by Lisa Jackson
“Swell,” Morrisette said as she sank into the mud. “Just . . . swell.”
They sloshed past piles of discarded furniture, clothing and equipment to a spot on the far wall where an entrance led to a cavern of sorts, where a door, now open, had been cut into the brick foundation. “In there,” he said, and shined the high-wattage beam into the musty, dark space, where the smell of old death lingered and two small corpses were visible.
Reed’s stomach clenched.
The flesh on each body had long rotted away, the bones of small skeletons stark and white, tufts of blond hair still attached to each weirdly grinning skull, the clothes disintegrating but recognizable. One of the small frames was still covered by a dingy blouse and skirt, a bra visible beneath the tattered fabric, a chain encircling the neck bones, a locket resting on the sternum glinting in the flashlight’s beam.
Reed fought nausea.
The smaller skeleton was clad in shorts with a belt and a faded blue T-shirt, along with tattered sneakers that appeared identical to those worn by the larger skeleton, a ring on one finger.
“Holy Mother of God,” Morrisette whispered as she peered inside the crypt. “They’re just girls. Priscilla had shoes almost like those. Keds. What the hell happened here?”
Reed didn’t answer, just studied the crypt, his jaw tightening, his thoughts darkening. Had the girls died here? He didn’t think so because of the positioning of the victims. They had been laid side by side, the bony fingers of the older girl’s hand entwined with those of the smaller child.
“You don’t think this was some kind of weird suicide pact, do you?” Morrisette was looking at the clasped hands.
“What? No.” He couldn’t imagine anyone would put themselves into this dark hole on purpose and slowly die of either lack of oxygen or starvation or madness.
“Or a game of, like, hide-and-seek gone bad? No one found them and quit looking?” But even as she posed the thought, she was shaking her head. “Nah, course not. Someone killed these girls and put them in here. Placed their hands together. Arranged them just so. What kind of a sick jerk-wad would do that?”
Reed didn’t know. Serial killers sometimes staged the positioning of their victims to throw off the police, or posed them to fulfill some kind of fantasy. But in this case, bodies locked away as they were for what appeared to be years, possibly decades, why would anyone go to the trouble?
Reed felt sick inside.
This tight, dank place was getting to him.
Yeah, he’d seen more than his share of death and mutilated bodies. Had witnessed firsthand how malevolent one person could be to another, but this . . .
Carter swung the beam of his flashlight to an empty space between the smaller victim and the wall of the crypt. “Look at that,” the deputy said, shining the bright light over the small depression in the dirt floor of the crypt. “Don’t that look like another spot for, y’know, another one?”
“Another body,” Morrisette clarified. “You mean, like he wasn’t finished or got interrupted?”
“Or used another spot,” Carter suggested.
Reed’s stomach clenched again. The deputy was right. The first two bodies were lying side by side, yes, but each nestled in a small, carved-out spot in the floor, their joined hands slightly elevated on the rim of dirt between them. Next to the smaller of the two another shallow indent was visible, just large enough for a third body.
“Holy crap,” Morrisette whispered. She straightened and ran a hand through her near-white hair. “Any other bodies?”
“Not that I saw. Been through the top two floors and looked through all the stuff down here. Found nothing. But I guess there could be more inside here. Y’know, buried beneath these. Stacked like sardines in a can. Or maybe there’s another crypt here somewhere.” He swept the beam over the interior of the tomb again. “Who’s to say?”
Reed asked, “Crime scene team?”
“On their way,” Carter said. “Same with the ME.”
Reed eyed the mess in the basement. “Might need cadaver dogs.”
“And a hazmat unit,” Morrisette said. “C’mon. I’ve seen enough down here. Let’s check the rest of the house.” She was already heading for the stairs.
