SAVAGE BEAUTY

by Peggy Webb

  He wanted to wring her neck on the spot and throw her into the bay.

  An Allistair is always in control.

  How many times through the years had Clive said that, particularly in the beginning when he was showing Stephen the Allistair secret? At first he’d struggled to recognize the necessity of not letting the girls go after they’d contributed all they could to the roses. Thankfully, by the time he was sixteen, he’d learned to appreciate the genius of the compost pile.

  An artist never reveals his secrets, nor allows others the chance to discover them.

  Stephen was a true genius, and his roses were art, worth any price.

  As soon as he was finished with this business tonight, he’d have to make sure Cee Cee’s IV contained a little something extra. Though it was unlikely she’d ever remember a thing, he couldn’t take that risk. If it hadn’t been for bringing Lily back under his control, he’d have killed Cee Cee before he left her in the alley.

  Annabelle turned to him before she barreled out of the car. “Mom will be mad if she finds I out I argued with you about the restaurant. And I didn’t even thank you for the Christmas gifts. I’m sorry.”

  “That was nicely done. Apology accepted.”

  A waitress led them to his usual table, a perk of being famous. Heads turned to look at him, and a few eyebrows lifted at the sight of Annabelle. She was even more bedraggled than when they’d started, if that were possible. Her ponytail was a mess. She hadn’t even bothered to fix it after trying on sweaters to find the perfect one for Cee Cee. And was that a snag on the front of her sweatshirt? It appeared she could just walk down the aisle of a department store, and stray coat hangers would leap out to grab her.

  Maybe it was all for the best. People seeing them tonight would remember how he’d smiled at her in spite of her appearance, how he’d so gallantly pulled out her chair and told the waiter loud enough for the couples nearby to hear that he was treating his daughter after a big holiday shopping spree. Only the best was good enough for her.

  The story, retold later, would give credence to his grieving father posture, his televised pleas for help finding her.

  The trouble started after she’d finished her entrée, dripping part of it on her shirt, of course. What did he expect?

  “I don’t want dessert,” she said.

  “Fine. We won’t order any.”

  “Can we skip the marina tonight, too?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we made a plan. Remember? You are and I are going to make sure the boat is ready for the family’s Christmas Eve viewing of the sunset.”

  “Can’t we do it tomorrow? I’m ready to go home.”

  “You know my answer.”

  “It’s going to take forever.” She gave a dramatic sigh then dug around in her purse. “Can I borrow your phone? I want to call Mom and let her know we’ll be late.”

  “It’s rude to talk on the phone in a restaurant. Your mother knows we’re going to be late.”

  “I just want to talk to her. I could go outside and talk and wait for you in the car.”

  The drug he’d slipped into her hot chocolate should be kicking in by now. Apparently Annabelle had the constitution of a horse.

  “I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer. I’d like to enjoy my after-dinner coffee in peace.”

  He pasted a charming smile on his face and sipped his coffee as if he’d rather be in Mary Mahoney’s with his stepdaughter than anywhere else in the world. A couple walked by and smiled appreciatively at the two of them. It would have been perfect if Annabelle didn’t have such a rebellious look on her face. Maybe they’d chalk it up as typical teenager behavior.

  He wouldn’t know. By the time he was her age, he was preoccupied with luring the perfect girl for Clive’s roses.

  “May I be excused to go to the bathroom?”

  “Yes. That was nicely done, Annabelle.”

  She stumbled when she got out of her chair, and he leaped up to steady her.

  “Are you okay? Do you need my help?”

  “No, thank you. I’m a little dizzy, that’s all.”

  Perfect. Nicely played. He smiled indulgently in her direction as she made her unsteady way to the back of the restaurant. Then he swiveled to include the couple at the table across from them in his small family crisis. There. That should do it.

  Poor man, they’d say when they recalled the evening. His daughter got sick, and he had to help her from the restaurant.

