Trial by Twelve

by Heather Day Gilbert

  “It’s not Detective Tucker.” I try to project more confidence than I feel. Trust No One seems like the best way to proceed these days.

  23

  I SIT HERE WRITING in the library, shocked that so many months have passed. I’m also shocked that it’s your birthday month, and I am saddened at what I have to tell you.

  I know for all these years, you must have looked forward to seeing me again, to living with me and learning from me. And believe me, I have anticipated that too, as you can tell from the volume of letters I have sent you in foster care.

  A problem has arisen, one that can’t be easily sidestepped. I need to go underground, so to speak. I can’t have contact with you because they are watching for me to make a move.

  I have so many words of wisdom to share with you. I have learned some lessons from the universe, and they have been hard to stomach. Something I have had to admit to myself, yet again, is that I am not meant to be a father.

  Much as I dreamed of shaping you and sharing with you, my own childhood memories haunt me and render me incapable of deep love. My parents were far from ideal, and I am afraid I’ll pass that heritage of poison on to you, even if I try to fight it. I had repressed many of the things they had said to me, but the dam of my memory has finally broken, and it can never be repaired.

  I called your new foster mother and she said you’re still searching for your mother. You need to stop wasting your time, chasing after the wind. She also said you’ve been acting out in school and have had too many absences. I cannot express my disappointment upon hearing that. You must keep up with your education and make plans to further it. I know I have no right to ask this of you, but in the end, I am your father.

  I can’t think what I need to write, but I know this must be my last letter to you. My thoughts have been scattered lately. Perhaps I will empty myself of my own knowledge, and instead leave you with a quote by someone else. I hope this will comfort you. Please understand, this distance we must maintain is for the best.

  Here is a Rumi quote that is special to me: “Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.” I find that comforting, because no mistakes you make, no losses you suffer, are permanently damaging. Everything old will be new again and we will all get along. You will go far, my child, if you remember what I have taught you and dedicate yourself to excellence and wisdom. Do not let anyone stand in your way.

  NIKKI JO AND PETEY keep Mira Brooke so I can check on Miranda and Charlotte. I’ll visit Miranda first, because I know that’s what Charlotte would want.

  I’m surprised to see one of Thomas’ police officer friends hanging out in the lobby at The Haven. He nods at me and I walk over to him.

  “What’s up?” I ask, trying to look casual.

  “They have a resident who keeps leaving the building. Most of these people have freedom to come and go as they want, but some are restricted to staying on the premises for one reason or another, like if they don’t have a license or if they have Alzheimer’s. Probably that’s the case with this one. We found him wandering outside town and brought him in this morning. How are you doing, Mrs. S?”

  “Just fine, thanks. I was hoping nothing was wrong with my friend down in Suite 8A—Miranda Michaels.”

  “Nothing to do with her.” He smiles and motions me through. “You have a good one.”

  “You too.”

  I trudge down the hallway. I don’t really want to know if Miranda is doing worse today. I don’t want to consider the possibility she could die while Charlotte is in the hospital.

  The nurse opens when I knock. “She’s resting good today. Hasn’t been talking much the past few days, though. You hear from her daughter lately?”

  I explain how Charlotte is in the hospital, then I tiptoe in to see Miranda. Besides looking even more wizened than the last time I saw her, her breathing is regular and she seems stable. I silently sink to the floor by her bed, unable to stop thinking about the serial killer.

  We just don’t have enough to go on. The murderer could be anyone, male or female, young or old. So Teeny is a bowhunter? So is half the town. So Byron was talking with Tawny? It doesn’t seem like he told her anything relevant. So Dani was in the Marines? Who cares. I just don’t know what we’re looking for, what the common denominator is.

  Miranda murmurs in her sleep and I pat her hand. The nurse peeps in and motions to me. When I meet her in the living room, she waves her hands, talking rapidly. “I just thought of this, but one of the residents here seems overly fascinated with Charlotte. I’m wondering if he had anything to do with her attack.”

  “Define overly fascinated,” I say.

