by Lisa Jackson
But they’d all dated Ashley McDonnell.
And now one of them was dead. The one for whom Ashley had given an alibi.
She wondered about that and headed to Tybee Island again.
Maybe, now that Owen was dead, Ashley McDonnell Jefferson’s story might change.
Owen Duval no longer needed her as an alibi.
There was a chance she could finally tell the truth.
If Nikki could find a way to pry it out of her glossy, tight lips.
CHAPTER 29
The crowd had grown in the two hours since Reed and Delacroix had arrived at Owen Duval’s place. Reporters and neighbors clogged the street, making it nearly impossible for the crime scene unit and the ambulance to lumber through. Night was less than an hour away, dusk threatening, the sky showing a few stars as the rain clouds earlier had disappeared. Already the strobing of red and blue emergency lights reflected on the windows of the neighboring houses and pulsed on the boles of the trees lining the street. Reed, standing on the lawn and surveying the front yard where the hastily constructed barricade and several uniformed officers kept the crowd at bay, checked his phone. Three voice mails from Margaret Duval.
“Great.” He slid the phone into his pocket. From the tone of her messages, she was nearly hysterical.
“My son?” she’d screamed. “My son is dead? You didn’t protect him? I thought you were investigating the case and now he’s dead?” She’d begun sobbing and Reed had heard the soft, placating voice of her husband asking her to hang up and go to bed.
Reed raked his hand through his hair. He needed to see Margaret face-to-face to ask her about a possible affair and Nikki’s wild assumption that Rose, who was still missing and most likely already deceased, was Baxter Beaumont’s child. He agreed the timeline worked, he’d double-checked Margaret’s work records against Rose’s birth date, but still, it was quite a leap. The thought of accusing her of having a child from an affair, then passing that kid off as her husband’s, then losing all of her daughters, the child in question still missing while her son just appeared to have taken his own life seemed like it would be awkward and tasteless and extremely painful.
Then again, this was his job: finding out the truth and serving justice, no matter what.
But right now, he was stuck at the crime scene as Nikki had driven his Jeep home. Delacroix wasn’t an option. She was already on her way to interview Duval’s attorney, Austin Wells. Not only could Wells speak to Owen Duval’s mental state but also to who would benefit financially, if anyone, so they agreed to meet at the station later tonight or early in the morning.
He bummed a ride with Tina Rounds, the deputy who’d been first on the scene, and she drove him to the station, where he’d either grab a department vehicle or have Nikki swing by the station and pick him up. That was definitely option number two as his wife would like nothing more than to show up at the department and nose around.
Nikki and he definitely needed to sit down and talk. Not only about the case and the fact that he had to remind her that he could not be her source, but also that the exclusivity of her story was only good once the case was wrapped up. That could be months and if a trial was involved, possibly years.
What a headache.
And then there was the added pressure of Bart Yelkis and his ludicrous claims that Reed wanted to take his kids away from him. “What the hell did you do?” he whispered, as if Morrisette could hear him.
“Pardon me? You say somethin’?” Rounds asked as they drove into the heart of the city, streetlamps already glowing, traffic moving easily.
“Just to myself.”
“Out loud? You know what they say about that?”
“That I’m speaking with an intellectually acute audience?”
She actually smiled. “I was gonna say, the first sign of dementia.” But she was kidding, her dark eyes glinting.
“Actually, I think the first sign is giving your wife the car keys and leaving yourself stranded,” he said, and Tina Rounds, a tough, by-the-book, always-serious cop, actually cracked a smile and let out a little laugh. “That might be,” she said as she wheeled into the station’s lot.
Once in the office, he checked a few e-mails, signed out for a vehicle and hit the road. His stomach rumbled as it had been hours since his takeout pimento cheese sandwich that he’d eaten at his desk before the funeral, but he ignored the feeling and told himself to just get through the interview with Margaret Duval Le Roy. It would be tough, but he might just learn something.
