stone entrance, over a brick arched bridge spanning Waller Creek’s near-dry bed and toward a Spanish-style home built at the turn of the last century. The front yard was green and lush, and stood in stark contrast to the dry brittle grasses surrounding his rented home. The recent water restrictions didn’t apply here.
Bragg parked at the top of the driveway and went directly to the front door. He rang the bell and waited barely seconds before the door opened to a petite Hispanic woman dressed in a blue uniform.
“I’m Ranger Bragg with the Texas Rangers. I’m here to see Mr. or Mrs. Wentworth.”
The woman’s slight frown indicated his visit was unwelcome. However, she nodded politely and stepped aside so he could enter. The entryway was tiled with a light marble and an arched niche across from the door housed an angel statue.
He removed his hat, glancing through a doorway leading into a sitting room with wood floors and light fussy furniture. Above a stone fireplace hung a picture of a young Sara.
The sharp clip of heels and loafers had him turning to face a gray-haired couple. The man wore khakis and a white starched shirt with the letters RW monogrammed on the front pocket and the woman wore dark slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt. Simply dressed, but high quality.
The man stood a good foot taller than his five-foot-two-inch wife. Frowning, he did not extend his hand as he faced Bragg.
“I’m Ridge Wentworth. This is my wife, Mandy. What can I do for you, Ranger?”
“Ranger Bragg, sir, ma’am. Is there somewhere private we could talk?”
Mr. Wentworth’s scowl deepened but he ushered Bragg into the sitting room where the portrait hung. “Why the visit?”
Death notices were never easy. And when the notice involved telling a parent about a child it always dug in his craw. “I have bad news about your daughter, Sara. Her body was found in a warehouse in East Austin.”
Mrs. Wentworth’s hand rose to her mouth. “Sara is dead? I don’t believe that. She never goes to that part of town.”
“We found her driver’s license next to her. It’s a clear match.”
Mr. Wentworth draped his arm around his wife’s slender shoulders and she leaned into him. “What happened?”
Bragg shoved his emotions deep. “We’re still trying to figure that out.”
Mrs. Wentworth shook her head as if this was all a terrible mistake. “You must be wrong.”
“No, ma’am,” Bragg said.
Mr. Wentworth’s eyes flashed with anger. “You are ver
y, very sure it was our Sara?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mrs. Wentworth’s eyes welled with tears that quickly spilled. “I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it.”
The older man cleared his throat. “How did she die?”
Bragg hesitated. “We found her in a freezer. She froze to death.”
The couple glanced at each other and then back at him. He’d expected such an odd manner of death to trigger confusion or surprise. But in an unguarded split second the couple showed no surprise.
Mrs. Wentworth moved to one of the overstuffed couches and sunk into the folds, perfectly at ease in the frill and fluff. “I can’t believe this.”
Bragg studied her closely. “There are indications she might have killed herself.”
Mrs. Wentworth shook her head as her husband snorted. “Sara did not kill herself. She had a wonderful life ahead of her.”
Bragg caught a slight hesitation in the woman’s voice. “How well did you know your daughter?”
“I knew her well,” Mrs. Wentworth said. Watery eyes turned angry and defensive. “She and I were close. We had lunch together two days ago. I called her last night and wondered why she didn’t answer but thought she must be out with friends.”
“Our daughter was a successful and accomplished woman,” Mr. Wentworth said.
“What did she do for a living?”
“She was a commercial real estate broker.”
“Did she have properties in East Austin?”
The older man wrinkled his brow, disgust clear. “No. She didn’t work in that part of town. Too dangerous.”
“That area is known for drug dealers. Did she have a history of drug use?”
Mrs. Wentworth barely stifled a pained cry, and it gave Bragg no pleasure to ask such questions. But he needed to know. Needed to ask while the shock remained because when the shock wore off their guard would rise. Later when the adrenaline ebbed and their thoughts cleared a little, they’d regroup, think about their stories, and maybe hire an attorney. This was his best shot to discover what secrets they hid.
“She did not use drugs,” Mrs. Wentworth said, teeth clenched. “Sara was a successful and bright girl. She didn’t need to put poison in her system to function.”
“Sara was engaged and planning to marry in the spring,” her father said. “She’d been to New York weeks ago and picked out her dress. She had no reason to hurt herself. Someone must have done this to her.”
“Did she have a history of mental illness?”
Mrs. Wentworth’s mouth flattened, hesitated. “No. She has none of those troubles. She is . . . was . . . a good girl.” She dropped her face into her hands and wept.
“Ever hear of a place called Shady Grove?”
Both Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth shook their heads.
The old man laid his wrinkled, deeply veined hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Sara would not have done something like this to herself.”
Bragg pulled a small notebook from his back pocket, wondering whom the man wanted to convince. “Can you give me the name of her fiancé?”
“Michael Fenton. He’s a recent graduate of law school and months ago began his first job at Fenton and Davis.”
“It’s a family business.”
“That is correct.”
Bragg hesitated. “Have you ever heard of or met a Rory Edwards?”
Mr. Wentworth frowned. “I knew Rupert Edwards, his father. But he passed away several years ago. Why do you ask?”
“No concrete reasons. Just had a thought.” He glanced at Mrs. Wentworth, who’d paled a fraction. “Does the name ring any bells for you?”
“I know of the family, of course. But we didn’t socialize together.”
Bragg studied her, noting how her mouth compressed. It was grief and shock and something more. His gaze trained on Mrs. Wentworth. “Did you know Elizabeth Templeton?”
