House of Secrets

by Ramona Richards

  “You are a remarkable woman, June,” he whispered. “In God’s eyes. And mine. You need to believe that. With all your heart.”

  June let out a long, slow exhale. “I do.”

  “Remember that phrase.”

  June pushed away from him, laughing. “I hate it when you do that. Make me laugh in the midst of my tears.”

  His eyes brightened with humor. “You love it.”

  “I do.” Her eyes gleamed. “Oh, wait. There’s that phrase again.”

  They both grinned at that, then June nodded back toward the nursery. “You need to call Jeff.”

  “Those boxes aren’t going anywhere.”

  June leaned back against his chest, wrapping her arms around him. “Neither am I.”

  Jeff checked the three items found in the niche, logged them for evidence and transported them back to the Bell County Sheriff’s Department. Ray and June followed, after one of Ray’s officers arrived to keep an eye on the Victorian. Ray didn’t want to take chances with the house. His gut told him it still held too many secrets.

  He and June rode to the station in silence, both of them itching to examine the contents of the boxes as soon as Jeff was done fingerprinting them. She held her backpack, the hard drive from David’s computer still in her laptop, between her feet. He glanced at her occasionally, but she continued to stare out the passenger window, lost in thought.

  When she’d bolted from the nursery, JR’s betrayal all over her face, Ray had felt a surge of panic and confusion. In his profession, people lied all the time. He had become jaded, almost expecting it on a daily basis. That a lie from JR would cause this kind of crisis in June had caught him off guard.

  Lord, have I become that numb to lying that I expect it of people? That I think it would be no reason to be angry?

  They both had lived in a world of lies—she as a child and he on the job. Yet while he had accepted it as fact that everyone lied, June had made a vow never to do it again. It had been part of her transformation.

  Recognition flashed through Ray’s mind. No wonder she’d felt betrayed. It was as if JR himself had attacked that transformation from the grave.

  Ray swung the cruiser into a parking space in front of the converted storefront that made up the main office of the Bell County Sheriff’s Department. Ray loved the station, and since Anne’s death, it had been more like home than work. He’d buried a lot of grief in his hours here, and it had endeared him to the community. He’d been born in Nashville, spent time in the army and started his profession in Memphis, but Bell County was definitely his home.

  He opened the door for June, then guided her through the officer’s bullpen to the small conference room at the back of the station, where Gage finished fingerprinting the evidence gathered at the house. The date book, shoe box and black tin box sat in the middle of the table. A box of latex gloves sat nearby, and Ray handed June a pair before snapping on his own.

  “Where do you want to start?” Ray asked June.

  “I want to know what’s in that black box.”

  They pushed chairs away from the table and stood close to the edge as Ray slid the metal box toward them. Gingerly, Ray thumbed open the latch and pulled up the top. Seven envelopes lay inside, unsealed and neatly stacked on top of each other, numbered one through seven.

  “That’s convenient,” June muttered, as Ray opened the first envelope and slipped out the four folded pages inside.

  It was Rosalie Osborne’s handwritten will.

  June gasped, and a hand flew to her mouth. “Do you think that’s real?”

  Ray let out a long breath. “We have to assume for the moment it is.”

  “What’s it say?”

  Ray turned the creased pages carefully. “She leaves everything, including the house, to the White Hills library.”

  June grew still. “The house, too.”

  Ray nodded, then paused and pointed to one line. “Read this.”

  “‘Let it be known that this will stands as my final word, so that no person or institution may profit from my estate.’”

  “This lady was very unhappy with someone when she wrote this,” Ray said.

  “What’s in number two?”

  The second envelope held only one page, and as they read it, Ray felt his spine stiffen. His murder case had just gotten a whole lot bigger.

  June stared up at him. “Rosalie’s dead.”

  He nodded once. “And she knew she was going to die.”

  “And who was going to kill her.”

