by Lisa Jackson
His insides quivered and he licked the edge of his mouth, silently hoping that she would turn in his direction so he could get a glimpse of her incredible face. Her profile was regal. Classic. But he wanted desperately to stare into her eyes.
It was not to be.
Instead, she turned her head in the opposite direction, giving him a brief view of glossy black hair as she drove through the intersection. Immediately after the turn, she flipped on her blinker and rolled into the theater’s parking lot.
He smiled inwardly, feeling a deep satisfaction.
He knew the remodeled church as well as he did his own home. As well as he knew hers.
His pulse was thrumming in his ears now…he hadn’t expected to see her and usually he planned everything. But this…this sighting was so close it had to be fate. Kismet.
As she stepped out of the cab of the truck, she paused and looked up the street.
He couldn’t resist. He left more than enough money on the counter, hurried outside, and bundled against the wind, walked toward the theater.
In an alley across the street, he stood in the shadow of a huge fir tree and watched her climb the steps to the double doors. She pulled one open. As she did, before she disappeared inside, he blew her a kiss.
“It won’t be long,” he promised, his voice the barest of whispers in the rush of icy wind.
“So what have we got?” Carter asked BJ as she settled into the side chair near his desk. He was just taking off his jacket and hadn’t quite shaken off the encounter with Jenna Hughes, which bothered the hell out of him. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have more important things to think about.
“What have we got?” BJ repeated, shaking her head. “Not enough.” BJ’s hair was short and brown, shot with streaks of red. Her facial features were on the small side, except for her eyes, which were large, dark brown, and didn’t miss much. “The M.E. is still working on Jane Doe. We’re not certain of when Jane Doe died, but the M.E. thinks it’s probably within the year—possibly last spring, because of the decay of the body, the insect larvae found around it, the fact that animals had dragged body parts away. You’ll get a full report as soon as one’s available.”
Carter frowned and tapped the eraser end of his pencil on his cluttered desk. “I talked to Missing Persons in Salem. Nothing yet, but they’re still working on trying to match Jane physically to someone who’s been reported missing in the last couple of years.”
“Just statewide?”
“More. West Coast for starters, and I’ve talked to the local jurisdictions, as well. Just to double-check. So far, nada.” Carter fiddled with his pencil, wiggling it between his fingers, a nervous habit he’d taken up right after he quit smoking. It had worked for him except for that black time surrounding Carolyn’s death. From the corner of his eye, he saw the last remaining picture he’d kept of her in the office, propped in a rosewood frame, a snapshot he’d taken of her on their last trip to the coast. “What about cause of death?”
“Unknown at this time, but the M.E.’s working on it.”
“And the pink stuff on her hair?”
“I asked about that and they’re still analyzing it.” Her lips folded over her teeth as they often did when she was mentally working through some kind of puzzle. “It’s probably some kind of synthetic, sort of like modeling clay made out of some rubbery substance. Kind of like…Silly String or Play-Doh, but not really…”
“Plastic?”
“I don’t even think they can go that far. But the lab’s working on it.”
“And?” he encouraged, seeing her eyebrows knit.
“And?” she repeated.
“And you look like you have something more to say.”
“Nothing concrete, but they found more of that pink stuff in the log. Quite a bit of it. They’re trying to reconstruct the scene.”
“So she had it on her body?”
“Maybe, but more likely in her body. The stuff was compacted, solid, in bigger chunks rather than a little bit that would have been smeared on her. They think it was either in her lungs or her stomach.”
“She ingested it?”
“Maybe. Possibly drowned in it. That pink gunk, whatever it is, might well be the cause of death.”
“Drowned in it?” His jaw clenched. He rubbed his moustache thoughtfully. “It was liquid?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to wait for the report.”
“Wait a minute. This is sounding like something that would be aired on the Sci-Fi channel. Why would anyone kill a person with pink crud?”
“We don’t officially know it’s a homicide yet.”