This time there was no missing the narrowing of her eyes and tightening of her jaw. “I know her mother, Sylvia. But I never met Elizabeth.”
“What can you tell me about the family?”
Mrs. Wentworth didn’t hide her confusion. “They were a fun couple to be around. Devoted to family and then their son, Jeff, died. Jeff was the family star. The heir. Could do no wrong. When he died that family died.”
Greer Templeton was serious and pensive. And if she’d been fun-loving like her parents, death had dimmed lightness to darkness.
“Why would you ask about the Edwardses or the Templetons?” Mr. Wentworth said. “What does either have to do with Sara?” A hitching voice told him emotions held at bay by shock would soon spill.
Bragg didn’t manage a smile but he softened his gaze. “Just asking. Their names came up earlier this week.”
Mrs. Wentworth lifted her chin. “I can assure you, our Sara had no contact with either of them. Dear Lord, Rory Edwards was a mess.”
As much as he wanted to believe them, most parents didn’t know as much as they thought about their adult children. “Did anyone give Sara any kind of trouble lately?”
Mrs. Wentworth lowered her face to her hands and wept. “No.”
Her husband met Bragg’s gaze. “It’s time you go. You’ve delivered your news, and we’ve told you what we know. We can’t keep talking to you.”
Mrs. Wentworth shook her head. “Her life was perfect.”
Perfect. He’d never seen or experienced it. “I will have questions later.”
The old man’s lip curled into a sneer. “Later. Sure. Whatever. But you must leave now.”
As much as Bragg wanted to keep a foot in the door, he heard it virtually slam shut. Mr. Wentworth called his housekeeper and asked her to show Bragg out. As he left, his thoughts turned to Greer. She had been hiding in plain sight all these years and had only recently resurfaced. And now two people with connections to her family were dead.
Bragg rubbed the back of his neck. He hated coincidences.
Chapter Twelve
Thursday, June 5, 11 A.M.
Greer hadn’t planned to visit the cemetery today. In fact it was the last thing she’d have pictured last night when she’d fallen into bed exhausted. The party had been a success. She’d survived the curious looks and some not-so-polite questions. It hadn’t been fun but it wasn’t as awful as she’d imagined it to be when Dr. Stewart had first floated the idea.
She’d gone to bed feeling hopeful.
And then she’d had the dream. Though it had lasted seconds, it had shadowed her entire morning and left her unable to concentrate.
So after she’d driven into the fields this morning and inspected the vines, she’d told herself she needed to run into town for supplies. The vineyard always needed something, but as she approached the exit for the dry goods store she’d passed it by and kept driving north. Without much thought, she’d found herself driving through the thick iron gates of Longwood Cemetery and up the hill to her brother’s plot.
Greer eased out of the car and, keys in hand, walked the ten yards over the grass lawn to the headstone belonging to Jeff.
The iron urn in front of the white marble headstone was filled with fresh white roses. Judging by their freshness and the day’s growing heat, the flowers must have been placed here within the last hour or so. Her thoughts shifted immediately to her mother, who loved white roses.
Greer knelt in front of the grave. “I’m sorry it’s been so long. Life’s been pretty crazy. I’m still at the vineyard and still trying to grow the best grapes in Texas.”
She touched a blossom, perfect and delicate. “I remember how the country club was full of white roses the night of your birthday party. You cringed when you saw all the flowers. Said it looked like a girl party. But you enjoyed the attention.” She touched a bloom, adjusting it so it sat a little taller. “I was jealous of you that night. I wanted to be twenty-one, and I wanted to be going back to college like you. You had it all, Jeff.”
She sat back on her heels and stared up at the cloudless sky.
“I was glad you needed me. I was glad to drive you and Sydney home. I felt grown up.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I really thought I had it under control. I’ve gone over and over those last minutes before the crash and will always swear there were headlights on the road. No one ever believed me but I know. I’m sorry I didn’t react fast enough.”
Greer swiped away a tear. “I failed you, Jeff, Mom and Dad . . . so many people hurt because of me.”
A shadow cast over her and drew her attention up to an older man wearing a green jumpsuit. He carried a rake in one hand and a shovel in the other. Years in the sun had left his face well lined and deeply tanned. He’d tied his thinning white hair at the nape of his neck and wore a silver chain around his neck. “You all right?”
Greer swiped her tear and rose. “Yeah. I’m fine. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I see folks here all the time that aren’t happy. I make a point to stop and say a word.”
“Thanks.” She studied the flowers. “Do you happen to know who left those flowers?”
He studied the roses. “Don’t know. They were here when I arrived about ten to seven.”
The hot day’s sun burned her skin and had her wishing she’d worn a hat. “I didn’t think they’d been here long.”
“I do know they get changed out regularly. About once a month new flowers arrive.”
“Really?” How could she not have known?
“Yep. Usually before dawn ’cause I’m here by seven. And it’s always white roses.”
She shielded her eyes with her hand. “How long has this been going on?”
“For as long as I can remember. I can’t say exactly when they started.”
“I guess my mom has been putting out the flowers.” However, the statement didn’t ring true. As much as her mother had loved Jeff, she didn’t like coming to the cemetery. Sylvia dealt with life’s ups and downs by avoiding them. But if her mother would ever make such an exception, it would have been for Jeff.
“Couldn’t say. But I’ll keep an eye out going forward. I like a mystery to figure out.”
She didn’t. “Thanks.”
The old man nodded to the headstone. “He was young when he died.”