  “Every time she goes down to get food for her momma, he kind of trails behind her. And last time when she came in the suite, I caught him watching her out a crack in his door. He lives on this hall.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Mr. Seger, they call him. He’s right young compared to the others here. But he’s more than a few pickles short of a jar, I’d say.”

  Mr. Seger. The man who accosted me in the hall here and the parking lot. I’m betting he’s also the one the cops had to round up this morning.

  “Thank you. I’m going to go now and check on Charlotte.”

  She gives me a pensive nod, then wanders into the kitchenette.

  I walk in for one last moment with Miranda. I don’t want to wake her, but I drop a light kiss on her hair. “Love you,” I say. “And Mira Brooke is growing like a weed.” I can’t even say the word Charlotte without choking up, so I don’t even go there.

  When I get into my SUV, I text Detective Tucker.

  Some dude here at The Haven has been stalking Charlotte. Plus he keeps escaping and he might be a little kooky. You might want to check on him: Mr. Seger. Don’t know the first name. I’m not going in to the spa today and Dani left early. I told her about the arrows because I thought she needed to know. She wants you to call her the minute you have any news.

  Next, I call Bartholomew Cole. The Good Doctor should have gotten back to me by now, whether or not there was any change with Charlotte. He picks up on the third ring.

  “Hello, Tess. Sorry I haven’t called. It’s been a little touch-and-go with Charlotte. They woke her up and she was disoriented and weak, so they wound up transfusing more blood. She’s stable but still not alert.”

  We chat a little more, then I drive to the hospital, stopping by the new Chick-fil-A for a sandwich and a large sweet tea. I can’t resist a fresh-brewed, sugar-sweet tea in the heat of summer.

  In the hospital’s gift shop, it takes a full five minutes for the volunteer to ring up my bouquet choice, which consists primarily of baby’s breath. Its three wilting pink roses look like they were thrown in as an afterthought. Pink isn’t Charlotte’s favorite color, but it’s the best I can do right now. Next visit I’ll bring some of my own roses…but hopefully my next visit will be to her home, not to the hospital.

  In Charlotte’s room, a tall, flawless bouquet of full orange roses dominates the over-the-bed table, blocking my view of her. I feel like chucking my sorry excuse for a bouquet in the trash. The Good Doctor, lounging in a chair by her bed, follows my gaze.

  “I wish I could claim those. The card just says Get Well Soon. From a Friend of Tess Spencer.”

  I open my mouth, about to protest any knowledge of the gift.

  The doctor smiles. “Don’t worry, Detective Tucker checked them out. They’re from a legitimate florist in Point Pleasant—”

  “Fabled Flowers,” I finish.

  “How’d you know?”

  “I know the owner. What an extravagant…why did he do that?” I sniff the blooms, surprised to find they’re fragrant, unlike most florist shop roses.

  “He must be a good friend, I suppose? Or perhaps just an admirer.” The Good Doctor winks at me. He’s always hinting at what he perceives as my Buckneck bombshell status.

  “Maybe.” I let my gaze rest on Charlotte’s face, blanched under its u
sual tan. “Still sleeping?”

  “Yes, but she’s more restless so I’m taking that as a good sign. She really does have some skilled doctors here.”

  After propping my tipsy bouquet in a mauve plastic cup, I walk to Charlotte’s side. The machine at her side transmits a steady beat that’s slightly muffled, like it’s underwater. I pray with everything in me for a couple minutes, then drop a concerned kiss on my friend’s head like the one I gave her mother.

  I turn to the Good Doctor, who’s definitely projecting a less rumpled and more doctorly vibe today. “Call me when she wakes up. And thank you so much for staying here.”

  “Of course,” he says, crossing his legs and picking up The Buckneck Daily. It’s probably floundering without Tawny. I wonder if Detective Tucker stepped in and told the paper not to cover the serial killer case, since it’s not a headline. Could he do that?

  As if summoned by my thoughts, Detective Tucker leans into the doorway. “Mrs. Spencer?”

  As I get closer, the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes become more noticeable. His camo clothing is a stark contrast with the hospital’s white floors and walls. He looks like he’s been camping out, and the smoky smell wafting from his hair confirms that.