  By the time they were halfway back to Ocean Springs, Annabelle wouldn’t know she was in the world, let alone headed to the “Betsy” at the marina.

  Although Ocean Springs had a population of only slightly more than eighteen thousand people, Lily felt as if they all thronged the downtown streets, where a city-wide Christmas Open House was still in progress. Holiday songs spilled through open doorways, and every window featured elaborately decorated trees plus winter scenes complete with lights and fake snow.

  The festive mood only worsened Lily’s fear. She and Jack had already been inside every shop except this one. Neither Annabelle nor Stephen had been seen, and there was no sign of his black SUV. Nor had there been any word from Detective Yancy, who was at the manor, or any reports from the two teams of cops, who were making their own sweep of the city.

  As they entered Hillyer House, she was grateful for Jack’s arm steadying her.

  “Don’t give up,” he said.

  “Never.”

  She hardly noticed the art pieces and the jewelry as she made her way toward a middle-aged salesclerk she knew, Myrtle Hennessey.

  “Lily.” Her face lit up. “I haven’t seen you out and about in a while. What a pleasant surprise.”

  She almost burst into tears. Thankfully, Jack rescued her.

  “We’re actually here looking for Lily’s daughter, Annabelle.” He pulled a photo of her daughter from his wallet, one she didn’t even know he had. “She was with Stephen Allistair.”

  The salesclerk turned to Lily. “Your fiancé--how exciting! I’d certainly know if Mr. Allistair had been in. He’s one of our best customers. But no, I haven’t seen either of them.”

  Lily held back a scream. Where on earth could her daughter be? And would their names forever be linked with that of a cold-blooded killer?

  Jack said, “Thank you for your help,” then hustled her outside. And none too soon. Tears stung her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She turned and hid her face against his shoulder. Without a word he got them back to the Jeep and helped her into the passenger side.

  “Let it all out, Lily.”

  “I hate crying in public.”

  “It’s dark here. No one will see you.”

  She put her head on the dashboard and sobbed while Jack rubbed her back.

  “Oh, I’m so mad at myself.” She straightened up and swiped at her cheeks with her hands. “We haven’t even checked a single restaurant. I was so upset, I forgot that Stephen said they were going out to eat.”

  “We’re going to find her.”

  “Government Street Grocery. It’s her favorite.”

  They were almost within sight of the restaurant when her phone lit up with a call from Detective Yancy. A tiny spark of hope flared to life.

  She put him on speaker phone. “Have you found Annabelle?”

  “No. But we found Debbie Waycaster, barely alive.”

  “Let me guess. He took her blood and cut off her finger, too?”

  “Yes, to the first, no to the second. He cut off all her toes and her left arm up to the elbow.”

  The world tilted sideways, and Lily almost dropped the phone. She grabbed the dashboard with her left hand and held on.

  “We haven’t found Annabelle downtown. Are you sure you searched the entire underground area?”

  “Yes. We started at the library and found Debbie in a network of elaborate underground rooms. The tunnel came out on the other side in an abandoned shed behind the compost pile
. We’ve cordoned it off and lighted the perimeter. Teams are digging there now.”

  He didn’t have to say the rest. Chances were, he’d find the remains of the other missing girls buried there. And maybe more, unless they’d already vanished into the pots of Allistairs roses and into the rose gardens across America.

  “Mrs. Perkins, are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve got Clive and Wyler Allistair in custody. I’ve sent reinforcements to search for your daughter. We’ve spread a net across the Gulf Coast all the way to Florida. We’re going to catch this killer.”

  When the call ended, Jack reached for both her hands and held on. “I’m going inside.”

  “I’m coming, too.”

  “I think you should wait here in case you get another call. The evening crowd is noisy, and you might not hear your phone inside.”

  When your world has crashed down around you, waiting is one of the hardest things you do. Each second was an eternity, and each thought was a fresh horror. By the time Jack returned, shaking his head, no, Lily had woven a strand of horrors that would stretch to the moon and back, terrible what ifs, each one worse than the one before it.