  THIRTEEN

  Whoever you are, I pray you are a police officer. If you are, then you probably found this during a search of my house following my death.

  I dearly wish this wasn’t true, but I can’t hide my suspicions any longer. I have no proof of those suspicions except what’s in this box, but I plan a confrontation tomorrow night.

  Whatever happens, know that I love Hunter. Dearly. Without reserve. None of this could be said to be his fault, yet he has paid a great price. And I cannot fully despise Virginia, even given the hatred she has showered on me. In many ways, she is only trying to protect her cub, to be a good mother. That Virginia’s idea of good motherhood runs perpendicular to the rest of the planet is what we’ll have to discuss.

  Hunter needs help. Medication. If going public with his illness is the only way to ensure he gets it, then that’s what I’ll have to do. I just hope they both understand.

  My lawyer tells me that without proof, my conjecture would constitute slander if told the press. What I have gathered so far could be used to produce that proof, but I have not yet taken that step. I’m hoping Virginia will listen to reason. If she doesn’t, I’ll do what I have to do.

  I am only glad that my father is not here to see this. Or perhaps he should be. I do think he would be proud of his child. His children.

  In good faith,

  Rosalie Osborne

  December 12, 1986

  June sat back in her chair. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  “We can’t be sure.”

  “Open the others.”

  Silently Ray lifted the flaps on the remaining envelopes. Three, four and five contained strands of hair with the roots still attached, but there was no indication who the strands belonged to. Envelope six held a list of names and blood types. As she read it, June felt her fascination growing. “This is a time bomb.”

  Siegfried Osborne—AB Neg

  Montgomery Osborne—AB Neg

  Eulis Osborne—AB Neg

  Rosalie Osborne—AB Neg

  Virginia Bridges—A Pos

  Jonathan Bridges—O Pos

  Hunter Bridges—AB Neg

  “Eulis Osborne was Monty’s older brother?” Ray asked.

  “Right. The one killed in World War I. Jonathan was Virginia’s husband. Ray, there’s no way that an O-positive father and an A-positive mother produced an AB-negative son. If Hunter is AB-negative, Jonathan cannot be his father. One of the Osbornes must be.”

  “Her lawyer was correct about slander.”

  “This isn’t slander. Blood types are a matter of fact.”

  “This could be entirely made up. She says that she loved Hunter. Maybe she begged him to run away with her and he refused. Maybe she left on her own, without going back to her house.”

  “Leaving everything she loved, not even a suitcase packed? Ray, Rosalie is saying that Hunter Bridges is actually an Osborne. Monty Osborne’s son. She was in love with her half-brother. She’s also saying that Hunter has a mental illness. Which he inherited from her father.”

  Ray turned suddenly toward June, his face a hard mask. “This cannot leave this room. Cannot.”

  She leaned back from him, startled. “Of course not.” Her surprise increased as Ray’s cheeks paled. “Ray, what’s wrong?”

  He stood up abruptly, shoving the chair backward. “Stay here. Don’t touch anything. I’ll be right back.”

  As the door swung shut behind him, she followed s
lowly, pausing at the windowed door to watch Ray as he strode across the bullpen, motioning for Jeff Gage to follow him. Then they both disappeared into Ray’s office.

  “What in the world?” June glanced back at the items on the table, then out over the bullpen again, where several officers stared curiously at Ray’s office door. Ray reappeared a moment later, headed back in her direction. June returned to her seat.

  Ray closed the door firmly and sat slowly, taking a deep breath and placing his palms flat on the table. “We cannot, under any circumstances, make assumptions about what this means.”

  “Even though Rosalie did?”

  “Yes. She could have been quite wrong with her suppositions.”

  June peered closer at Ray’s stony face. His jaw hardened and his eyes stared at the tin box, making June wonder what turmoil raged behind the mask.

  Her voice turned gentle. “Let’s see what’s in the seventh envelope.”

