by Kay Hooper
“You didn’t come back for the funeral.”
“No.” She offered no explanation, no defense.
His mouth tightened even more. “Most people around here said you wouldn’t.”
“What did you say?” She asked because she had to.
“I was a fool. I said you would.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
Max shook his head once, an almost violent negation, and his voice was hard. “You can’t disappoint me, Nell. I lost ten bucks on a bet, that’s all.”
Nell didn’t know what she would have said to that, but she was saved from replying when an astonished female voice exclaimed her name.
“Nell Gallagher? My God, is that you?”
Nell half turned and managed a faint smile for the stunning redhead hurrying toward her. “It’s me, Shelby.”
Shelby Theriot shook her head and repeated, “My God,” as she joined them beside Nell’s car. For a moment, it seemed she would throw her arms around Nell in an exuberant hug, but in the end she just grinned. “I thought you’d probably show up here eventually, what with the house and everything to take care of, but I guess I figured it’d be later, maybe summer or something, though I don’t know why. Hey, Max.”
“Hey, Shelby.” He stood there with his hands in his pockets, expressionless now, dark eyes flicking back and forth between the two women.
Nell kept her own gaze on Shelby’s glowing face. “I thought about waiting until fall or until storm season was mostly past,” she said easily, “but it worked out that I had some time now before beginning a new job, so I came on down.”
“Down from where?” Shelby demanded. “Last we heard, you were out west somewhere.”
“Heard from Hailey?”
“Yeah. She said you were—well, I think the word she used was entangled, with some guy in Los Angeles. Or maybe it was Las Vegas. Anyway, out west somewhere. And that you were taking college courses at night. At least, I think that’s what she said.”
Rather than commenting on the information, Nell merely said, “I live in D.C. now.”
“Did you ever get married? Hailey said you came close once or twice.”
“No. I never married.”
Shelby grimaced. “Me either. Matter of fact, half our graduating class seems to be single these days, even though most of us have hit thirty. Depressing, isn’t it?”
“Maybe some of us are better off alone,” Nell offered, keeping her tone light.
“I think there’s something in the water,” Shelby said darkly. “Honest, Nell, this is getting to be a weird place. Have you heard about the murders?”
Nell lifted an eyebrow. “Murders?”
“Yeah. Four so far, if you count George Caldwell— remember him, Nell? ’Course, the sheriff hasn’t been eager to put this latest death on the list with the others, but—”
Max cut her off to say, “We’ve had killings here before, Shelby, just like any other town.”
“Not like these,” Shelby insisted. “People around here get themselves killed, the reason why is generally pretty obvious, just like who the killer is. No locked-room mysteries or other baffling whodunits, not in Silence. But these deaths? All fine, upstanding men of the town with reputations the next best thing to lily-white, then they’re murdered and all their nasty secrets come spilling out like a dam broke wide open.”
“Secrets?” Nell asked curiously.
“I’ll say. Adultery, embezzlement, gambling, pornography —you name it, we’ve had it. It’s been a regular Peyton Place around here. We haven’t heard anything about poor George’s secrets so far, but it’s early days yet. The other three, their secrets became public knowledge within a couple of weeks of their deaths. So I’m afraid it’s just a matter of time until we find out more about George than we ever wanted to know.”
“Have the killers been caught?”
“Nope. Which is another weird thing, if you ask me. Four prominent citizens killed in the last eight months, and the sheriff can’t solve even one of the murders? He’s going to have a hell of a time getting himself reelected.”
Nell glanced at Max, who was frowning slightly but didn’t offer a comment, then looked back at Shelby. “It does sound a little strange, but I’m sure the sheriff knows his job, Shelby. You always did fret too much.”
Shelby shook her head but laughed as well. “Yeah, I guess I did at that. Oh, hell—is that the time? I’ve gotta go, I’m late. Listen, Nell, I really want to catch up—can I give you a call in a day or two, after you’ve settled in? We can have lunch or something.”
“Sure, I’d love to.”
“Great. And if you get lonesome in that big old house and want somebody to talk to in the meantime, you call me, okay? I’m still a night owl, so anytime’s fine.”
“Gotcha. See you later, Shelby.”
With a wave to Max, the redhead rushed off, and Nell murmured, “She hasn’t changed much.”
“No.”
Nell knew her best bet would be to get in her car and just leave, but she heard herself saying slowly, “These murders do sound pretty unusual. And to go unsolved for so long . . . Doesn’t the sheriff have at least a few suspects?”
Max uttered an odd little laugh. “Oh, yeah, he has a few. One, in particular.”
“One?”
“Yeah, one. Me.” With another laugh, he turned on his heel and walked away.
Nell gazed after him until he disappeared around the next corner. Then she looked at the busy little town that seemed oblivious to the storm clouds moving in and, half under her breath, murmured, “Welcome home, Nell. Welcome home.”
Ethan Cole stood at the window of his office and looked down on Main Street. He had an excellent view of most of the street, especially the area around the newsstand. So he saw the visibly tense encounter between Nell Gallagher and Max Tanner, saw Shelby Theriot join them for a few moments before hurrying on in a characteristic rush. Saw Max stalk away and Nell watch him until she could no longer see him.
