by Lisa Gardner
“In Georgia, school is mandatory from six to sixteen. Now, that girl looked old enough to be a teenager to me. Could be she already graduated from some special school, or that she’s homeschooled. You don’t know what you don’t know. And Mayor Howard and his wife . . . they’ve done a lot for this community. You can’t just assume the worst.”
“I can, too,” D.D. muttered, as she popped open her door. She didn’t like Mayor Howard or his wife. Everything was a little too perfect. She was always suspicious of people whose houses seemed more like set pieces than real homes. And everything about that grand inn, from its wraparound porch outside to the silver coffee service inside . . . it smacked of pretense. Look here, not there. Admire appearances, then move along before peering beneath.
“There must be a record of the girl,” D.D. said, joining the sheriff on the steps of the town office. “You realize we don’t even know her name?”
“I’ll make some inquiries,” the sheriff offered, “but I can tell you there’s no real dirt on the Counsels. Any legitimate misdeeds would’ve already crossed my desk. For that matter”—the sheriff nodded his head toward the administrative building—“Dorothea, the town clerk, knows everything about everyone. Better yet, she likes to show off she knows everything about everyone. You want to know more about the mayor and his wife, she’s the one to ask.”
D.D. perked up. “Meaning we can kill two birds with one stone.”
“We were due for a break sooner or later.”
* * *
—
THE NICHE TOWN OFFICE WAS small, looking more like a white double-wide to D.D. than a traditional government building, but then the town was so tiny maybe this was all it needed.
They walked into the middle of the squat space. To the right was a large open area with chairs lined up against the wall. For town meetings, D.D. would guess. To her left was a raised counter, marking the clerk’s office. An older woman with silver-framed glasses on a long glittering lanyard stood up from her computer to greet them. She wore a pink turtleneck, though D.D. would’ve thought it too warm for such things.
“Dorothea.” The sheriff reached out a hand.
The older woman batted her heavily mascaraed eyes. She had a mass of platinum blond hair arranged in a French twist, and the too-thin build of a woman who’d spent her entire life denying herself dessert for the sake of her girlish figure.
D.D. held out a hand. She didn’t get the same lingering look as the sheriff, but Dorothea was polite enough.
“Sure you heard about the excitement yesterday,” the sheriff began. He’d taken off his hat as soon as they walked through the door. Now, he turned it in his hands. D.D. was starting to recognize his routine: The sheriff liked to approach his constituents with folksy charm. Hat in hand, literally, just one of the neighbors, asking a few questions.
As Dorothea nodded, D.D. decided the sheriff might be onto something. You attract more flies with honey than vinegar, as the saying went.
She’d never been particularly good at that approach, given her own blunt, take-no-prisoners style. She smiled now, forced herself to slow down, make eye contact.
Dorothea appeared momentarily uneasy, so maybe D.D.’s expression wasn’t quite as neutral as she hoped. Probably, even things like smiling took practice.
“We’re interested in some property records,” the sheriff said.
“Well now, Sheriff, of course I want to help. You know I do. But I have a responsibility to this town and the privacy of its citizens.”
“Tax rolls are public domain, Dorothea. Nothing to worry about. We just need to dot some i’s, cross some t’s. This is gonna be a very big investigation and we want to put our best foot forward. Show these Yankees”—he grinned, elbowed D.D.—“we know what we’re doing.”
So that’s how it was going to be. Dorothea beamed at the sheriff. D.D. stopped with the smiling, returned to her more traditional role as bad cop. Or as the case might be, stern Northern cop.
“Which property records, Sheriff?”
“Well, that’s the thing. We don’t exactly know. I’m guessing we’re going to need you to do some fancy database searching. Not that I imagine that’s any problem for you.”
Indeed, Dorothea had already returned to her computer, hands hovering over the keyboard.
“We want to go back . . . I’m gonna say, fifteen years.” The sheriff nodded, as if that number sounded good enough. “Let’s say homesteads that include at least an acre.”
