“It’s not so confidential if I already know that you helped her find Tracy Saunders, who I also believe was murdered.”
George rubbed the back of his neck. “Ma’am, I think maybe you should leave.”
“Could you open your mind and hear me out? Please. Just give me a few minutes to explain. At this point, I think you’re the only one who can help me. And, when I’m finished, if you still want me to leave, I will. Then I’ll drive to Milwaukee and check on Tracy myself.”
He glanced at his watch, then met her gaze. “You’ve got five minutes.”
“Thank you,” she said, relieved. “Remember you said that.”
“My memory is just fine.”
“Good.” She straightened and let out a breath. “I’m psychic,” she admitted, then arched a brow when he didn’t even flinch. “No comment?”
He looked at his watch again. “You still have four and a half minutes. Say what you need to say.”
Undeterred, she quickly explained everything that had occurred since Wednesday evening. When she finished, her mouth had gone dry from either talking too much or nerves, maybe both. She plucked a roll of mints from her purse, took one, then offered the roll to George.
After declining, he checked his watch.
She shrugged. “Sorry, I might’ve gone over five minutes.”
“You went more than might’ve.” His face unreadable, he leaned forward. “There’s only one reason I didn’t stop you. When Sandra first came to me, we talked for a long time. She was a good woman. Hell, eventually I ended up considering her a friend. Anyway, she told me about the day she learned she was pregnant. She was sixteen and went off into the fields near her family’s farmhouse. She said she placed a quilt in a grassy field filled with wildflowers, then she lay down on that quilt and touched her stomach. Sandra told me she was excited and scared about being pregnant. The baby’s father had been her boyfriend for two years. He was also a couple of years older than her. Sandra’s strict Catholic parents didn’t approve of him, but she kept seeing him anyway.” His lips thinned in a grim line. “She planned on marrying that boy, only he died during his first tour in Vietnam, a month after she found out she was pregnant. She never had the chance to tell him he’d fathered a child.”
Poor Sandra. “Did she tell her boyfriend’s family?”
“She did. She snuck behind her parents’ back and contacted the family, hoping they’d help her keep the child.” He shook his head. “They were so devastated over the loss of their son, they wanted nothing to do with Sandra or the baby.” He was silent for a moment, then he cleared his throat and picked up the phone. “I don’t know how much of what you’ve told me I believe, but I can’t disregard the wildflowers. That’s something Sandra said she’d never told anyone. But I’ll call Tracy and give her a heads up. She might not even know Sandra died, or that the attorney is waiting on her.”
“I tried calling her last night and this morning. Both times the call rolled into voicemail.” As he dialed, she thought about what he’d said. “How do you know the attorney is waiting on her?”
George placed the phone to his ear. “Because Sandra told me she planned to leave Tracy twenty-five thousand dollars. Ten so Tracy could take her dream trip to Europe, and fifteen so she could finish renovating her century-old home.”
Although Celeste still wore her parka, a chill shivered through her. One of Tracy’s final thoughts had been about that dream trip. She’d also told the black figure how she still had more home remodeling to complete. “I wonder what Sandra’s estate is worth,” she said. Twenty-five grand was a lot of money, but was it worth the lives of two people?
“I’m nosy, but not that crass,” George said, still holding the phone, then he held up a finger. “Hi, Tracy. It’s George Landry. Could you please give me a call when you have the chance? It’s important.” He ended the call, then set down the phone and drummed his fingers along the desk. “I didn’t ask Sandra about her financial affairs, but by the way she talked, between her house—that she owned outright—her 401K, stock investments and savings, I got the impression she was worth close to maybe three-quarters of a million. Maybe more.”
“And I got the impression that whoever killed Sandra and Tracy didn’t want to part with any of that money.”
“Right. You said you believe they wanted the adoption records.” He stopped drumming his fingers. “Here’s the thing, although Sandra’s parents insisted on a closed adoption, with the way things are today—especially if the cops suspect foul play—those records would still be on file in Indiana where the adoption took place.”