  Ray reached for the yellowed envelope, his movements efficient and precise. From it he pulled a business card, a creased and brittle newspaper clipping and a folded eight-by-ten photograph. He put them on the table in front of them, turning over the business card first.

  June’s throat suddenly felt raw, and she made a sound that fell somewhere between a choke and a cough. “This is not good.”

  The card said, “Gerald R. Fowler, M.D., Psychiatric Genetic Counselor.”

  Ray shook his head. “No, it’s not.” His brow still furrowed in thought, he gingerly opened the photo, which showed a young blonde woman, tall and elegantly dressed, standing next to a gray-haired man in a wheelchair. Her puffy hairstyle placed the photo in the mid-eighties.

  “Rosalie and Monty, I presume. He would have been close to eighty by the time she came back home.”

  Ray pulled a pen from his pocket and used it to point out small circles someone had drawn around the man’s eyes and brows, his chin and one ear. “What do you think this is about?”

  June shrugged. “What’s the clipping?”

  Using one finger and the tip of his pen, Ray unfolded the newspaper. It was a promotional profile of a young Hunter Bridges, who had been accepted into Vanderbilt University’s Law School after having finished his undergraduate studies by the age of twenty. The same circles had been drawn around Hunter’s eyes and brows.

  “That does make it clear she thought Hunter was Montgomery Osborne’s son.”

  “And probably susceptible to Monty’s inherited mental issues.” Ray leaned back in his chair, staring at the business card again. “In 1986, DNA testing had barely gotten off the ground. The first conviction because of it wasn’t until a year later. Blood tests to establish paternity were available, but Rosalie would have been pushing the edge to use hair samples.”

  “Which may be why she planned to confront Virginia.” June sat straighter in her chair, her stomach tightening painfully. “Ray, I know these two. Virginia has had grand plans for Hunter ever since he was a kid. Accusations of infidelity and mental illness would not be taken lightly. Not in an ambitious family like the Bridges. This is motive.”

  Ray’s stillness grew even more solid and severe. “Motive for what, June? We have no evidence that Rosalie is dead, and if Hunter inherited mental illness from Montgomery Osborne, he obviously has it under control. He graduated from Vanderbilt Law and was in private practice for several years. He’s been an elected politician most of his life.” He twisted in his chair to face her more directly.

  “You’ve been on the streets. You know what it’s like to be around an untreated paranoid schizophrenic. They aren’t usually violent. They’re chaotic. When they talk, they don’t make sense. If they’re on medication and stay monitored, however, they can live fairly normal lives. Get married. Hold a job. Maybe even be a lawyer.”

  “How do you know so much about this?”

  Ray hesitated, then plunged back in. “It’s part of my job. If I have to confront someone who’s agitated, I have to be able to reasonably assess what’s going on. We have no proof Rosalie ever confronted Virginia about getting Hunter help, as she said in her letter, and no proof that Hunter or Virginia knows anything about what’s in this box. And if they don’t know, they’d have no reason to hire Stephen Webster to kill David.”

  “But she said she was going to confront Virginia!”

  “The next night. We don’t know that she did.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because Rosalie Osborne disappeared the night she wrote that note. December 12, 1986, is the night Rosalie called the sheriff’s department, then vanished into thin air.”

  Ray watched Daniel Rivers escort June out of the station, knowing exactly how angry she was at him. When he’d refused to pursue the Bridges family mystery, she’d launched from her chair like a rocket, virtually accusing him of playing favorites with the county’s number-one son.

  Ironic, since some of his own deputies thought he was playing favorites with her on this case.

  Ray released a long, deep breath as the station door closed behind them. Truth was, he didn’t like Hunter any more than she did, but Ray believed in sticking to the facts.

  “A case is not about beliefs, June,” he said as his office door closed behind him and he dropped into the chair behind his desk. “Hunches may guide you, but in the end, it’s about evidence.”