Dorothea gave him a look. D.D. was guessing, given the rural location, at least an acre was pretty common for property around here.
“Now, this is the trick—we’re curious about property that’s changed hands. Maybe the owner died, something like that.”
Nodding. Fingers flying across the keyboard now.
“How many is that?” the sheriff asked after a minute.
“I have two dozen.”
“Any properties showing a cabin deep in the woods? Or removed from its neighbor?”
Dorothea frowned at the sheriff, then consulted her list. “Ten or so.”
“I’ll tell you what, just download them all. That’ll be good.”
The sheriff glanced at D.D. She added: “What about any properties that have been foreclosed on? Regardless of lot size, location.”
“That gives us four or five more.”
“We’ll take those addresses, as well.”
Dorothea nodded. Hit a button. The printer fired to life.
“I heard you found bodies,” Dorothea whispered at last, looking at the sheriff and placing extra emphasis on the s at the end of the word.
“Skeletal remains,” the sheriff confirmed soberly. “Nothing for immediate worry. But violent crime is violent crime. We’ll be getting to the bottom of this.”
“Young girls? Many of them?”
“We’re still conducting our investigation.”
“Does that ring any bells for you, Dorothea?” D.D. asked, because she saw a gleam in the woman’s eyes. The town gossip. Of course she wanted to be in the know. “Are there many girls that pass through here?”
Dorothea hesitated, glancing at the sheriff. He nodded slightly, as if granting permission to speak to the outsider. Dorothea turned to D.D. “During the summer season, this place is crawling with new faces, including plenty of girls suited for waitressing, hospitality, and the like. But come winter, business drops way off. Most businesses cut down, the kids head back to school. Winter, we’re a sleepy town in a lot of ways. Without the hikers . . .” She shrugged.
“True,” the sheriff agreed. He took the stack of property records from Dorothea and thumbed through them, as if already bored.
“It’s a beautiful main street,” D.D. commented. “I especially love the Mountain Laurel B and B run by the mayor and his wife. What a gorgeous Victorian.”
“One of the true prized jewels of the town!” Dorothea warmed immediately. “That property was originally built in eighteen-thirty as a summer home for a rich Atlanta family. They had four daughters. One, Martha Counsel’s great-great grandmother, married locally and stayed on. That house has been in the family for generations!”
D.D. nodded. So the hotel belonged to the missus, not the mister. Interesting. “I just met the mayor and his wife. Such a shame about their niece.”
“Oh, they take good care of her. Poor thing. To have been in a terrible accident. Girl was left simple, you know.”
“What’s her name again?” D.D. asked.
Dorothea blinked. “Why, I don’t recall. She’s very quiet and it’s not like you see her out and about.”
“She’s not allowed out?”
“I didn’t say that!” Dorothea frowned at D.D., clearly not liking her attitude. “Girl can’t talk. That’s not exactly who you send to run errands.”
“Of course,” D.D. conceded. �
�She reminds me of someone I once knew, that’s all. And you’re right, such a tragedy. When was the accident anyway?”
“Ten years ago, maybe?”
“The girl’s been living with the Counsels that long?”
“Well, when I first met her she was an itty-bitty thing. And Lord, the scar back then. Seemed to be half the poor girl’s head.” Dorothea eyed D.D. reproachfully. “They’ve done right by her.”
“Family protects family,” D.D. agreed.
“The Counsels take care of this whole town, always have. You’re here for the fall. That’s a good season for us. Lots of hikers, tourists, people eager to spend money. But December, January, February? Those are lean months. Not all families have the resources to make it through. The Counsels keep eyes and ears out. They don’t boast, but if they hear about anyone who needs a little extra help . . . Let’s just say, grocery bills have been known to be magically paid. Property taxes caught up. Even medical bills cleared. Around here, neighbors look out for neighbors. And Howard and Martha are good neighbors.”
