“It’s very good—the best in town, if you ask me,” she said with a smile.
That’s what everyone said. “I’ll try it and let you know.”
“And I’ll have iced tea,” Corey said. After Amy brought their drink orders and Emma had sipped her coffee, he asked, “How is it?”
“It’s good—strong without being bitter.”
“I’ll remember that.” He opened his menu and then peered at her over the top. “Do you see anything special you’d like to order?”
She hadn’t even looked at her menu and picked it up, perusing it. She’d heard the Mediterranean food was fabulous here. “The chicken kebob looks good,” she said.
“Do you like salmon?”
While the prices were moderate, the salmon was the costliest item on the menu, and she never ordered expensive food. “I think I’ll go with the chicken.”
“But do you like salmon?”
“Well, sure, but—”
“Then salmon it will be. Now for your sides?”
“No. I’m not in the mood for salmon.” She was tired of men telling her what to do.
“But it’s so good for you,” he said. “And a green salad with feta and the vegetables would go well with it.”
“I eat healthy every day of my life. Tonight, I want to splurge.” She glanced at the menu once more. Was he insisting because the salmon was costlier? Was he trying to impress her? If so, she could fix that.
“How about I order the steak and the sides you chose, except leave off the feta,” Emma said, closing her menu. She glanced up to find him studying her, like he’d never really seen her before. “What are you having?”
“I think I’ll splurge with you,” he said with a smile. Corey motioned for the waitress, and she hurried over. When he finished ordering for them both, she said, “I’ll be right back with your salads.”
“You surprised me a little,” he said as soft music played in the background. “I don’t often see that side of you.”
She almost said “get used to it,” but instead she allowed a tiny smile to surface. “I just hated to see you waste your money.”
“That was very thoughtful of you,” Corey said.
His words were warm, but the slight twitch of his right eye as he unwrapped the napkin around his knife and fork told a different story. Mr. Corey Chandler wasn’t accustomed to women not falling right in line with what he wanted.
“Do we want to get business out of the way while we wait for our food?”
“Sure. Maybe we can start with why your client doesn’t want the project to start.”
“Why don’t we start with why you want to do it? I understand from your supervisor the project is your idea.”
Corey had been asking around about her. “My reasons are twofold. I want to document the lives of the people who lived in the cabins. And as for the slave cemetery, I think it’s important to give dignity to those buried there. They didn’t have it when they were alive, but if there’s any way possible, they’ll have it now.” Emma sat back in the chair, warming under his intense scrutiny. “And now I’ll get off my soapbox.”
“I will give you this—you’re very passionate about the project.”
“Oh yes.”
“Why?” he asked. “Most people are motivated by more than ideals. What’s in this for you?”
She blinked. Did she dare tell him one reason was that it would open the door to a promotion and her dream job? Emma lifted her chin. There was nothing wrong with having ambition. “I want to be a National Park Service historian, and competition for those positions is fierce.”
Corey smiled. “You would make a good one.”
“Does that mean you’ll put in a good word for me with your client?”
His blue eyes twinkled. “Yes, and I’ll see what I can do to smooth the way for you.”
“Who is this client?” Emma knew he wouldn’t tell her, but she couldn’t keep from asking.
He lifted an eyebrow. “You know I’m not at liberty to give you that information.”
“At least tell me why he doesn’t want the project done.”
The waitress picked that moment to bring their salads, and Corey smiled at her. “Thank you, Amy.”
Emma dipped a piece of lettuce in her raspberry vinaigrette. She was getting pretty good eating with her left hand because she hadn’t given up, and she was not giving up now either. “Is it because I’m not a person of color?”
He coughed and patted his chest. “Sorry. I swallowed wrong.”
“Was it something I said?”
“You are very direct,” he said. “Why is it so important to know who my client is?”
She laid her fork down. “If someone opposed something you very much wanted to do, wouldn’t you want to know about the opposition?”
Corey leaned against the back of the chair. “I suppose. Tell you what, I’ll talk with my client, and perhaps I can make him see that you would be the best person to conduct this project.”
“Would you really?” When he slowly nodded, a smile spread across her face. “Thank you!”
Talk dwindled to almost nothing until they were almost finished with their salads. “So, where did you go to law school?” she asked.
“The University of Mississippi Law School.”
“Ole Miss? Really? What years?”
When he told her, she tilted her head. “I think Trey Carter and Gordon Cole attended Ole Miss then. Did you know them?”
“Not then, but I’ve met them since I moved to Natchez. I didn’t know Trey went to law school.”
“He wanted to be a lawyer, but his dad, Sheriff Carter, had other ideas. Trey ended up with a degree in law enforcement and went to work for his dad as a deputy, and now he’s Nate’s chief deputy.”
Corey tilted his head. “How about you? Where did you go to college?”
“Mississippi State University. I just completed my master’s in American history.”
“I’m impressed,” he said. “How did you find the time?”
“I did most of it online, except when I defended my thesis,” she said. “And I think I’m qualified to complete the project at Mount Locust.”
