The Third Grave

by Lisa Jackson

  Am out doing errands and research. Mikado and Jennings need to be fed. Back home soon. Love you!

  Not a lie.

  Not the truth.

  Somewhere in between.

  And she’d send him another missive once she knew what she was getting herself into.

  Rather than turn the phone off, she put it into silent mode.

  Maybe you should take a weapon.

  People are dying, being murdered. Remember: someone broke into your house just the other night.

  Quickly, she searched her car. No gun, of course. No hunting knife. Not even a damned screwdriver. Nothing that would help.

  Think, Nikki, think. Find something. Anything!

  Scrounging in the glove compartment beneath an owner’s manual and a wad of napkins, she located a church key bottle opener. “Great,” she muttered, pocketing it before spying a box cutter wedged near the small light in the compartment, one Reed had left there years before. Not perfect, but better than nothing. And she hoped she wouldn’t need it, prayed that she was overthinking the situation as she slid it into another pocket.

  “Now or never,” she told herself, leaving the car and feeling that rush of adrenaline that always came with the feeling that she was getting close to the truth, the sense that she was about to cut through the lies, in this case, a web that had existed for over twenty years.

  And Ashley Jefferson, Owen Duval’s alibi, was the key.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself. You don’t know what’s going on. It could be perfectly innocent.

  Yeah, right.

  As she kept to the side of the road, her eyes ever searching the darkness, Nikki guessed that Ashley, freaked that Owen had died at his own hand, had contacted someone and they had decided to meet out here in the middle of nowhere.

  So who?

  She thought of Jacob Channing and Tyson Beaumont, both of whom had dated Ashley, and the friends who had made up her clique at school, an elite group who had allowed Holly Duval to be a part of it. Andrea Clancy, Maxie Kendall and Brit Sully. Were they involved?

  What about Baxter or Connie-Sue Beaumont?

  The names and people kept running through her mind. Who was so damned important she meet that Ashley dropped everything, tore out of her driveway and drove straight here?

  Nikki couldn’t wait to find out. Anticipation fired her blood.

  Hey! Don’t get ahead of yourself. This could be dangerous.

  People have died, Nikki. Think of Bronco. Of Owen. Of the Duval sisters.

  She didn’t break stride. No matter what the danger, she had to know, and those who had died deserved, no, demanded justice. Twenty years had passed and in that time the murderer had run free. While two of the Duval sisters had been hidden away in a secret tomb.

  But no longer.

  She felt it in her bones.

  Tonight, come hell or high water, Nikki was going to uncover the truth.

  * * *

  Reed knew the interview with Margaret Duval would be difficult, and he’d expected her to break down at the news of her son’s death, but he hadn’t expected her to blame him.

  “How could you let this happen?” Margaret demanded. Against her better judgment, she’d allowed Reed into her home only at the urging of her husband, who now sat beside her on the couch, holding one of her hands in his. But she was far from comforted. Her lips trembled, her eyes red rimmed, her free hand fiddling with the tiny cross held on a fragile chain around her neck.

  Reed, sitting in a chair opposite, said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Losses,” she snapped, tears tracking down her face. “Losses. They’re all gone now! Every last one of my children!” She was beginning to sob, her shoulders shaking. “Why am I being punished?”

  Her husband tried to comfort her. “No, Margie, you know—”

  “Don’t say it was God’s will,” she warned. “Don’t.”

  “We all have sorrow and—”

  “No,” she argued. “No, ‘we’ all don’t!” Blinking, she stood suddenly, sniffing and scowling, her mind turned inward. “Was I so bad?”

  “Of course not,” the reverend said gently. “Oh, honey, you’re not bad.”

  “But I sinned. You know it, Ezra.” Margaret was nodding quickly, agreeing with herself as she fussed with the chain around her throat.

  “You and God.”

  “Honey, none of us is perfect,” he said a little nervously.