Well, now. How about that?
Ethan had known Nell was coming back to Silence, of course. Wade Keever wasn’t as closemouthed as he should have been about the legal affairs he handled, especially with a couple of drinks in him, and Ethan usually bought him a couple or three at least twice a month, just to keep on top of things. So he knew that Nell had—somewhat reluctantly, according to Wade— agreed to come home at least long enough to clear out the old house, see what family possessions she wanted to keep, do whatever else needed doing by the last blood Gallagher left with ties to this place.
Hell, maybe she’d just have a big-ass yard sale and then set a match to the ancestral home and drive back to D.C. purged of the past.
Ethan doubted she’d want to keep much, at least if all the old stories and rumors had any truth to them. And since she hadn’t returned home even for family funerals in the past twelve years, it certainly looked like at least some of those stories were true.
Ethan pursed his lips unconsciously as he watched Nell get back into her very nice Grand Cherokee and drive away. He’d run the plates later, he decided, just to make sure, but he didn’t expect there’d be anything he didn’t already know.
He knew a lot.
Being sheriff of a small, generally close-knit community required that, of course. Good police work in Lacombe Parish, and particularly here in Silence, so often came down to what he knew about the people here long before he had a crime to solve. So he made it his business to know what most everybody was up to, whether or not it was illegal.
“Sheriff?”
He turned from the window to find one of his CID detectives, Justin Byers, standing in front of the desk. He encouraged his people to come seek him out if they needed to talk, avoiding the outdated intercom system mostly because it was outdated but also because he hated the tinny, almost eerie sounds of voices run through the things.
“What’s up, Justin?”
“I’m having a little trouble running down all the
financial information on George Caldwell. Nothing really suspicious, just some pretty scattered investments and a few too many details unexplained for my taste. I thought maybe if we got a warrant for his personal records—”
Ethan smiled. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Justin, but I doubt Judge Buchanan will issue a warrant based on our uneasiness. Find out what you can, but don’t push anybody, and don’t call on his widow, okay?”
“Does Sue Caldwell even consider herself his widow? I mean, they’d been separated—what?—two or three years?”
“About that.” Ethan shrugged. “But they were still married, and she’s his legal heir. From what I hear, she’s grieving. So leave her alone.”
“Okay, sure. Just so you know, it’s going to take a while to gather all the info you wanted—”
“Understood.” Ethan’s easy smile remained until the detective left the room, then faded. He didn’t entirely trust Justin Byers. Then again, he didn’t entirely trust at least three of the six new people he’d had to hire on since the new highway had made this a far more busy town in the last year. Ethan liked to have people he knew around him, and three of the most recent hires—including Byers—had not been born and raised in Silence.
Not a crime, that, and all had boasted fine credentials and recommendations, to say nothing of experience to spare.
Still.
Returning to his comfortable chair behind the desk, Ethan unlocked and opened the center drawer and drew out a dull brown folder. Inside were copies of three reports his office had submitted, as required, to the district-court prosecutor.
The report of the first death was straightforward enough. Peter Lynch, fifty, had died suddenly, apparently of a heart attack. Only at the insistence of a hysterical wife had an autopsy been performed, resulting in the unexpected finding of poison. Since the house hadn’t been treated as the scene of a crime at the time, going back to search later had turned up nothing useful in proving what had happened, but the medical examiner believed someone might have slipped a few capsules of nitroglycerin into one of the vitamin bottles. Lynch had been known to take vitamins by the handful, and no other drugs, prescription or recreational, had been found, so there was certainly a possibility the ME was right.
The really interesting thing was that once they began seriously searching his house to find out if Lynch had kept and used any drugs, they had discovered in the bottom of his closet a concealed cubbyhole hiding a stash of truly sick porn.
Little girls dressed up and painted up to look like whores, then photographed with men who might have been their fathers. Or grandfathers. Doing things that still made Ethan’s stomach churn just to think about.
“Sick bastard,” he muttered under his breath.
Lynch’s wife had been understandably appalled and mortified, especially when that first discovery had led to others, including evidence of trips Lynch had taken out of town that had nothing to do with business and everything to do with his abnormal pleasures. Not only had he frequently visited a house down in New Orleans that catered to men with his particular sexual proclivities, he had also kept a mistress in that city. A girl younger than his own youngest daughter.
Frowning, Ethan turned to the second report, which, again, had seemed straightforward in the beginning. Luke Ferrier, thirty-eight, had apparently committed suicide by driving his car into a bayou. Water in his lungs proved he’d drowned, and the conclusion of suicide seemed accurate enough. But a coworker insisted—loudly—that he hadn’t been suicidal, so Ethan’s people had taken a closer look.
Figuring money was the most likely reason a young and healthy man without many family ties would choose to kill himself, they had looked into his financial records and those of the company he worked for. Again, what they found had surprised them—not because they discovered evidence of embezzlement, but because it appeared Ferrier had repaid every penny he had “borrowed” months before his supposed suicide.
No one had suspected him, and he’d been home-free.
So why commit suicide?