  Just as he climbed back behind the wheel, her phone rang again. It was a number she didn’t recognize. Nor did she know the voice.

  “Are you Annabelle Perkins mother?”

  The phone slid from her hand, and Jack grabbed it before it hit the floorboard of her Jeep.

  “That was Lily Perkins, Annabelle’s mother, and I’m their friend and physician, Dr. Jack Harper. Do you have Annie?”

  “No. I work at Mary Mahoney’s in Biloxi. I found this note in the bathroom on a paper towel. It was stuck to the wall with a wad of chewing gum. I started to throw it away, but there are cops all over Biloxi, and streets blocked off every which way, so I figured I’d better call the number on it.”

  “Can you read the note, please, exactly as it’s written?”

  “It says Help! Something is wrong. I think S. Allistair put something in my drink. He’s taking me to his boat at the marina in Ocean Springs. Call my mom. She listed this phone number and signed it Annabelle Perkins, and that’s all I know. I swear to you.”

  “Thank you. You did the right thing.”

  For a moment, Lily was in shock. Then the fearsome truth hit her.

  “She’s alive!”

  “Yes. And she’s fighting back.” Jack called to report the latest development to Detective Yancy. Then he turned to Lily. “We’re meeting search boats at the marina.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Stephen parked his car and lifted Annabelle from the passenger side. Both she and the marina were sleeping, just as Stephen knew they would be.

  Every fool in Ocean Springs was tromping around downtown at the Christmas Open House, and the drug had kicked in shortly after he’d helped Annabelle to the car, waving away diners eager to lend a hand.

  She sometimes gets vertigo after she eats seafood, he’d told them. It didn’t matter whether there was such a thing. People tended to believe what you told them. Her mom and I will tuck her in, and she’ll wake up good as new.

  That would make another great story for them to tell when she turned up missing.

  The “Betsy” waited in her slip, a Contender 30ST, named for his grandmother. It was one of Clive’s more clever jokes.

  Stephen, my boy, the old girl’s namesake will be riding the waves above her grave. She can wave every time we go fishing.

  Though the remains of all the rose contributors ended up in the compost pile, Clive thought his wife, being an Allistair, deserved a more fitting resting place.

  I was fond of the old girl, and looking back, Wyler probably needed a mother’s touch. I never would have let her become a rose, but she confronted me with her suspicions, and she was too weak to keep the secret.

  Stephen carried Annabelle onboard where the leg iron and short chain were already attached to one of the four support poles for the hard T-top over the center console and the forward fish box. One of the perks of owning a thirty-foot fishing boat was that the forward fish box was big enough to hold a body. He’d briefly considered hiding her there until he was ready to drop her overboard. But the box was deep, and it would be too much trouble to get her out.

  Another alternative would have been to leave her on the stern bench, or the more luxurious helm seating. He pictured Lily sitting there as they viewed the Christmas Eve sunset and prayed together that diving teams hired with his money would find poor Annabelle.

  But he couldn’t take the chance of the teenager waking up unfettered.

  He dumped her with no more thought than he’d give a sack of potatoes. Her upper body landed behind the fish box, but her legs stuck out so he could see them as he navigated. Good. He made quick work of securing her left leg with the iron and chain. Then he hurried around the center console and backed out of the slip.

  Sirens roared in the distance. Probably somebody spiked the holiday punch downtown, and the cops were dealing with all the drunks. It had happened before. There was no accounting for the crazy things ordinary people would do. Stephen was glad he wasn’t one of them.

  The Mississippi Sound spread out before him, a glassy sea under a pale moon, empty of humanity except for Stephen and his cargo. Early stars that had spread a net over the night sky had vanished behind gathering clouds. The wind had picked up, and Stephen was glad he was wearing his overcoat.