“I would say you are. What if I took part in the project? Maybe as an advisor? I’m certain my client would drop their objections if you agreed.”
Before she could answer, their main course arrived. “This looks good,” she said, avoiding his question. If the client wanted someone of color to oversee the project, Corey didn’t fit the bill any better than she did. She paused with her fork in midair. Unless there was no client.
Corey looked up from his food. “What?”
Heat rose on her face. Why did these thoughts pop into her head?
He laid his fork down and then checked the front of his shirt. “Did I spill something?” When she shook her head, he asked, “Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“Why would your client accept you and not me to work on the project?”
“He doesn’t know you, but he does know and trust me.”
She could see his point, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. “With my credentials—”
He stopped her. “I will assure him you will do the job better than anyone else. Satisfied?”
“Yes, and thank you.” Sometimes being straightforward worked.
He picked up his fork again. “What did you discover in that hole at Mount Locust?”
55
While the file printed, Sam dialed the number the hospital had given him for the ICU nurses’ station. Both Mr. Selby and his daughter were still hanging on and still critical. He disconnected and texted the information to Emma before he relayed the news to Brooke.
“I hope they make it. Emma must be pretty shook up over it,” she said and walked to the kitchen.
“She is. I’m going back by her apartment when I leave here.” There was a case of water in the corner, and Sam grabbed a bottle, uncapping it.
Brooke came back with a
cup of coffee. “So, how is it going between you two?”
He almost spat the water out. “What do you mean?” he said when he quit coughing.
“Anyone can see you two belong together. Never knew why you broke up in the first place,” she said. “I take that back. Emma has trouble giving relationships time to gel.”
“Why do you think that is?” Sam asked. Maybe if he knew why, he could reduce the fallout when he told her his secret.
Brooke pressed her lips together. “That’s something you two should talk about . . . not me and you.”
“You’re right,” he admitted. “But if you have any suggestions . . .”
She thought a minute. “If you hit a rough spot, make Emma talk about her feelings. Don’t let her cut and run.”
The printer shut off, and Sam retrieved a stack of sheets from the tray. In the query, his parameters had included murders with couples as victims and where the female received flowers from an unknown subject. It appeared that four fell within that framework. He would spread his search nationwide after he looked over this report, if he thought it was warranted.
After scanning the pages, he set aside two of the cases. In one, the murderer was caught prior to Mary Jo’s death. In the second case, the flowers the victim received had been roses. Neither of them felt right for a connection to Mary Jo, but he may have found the connection he was looking for in the other two cases.
He made notes on a yellow legal pad as he read the reports. The first murder occurred just outside of Oxford, Mississippi, two years after Mary Jo’s death. The man’s body was found by hunters. He was shot in the back, just like Sandra Wyatt. The woman was found a couple of days later in a wooded area within half a mile of the man, and the coroner put her death at a day later than the man’s. Cause of death was listed as blunt force trauma. She held a crushed daisy in her hand. A family member had told police she’d received a bouquet of daisies just days before she was murdered. The police were never able to discover who had sent the flowers or who committed the murders.
Sam stared at the report, and then he handed the file to Brooke. “Read this and tell me what you think.”
He read the next file, writing more notes. This murder had taken place four years ago, and like the other case, the man was murdered first and then the woman, with their bodies found within a mile of each other in a heavily wooded area near Raymond, Mississippi, a small town in Hinds County south of Jackson. Again, the man had been shot and the woman had blunt force trauma. She had received daisies only days before her death. While no daisies were found at the murder scene, two days after her funeral, a bouquet showed up on her grave.
Sam handed Brooke the second case and then leaned back in his chair as he read the witness reports. In both cases, it appeared the woman had been stalked. “What do you think?” he asked as Brooke laid the second file on the desk.
“Looks like the women were the target of the same stalker.” She chewed her bottom lip. “There are four years between these two murders, with the first one occurring two years after Mary Jo and Ryan were killed—if Ryan was killed the same night. I think they were his first kills, then these.”
“But why kill the man?”
“They were always first, so to clear the way for the stalker?”
“Could be,” he said. “Have you ever heard of erotomania?”
“No. What is it?”
“It’s when someone believes another person is in love with them despite clear evidence to the contrary. A couple of famous cases involved Jodie Foster and her stalker, John Hinckley, and then there was Peggy Ray, who stalked David Letterman.”
“Yeah, I remember the Hinckley case. He shot a president, trying to impress Foster.” She tapped the files. “You think that might be what happened here?”
He sighed. “Possibly. These cases aren’t a perfect fit, but I think I’ll see what else I can learn about them.”
“But if someone was in love with Emma, why would they shoot at her? Twice?”
Sam thought a minute. “We may be dealing with two different shooters. At Mount Locust, what if the killer had come back to remove Ryan’s body, and he was just trying to scare her away?”
“But why hadn’t he moved it before now?”
“I doubt he would ever have moved the body if the cemetery hadn’t been set up to be mapped again,” Sam said, trying to think like the killer. “He knew once Ryan’s body was identified, Mary Jo’s case would be reopened.”