The ME had allowed as how there were certainly barbiturates and muscle relaxers that didn’t linger in the body; Ferrier might have been doped and his car pointed at that bayou while he was out cold, with nothing to show up in the autopsy afterward. It was possible.
But the real clincher had come when they dug a little deeper—and discovered not only an apparently chronic gambling habit but also a fat bank account in Baton Rouge and a lockbox containing, among other things, a plane ticket to the south of France dated a month after Ferrier’s death. More paperwork in the box further indicated he’d been just about ready to pull up stakes and leave Silence.
So why commit suicide?
“Not suicide,” Ethan said, again half under his breath. “Goddammit.”
The third report concerned the death of Randal Patterson, forty-six, which had occurred just two months ago. By that point, with uneasiness in the town palpable and gossip running rampant, Ethan’s deputies and detectives hadn’t made the mistake of assuming anything—except the worst. Finding a relatively young, seemingly healthy adult male dead of any cause would have been enough to alert them; finding said adult male electrocuted in his Jacuzzi courtesy of a live wire dropped into the tub from a nearby window sent up a huge red flag.
And the flag was fairly waved in their faces when the subsequent investigation uncovered Randal Patterson’s dirty little secret: a well-equipped room in his basement containing a number of sadomasochistic apparatus and devices, and a great deal of rubber and black leather. Whips. Masks. Chains.
So far they hadn’t been able to find out who Patterson had played his little games with, but it was only a matter of time.
Only a matter of time.
“Shit,” Ethan muttered softly.
There was, of course, no complete report on George Caldwell as yet. It had been only a few days, after all, since he’d been found. Shot through the head, with no gun in sight. Hard to call that anything but murder.
But, so far, nothing obscene or illegal had turned up.
So far.
Ethan closed the folder and stared rather grimly across his office. He didn’t like this.
He didn’t like this one little bit.
Nell got out of her Jeep and stood gazing at the big white clapboard house that was set back from the road and surrounded by towering oak trees. The house sprawled without much architectural integrity, which wasn’t surprising considering that the original hundred-year-old building had been remodeled and expanded several times in the past decades as the family within it had also grown.
Ironic, Nell thought, that here she stood, a century after the first Gallaghers had put down roots in this place, presumably with high hopes and determination to build a family. Here she stood. Alone. Last of the line, at least in Silence.
And stood reluctantly, at that.
Nell sighed and went around to open the Jeep’s cargo hatch. The space was full, holding her suitcase and laptop case, as well as several bags of groceries she’d stopped off in town to buy. She was just about to grab a couple of the bags and head for the house when a sense other than hearing made her turn and look toward the road.
A sheriff’s department cruiser was turning into the driveway.
Not really surprised, Nell leaned back against the floor of the open hatch and waited.
The cruiser pulled up behind her Jeep, and two deputies got out. The taller of the two, unexpectedly, was the woman; she had to be close to six feet tall, Nell judged, and boasted centerfold measurements that had undoubtedly been more of a bane than a blessing in her chosen profession. She was also lovely in a darkly exotic way that spoke of a Creole heritage very common in the area.
Her older partner was probably five-nine or -ten, blond, and good-looking in a boyish way, with a wide and welcoming smile. He was one of those men who would look almost exactly the same between twenty and sixty, only then appearing to age.
“Hey, Miss Gallagher. I’m Kyle Venabl
e, and this is Lauren Champagne.”
Nell couldn’t help lifting a brow at the woman, who responded with a dry, “One of my many crosses.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Nell said with a faint smile. “I think. Did I run a stop sign or something?”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” Deputy Venable assured her hastily. “Sheriff just wanted us to come out and check the place over for you. It’s stood empty awhile, you know, and careful as we are to keep an eye on things, there are still vagrants about—especially out this far. If you’ll let us have the key, we’ll make sure everything checks out before you move in.”
Nell didn’t hesitate to reach into the pocket of her jacket and produce a key. “Thanks, I appreciate it,” she said.
“It won’t take long, ma’am,” Venable said, accepting the key and touching his hat brim politely before he and his partner strode up the flagstone walkway to the front door.
Remaining where she was, Nell watched them disappear into the house. Useless to pretend even to herself that she wasn’t incredibly tense; all she could do was try not to look it. She felt an all-too-familiar twinge in her left temple and massaged the area in a soothing circular motion with three fingers.
“Not now,” she whispered. “Christ, not now.” She rubbed harder, willing her body and mind to obey the desperate command.
It was probably no more than ten minutes before the deputies reappeared, though it seemed longer.
“Clear,” Venable said cheerfully as they rejoined Nell at the vehicles. “Looks like all the windows and doors have pretty solid locks, but you might want to consider installing a good security system, Miss Gallagher. That or get yourself a big dog.”
“Thanks, Deputy.” She included them both in her smile and nod of gratitude as he returned the key, adding, “I probably won’t be here long enough to do anything permanent, but I’ll certainly keep the house locked up while I’m here.”
“We’ll be passing by pretty often on regular patrols, so we’ll keep an eye on the place.” Venable gestured toward the packed cargo area. “In the meantime, we’d be happy to help you carry some of this stuff inside.”