He leveled a gaze at her. “You think suicide? By inhaling pink goo? And ending up at the top of a mountain in a hollowed-out log? What kind of weird ritual is that?”
“I’m just trying to stay rational.”
“Forget rational. Because it’s not. This isn’t an accident, either. It’s a homicide, I’m sure of it. But why all the mess? Why not just shoot the victim, or choke her, or slit her throat?”
“Who knows?” She lifted her shoulder. “If your theory’s on the money, then we’ve got a psycho running loose, or maybe we had one who was just passing through last winter. He did his business, either around here or somewhere else, decided to dump the body, and took off. It’s been a while since this girl was killed. Our guy could have moved on.”
Carter wondered, his eyes narrowing. He looked through his window and saw the ominous gray skies surrounding this small town nestled deep in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains. It was isolated; the only serious connection to the rest of civilization was I-84, the interstate freeway that ran parallel to the Columbia River at this point on the map. He scanned the timber-covered ridges and thought, not for the first time, that the steep cliffs and dark forests surrounding Falls Crossing were the perfect place for a wanted man to hide. But a psychopath? The thought set his teeth on edge.
Maybe he was jumping to conclusions.
“We’ll keep trying to find out who she is, but we’ll work with the State Police, let them run this thing; they’re gonna want to anyway, and they have more resources than we do.” Scratching his chin, he added, “I’ll talk to Larry Sparks in the local office—I’m sure he’ll keep us informed.”
“It’s not like you to call in another agency.”
“This case is different,” he said, but didn’t add that he had a bad feeling about it. Real bad. “Contact all the surrounding jurisdictions again—make that all of Oregon, Washington, Idaho, and California, even western Montana. See if we come up with any matches. Find out if there are any other cases of a woman found dead with some kind of unknown substance in her hair or body cavities.”
BJ nodded. “Anything else?” she asked, slapping the folder of missing-person reports onto his desk.
“Yeah,” he said, reaching for the phone to call Lieutenant Sparks. “Get me that autopsy report on the Jane Doe ASAP.”
CHAPTER 5
Cassie had insisted on being let off two blocks from the school so that as few people as possible would see her being dropped off from a “dump of a truck” by her mother. She’d already been mortified by the sheriff pulling Jenna over. Jenna had been burned by the ticket, but hadn’t wanted any more arguments with her daughter, so she’d complied, figuring if Cassie was half frozen by the time she made it to her geometry class, it was just too bad. Cassie hadn’t seemed to mind the cold temperature and had strolled off, cell phone plastered to her ear, wind whipping her hair over her face and eyes. Tonight, Jenna had thought, tonight we’ll have a heart-to-heart, mother and daughter. It sounded simple and yet her stomach was tight in anticipation.
She’d dropped Allie off at Harrington Junior High without incident and then driven straight to the theater, where, in a room that had once held the baptismal tank, Rinda Dalinsky was trying to keep warm in a turtlenecked sweater, down vest, and ski pants. Already sipping coffee from an oversized cup, she was making copies on an old Xerox machine
. She was about Jenna’s height, had an athletic build, and had been blessed with auburn hair, olive skin, and gold eyes that always seemed to catch the light.
“Is Oliver here? If so, watch out. I brought the dog,” Jenna, with Critter padding happily after her, announced as she strode through what had once been the apse of the old church. Narrow stained-glass windows filtered in the daylight and a few Christian relics adorned the tall, clapboard walls.
“I’ll tell him,” Rinda yelled back, and Jenna laughed. Oliver was an ancient yellow tabby whom Rinda had found hiding under the porch of the church when she’d purchased it for stage productions. She hadn’t had the heart to take the cat to the local animal shelter, and so she’d promptly adopted him and named him Oliver for her favorite Charles Dickens character. In the process, Oliver had become the theater troupe’s unofficial mascot. Critter gave a quick bark and began wagging his tail wildly at the sight of Rinda.