“But wouldn’t the cops have to know that there was an adoption to even suspect foul play?” she countered. “And even though Sandra’s attorney is obviously aware, the other two parties—Kelly and Lea—might not. Which is why I think Lea and maybe even her husband are involved.”
“Good point.” He half-smiled. “You sound like an investigator.”
“I happen to be married to one, so he might’ve rubbed off on me.”
George’s eyebrows rose as he stood and grabbed his coat off the back of his chair. “Your husband’s a cop? Why didn’t you talk to him about this?”
She also stood. “Where are you going?”
“I thought we were going to Milwaukee.”
“Does this mean you believe me?” she asked, both stunned and relieved. In the past, most people had discounted her if she’d told them she was psychic.
“Not sure,” he said. “But my intuition is telling me not to discount you.” He picked up his car keys and cell phone. “Now about that husband of yours. Is he a cop?”
“No. He’s a former criminalist for the FBI, and now works for a criminal investigation agency. That’s how I got your and Tracy’s information.”
“Interesting. Well, we have a ninety-minute drive to Tracy’s. Between Sandra and your husband, I think we have plenty of topics to kill the time.” After he locked the door to his office, he asked, “Does your husband believe in your psychic visions?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s former FBI? What agency does he work for now?”
“CORE.”
He puffed his cheeks and blew out a breath. “Well, shit. We really do have plenty of things to talk about. Come on. I’ll drive.”
*
“This is it,” George said, as he parked long the curb of an old foursquare home that had been painted a light gray and accented with white trim around the windows, door and large porch columns. Although the late February weather kept the trees barren and several feet of snow covered the grass and flowerbeds, Celeste imagined the house looked beautiful in the spring.
She slipped on a pair of gloves. “Considering the house was built in 1910, it looks like Tracy did a great job with the exterior renovations.”
With his hand on the driver’s side door handle, George paused. “How do you know the house was built in 1910?”
“Because I was there when Tracy told her killer about the house and all the work she’d put in to it.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Or maybe you know your homes.”
They both climbed out of George’s Ford Explorer and met at the sidewalk leading to the front porch. “I admit to being familiar with a house this old,” Celeste began, “I grew up in a small town in Wisconsin. Before I moved to Chicago, I owned a colonial style home, but there were several foursquare houses on my street like this one. All of the homes were built in the late 1800s to early 1900s. But I did hear her say this house was built in 1910.”
“I’m not saying I don’t believe you.” George stopped in the middle of the walkway and shifted his gaze from the driveway to the porch. “We got company.”
Celeste looked to the porch, just as a woman and a young girl, who she figured to be about twelve or thirteen, stepped from behind one of the columns. With a second glance to the driveway, she noticed the tail end of a car, the rest of the vehicle hidden by the house.
Frowning, the wo
man marched down the porch steps. “Are you here to see Tracy?” she asked.
George nodded. “We are.”
“Yeah, well, good luck with that. She’s not here.” The woman looked to her daughter. “Let’s go. You’ll have to practice at home.”
“But my recital is tomorrow,” the girl complained.
“Tracy is your piano teacher?” Celeste asked the girl.
“Yes,” the mother answered. “And Tracy knew how important this was to my daughter.” She shook her head. “I’m honestly more worried than mad. It’s not like Tracy to forget appointments. She’s also not answering her phone.”
“I’m mad.” The girl crossed her arms, making her puffy coat bunch up at the chest. “If I don’t do good, it’ll be her fault.”
Kids could be so self-centered. Celeste let out breath which caught on the icy air. “What time was your lesson?” she asked.
“Lessons,” the woman said, stressing the ‘s’. “She wasn’t here Thursday afternoon, either.” She glanced to her daughter again. “Looks like we’ll be searching for a new piano teacher.” Mother and daughter stepped off the porch. As the girl continued toward the driveway, the woman stopped. “Don’t get me wrong, I like Tracy. I hope she’s okay, but I still have to deal with—”
“C’mon, mom. It’s freezing and I need to practice,” the girl whined.