  “Have you been home at all?” I ask.

  “Not when there’s a killer like this around.” He glances at his hand, as if he’s itching for his Coke bottle spittoon. “Don’t worry, I haven’t had any chew. I keep my promises, Mrs. Spencer. That’s why I’m here, matter of fact—tracked you down so I could tell you first. We’ve finally got a lead on this murderer. It’s a link to his past. A box of letters showed up in the pit, not buried deep. I want you to read them once they’re copied. I’m pretty sure they’re the ramblings of a serial killer.”

  24

  WHEN I EXIT THE ELEVATOR downstairs, I nearly careen headlong into someone wearing a zebra-print skirt. As my eyes travel up to her face, I recognize this particular strawberry blonde: Rosemary Hogan, the Good Doctor’s daughter. The woman who once wrecked my perfectly good dress by kicking muddy water all over it.

  Her wide-set eyes pin me down. “Tess Spencer.”

  “Rosemary.”

  She takes a pull on her skinny cigarette and puffs smoke to the side. “I came to see your chum, Charlotte. What in tarnations happened to her?”

  I take a long look at Rosemary. She’s like Marilyn Monroe with a truck and an attitude. Much as I dislike her, she should know about this killer, since she tends to draw attention.

  “First of all, you need to put that cigarette out before you set off the hospital sprinklers. Second, there’s a serial killer running around Buckneck. You need to be careful.”

  She coughs and drops the cigarette onto a tile, grinding it out with one of her royal blue heels. “You serious?”

  I pull a Kleenex from my purse and pick up the charred cigarette and ash, shoving the nasty trash at Rosemary to deal with. “I don’t joke about murder. Thank the Lord Charlotte escaped. I don’t know how she got away from this maniac, but she did. We don’t even know what he hit her with, but he hit her hard to gash her head that bad.”

  She looks genuinely apologetic. “Look, I know I haven’t been the nicest to either one of you, but Charlotte is a good woman. Laid back, free-spirited…just what Dad needs. Any way I can help? I know I’m a ways out in Point Pleasant…”

  For some reason, Byron springs to mind. He talked about meeting me in town. I wonder if Rosemary could do a little undercover reconnaissance for me. Then again, if he’s the killer, that’s putting her right in harm’s way.

  “I can tell that complex brunette brain of yours is working something up,” she says. “Tell me.”

  “I’m not sure yet. Tell you what, you give me your phone number and I’ll call you if I figure out a plan.”

  We exchange numbers and Rosemary gives me a parting wink. “You hurry on back to that husband of yours. I declare he must be the yummiest man in the entire state of West Virginia. You got yourself a keeper there, Tess.”

  I grit my teeth as I stalk out to the SUV, recalling all too well the time Rosemary was our waitress at the Bistro Americain. She made googly eyes at Thomas and even dropped some sultry innuendo. Thankfully, he was completely oblivious, distracted by an argument we were having.

  Still, she might be able to help me gather information on Byron, since I can’t really get close to him at this point. For instance, where does he live? Why does he keep showing up at the Crystal Mountain Spa? Did he share some insight about the killer with Tawny?

  Something tells me Rosemary could handle this job with ease, capitalizing on her feminine charms. And if Byron tried to kill her…well, I wouldn’t put it past her to run him down with her gigantic truck or shove a lit cigarette in his eye. She’s got a little bit of crazy in her.

  If only Charlotte would wake up, maybe she could tell us something about this killer. Did she see him? Where did he strike and how? What happened? As I wind across the mountain, I pray she’ll come to soon.

  I stop by the police station in town. Detective Tucker told me to pick up the copies of the letters on my way home. Nothing like sitting on my own couch, chillaxing, and reading the as-yet-unpublished memoirs of a serial killer.

  I finagle my SUV into a parallel parking spot, drawing from faded Driver’s Ed memories to do it properly. The phone rings as I put the SUV in park, and it’s Nikki Jo. Her musical, ever-cheery voice makes it difficult to feel down.

  “How was Charlotte?”

  I give her a brief update, and she continues.