“You ever meet Martha’s sister? The one who died in the accident.”
“Oh, Martha doesn’t have a sister.”
D.D. paused. “I thought the girl was her niece?”
“Well, that’s what she says. Martha was an only child. She means the girl’s mother was like a sister to her. Or don’t you have such things up North?” Dorothea smiled thinly.
One point to the older woman with the glittery lanyard, D.D. thought. Though it would explain the girl’s obviously Hispanic heritage, while Martha looked about as white bread as they came.
“Do the Counsels have children of their own?”
“No.” Dorothea’s voice dropped. “Though I know they tried very hard in the early days of their marriage. They just weren’t so blessed.”
“How sad for them. And how fortunate they were willing to take in an orphaned child.”
Dorothea beamed again, clearly pleased that D.D. was finally recognizing the Counsels’ sainthood.
“Are there other full-time staff at their B and B?” D.D. asked. “Just out of curiosity.”
“A cook. An assistant. You would have to ask them more.”
The sheriff cleared his throat. D.D. got the hint.
“Thank you so much for your help. And the property records,” D.D. said.
While the sheriff added, “A pleasure as always, Dorothea.”
“You’re going to figure this out, right, Sheriff? It breaks my heart to think of some poor souls buried in our own backyard.”
“We’re on this, Dorothea,” the sheriff assured her. “We’ll find the answers, get these girls some justice.”
“If you need any other help . . .”
“Of course.”
Dorothea turned to D.D. more sternly. “We’re a good community,” she said, as if daring D.D. to deny it. D.D. merely smiled, and starting to understand the rules of engagement, went for a point of her own.
“Of course. But bad things can happen everywhere. And the woods around here clearly aren’t as safe as they look.”
CHAPTER 19
KIMBERLY
TASKFORCES MUST BE FED. WHICH made Kimberly incredibly grateful to Franny, Sheriff Smithers’s receptionist, checklist operator, and all-round extremely tall den mother. By the time Kimberly and her crew had trudged back down the mountain, it was already nearly eight P.M. Kimberly took a much-needed shower, then headed straight to the Mosley County Sheriff’s Department for the evening debriefing, where she discovered her fellow investigators already camped out in the conference room enjoying what appeared to be an entire buffet of homemade casseroles.
“From the ladies of the First Congregational Church,” Franny said, appearing at Kimberly’s elbow. “They know how hard you people are working and wanted to show their appreciation. You must try the chocolate trifle. Patty makes it every year for the fall cook-off. It’s the best.”
Sure enough, across the room D.D. was standing over a giant glass bowl containing what appeared to be layers of chocolate pudding and whipped cream. The detective was licking a spoon, and wearing an expression that probably shouldn’t be viewed outside of a bedroom.
“Is there lasagna?” Kimberly asked. “I smell lasagna.” She’d been on her feet for fourteen hours and hiked up and down a mountain half a dozen times. If there was pasta in this room, she’d earned it.
“Third tray from the right. And don’t worry, we have more where that came from.”
Franny bustled off to shift more platters, distribute more plates. Kimberly decided this was already the best taskforce meeting she’d ever attended. Which was good, because they had a lot of ground to cover.
She ate. Shamelessly. Then went straight for the trifle, even though D.D. glared at her and made a sound suspiciously like a growl.
“Call dibs on the bowl,” the Boston detective said.
“Rock-paper-scissors.”
A fresh glare from D.D.
“Not gonna help you,” Kimberly informed her. “I have two daughters who practice that look on a daily basis. Besides, I spent the day exhuming skeletons. You?”
“Fine. I get the brownie platter.”
“Deal.”
“Why isn’t Flora eating?” Kimberly asked presently, leaning against the wall beside D.D., savoring the trifle. There were little chocolate chips. And toffee. Heath bar crunch maybe? “Or is that a symptom of PTSD?”