“I gotta deal with that.” With a roll of her eyes, the mother followed after her daughter.
“Wait,” Celeste called. “When was the last time you saw Tracy?”
“Tuesday evening. I picked up my daughter after her lesson around seven-thirty,” she said, then disappeared around the side of the house.
Once she’d backed out of the driveway, Celeste turned to George. “Sandra was murdered at some point on Wednesday. That’s a fact and not something I pulled from the vision I had. This means Tracy could’ve been murdered sometime between Tuesday night and Thursday afternoon.”
“From Chicago, it’s a two-hour trip to Milwaukee.” George pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “If you’re right about Tracy, then the killer needed at least a five-hour window to drive here, murder Tracy, then drive back to Chicago. Your small list of suspects…do any of them have that kind of time in their day?”
“Lea does.” She didn’t work and, according to Kelly, had used the au pair or daycare to free up her day for time at the gym, shopping, lunches and manicures. “If we could convince the Chicago PD to take another look into Sandra’s death, they could confirm alibis for Lea, along with her husband and Kelly’s.”
“Sandra told me Lea’s husband was okay—not her first choice for her daughter—but he was all right.” George tapped at the cell phone screen. “She also said she never liked Kelly’s husband. Said something about him being very controlling and verbally abusive to her daughter.”
Celeste had witnessed Dale in action. He was a total jerk, but was he capable of murder? Plus, if Sandra never liked Dale, Celeste doubted the heavy betrayal and sadness she’d felt through Sandra would have been as strong.
When George placed the phone to his ear, she asked, “Are you calling Tracy again?”
“No. A Milwaukee detective I met during my search for Tracy.” He held up a finger. “Joe? It’s George Landry, how you doing?” After a pause, George said, “I’m standing outside Tracy Saunders’ house. I’m worried about her and need a couple of officers here to do a wellness check. Can you make that happen for me?” After a few moments, George thanked the detective and pocketed the phone. “Joe’s coming himself and bringing his partner along with him. They should be here in about fifteen minutes.”
While they waited for the detectives in the warmth of George’s SUV, Celeste kept thinking about the timing of Tracy’s murders. “She had to have been killed the same day as Sandra.”
“What makes you think that?” George asked. “And, you don’t even know for a fact Tracy is dead.”
The comforting white light teased her mind. “You’re right. I could be wrong about everything. But let’s say I am right. If the killer is from Chicago and needed five hours to come here, drown her, then drive home…if they got to Tracy’s around eight that night, that would put them back in Chicago around one in the morning. Right?”
“Right.” He rubbed his jaw with his gloved hand. “Unless your suspects are known to stay out late—especially during the week—that’d raise suspicions with their spouses.”
“Since I can confirm that Lea was with Kelly on Thursday, and that Kelly’s husband was also with them, then went back to work, Tracy had to have died on Wednesday.”
“But can you confirm Lea’s husband’s whereabouts?”
“No. The police could.”
“If they suspect foul play.” He sighed. “Look, I’m not discounting any of your suspicions. During the thirty years I’d been with the Chicago PD, I saw things that—if I didn’t have proof—people would think I was making up stories. Killing two people in one day? Seen it before. But your suspects are a stay-at-home mom, an attorney and a computer guy. Unless the two husbands took an entire day off of work, they couldn’t have pulled off the double murders. There’s just not enough time in the day.”
“Which leaves Lea. Did Sandra ever talk about her daughters with you?”
“Sure. Not much though. She did tell me she was worried about how they’d react once they found out about Tracy.”
“So she planned to tell them?”
He nodded. “Since she was leaving Tracy money, she’d said she wanted her daughters to learn about the half-sister from her, rather than during the reading of her will.”