They took the narrow servants’ steps to the top floor, intending to work their way down. The attic/maids’ quarters was dark and dank, stuffed to the gills; some of the rooms were exposed to the elements as a portion of the roof had collapsed near the chimney. The sky was visible here, treetops swaying slightly, clouds skittering high overhead. Water from the recent storm pooled on the buckling floors and seeped under the stacked, already-moldering boxes, crates and baskets. What had been stored here—boxes of clothes, an old sewing kit and treadle machine, books and records—were long ruined and scattered by nesting squirrels or birds or whatever.
Morrisette said, “I’m surprised this whole house didn’t come down with the hurricane. Can’t be safe up here. Let’s go.”
The second floor had been stripped of most of the furniture, the remaining bedframes stacked against the walls of four massive bedrooms complete with fireplaces. A large, intricately tiled bathroom had been stripped of fixtures aside from a stained claw-foot tub, and the center ballroom was devoid of its chandelier, electrical wires exposed, a few crystals scattered and broken on the stained, intricately laid hardwood floor below. Layers of spider webs and insect carcasses clung to the windowsills while water from the floor above dripped from bowed ceilings.
“Nothin’ here,” Morrisette observed, frowning. “Hard to believe anyone would let this happen, y’know.”
“Too expensive to keep up?”
“Too greedy to spend the time and money to keep it up, most likely. More money in sectioning it off, I guess,” she said sourly.
On the main floor, dark because the windows had been boarded over with waterlogged plywood, they picked their way through the kitchen. Cabinets and appliances were either broken or missing, the dirty floor uneven, evidence of rodents visible on the loose tiles as the grout had crumbled away. Morrisette trained her flashlight on an overflowing garbage bag stuffed near the dumbwaiter, and a rat, fat and dark, scurried from the bag and through a hole in the woodwork, its thin tail snaking behind.
“Nice,” Morrisette remarked, skimming the light behind a rusting, ancient stove. “Just peachy.”
The dining room was mostly empty, though a broken-down piano missing keys had been shoved against a huge, blackened fireplace, its tiles cracked or fallen. In the parlor or main living area, the stained wallpaper peeled from the wall, exposing previous layers.
She shined her flashlight up the broad, curving staircase in the foyer, where balusters had splintered and several steps had rotted through.
“Looks clear,” Morrisette said. “Like Crater said, no more bodies. No bad guys hiding in any closets. No squatters. Just squirrels in the attic and rats down here.”
“And two dead bodies in the basement.”
She nodded. “Let’s hope we don’t find any more.”
Amen, he thought. Two was more than enough.
CHAPTER 3
Her abdomen was still flat as a board.
Her red-blond hair caught in a messy bun, Nikki Gillette turned slowly in front of the full-length mirror. She was wearing only her bra and panties as she surveyed her image. Still no hint of the baby growing within her and she was ten weeks pregnant. Ten weeks! After months of trying to conceive and two heartbreaking miscarriages within the first weeks of pregnancy, she finally was closing in on her second trimester. “You hang in there,” she whispered to her unborn child, then pulled on a T-shirt and jeans that were, she had to admit, a little snug around the waist. But she didn’t care. Not at all.
Bring on the ice cream.
Bring on the donuts.
Whatever the baby inside her wanted, she’d devour . . . well, within reason. She hurried downstairs and flopped onto the couch as her phone started to buzz. News alerts. She was, after all, still a
reporter for the Savannah Sentinel and had to keep abreast of what was going on.
Probably something about Hurricane Jules, which had thankfully not destroyed the old historic part of Savannah, where she called home. She wasn’t all that interested, until she noticed that police units had been dispatched to the old Beaumont estate.
Why?
The place had been abandoned for years. As she understood it, the current owner, a Beaumont heir, either Baxter Beaumont, now in his seventies, or his son, Tyson, had been trying to parcel it off and sell it, letting the old plantation house go to seed, but had been fighting with the historical society for years.
Interesting.
She did a quick sweep of the Internet but found nothing.
So the news was fresh.
Probably not a big deal.
Maybe squatters found on the property.
Or a poacher caught hunting in the off season.
Or...