Owen Duval’s death was a tragedy and, he felt, had struck a blow to the case, but he couldn’t help that it also tied it together. As he drove the department-issued, stripped-down SUV to the Le Roys’ home, he thought about the violent deaths related to the investigation: Holly and Poppy Duval, Bronco Cravens, and now Owen Duval. Coincidence? He didn’t think so.
“Help me out here,” he said, and glanced at the empty passenger seat, imagining Morrisette slumped in it, fiddling with the windows, her eyes narrowed as she stared out the windshield to the coming night.
“You’re on your own here, pardner,” she said with that cocky smile that was so Morrisette. “You’re a smart boy. You figure it out.”
“Thanks a lot.”
He parked in front of the Le Roy bungalow, lamps lighting the windows of the little white house surrounded by live oaks. He cut the engine and looked past the home to the church, where, again, lamps were burning in the lancet windows, the steeple, up lit, a white sword slicing into the dark heavens. He strode up the walk and pounded a fist on the screen.
The door behind was opened in a second and Margaret Duval Le Roy stood behind the mesh, her chin trembling, her eyes puffy and red. “Another one, Detective. Another one of my babies is dead, and . . . and . . .” She didn’t say it, but he read the unspoken accusation in her eyes.
. . . and I blame you.
* * *
Ashley McDonnell Jefferson was a hot mess.
Nikki found her sitting on her front porch, her makeup smeared, her face puffy, a barely smoked cigarette dangling between her fingers. When she spied Nikki driving through the still-open front gates she quickly dropped her cigarette into the pot of a hibiscus, burying it quickly, then waving away any lingering smoke as she stood and glared at Nikki as she climbed out of her car.
“What’re you doing here?” she demanded, arms crossed over her chest.
“I came to talk about Owen.”
“Not now. Not . . . maybe not ever.” Ashley blinked and swiped away the tears that began streaming from her eyes. “He didn’t . . . he didn’t deserve this.”
“So you heard.”
“It’s on the news. Just a few minutes ago. There weren’t a lot of details, but from the sound of it . . . from the sound of it, he may have committed suicide.” Her voice cracked and she put a hand over her mouth. “I just can’t believe it. I mean, I never thought.” Sniffing loudly, she pulled herself together. “I’m sorry. You’re here why? To talk about him again? I told you everything I know.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What?” she whispered. “But—”
“Your story doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s—”
“What really happened that night?” Nikki asked. “What happened to those girls?”
“I told you—”
The front door opened suddenly and Zeke, stark naked, his hair wet, grinned wildly. “Mommy!” He raced outside and flung his arms around Ashley’s bare legs.
“What’re you?” she cried as a man, presumably her husband, holding an orange towel in the shape of a crab, complete with claws and eyes, appeared. “Sorry,” he said, looking from Ashley to Nikki. “One escaped.”
Zeke squealed in delight as his father tried to scoop him up, but wriggled away. “No, Daddy,” he cried, and took off, scampering through the yard, where twilight was descending.
“Gotcha!” Ryan wrapped the towel expertly around Zeke’s slippery body and hau
led the boy, laughing and flailing, back to the house. Pausing at the porch, he said, “Ryan Jefferson,” and stuck out his hand from beneath his giggling son.
“Nikki Gillette.” She shook his hand.
“Huh.” He looked puzzled, his eyebrows drawing down to the tops of his glasses. “The name’s familiar.”
“Nikki’s a reporter,” Ashley said. “She was here before. About Owen.”
“Oh. That. A tough one.” His expression turned sober. “Well, nice to meet you. I’ll leave you to it.” He paused in the doorway when Kelsey bounced down the stairs. Her hair, too, was wet, but she was dressed, wearing a lacy lavender nightgown that looked like it belonged to a Disney princess. “Come on, Kels,” Ryan said. “Mommy will be in soon.”
Kelsey glanced up at Nikki and scowled but didn’t say anything, and Ryan closed the door. Ashley swallowed hard. Her lower lip quivered and she blinked against a new spate of tears.
“They’re cute,” Nikki said.
“Yeah. Yeah, they are. When they’re not being horrible, they’re wonderful.” Tears filled her eyes again and she said under her breath, “I’m so lucky.”