  “But God is punishing me.” She stopped fidgeting to stare at her husband, her gaze locking with his. “That’s what’s happening. It wasn’t enough to have the girls gone, oh, no. That horrible not knowing, the waiting and wondering, the long nights of despair and fear, that wasn’t enough punishment for what I’ve done. Now He wants me to know that they died and how they died. Were murdered! And now . . . now Owen, as well.” Her face twisted into a knot of pain, as if she were being physically tortured.

  “No, Margie, that’s not—”

  “Don’t placate me, Ezra,” she ordered, tears springing from her eyes again. “Don’t!” She sniffed loudly. “I’d thought that Rose was still alive, and I prayed that the woman who came forward, the one you, Detective, said was a fraud, was her. But now you’re telling me that it was all false hope.”

  Reed nodded. “Her name is Greta Kemp. She and her husband are con artists.”

  “Who would be so cruel?” she asked. “And the body you found at Black Bear Lake? Thank God that wasn’t my Rosie. Though it’s someone’s daughter.”

  “Probably a son,” Reed said. “We think a runaway. Male.” He didn’t say any more than that, but the police were narrowing their search and were waiting to compare dental records to a teen who had run away from a foster home a few years back. How had the boy died? That had yet to be determined, but a drug overdose was likely. Tissue samples might be able to confirm the suspicions.

  “You haven’t found her, have you?” Margaret asked. “Rose. You still don’t know where she is.”

  “No.” Reed shook his head, hoping that his frustration didn’t show through, that his expression remained calm, though he was frustrated and still had no idea what had happened to the third sister.

  “Margaret, you’re asking the detective things he doesn’t know,” the reverend said, trying to assuage her.

  She was having none of it and folded her arms over her chest, stretching the sleeves of her blouse as she walked to the canary’s cage and stared at the little bird swinging and twittering on its perch. “It’s because of me that she’s gone!” Margaret said softly. “Because I sinned. Unfaithful.”

  “Honey, ssshh. Not now,” her husband warned, touching his wife on the arm, trying to quiet her while he said to Reed, “This isn’t a good time, Detective. As you can see, Margaret’s very upset.”

  She flung his arm off. “Yes, I’m upset, Ezra. Who wouldn’t be? My son is gone. My only son!” She blinked hard and crossed back to the couch. From a side table she plucked several tissues from a decorative box. “Is it true what they’re saying? That he . . . that he took his own life?” she asked, her lips trembling.

  “We don’t know that.”

  “He . . . he wouldn’t!” She was shaking her head and dabbing at her eyes. “He just wouldn’t. Not Owen. Nuh-uh. He’s a God-fearing boy. He wouldn’t have killed his sisters, and he wouldn’t have taken his own life. He has—had—his problems, yes, but I know he didn’t do this.” Her voice cracked and she closed her eyes, took in a shuddering breath. “It’s not Owen who sinned,” she admitted. “It’s me.”

  “Oh, no.” Her husband was shaking his head rapidly, but Margaret was undeterred.

  She squared her shoulders. “I need to tell you something, Detective. Something I probably should have told you years ago about—”

  “No, honey!” Ezra cut in, sending a worried look Reed’s way. “This isn’t the time and you’re talking about a family matter. A personal matter. Just between you and the Father, but not . . . not the police.”

/>   “Rose was not Harvey’s daughter!” Margaret inched her chin upward. “There. I’ve said it. After all these years.”

  Reed listened. Waited.

  “He, um, Harvey, my husband at the time. He didn’t know it.” She looked away, out the window. Ashamed. “And Rose . . . she didn’t know it, either. Was way too little.” She flapped a hand, as if brushing aside any arguments her husband might be making. “But the truth is that Baxter Beaumont and I were . . . we were involved romantically, and I got pregnant and I know Baxter is Rose’s father.”

  “You’re certain?” Reed asked as Ezra’s lips pursed tight.

  “I’m a nurse. That’s how it all started. The affair. When I was Beulah’s nurse. And of course I had a paternity test done. DNA. There’s no doubt about it. Rose is Baxter’s child.” She straightened her shoulders again, lifting her head almost defiantly as if she expected Reed to castigate her.