She called the office of the newspaper, got hold of Millie Foxx, a recent hire who contributed to the online edition of the Savannah Sentinel, where Nikki still worked. In the past few years Nikki actually spent little time in the office and did most of her writing, editing and communicating from home, but luckily Millie, all of twenty-two and serious beyond her years, nearly camped out on the computers at the newspaper’s offices.
“So what’s up?” Nikki asked. “At the Beaumont estate.”
“We’re trying to run it down. I thought you’d know. Homicide’s been called in.”
“Someone was killed?”
“Unconfirmed. But looks like. I was about to call you. I figured you could maybe talk to Pierce.”
“Hmm.” Pierce Reed was Nikki’s husband, but... “You know how he feels about that.” Everyone at the Sentinel knew. Detective Reed had made his position clear about his wife not getting involved in police business, which was pretty damned difficult as Nikki not only worked at the paper but had three true-crime books under her belt. “I’ll check, though.”
“Do it,” Millie said. “From the police band activity, I think something big’s going on there and I thought you’d want a heads-up before Metzger gets interested.”
Millie was right about that. More than right. Metzger was such a pain in the rear. “You got it,” Nikki said. “In the meantime, can you keep checking to see if there’s any more info coming from the police. Like who called in the report?”
“Hmm. Don’t know. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Good. Later.” Nikki clicked off.
She smiled to herself as she grabbed her keys and slipped her cell phone into the back pocket of her jeans. A murder? At the Beaumont estate?
Perfect.
This was just the kind of story that was right up her alley. Even if her husband didn’t think so and would be pissed as hell.
* * *
Reed and Morrisette looked through the few outbuildings that were still standing at the Beaumont estate but found nothing significant. An old John Deere tractor without wheels was rusting in a garage, and the stove in the smokehouse had weeds growing through it. And daylight was fading. With the sun setting steadily, they stepped into an old pump house, where evidence of an owl was visible, feathers and splashes of feces on an open beam, roost debris scattered on the floor.
“Guess the flood waters never made it here,” Morrisette muttered. “What a mess.” After a quick look around, they headed back to the house, where they noticed that the forensic team van had arrived, parked close to the back verandah. Investigators in boots and masks were hauling equipment inside.
Morrisette said, “I guess the party’s really starting now,” just as a vehicle from the Medical Examiner’s Office rolled up and Reed felt his cell phone buzz in his pocket.
He retrieved the phone, saw his wife’s name and number appear on the screen, and felt a twinge of worry. Nikki rarely called him while he was working. Unless it was important. Or, well, when she wanted something.
“It’s Nikki. Give me a sec,” he said.
Morrisette gave him a quick nod and started for the house as he clicked to the call. “Hey.”
“Hi.” Then right into it. “I heard that Homicide was called out to the Beaumont estate and thought you might be there.”
Of course. She was already chasing down the story. He glanced at the house, where he spied Morrisette chatting up one of the deputies. “You heard right. And yeah, I’m out here.”
“And—?”
“And we’re investigating.”
“A murder?”
“Unknown.”
“Oh, Reed, come on,” she prodded, and he was tempted, as always, to confide in her. “I already told you I know Homicide was called in and you’re there,” she pointed out. “Obviously someone is dead. Foul play suspected. So is it one body? Or more? Was it found in the house or on the grounds, and have you got an ID?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down.” He imagined her already scouring the Internet on her phone while she was carrying on this conversation. Or maybe she was already heading to her car, ready to spring into action, probably to come out here. She was like a horse with a bit in its mouth at full gallop: dangerous and running headlong to who knew where. He held up a hand, though, of course, she couldn’t see him, but he had to stop the madness before it took root. “You know I can’t talk about a case.”
“Too late. It’s already news.”
“Just let this one go for now. Okay?”
“I can’t, Reed. You know that, so save your breath.”
“Then call Abbey, she’s the PIO.”
“When I’m married to the lead detective. You are, aren’t you? The lead?”