Nikki said, “So tell me what happened to the Duval sisters.”
“I don’t know,” Ashley admitted. “I mean, I look at my kids and I think what Margaret and Harvey must’ve gone through with the loss of their daughters. I don’t think I would survive. And now . . . and now Owen.” Tears began to flow again and she looked up to the sky where an egret was soaring over the tops of the palm trees.
Nikki waited, her stomach knotting. She sensed a change in the atmosphere, an altering within Ashley the mother, as opposed to Ashley the teenager who liked to hang out with an outcast boy. Ashley was about to tell her something, but . . . she was still holding back.
“Tell me about Owen,” Nikki said softly, and Ashley let out a sob. She put her fist to her mouth and her knees crumpled and she slid down the door. She reached into a pocket of her sundress and dragged out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
After lighting up, she sighed, breathing out a cloud of smoke. “It’s what I said,” Ashley said. “Just about. I did meet Owen that night. We did hang out at my house. My parents were gone. But we weren’t together the whole time. I-I shouldn’t have lied, but Owen begged me to.”
Nikki could barely believe her ears and sat on the step next to her. “So you were with him? For how long?”
“I don’t know, but at least a couple hours.”
“And the rest of the time?” Nikki asked, her mind racing. What had he done? Where had he gone? What did it have to do with his sisters? The answer was plain as day:
Everything.
Those missing hours when he was not with Ashley were the key to what happened to those girls, why Holly and Poppy were murdered and why Rose was still missing. And probably dead as well. But what had Owen been doing? She wanted to drag the words out of Ashley. “So tell me what happened.”
“That’s it. He didn’t stay as long as he said, and when he went to pick up his sisters they were gone. Missing. He came back to my house, freaked beyond freaked and swore he had nothing to do with it. He begged me to give him an alibi because he was certain the cops would say he was somehow involved.”
“So where was he, in the time that he wasn’t with you?”
“He never said and I didn’t ask. I figured it was smarter not to know. So I didn’t mess up my story.” She thought for a second, took another puff. “And maybe I didn’t want to know.”
“Because?” Nikki prodded.
“Because . . . I . . . wasn’t sure. I mean, he wouldn’t hurt the girls, I knew that, but he might have been involved in something else.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something illegal. Maybe weed. He was into it. Anyway, then the police started looking at him, I mean looking at him seriously, and Owen was frantic. He begged me to keep quiet. So . . .” she trailed off.
“So you did. For twenty years.”
She bit her lip. “ ’Til now.” She lifted a shoulder. “Look, that’s all I have to say. It’s probably more than I should have.” She put out her cigarette in the planter again, then stood. “Please don’t come back here,” she said, then walked through the door, and Nikki took the hint and climbed back into her CR-V.
Her heart was beating like a drum, her mind spinning, and she drove away from the house, out the drive and down three blocks to a parking lot for a park, and there she stopped and waited.
Because she didn’t trust Ashley Jefferson.
Her confession, about providing Owen with a solid alibi and why she’d done it, came too easily. Was it possible she felt remorse for what she did, that her heart broke for Margaret and Harvey Duval because she, Ashley, was a mother herself? Could it be that Ashley was an emotional wreck and maybe Owen Duval’s death had released her from the bonds of her lie about his whereabouts that night?
Even though Owen was now dead, it seemed a little quick to Nikki that suddenly, after twenty years, Ashley McDonnell Jefferson would open up.
There was a chance Nikki was being a little too jaded, that she was suspicious of everyone. But she waited and after twenty minutes turned on the ignition of her car just as she saw the nose of Ashley Jefferson’s Bentley SUV appear in the driveway, Ashley at the wheel. She barely stopped as she turned onto the street, heading in the direction of the mainland.
“Bingo,” Nikki said under her breath, her pulse ticking up. “Let’s just see where you’re going.”
Perhaps just to the grocery store for a carton of milk or a pack of cigarettes or off to a Pilates class to keep herself in shape.