At that moment the cat in question shot through the series of adjoining rooms behind what was now the stage. Hissing indignantly, he climbed up a pillar to hide on a crossbeam. Critter, still begging for Rinda’s attention, hadn’t noticed the cat at all.
Rinda chuckled at the dog’s nonchalance. “I guess Oliver has a rather inflated image of himself.”
“He’s a male, isn’t he?” Jenna said, and thought of the officer who’d pulled her over this morning. Rinda’s friend. Sheriff Shane Carter, a man’s man, with dark eyes, thick moustache, square jaw, and what appeared to be a very bad attitude.
“Oliver was a male. I had him neutered.”
Again Jenna thought about Carter. Tough. Sexy. And a royal pain in the backside. “Let’s not go there,” Jenna warned before she said something she’d regret. Rinda seemed to think the local sheriff walked on water. “Critter’s in the same nonsexual boat. What’re you working on?” Jenna picked up one of the copies that the Xerox machine was spewing out. “Flyers?”
“Mmm. The first batch. We’ll do something more detailed closer to the date, but we needed something to put around town now and add to the Web site. Scott did the art.” Rinda’s son, Scott, was a college dropout who worked part time for his mother designing sets, painting scenery, and sometimes working the lights with Rinda’s brother, Wes Allen, during a production. A movie buff, Scott could quote dialogue from nearly every major motion picture since 1970. Rinda motioned toward the copy in Jenna’s hand. “So, what do you think?”
“I like it.” The flyer was reminiscent of a 1950s movie poster in faded red and green. “The nostalgia angle works.”
“I think so, too,” Rinda said, but there was a hint of hesitation in her voice as there always was when she talked about her only son, and her smile tightened a bit.
Jenna set the copy on the rapidly increasing stack, then reached for a thermos of coffee and poured herself a cup. The old church-cum-theater was in desperate need of insulation and a new heating system. As it was, the ancient furnace was blasting away, but the warm air seemed to seep right through the stained-glass windows and thin wooden siding of a building that was, despite all of Rinda’s efforts, slowly deteriorating.
“So how’s the production coming together?” Jenna asked. She had agreed to help coach some of the actors, but wasn’t scheduled to start running lines with them until early next week.
“Working with kids is always…a challenge.”
“Are adults a whole lot better?”
Rinda held up a thumb and index finger, showing very little space between them. “Marginally.”
Jenna grinned as she found a packet of nondairy creamer and slapped it against the counter. “I predict it’ll be a smash. Standing Room Only.”
“It would be if you’d play Mary Bailey,” Rinda wheedled, not for the first time.
“You’ve got Madge Quintanna.” Jenna opened the little packet and poured in the white powder. Immediately clouds swirled upward in her cup. “Besides, I’ve already got a job. I’m Coach Hughes, remember?”
Rinda wasn’t about to give up. “Madge is…how can I put this delicately? I guess I can’t. Madge is awful. Stiff as a board and to say she’s ‘struggling’ with her lines would be the understatement of the year.”
“She’ll improve.” Jenna took an experimental sip of her coffee. “I told her to watch the movie before I start working with her next week. Donna Reed was incredible. Madge’ll catch on.”
“She isn’t a natural. You are.”
Jenna was unmoved by Rinda’s pleas. “Didn’t I tell you I’d gladly be a part of this as long as I didn’t have to act for at least five years?”
“But you’re a household name.”
“Was,” Jenna corrected as she set down the flyer. “That’s the operative word. Was. And I’m not even sure about that. I’m sure in most Hollywood circles the term ‘has been’ is attached to me.”
“You were an A-list Hollywood actress!”
Jenna laughed for the first time this morning. “That’s stretching it.”
“We could get some good press out of this.”
Inwardly Jenna shuddered at the thought. She’d seen enough of what kind of damage the tabloids and rumors could do to a family. Ever since the accident during the filming of her last project she’d shrunk away from any kind of media event. But Rinda was in another time and place, trying everything she could think of to make the upcoming Christmas show a smash. At least by Falls Crossing’s standards.