Another memory from last night’s trance tugged at her. “During my vision last night, as Tracy was being attacked she asked about Sandra. The killer had said something like, ‘I’d tell you to ask Sandra, but she’s as good as dead.’”
“Anything else?” George asked.
“Yes, Tracy asked if Sandra was dead and the killer told her, not yet. So, if Tracy was attacked the way I saw it, that would mean that Tracy was dead before Sandra.”
He looked out of the front windshield, just as a dark sedan, followed by a police cruiser, pulled into Tracy’s driveway. “Time to stop speculating and find out if you’re right about Tracy.” He turned to her, his eyes grave. “And I hope to God you’re wrong.”
She did, too. But as she stepped out of the Explorer and neared the police waiting by the front porch, dread settled on her chest. The killer had climbed these same steps and, under the ruse of wanting to learn how to play the piano, had entered this house and taken Tracy’s life. Could she be wrong? After two years without a psychic vision, was her active imagination simply filling in the questionable blanks?
While George introduced her to Detective Joe Foster, a forty-something trim man with dark hair and a deep cleft in his chin, along with Joe’s partner, Detective Rob Kliess, the two uniformed officers worked on opening Tracy’s front door. After about twenty minutes, they succeeded without causing damage to the door, then one of the officers stepped inside. He immediately stepped back onto the porch, holding a hand over his mouth.
Frowning, Joe looked at his partner, then to George. “Hang tight. We’ll be right back.”
The stench drifting from the house lingered, even after the door had been closed. With her stomach nauseous from the foul odor and the memories of Tracy’s final moments, she stood on the porch and watched as George paced. The two other officers also remained outside. The one who had gone into the foyer looked as if he might lose his breakfast at any moment.
Minutes later, Joe opened the door and stepped onto the porch. His face grim and ashen, he nodded to the two cops. “Get the crime scene tape and set up a perimeter around the house.” Hand shaking, he pulled his cell phone from the front pocket of his coat. His eyes held apology and sympathy when he finally looked at George. “I’m sorry, George.”
“Tracy’s dead?”
“We found her in the bathtub.”
George
’s eyes widened as he shifted his gaze to her. “Accidental?” he asked, still studying her.
“No. Before I call this in, I’m wondering why neither of you seem surprised.”
George blinked a few times before wiping a gloved hand down his face. He turned to Joe. “Ever work with a psychic before?”
Joe glanced to her. “No.”
“You might change your mind after you hear what Celeste has to say.”
Chapter 10
CELESTE PARKED IN front of Maxine’s. She quickly sent John a text to let him know it would be another hour or so before she’d be home, then she exited the Jeep. Although she considered Maxine her psychic mentor, right now she needed the woman to play the role of psychic therapist. She could tell John everything that had gone on while in Milwaukee—and she would—but John was all about evidence. While she could now present him with plenty of evidence, what she couldn’t answer was what had happened when she’d gone to the light with Tracy. Celeste hoped Maxine could help her with this and give her something to reassure John that she could and would come back from the light, should she ever find herself there again.
When she entered Maxine’s, the woman quickly embraced her. Although surprised, Celeste hugged her back. Tightly. She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed the physical connection and, in that moment, how much she and Maxine were in sync.
“Are you okay?” Maxine asked, leading her into the kitchen instead of the unicorn parlor. Celeste instantly envied the huge kitchen and all its modern amenities. The kitchen she had at the condo she shared with John was a quarter of the size of Maxine’s, and Celeste easily pictured whipping up a meal for a huge party using Maxine’s extensive counter space and double ovens.
“Honestly, no,” she said, taking a seat at the stool in front of the island. She brushed her hand along the quartz countertop. “Tracy’s dead.”
Maxine’s eyes filled with sadness, but not shock. When Celeste had called her last evening to ask if they could get together, she’d told Maxine she had planned to meet with George with the hope of finding out more about Tracy. So much had happened since then…the trance, the police treating Tracy’s house as a crime scene, the forensics investigators, the black body bag…
Celeste Files: Unlocked Page 11