“She ate all day.”
“She ate all day?”
“We’ll get to it. Your day?”
“We’ll get to it.” After one more scoop of trifle, Kimberly decided.
“Where are your ERT people?” D.D. asked.
“They stayed at the hotel; they’re beat and have to be back at the site at oh dark thirty tomorrow morning. But I have the report on what we found.”
“Dr. Jackson?”
“Same deal. She’s jonesing for her lab, not a meeting where all she can say is ‘wait for my report.’ We have at least one more day of field work, then the team and Dr. Jackson will return to Atlanta. In the meantime, we have discoveries to discuss.”
“I have a new lead,” D.D. said. “She’s underaged, can’t speak, read, or write, and apparently suffers brain damage from a childhood injury. But I have a feeling about her.”
Kimberly arched a brow.
“After the meeting,” D.D. murmured. The detective had her gaze on Sheriff Smithers, sitting across the room and apparently devouring taco salad. “This town, the locals . . . I have some concerns.”
“You mean you’re not falling for Main Street’s quaint charms?”
“Not after learning what’s buried in the mountains.”
Kimberly couldn’t argue with that. She cleared her throat, indicating it was time to get started. And just like that, the room fell to order.
Kimberly took up position front and center. “All right. First off, a big round of applause to the ladies of the Congregational Church for this amazing dinner. A huge step up from a taskforce’s general diet of pizza, pizza, and pizza.”
Everyone clapped enthusiastically. Clearing platters, Franny paused, blushed, fidgeted with the delicate gold cross she wore around her neck.
“Now then, we have several efforts to catch up on. I’ll go first with the report from the second burial site.”
Kimberly waited a heartbeat. Investigators hastily shoved aside plates, booted up laptops and tablets.
“The second grave revealed three more sets of skeletal remains. Dr. Jackson was able to confirm all three are female. At least two are teenagers and one prepubescent.”
“How young?” D.D. spoke up, her tone expressionless.
“Nine or ten.”
Silence.
“No clothing was recovered from the grave,” Kimberly continued evenly. “Though we
had a few unexpected finds, including a short piece of plastic tubing, a strip of adhesive tape, and a pair of latex gloves.”
Keith’s hand fired into the air, and Kimberly nodded for him to speak.
“You’re going to test the gloves for prints? And the inside? As well as touch DNA?”
Look who’d once more spent some quality time with Google, Kimberly thought. “All evidence will be subject to a complete forensic exam. For immediate consideration, Dr. Jackson is theorizing that one of the bodies may have had IV tubing taped to the back of her hand at the time of burial.”
“But that would mean the person had received medical attention,” Flora said slowly.
“It’s possible.”
“Jacob wasn’t averse to needles, but medical assistance? I was lucky if he tossed a couple of aspirin my way.”
“The presence of an IV seems outside of Jacob Ness’s purview,” Kimberly agreed. “Still, evidence is evidence. The tape may yield DNA, something to help identify victim or perpetrator. In the meantime, Dr. Jackson will conduct a full analysis on each set of remains. She knows we need answers soon.”
“Does the doc think the second burial site is from the same time frame as the first?” Sheriff Smithers asked.
“In her own words, that’s not an unreasonable conclusion, but will require additional testing.”
“The first skeleton,” Sheriff Smithers continued now, “Lilah Abenito.”
Kimberly nodded.
“She wasn’t from around here. She went missing from Alabama. Meaning these other girls, they might be from elsewhere, too. Makes sense, if you think about it. Four local girls going missing all at the same time would call attention. But if they’re from different places . . .”
“We’re going to need to pull missing persons records for teenage girls, nationwide, going back fifteen years, maybe even twenty.”
“That’s gonna be a lot of names.”
“We have some work ahead of us, no doubt.”
“COD?” D.D. spoke up.
“Nothing obvious. Again, Dr. Jackson hopes to learn more back at the lab.”