“Think what it would do for this production and for the theater troupe in general if you were on the stage! We could pay off some of the debt on this old place and jazz it up. Insulate it, for Pete’s sake. Even put in a small wine bar. And that’s just the start—think about computer-operated lighting and sound systems and new costumes and curtains that aren’t in shreds after being mended and remended!”
“Whoa!” Jenna held up the flat of one hand. “Slow down. You’re getting waaay ahead of yourself. I told you I’d help out around here, including some of the financing, but when it comes to acting or putting my name on anything, I said ‘no’ and I meant it. For now. I remember being very specific about wanting some time and space for myself and my kids, to get away from Robert and Tinseltown and just have the chance to be a regular mom.”
“As if!” Rinda said, snapping up her copies from the shelf of the Xerox machine. “You’ll never be a ‘regular’ mom.”
“Okay, so that might not be possible, but I really want to avoid any kind of…hype.”
“You mean you don’t want your famous name and face exploited?”
“Thank you! Yes. Today I have to concentrate on such glamorous things as fixing my pump—we’re out of water at the house and Hans thinks it’s the electric pump. Then I’m hoping that my Jeep starts when I get home. Otherwise I’ll have to have it towed to a garage.” She crossed the fingers of her left hand and held them up. “Maybe it’s just being ornery with all the bad weather.”
“Or maybe you’re just cursed by the gods of all things mechanical?”
Jenna groaned and thought of the things that had happened over the last week—her problems with her computer and connecting to the Internet, her cell phone that wouldn’t hold a battery charge, the microwave that had recently given up the ghost, and now the frozen water pump and Jeep that wouldn’t start. “Let’s hope not. It could be a long winter if that’s the case.”
“It’s gonna be, anyway. Haven’t you heard? This is supposed to be the coldest winter in seventy or eighty years. They’re takin’ bets down at the lodge that the river will freeze over and that hasn’t happened since the early 1930s, I think.”
“By ‘the river,’ you mean the Columbia? It actually froze?” Jenna asked, thinking of the huge, swift channel of water that cut through the cliffs and flowed speedily to the Pacific Ocean. How cold would it have to be to freeze a river that size?
Rinda grinned and finished her coffee. “Yep. It was a solid, thick sheet of ice. People who had cars could drive across it.”
“That’s
unbelievable,” she said, looking out the iced-over windows.
“Are you having second thoughts about moving up here?”
“Second, third, twenty-seventh, you name it,” Jenna joked.
“What’s the temperature in L.A. today? Seventy? Eighty?”
“Eighty-two and balmy.”
“Crank out the sunscreen!”
“Very funny,” Jenna said, taking another long swallow from her cup and feeling the warm coffee slide down her throat. With all the problems she was having, she wondered again if she’d made a mistake in moving so far north. Though she’d denied it to herself, she second-guessed her plans. Had her exodus from L.A. actually been, as Cassie had often accused, an example of Jenna running away from her problems, rather than to solutions? Had she made a mess of things rather than found a better life for her little family?
The door to the theater banged open and along with a rush of frigid air, Wes Allen, Rinda’s brother, strode in.
“Hey!” Rinda called, beaming.
“Hi, Rin. Jen.” He nodded at Jenna, his gaze hesitating a beat too long on her face. As always. It was a little thing, but it bothered Jenna.
He was taller than his sister by nearly a foot and blessed with the same genes that gave them both thick, dark hair, trim bodies, and straight teeth. “Thought I’d come in and check out the lights one more time before I went to work. Maybe I can figure out where the short is.”
“That would be a good idea,” she said, giving him an older-sibling stare. “You know, I’d really hate to have this place go up in flames.”
Jenna glanced around the hundred-year-old wooden building. A tinderbox by any insurance adjuster’s standards.
“Have a little faith. I won’t let that happen.” Wes was nothing if not self-assured. He poured himself a cup of coffee, sat on the corner of her desk, and picked up the stack of copies she’d slipped into a folder. “Are these the flyers for the new production?”