  So Nikki’s wild theory was correct. The room went silent, only the sound of the canary pecking at his little mirror and the hum of the air conditioning making any noise at all.

  Margaret was tearing up again, sniffing and touching the corners of her eyes with a nearly shredded tissue. Reed finally asked, “Did your other children know?”

  “About Rose’s father? No, no one did. Well, except for Baxter, of course, but we . . . we decided it was best to keep it a secret, just between us, at least for the time being. We were both married and his wife, Connie-Sue, she suspected, I think, though it never came up and then time went by and we . . . we ended it, to save our marriages, and then . . . oh, and then . . .” Her voice was getting higher, tears flowing more rapidly. “And then the girls disappeared.” She let out a long, unsteady breath. “It’s just so hard to think they’re all gone.” Her face crumpled and her husband came to her, wrapped his arms around her.

  “I think we’re done here,” Ezra said, looking over his wife’s shaking shoulder to stare at Reed.

  “Just a couple more things,” Reed said. “Can you tell me, was Owen left-handed?”

  “Yes, all my children inherited that from my side of the family. Even Rose. It was really too early to tell, but she favored her left, ate with it, colored with it, combed her hair with it. And Owen definitely. Like me. Not the least bit ambidextrous.”

  “Did he have any enemies?” Reed asked, and she turned in her husband’s arms.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, angry again. “Too many to count, but they were all because of you cops and the press. He was your number one suspect when the girls disappeared and the press never let him forget it. The way I look at it, Detective, you’ve got my son’s blood on your hands.”

  * * *

  Nikki slipped through the darkness, the smell of the earth and river in her nostrils as she kept to the side of the road. Night had descended. Aside from the silvery glow of the moon reflecting on the river, the area was dark and thick, the noises of the night surrounded her. Crickets chirped, mosquitoes buzzed and a breath of wind whispered through the pines, all normal. All unsettling as she realized how alone she was. She thought about calling Reed but dismissed the thought until she was certain about what was going down. She wasn’t going to call her detective husband because Ashley Jefferson had come to the lodge by herself as some sort of personal journey in dealing with her grief over the death of Owen Duval.

  Though Nikki expected Ashley to be meeting someone and she believed that whoever it was had something to do with Owen’s and possibly his sisters’ deaths, she had to be certain. This could, possibly, end up being a wild-goose chase, though deep in her heart, she didn’t believe it.

  No, she thought, circumventing a branch protruding into the lane, this hastily made journey was about Owen and his siblings. She knew it. She could feel it. Whatever meeting was so hastily convened was to do with the Duval girls and what had happened to them.

  But cops, her husband included, didn’t run on instinct or intuition. They needed cold, hard facts. Evidence.

  Well, tonight, if her gut feeling was right, Nikki planned to serve that evidence, those cold, hard facts, up to them, on the proverbial silver platter!

  She smiled to herself, her curiosity, ambition and need to uncover the truth propelling her on.

  A bit of moonlight reflected on the puddles as she rounded a wide curve and suddenly the old inn came into view, a dark, looming structure rising two stories. A flat parking area stretched from the massive front door, a wide clearing rimmed by the woods. Nearby, visible through the stands of oak and pine was the river, a wide waterway glinting as moonlight danced over its surface. The roof and chimney were intact, the siding weathered, a wraparound porch encircling the lower level.

  Nikki paused, hiding behind the bole of a huge live oak and peering beyond the drape of Spanish moss shifting with the breeze. Though the windows on the upper story were dark, an eerie glow emanated from those on the first floor, and in the unnatural light she spied two vehicles parked near the front door, their bumpers nearly touching the porch rail.

  Ashley’s white Bentley gleamed with the silvery moonlight and next to it, a large gray pickup with darkened windows.

  Nikki’s heart dropped.

  She’d seen that vehicle before, remembered spying it following her upon occasion. It crossed her mind that she should leave now and text Reed, tell him to come out here, but still, nothing illegal had happened.

  Yet.