“Okay, that explains that shooting, but not the one at Emma’s apartment.”
He tapped the files. “Maybe this shooter was trying to get rid of me. If I hadn’t stooped to get her keys, I would be, if not dead, badly wounded.”
Sam checked for the names of the investigating officers. Eric Lane was a detective with the Hinds County Sheriff’s Department in Jackson, and Doug Marsh was with the Lafayette Sheriff’s Department in Oxford. He looked up the sheriffs’ phone numbers in both cities. Neither detective was on duty, but dispatch in Jackson gave him the investigator’s cell phone number. He dialed, and when Eric Lane answered, they made arrangements to meet the next morning at nine thirty. Before he disconnected, he asked Lane if he’d ever encountered a case involving erotomania. The detective hadn’t, but said he would research it before Sam arrived.
Sam left word for the detective in Oxford to call him, along with a request that he research erotomania. His gut told him these two cases were connected to Mary Jo’s case and therefore Emma.
Brooke stood. “I’m headed home.” At the door she turned and looked at him. “The person who dug up Ryan’s body knew how to operate a backhoe. Have you checked with Guy Armstrong about employees who worked in maintenance ten years ago? If the person who killed them worked for the park service, they would have been familiar with the backhoe . . . they might even know how to start the machine without a key.”
Sam gave her a thumbs-up. “Good thinking.”
When she left, he looked up Armstrong’s phone number and dialed. After Sam identified himself, he said, “Can you get me a list of employees from ten years ago? And how many of them are current maintenance employees?”
“Can I get back to you tomorrow?” Armstrong said. “I’ll have to research that.”
“Sure.”
“Do you just want the names of permanent workers?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we had and still have a lot of seasonal employees,” the manager said. “Workers like Trey Carter. Every summer when he was in college, he worked for me. I can probably name a couple more if I think about it.”
“Yeah, I’d like a list of the seasonal workers as well.” Sam stared at the files on the desk. “Did Trey ever operate the backhoe?”
“Yeah. And he was a good worker. I really hoped he’d stay on, but his daddy wanted him in the sheriff’s department. Anyway, I’ll get you a list of names tomorrow.”
Sam hung up and tented his fingers. So, Trey Carter was working as a park service maintenance employee ten years ago.
56
Sam gathered the files scattered across the desk and slid them into an envelope. He’d tried to reach Trey, but he didn’t answer. After he tried again, Sam dialed Nate’s number.
“Rawlings,” the sheriff answered.
“Ryker here. I’m trying to reach Trey, but he’s not answering.”
“He took a few days off to go deer hunting before the season ends,” Nate said. “Whatcha need?”
“Did you know he worked for the park service ten years ago as a seasonal maintenance worker?”
“No. Are you saying he might be involved in Mary Jo’s and Ryan’s deaths?”
“Not yet, but according to the maintenance director, Trey worked for him most summers during his college years, operating a backhoe. I want to talk to him.” Vehicle lights flashed across the window. “Do you know where he is?”
“He’s at his cabin. I’ve been there, but it’s been a while. I’ll get the directions and call yo
u back.”
“Good deal.” After exchanging a few more words, Sam hung up and walked to the door. He frowned. Was that a motor running? Maybe Clayton had returned from his rounds. When he opened the door, a tan Civic that looked a lot like his sister’s car idled in the parking lot. What was she doing here? If there was an emergency, she would have called. It was too dark to see who was driving, and he rested his hand on his gun as he approached the car. The window lowered, and Sam stepped back when he recognized his father behind the wheel.
“Hello, Sam.”
“What do you want?” he asked through a rigid jaw.
“You won’t come to me, so I thought I’d come to you,” his father said, then he took a deep breath. “I want to apologize and ask your forgiveness.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m not.” His dad’s gaze skittered away, and neither of them spoke. He lifted his chin and looked Sam in the eye. “I was a terrible father, and I’m sorry for everything I ever did to you.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you think it’s a little late for an apology?”
Even in the dim light from overhead, his father’s face turned white. Or had it already been white?
“I don’t blame you for being angry, son—”
“Don’t call me that.”
His dad dipped his head, and he pressed his lips together. “All right, but I wanted you to know I’m not the person I used to be.”
He waited for his dad to continue, but the silence grew until it was broken by the haunting sound of an owl’s hoot. Sam tapped the side of his leg. “Well, if there’s nothing else, I need to be somewhere.”
His dad’s shoulders drooped. “Sure. I just wanted to try to make amends before . . .”
“There are some things in life you can’t undo.”
“I know. And I’ll have to live with what I did to you and your mom the rest of my life. However long that will be. I thank God every day that she’s forgiven me. I certainly don’t deserve it.” He cleared his throat. “And I wanted you to know how proud I am of you,” he said, his voice breaking.
The words Sam had wanted to hear his entire childhood threatened to buckle his legs. He stiffened his back and folded his arms across his chest. He was not forgiving his father. Not tonight. Not ever.
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