Oh, hell. She sounded excited, even breathless. “Look. Back off of this for now. There’s nothing more to tell, and isn’t this Metzger’s beat anyway?” The minute he said the words, he wanted to call them back because bringing up Norm Metzger was like adding gasoline to an already-simmering fire. She and the crime reporter had always butted heads, and she’d made no bones about the fact that she wanted his job.
“Don’t even go there,” she warned.
Reed more than anyone knew it had always burned her that Norm was on the crime detail, despite the fact that she had three true-crime books under her belt.
“There’s nothing I can tell you. Not yet. I just got here a while ago myself.”
“Just give me something.”
“Not yet.”
“I want an exclusive on this, Reed.”
“There’s nothing—”
“Nothing you can talk about yet. Yeah, I know. I get it.” Her frustration was palpable, even over the wireless connection. “But I don’t care, I want an exclusive.”
“You don’t even know if there’s anything to write about.” He batted away a wasp and started walking to the house again. He was too busy to argue with her right now.
“I’m your wife.”
“And that’s why you need to leave this alone. Okay? Let it go. For the time being.” But he knew she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Hadn’t her curiosity always superseded her brains? As smart as she was, she was even more inquisitive. Scarily so. To the point that she’d gotten herself into trouble—serious, life-threatening danger—on more than one occasion. And the thought of a murder mystery would be too exciting, too enticing for her to ignore. Nikki would want to be more than involved peripherally. She would want to see the crime scene herself. Explore the house. View the bodies if she could. She’d been itching for a new crime to write about. “Look, we’ll talk when I get home, but in the meantime, call Abbey.” He was already up the steps to the porch and paused for a second at the open door to the stairway.
“Don’t try to placate me, Reed. You and I both know that Abbey Marlow will tell me just the same as she’ll tell anyone else,” Nikki argued, and he didn’t disagree. As the public information officer, Marlow knew the boundaries of speaking about an ongoing investigation; she wouldn’t be swayed by any of Nikki’s arguments. Abbey Marlow
would treat his wife just as she would any reporter, and that had never sat well with Nikki. She repeated, “I said, I want an exclusive.”
“You always do,” he said, stepping inside.
“This time is different.”
“Just leave this be, Nikki. For now. I’ll talk to you when I get home. Sit tight. At least for a little while. Okay?”
When she didn’t immediately respond, he was a little more forceful. “You got that? Nikki, stay home.” He caught a glimpse of Morrisette half a flight down, at the turn in the staircase leading to the basement. “Look, I gotta go. I’ll see you tonight.” He cut the connection but had the gut feeling that she hadn’t heard a word he said. Bullheaded didn’t begin to describe his wife.
“Everything all right?” Morrisette asked, lifting an eyebrow as he reached her.
“Right as rain.”
She sent him a disbelieving glance and headed downward. “Yeah, sure. And I’m a goddamned virgin.”
* * *
“Just stay put. Okay? Nikki? You got that? Stay home.”
“Fat chance,” Nikki said as her husband’s suggestion, no, his order, echoed through her brain. She punched the accelerator of her Honda CR-V, speeding past the city limits as she’d finally, with the help of a driving app, maneuvered through the tangled mess that was most of Savannah. Despite the heat, some water was still standing on the roads and there were potholes to dodge. Fortunately, most of the downed trees had been cut out of the way or pushed to the side, so she could make decent time.
Until just two hours ago, the storm had been the biggest news that had hit Savannah in a long while. All that had changed with whatever was going on at the Beaumont estate. Her mind teemed with possibilities. One person dead? Or multiples? Maybe a murder/ suicide? A drug deal gone bad? Why way out at the abandoned plantation? Squatters? A lovers’ quarrel? She didn’t know and wouldn’t until she got there or she collected more information off the Internet or from Millie. But she felt a sizzle of adrenaline in her bloodstream at the thought of what she might find, maybe something that was more than just a local story, possibly an idea for a new book. It had been two years since she’d submitted the Blondell O’Henry story, a year since Mommy Most Deadly had been published, and her agent was pushing her, but so far she hadn’t been inspired, hadn’t found the right mystery to investigate.