  But they have to be in cahoots. This has to be because of Owen’s death.

  She still needed more evidence. So get it. What’re you waiting for?

  Pushing all her doubts aside, she inched around the tree, and avoiding the patches of light cast from the windows, she, crouching, made her way quickly to the far side of the inn. Anticipation fired her blood. Who was Ashley meeting?

  She considered trying to sneak inside but decided it was too risky. At least at this point.

  Maybe she should leave now. Call Reed. Admit to what she’d done. Tell him her suspicions.

  Of what?

  That Ashley Jefferson after hearing the news about Owen Duval had gone to meet someone at the old lodge? So what?

  First, she needed proof that Ashley and whomever she’d come to meet knew far more than they’d admitted.

  Finally, Nikki felt, she would have some answers.

  * * *

  You’re not going to thwart me any longer, Nikki Gillette.

  My thoughts are with the damned reporter as I drive through the night, my nerves tight as bow strings, my breath uneven. There is little traffic, which is a good thing, because I pay little attention to it, don’t see the oncoming headlights, brake by rote, the countryside fleeting by, my heart a drum.

  I’m not letting you get in my way. I’m coming for you now.

  With my foot on the accelerator I glance down at the GPS tracker’s screen and smile to myself. “I see you,” I say out loud, “and I know where you’re going. To the Beaumont estate. How fitting. Where it all started and now, it will end.”

  I try to calm myself as I’m itching for this confrontation. I’ve waited far too long. All of my life seems to have led to this one decisive moment. I lick my lips in anticipation and don’t let my mind wander to the aftermath of what I’m about to do. Whatever comes of it, whatever I have to face, I’ll deal with it.

  Haven’t I always?

  I glance down at the tracking screen again and I nearly stand on the brakes as I see I’ve nearly lost her, the blinking dot that represents her car on the screen has turned off the main road. She’s not headed to the Beaumont estate? To the scene of the crime? To the tomb in the basement of that decrepit old manor?

  I recalculate, thinking there must be something wrong with the tracking device, but I follow anyway, turning abruptly into a lane and spraying gravel, winning the exasperated honk of the van that had been following me. The beams of its headlights catch in the rearview, and for a split second I see my reflection, a fake image because of the colored contacts I wear, the hair dye that ca
sts my hair in a darker hue, the makeup that always covers my freckles and covers the tiny scar near my temple. I probably never needed to take all the precautions. Probably no one would have ever recognized me, but I needed to be certain. I need the anonymity so that I can fulfill my destiny. I can seek retribution.

  Me.

  For myself.

  For the others.

  For justice.

  And to wash away the guilt I’ve borne for so long.

  In a second, I’m back on the road again, flying over the bridge.

  To Settler’s Road.

  Why here?

  I leave the question in my dust and turn onto the narrow country lane and conjure up Nikki Gillette, that nosy reporter’s face again, and I speak to her.

  “It doesn’t matter where you’re going. It doesn’t matter where you’re hiding. I’ll find you. I’ll track you down like a damned bloodhound and I’ll run you to the ground. You won’t get away from me.” The words calm me and I feel the anticipation coursing through my veins.

  Soon, there will be a reckoning.

  After all this time, all the years and all the pain, it’s about to go down.

  My fingers tighten over the steering wheel.

  I can’t wait!

  CHAPTER 31

  Streetlights were glowing, the evening warm, a few pedestrians out for evening strolls as Reed turned into his drive, parked and cut the engine of the department-issued vehicle in front of his garage door. He was tired, his muscles weary, even if his mind was still in overdrive.

  It had been a long day and was going to be an even longer night. Though he hadn’t admitted as much to Margaret Le Roy earlier, he believed that her son’s suicide had been staged. If so, Owen Duval had been murdered.

  According to statements from the neighbors, they had heard the gunshot and, like so many others Reed had interviewed over the years, Conrad Bell had thought the noise was a firecracker or a car backfiring. He’d been watching TV, had heard the shot, gotten up and looked out his window and seen nothing, heard nothing more.