  He aimed the boat toward Horn Island, one of the uninhabited barrier islands ten miles offshore and the favorite haunt of artist Walter Anderson. If he dropped the nuisance close enough, her body would wash up on the island. Then Lily would know her only chance of having a family lay with him. She’d be willing—no, eager--to replace this stupid wreckage of a teenager with his son.

  The sirens still wailed in the distance, and Stephen slammed down the throttle. A pair of Yamaha F300 four-stroke outboards kicked in, and the Contender shot across the waves.

  “Yes!” The wind caught his shout of exhilaration and sent it echoing across the fathoms-deep grave of his grandmother.

  “What have you done to me, you sick pervert!”

  Annabelle? The girl had scooted behind the fish box, and he couldn’t see her. He throttled back, and the boat settled into a graceful glide.

  “Nothing compared to what I’m going to do.”

  He could hear himself telling the story. When I turned the boat I hit a wave, and Annabelle lost her balance. I searched for her until I could no longer feel my arms and legs in the frigid water. The Contender was a sleek boat with sides that were only knee-high. Nobody would doubt his story.

  Annabelle rattled the chain with the force of youth. He’d miscalculated the amount of sedative needed to knock her out. He’d underestimated her vigor.

  “Let me out of here. My mother is going to kill you.”

  “Your mother is going to be grief stricken. You’re going to fall overboard and drown. She’ll be so grateful for my love and support as we search for her lost daughter, she’s going to beg me for the family we planned.”

  The chain rattled again, and he smiled at the moon. Maybe he should initiate his backup plan now and be done with it. But didn’t he deserve some time to enjoy his triumph? Didn’t he have a right to revel in how well his plan was working?

  “Annabelle, are you still there?” There was no answer. He wished he could see her terrified face, but he hoped she hadn’t wet herself. They often did. It was unnecessarily messy, and a pain to clean up. “It’s too bad you won’t be around to see your baby brother.”

  “I’m on the swim team, you fool. Mom will never believe I drowned.”

  “Not if you hit your head on the way overboard.”

  “Monster!”

  She was too feisty. He had to break her before he killed her. He needed that satisfaction.

  “Remember the blue fingernail you found in the bone meal? It belonged to Debbie Waycaster. Her toe bones were there, t
oo, and the bones in her left forearm. The radius and the ulna made especially nice fertilizer for the Daphne.”

  There was silence on the other side of the fish box. Where was her spirit now?

  “Debbie is stronger than I imagined. I thought she’d be ready for the compost pile by now, but she’s still a fabulous blood donor.” He didn’t hear a peep from Annabelle. “By the way, it was her blood and Cee Cee’s you were mixing into the blood meal. Both roses loved it, especially the Margaret.”

  “Are you going to turn me into a rose?”

  Her question was weak and timid. The satisfaction of it all.

  “No. You’re too much trouble. And your color is not vivid enough. Not like your mother’s.”

  “Please. Don’t touch my mom. Please!”

  He hated begging. One reason he’d chosen Cee Cee was her strength of character. She’d proven him correct. He recalled their conversations underground with great satisfaction. If it weren’t for Lily, he’d take her again and finish what they’d started.

  The phone in his overcoat pocket rang, and he glanced at the screen. “Annabelle. It’s your mother. Do you want to say goodbye to her?”

  “MOM!” she screamed. “He’s going to kill me!”

  He let Lily’s message go to voice mail and pocketed the phone. “Too bad she couldn’t hear you. I never answered.”

  Was she crying on the other side of the fish box? It was time to finish this. Stephen throttled down to a slow crawl and removed a hypodermic needle and syringe from his overcoat pocket. Then he draped the coat over his seat. When he threw her overboard, he didn’t want to take any chances his coattail would hamper the job.

  As he uncapped the needle and moved around the fish box, he remembered the satisfaction of watching Cee Cee go instantly limp. They all did. An injection was a much more efficient way to knock them out than doctoring their drinks.

  Annabelle looked like a pile of rags in the dark. She was so still he wondered if she’d passed out from terror.