  And for now, they had little. The items in the tin box proved only that Rosalie had some explosive suspicions. The shoe box held old family photos of the Osbornes, and JR’s date book had turned up nothing suspicious, either. Both appeared to be in the niche with the tin box only by coincidence.

  He wanted to interview Virginia Bridges, but instinct told him to wait. The only link actually connecting her to this case was a car reported stolen before Webster had tried to kill June with it. If he so much as called her, he knew Virginia would circle an entire wagon train of lawyers around her and Hunter before he could get the words out of his mouth.

  No, better to wait on that one until something else turned up. The Bridges were not going anywhere.

  Ray scowled. The right decision, yes, but more than forty-eight hours had passed since David Gallagher’s death, and the leads were growing colder. Webster remained silent, a good defense attorney already at his side.

  But what about Gerald Fowler?

  Ray turned to his computer, a quick internet search turning up Fowler’s obituary. The doctor had died in 1996, leaving behind a mountain of important DNA research. But even if his patient files still existed in some hospital storage room somewhere, they were still protected by privilege, and Ray didn’t have enough probable cause for a warrant.

  Ray searched for known associates of Dr. Fowler but turned up little before a sharp knock on his door interrupted him.

  “Come!”

  Jeff Gage entered and closed the door behind him. The lanky officer sat, his spine stiff and his face solemn.

  “I take it you don’t have good news.”

  Gage’s lips thinned to a bare line. “Depends on how you define good.”

  Ray leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his desk. “Tell me what you found out about Carter.”

  Gage cleared his throat. “Okay, but first, the cadaver dog will be here tomorrow morning. Where do you want her to search?”

  “That tunnel, then the basement and the grounds around the house.”

  “You really think Rosalie Osborne is there?”

  “With what we found today, I doubt she ever left the house.”

  “Did you tell June that?”

  Ray shook his head. “No. June’s already wound tight as a drum about this and involved up to her neck. I need to keep the next few steps in the investigation quieter, if only to protect her.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I sent her with Daniel. She needs to replace her driver’s license and bank card. He’ll take her home. Then I’ll be on watch at her house until midnight.”

  “Want me to take over after that?”
>
  “If you’re up to it.”

  “Well, you certainly don’t want Carter to do it.”

  Ray leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes a moment, the disquiet that had been growing in his stomach spreading into his chest.

  “Long version or quick and dirty?” Gage asked.

  Ray opened his eyes again. “How about somewhere in between?”

  Gage nodded once. “You were right, Ray. Brent Carter’s blood type is AB-negative. And all those courthouse records are quite informative. You have to go way up the family tree then come down on the other side, but, yep, Brent is kin to the both the Osborne and Bridges clans, on his mother’s side. Seems like old Siegfried’s first son, Eulis, fathered a child before he was killed. Mother and son left the Osbornes after his death and that son married an ancestor of the Bridges. Brent and Hunter are third or fourth cousins, depending on how you count it. Close enough to garner an invitation to family reunions but not enough to be in any of the wills.”

  “Close enough to choose blood over your career?”

  Gage lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “That would depend on the family. I got a whole slew of cousins I wouldn’t call to give the time of day. How did you know about Carter’s blood type? How did you remember that?”

  “A couple of years ago, he went to give blood for a relative. Mentioned that they had a rare blood type. You got the phone records?”

  “Came in this morning. They’re locked in my trunk.”

  “Show anything?”

  Gage gave another swift nod. “Two calls that morning look as if they are connected to the case. The station records show a call from a prepaid cell the morning of David’s murder.”

  “Any indication which officer took the call?”

  “No, sir. It came in just before the 911 call was received. Carter’s cell received the second call from the same phone right after the call to 911. Both lasted about two minutes.”

  “Do we know yet who made the 911 call?”

  Gage’s expression darkened. “The 911 call came from the same prepaid cell. A woman. Later, just before you and June left for the hospital, a call went out from Brent’s cell phone to that same number.”