  “Honey, I know this was a humdinger of a day for you. I’ve already made us some pasta salad and chicken avocado pizza. Just keeping the food light in this heat. Mira Brooke finally went down for her nap. See you soon?”

  After saying goodbye, I adjust my flyaway bangs in the rear-view mirror and throw on a coat of lip gloss. About time for a haircut, I’d say. Glancing at my hands, I notice my chipped red nail polish gives the general impression of bleeding fingertips. I guess it beats that time my pale blue toenails resembled frostbite.

  I meet up with the friendly cop I’d talked to at The Haven. His sunburned cheeks only highlight his ruddy complexion and I figure he’s been out fishing recently.

  “Mrs. S! What can I do ya for?” He leans over the counter, burly muscles pulling his sleeves taut.

  “Detective Tucker said I could pick up some letters. He said someone would put them on his desk.”

  “Sure thing. Follow me.”

  I figure most visitors wouldn’t get a tour of the back office at the police station, but because I’m Thomas Spencer’s wife, I can get farther than most in this town. I’m struck again by the level of respect police officers have for my husband. Kind of like the respect Thomas has for Detective Tucker.

  The detective’s office is cramped, with no window. Something tells me he enjoys that cloistered feeling far more than I would. There’s a picture of his wife on the bookshelf, and she’s a total knockout. She looks very sleek and urban, compared to Detective Tucker’s rugged survivalist persona.

  His desk is shockingly well-organized, almost like he’s OCD about things. I wouldn’t have expected that, either. He’s far more multi-layered than I initially assumed.

  The friendly officer rummages around in the inbox and finally discovers a manila envelope. “This is it,” he says, handing it to me. “You helping Detective Tucker?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “If it’s what I think it is, you need to be careful, Mrs. S. Hey—if they catch this guy, will Thomas prosecute him? When’s he getting sworn in?”

  These questions just remind me how little I’ve been able to connect with Thomas lately. I don’t even know the latest on when he’s stepping into his new job.

  “It’ll probably be in the paper. Thanks…um…” I read his badge. “Lieutenant Wickline.”

  “No trouble. Just be careful and keep your nose clean.” He winks.

  THOMAS CALLS AS I’M pulli
ng Nikki Jo’s carefully-packed food from a Chico’s bag. Mira Brooke plays with Velvet in the living room. It’s a little game where the cat sneaks from behind the couch, lets Mira Brooke pet her once, then bats at her hands before zipping into hiding again. Mira Brooke gets no end of thrills from my white puffball feline.

  Thomas says what I don’t want to hear. “I’m going to be late again. Winding up some more cases before I leave. You can bet Royston’s going to squeeze every bit of work out of me before cutting me free.”

  I don’t want to add to Thomas’ burden by giving him the rundown on my day. “When’s your swearing-in, babe? We haven’t even gotten to talk about it.”

  “Next week. I’d love for you to come and bring Mira Brooke. She won’t understand what’s going on, but it would mean a lot to me. That way, people can meet you both.”

  “Sure thing. Keep your eyes on the prize.”

  Mira Brooke toddles over to me, ready to eat. I nuzzle into her cheek and savor the softness of it. Someday my girl will be a grown woman in Buckneck, just like the women this guy is stalking and killing. Morbid thought, but it gives me all the more incentive to help stop this freak while he’s in our town.

  Charlotte should be with her mom, not lying in a hospital bed. Or she should be here, playing with Mira Brooke and reading letters with me. The dam bursts on the tears I’ve held back, and Mira Brooke pats at my wet cheeks. “Maa,” she croons.

  I pull myself together enough to feed my baby and bathe her, but deep down I’m totally falling apart. Charlotte could have died. She’s only forty-one.

  Cute as a button in her flamingo-emblazoned onesie, Mira Brooke sits in a scholarly pose as I read Goodnight, Moon to her. It’s one of her favorite books, even at this tender age. I tuck her into the crib, praying over her as I always do. I pray she will never in her life run into this kind of evil person and that God will hedge her with protection.

  And I pray that God will hedge me as I pore over these letters, so we can put a face on the seemingly invisible Buckneck stalker.