But Nikki doubted it. No, if she were right, Ashley Jefferson’s destination had little to do with her suburban lifestyle or mommy blog and more to do with Owen Duval and the lies she’d spun for him.
CHAPTER 30
Nikki followed Ashley’s Bentley through Savannah.
She lagged behind the white SUV, maintaining her distance, keeping a couple of cars between her Honda and Ashley’s luxury rig while wondering where the woman was going. Once they were outside the city limits, it seemed she was on a beeline to the Beaumont estate.
Of course.
Back to the scene of the crime where those small bodies had been discovered. She thought of Ashley’s ex boyfriends, Jacob Channing and Tyson Beaumont, both of whom had lived in the area. Could either of them be involved? Or both? Or someone else?
Owen’s death had to be the reason Ashley was on the move.
Right?
Surely—
Her thoughts were interrupted when she saw that the Bentley didn’t cross the bridge and continue on toward the Beaumont estate. Instead, Ashley’s SUV turned sharply right onto Settler’s Road, the narrow country byway where Bronco Cravens’s cabin rested on the bank of the river.
What?
Why—?
Bronco’s cabin was empty, the man dead, the location of a crime scene, so why . . . ?
“Oh.” Nikki understood.
Ashley wasn’t heading to the Cravenses’ cabin.
Her destination was beyond, past Bronco’s home, to the Marianne Inn, which abutted the Cravenses’ property on the river side of the road and where this road dead-ended. That had to be it!
But why?
Nikki didn’t slow or turn onto Settler’s Road for fear Ashley would notice headlights following her. Instead Nikki continued on the main road leading past the winery and the neighboring acres belonging to the Beaumont family. She crossed the bridge, then, on the other side, cut into a wide spot, the tires of her Honda slipping on the loose gravel as she cut a U-ey, turning back on her route and speeding over the bridge. On the far side, she cranked on the wheel and spun onto Settler’s Road. “What’re you doing, Ashley? Who are you meeting? Who, besides you, cares so much about Owen Duval’s suicide?”
Chewing on her lip, her mind filled with questions, Nikki hit the gas over a rise near the Cravenses’ cabin, then cut the headl
ights, using only her parking lights and the moon with its thin glow as her illumination. Scouring the area and squinting into the darkness, she searched for any sign that Ashley was ahead of her, but she saw no red glow of taillights winking through the trees.
Had she been mistaken?
Had Ashley figured out she had a tail and had turned onto this road only to turn around and head in another direction? Could Nikki have lost her already? “Damn,” she muttered as she passed by the spur to the Cravenses’ cabin and wondered how Bronco had been involved in all of this. What was it that had gotten him killed? Yes, he was a small-time crook, but had he been involved in something that would provoke murder? Nikki couldn’t help but think he was dead because he’d been at the Beaumont estate and discovered the bodies. Had he met anyone there? Witnessed something? Been somehow involved? She thought back to the dark afternoon with the grim discovery of the bodies and again conjured the image of the person at the helm of the boat that had been tucked beneath the weeping branches of the willow tree, a boat with the Marianne Inn’s distinct script on it.
Maybe tonight she’d finally get some answers.
Easing off the gas, she searched the darkness for a spot to ditch the car. No need to alert anyone that she was nearby. Her parking lights caught a glimmer of reflection. Eyes staring at her from behind a tree.
“Jesus.” She stood on the brakes, her heart nearly stopping.
The eyes blinked and then, in a flurry of fur and dark mask, the raccoon scrambled up the tree to a higher branch in the pine.
“Idiot,” she said, her pulse still pounding. “Get a grip, Gillette.” If she was going to follow Ashley, she had to be calmer, her nerves steady, because who knew what she was about to discover?
Spying a wide spot in the road, she followed twin ruts barely visible in the thick, dry weeds and rolled to a stop behind a thicket of saplings and brush and killed the engine, the sounds of the night enveloping her. A chorus of humming insects was punctuated with the throaty croak of a frog hidden deep in the surrounding woods. She decided to come clean and sent a quick text to Reed, so he wouldn’t worry: