Her Last Summer: A Veronica Lee Thriller

by Melinda Woodhall

  “And just what is going on, Ma?”

  “There’s another serial killer in Willow Bay,” Ling insisted. “And he’s going around drowning women to death. I want you to be careful. Don’t trust anyone you-”

  Exhaling in frustration, Veronica interrupted.

  “Yes, I know. Don’t talk to strangers and don’t go out after dark. I’ve got it, Ma. Now I’ve got to go.”

  After an uncomfortable pause, her mother spoke in a stiff voice.

  “I fed Winston, and I left food in the refrigerator for you to heat up when you get home. I’m going to the bowling alley.”

  Veronica thought of her tiny mother in her two-toned bowling shoes lugging around her lucky nine pound ball. She suddenly wished she was heading to the weekly Sunday night game with her mother. It seemed like ages since she’d allowed herself a night to just relax and have fun.

  “I hope you bowl a three hundred, Ma.”

  But Veronica was talking to dead air. Her mother had already disconnected the call.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Veronica sat stiffly in the news van wishing she hadn’t told Finn she was meeting Julian Hart at the Riverview Hotel. He’d insisted on driving her there, and he’d made no attempt to hide his doubts about Portia Hart’s brother.

  “I don’t trust anyone who hides from my camera,” Finn explained, as he steered the news van toward the unloading zone. “So, I’ll park this bad boy and wait for you in the lobby. No rush.”

  Deciding it would be pointless to argue, Veronica climbed out of the van and hurried into the lobby. She hadn’t been sure Julian would actually follow up on his unexpected request for help that morning, but she’d given him her number just in case.

  His text to meet her at the hotel’s bar had come in just after the altercation with Tenley Frost, providing a welcome excuse to leave the tense scene and escape Nick Sargent’s snide comments.

  The hotel bar was busy, and it took Veronica’s eyes a minute to adjust to the dim lighting. She stepped further into the room and saw Julian sitting at a table in the back corner. He was gazing down at the table with a forlorn expression.

  “Hi, Julian.”

  He raised red-rimmed eyes, and Veronica instinctively reached out to put a comforting hand on his sleeve. Her need to protect him was becoming a habit.

  “How are you holding up? Have you seen the news?”

  He nodded, his face contorting into a grimace of disgust.

  “I’ve seen enough to know that every station in the country’s trying to boost their ratings by exploiting Portia’s death.”

  Sliding onto the stool across from him, Veronica pointed to the television behind the bar, which was tuned to Channel Six.

  “No, I meant the news about the other woman being found a few blocks from here.” She watched as Nick Sargent’s face filled the screen. “I was worried it might have upset you.”

  Julian frowned.

  “Why should it upset me?”

  He let his eyes flick to the screen.

  “I haven’t really been following the story, but the woman’s death was a homicide, wasn’t it? Probably a domestic dispute. I mean, it’s sad, of course, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  When she didn’t respond, Julian stood and walked toward the bar. He lifted his head to stare up at the screen.

  “Hey, can you turn up the sound?” he called to the bartender. “I want to hear what they’re saying.”

  Veronica saw that Benji was working behind the bar. He picked up a little remote and aimed it at the television. Nick Sargent’s smooth voice soon filled the room.

  “Earlier today state prosecutor Riley Odell refused to rule out the possibility that the same man may have been involved in the death of Portia Hart on Friday night and the woman brutally killed today on Kingston Road.”

  Nick spoke directly to the camera, and Julian stared into the reporter’s eyes as if transfixed.

  “While the name of the victim has not officially been released, neighbors say the slain woman is local resident Molly Blair.”

  Gesturing for Benji to turn off the television, Veronica took Julian’s arm and guided him back to the table.

  “I’m sorry. I thought you would have seen the news.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her as he shook his head in denial.

  “It can’t be true. She can’t have been…murdered.”

  Veronica bit her lip, trying to think of something to say. She knew she should be asking Julian questions and jotting down quotes to include in her next update, but she didn’t think she could.

  The poor guy is suffering and confused. If I take advantage of his vulnerability now, I’m no better than Nick Sargent.

  She caught sight of Finn walking toward them with a concerned frown and stepped forward to intercept him.

  “You didn’t respond to my text,” Finn said, holding up his phone. “Is everything okay in here?”

  Turning to see that Julian was already walking toward the exit, Veronica ignored the question and scurried after him.

  “Julian? Are you okay?”

  She caught up to him at the elevator and grabbed his arm, revealing a glimpse of his heart-shaped birthmark before his sleeve fell back into place.

  “I thought you wanted to talk.”

  “I need some time to think,” he murmured as the door slid open. “I’ll call you later…when I’m feeling better and when you’re alone.”

  Veronica looked back to see Finn coming toward them. When she turned around, the doors had closed, and Julian was gone.

  “Good job,” Veronica snapped as Finn stopped beside her. “You’ve scared him away. Might as well give up on getting an interview.”

  Pinning her with a suspicious stare, Finn crossed his arms over his chest. He raised his eyebrows and waited.

  “What?” Veronica glared back at him, but she had the sinking feeling that he could see through her act.

  “What’s the real deal with Julian Hart?” he asked. “You trying to get an interview or a date?”

  Veronica’s mouth fell open at the blunt question.

  “You’re crazy,” she said, regaining her composure. “I’m trying to give the guy a break. You know, show a little bit of compassion and decency. Maybe that’s something you should try.”

  An elderly couple approached the elevator, and Veronica moved aside to make room, then hurried toward the front door.

  “Wait up, Veronica,” Finn panted, chasing after her. “Stop acting like an amateur.”

  Skidding to a stop, she spun to face him.

  “I don’t think you should be hanging around that guy,” Finn blurted out before she could speak. “You’re getting too involved, and he’s taking advantage of that. Any other reporter would have been asking the hard questions, but you’re…not.”

  Veronica’s anger deflated. Finn was right. Something about Julian Hart’s story resonated within her. She could see how completely alone he was, and her sympathy for him was making her lose sight of her responsibility.

  She was supposed to get a hard-hitting interview that would make viewers tune in. But that approach didn’t feel right. Not this time. Veronica looked into Finn’s tense face, wanting him to understand.

  “It’s hard to explain.” She struggled to find the right words. “It’s just…I feel bad for Julian. I know what it’s like to feel alone, and-”

  “I get it,” Finn replied, his voice softening. “But part of your job is to remain objective. Otherwise you won’t last as a reporter.”

  Bristling at his words, Veronica shook her head.

  “Just because I have a heart, doesn’t mean I won’t make it as a reporter,” she insisted. “Reporters have to understand what people are going through. They have to report the whole story, including the emotional impact of what’s happening. Otherwise it’s just a string of facts that anyone could put together.”

  Finn raised his eyebrows and sighed.

  “Reporting someone’s pain is d
ifferent than feeling it yourself. You take on somebody else’s pain and you’re no longer just telling the story; you become part of the story.”

  “You just don’t get it,” Veronica said, refusing to back down. “You don’t understand how Julian must feel.”

  Finn’s face tightened with anger.

  “You’re trying to tell a guy who just lost his dad to cancer that he doesn’t understand loneliness and pain?”

  He didn’t give her a chance to respond; he turned and walked through the big glass doors without looking back. Veronica decided not to go after him. She’d managed to upset enough people in the last few hours: Tenley, Julian, her mother, and now Finn.

  Turning back toward the bar, Veronica figured it was best for her to be alone for a while. Otherwise she might screw up something else.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Nessa dug an emergency granola bar out of her purse, tore off the wrapper, and took a big bite as she prepared to turn onto Kingston Road. She’d learned long ago that lunch was never guaranteed. Of course, if things continued as they’d been going this weekend, dinner might have to wait as well.

  Stuffing the last sticky bite into her mouth, Nessa parked the Charger along the curb behind the crime scene van and opened the door. She saw Alma loading a box into the back of the van. The senior crime scene technician wore blue coveralls and protective booties, but she’d removed her face mask and goggles.

  “Looking for a suspect back there?” Nessa called out, sounding more cheerful than she felt.

  Sliding the door closed, Alma turned to Nessa with a satisfied gleam in her eyes. That gleam usually meant she’d found something particularly interesting at a scene.

  “Finding the suspects are your job, Chief,” Alma teased. “But what I found should help.”

  “Okay, tell me what you got.” Nessa was more than ready for some good news. “I can see you’re dying to spill the beans.”

  Alma nodded and motioned for Nessa to follow her up the front walk. They passed through the thinning crowd of reporters and onlookers to reach the front door. Alma knocked, and a uniformed officer opened the door and waved them inside.

  “How’s it going Dave?”

  The young officer answered Nessa’s question with a thumbs up as Alma prodded her toward the narrow doorway leading to the kitchen. A hardcover crime scene case lay open on the kitchen table. Nessa saw that it held an array of evidence collection bags, protective gear, markers, rulers, magnifying glasses, flashlights, and specimen vials.

  “I was able to get several fingerprints off the hot tub.” Alma was unable to conceal her excitement. “Quite a few prints, actually. Looked like someone was holding on for leverage.”

  An ember of hope caught fire in Nessa’s chest.

  “That’s great. I’ll cross my fingers the prints turn out to be our guy….and that he’s in the database.”

  “That’s not all,” Alma said, removing a roll of crime scene tape out of the bag. “I was able to get some prints off the wallet that we found in Portia Hart’s purse. I’d been running them through the database when I got the call about this scene and…”

  She paused for dramatic effect as Nessa held her breath.

  “I just heard back from the lab that we’ve got a match.”

  Nessa’s heart skipped a beat.

  “I told the tech to email the details to Vanzinger with a copy to you and Riley Odell. Figured you’d all what to see that ASAP.”

  “Great work, Alma.” Nessa looked around the little kitchen. “You find anything else around here I should know about?”

  Alma reached into the case and pulled out a clear evidence bag. She held it up to the light and Nessa saw that it was packed with prescription pill bottles.

  “Looks like Molly Blair was a dealer.” Alma shook the bag so that the bottles rattled against each other. “Either that or she had a lot of medical issues.”

  “So, Molly’s death could be drug related,” Nessa murmured. “Maybe Lexi was wrong. Maybe it’s not related to Portia Hart at all.”

  “What do you mean?” Alma asked. “Who’s Lexi?”

  “She’s the girl who found Molly Blair. She had to fight off the killer,” Nessa said, lowering her voice. “She’s convinced she saw the man who killed Molly Blair at the Riverview Hotel the night Portia Hart died. Said he was running down the stairs dripping wet and that he started chasing her when he realized she’d seen him.”

  Alma raised her eyebrows.

  “So, you’re thinking the guy went looking for this girl to shut her up and killed Molly by mistake?”

  Nessa shrugged.

  “I’m not sure how the creep found Molly, but I believe Lexi’s story, and I believe the guy came after her to keep her quiet.”

  “Well, he definitely wanted to shut her up for good.” Alma no longer sounded excited. “Iris said that the poor woman was badly beaten before she went into the water. Whoever killed her didn’t bother taking the time to make it look like an accident.”

  Both women cringed at the remembered image of Molly Blair’s battered body floating in the hot tub. Nessa figured she’d be seeing it in her nightmares for months to come.

  “Well, one way or the other we need to find out who prescribed all those pills,” Nessa said, gesturing toward the bag. “But first, I’m dying to find out who was digging through Portia’s wallet.”

  “Yep,” Alma agreed. “Looks like hunky detective Vanzinger was right. You always gotta follow the money.”

  Surprised by Alma’s comment, Nessa felt a stirring of unease. The heightened tension between Vanzinger and Riley Odell was enough to deal with. If Alma made her attraction to the city’s newest detective known, the fragile peace in her little police department could be threatened. Perhaps she’d better talk to Vanzinger and warn him that trouble was brewing.

  Looks like things around here are about to get a little more complicated.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Riley was pacing back and forth in the briefing room when Nessa returned to the station. Sticking her head inside the door, Nessa looked around the room, then turned to the prosecutor.

  “Where’s Vanzinger?”

  Riley bristled at the question.

  “How should I know, I’m not his keeper.”

  Nessa raised her hands in surrender and suppressed a sigh.

  “The course of true love never did run smooth,” she murmured under her breath, wondering how long it was going to take for Riley to forgive Vanzinger. The whole love/hate dynamic was exhausting.

  “Did you see the email from Alma?” Riley asked, apparently too caught up in her own thoughts to pay attention to Nessa’s mumbling.

  “Yes, but I didn’t have time to pull up the matching record,” Nessa admitted. “Were you able to see who matched the prints?”

  Footsteps in the hall announce Vanzinger’s arrival.

  “You guys see the email from Alma?” he asked, dumping his backpack on the table and dropping his long, muscular frame into a chair next to Riley.

  Nessa was preparing to deliver a sarcastic response when she saw Riley’s face. The normally unflappable prosecutor was distraught. All color had drained from her face, and her dark, troubled eyes seemed huge behind red-framed glasses.

  “You look…pale, Riley,” Nessa said, sliding onto a chair across from the prosecutor. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Well, that’s debatable.” Riley tried to smile, but her face wouldn’t cooperate. “You see, the man who matches these prints is someone I questioned years ago in relation to a theft case. The victim…a wealthy woman in Miami…ended up drowning, so we had to let him go. I knew he’d had something to do with her death, but…”

  Nessa’s eyes widened as she absorbed Riley’s words.

  “Who is he?” Vanzinger’s voice was hard. “What’s his name?”

  “Xavier Greyson,” Riley whispered, clenching her hands into tight fists on the table. “I knew he was a hustler; a sleazy con man that had stolen money f
rom a lonely woman. But, I didn’t think…I mean, I didn’t know he would kill her.”

  “Of course, you couldn’t have known that, Riley,” Nessa soothed, startled to see the cool, detached prosecutor heading for an emotional meltdown. “It’s not your fault he killed that woman. I’m sure you did what you could.”

  “That’s right,” Vanzinger agreed, keeping his worried eyes on Riley’s pale face. “None of this is your fault.”

  Pushing a file across the table to Nessa, Riley took a deep breath and straightened her back. When she looked up a spark of defiance had entered her eyes.

  “That’s Xavier Greyson’s file…or what’s left of it.”

  Nessa opened the folder and stared at the print-out within. The scanned police report contained a complaint of theft filed in Miami Beach back in 2010. The plaintiff was a forty-two year old female named Miriam Feldman. Nessa noted a faint check mark next to the Widowed option in the status section of the form.

  Scanning the report, Nessa saw that Miriam Feldman had accused her new boyfriend of stealing money from the safe on her yacht. He’d been questioned but hadn’t been arrested. A note at the end of the report indicated that the prosecutor’s office had declined to proceed with the case due to lack of evidence.

  “Miriam Feldman was found floating in the water off Miami Beach soon after that report was filed,” Riley said. “The medical examiner determined that she’d drowned, but he left the manner of death as undetermined. Said he couldn’t be sure if it was an accident, a suicide, or a homicide.”

  Her eyes blazed with remembered anger.

  “But I knew it had to be him. I just couldn’t prove it.” Her voice grew stronger as she spoke. “Then he was gone. He disappeared from Miami as if he’d never existed. Eventually my boss told me to drop it. Said I needed to move on. So that’s what I did.”

  Nessa’s eyes returned to the name of the accused: Xavier Greyson. Was it possible that Portia Hart and Molly Blair had been victims of the same deadly con man that Riley had encountered a decade earlier? If so, how many women had he killed since then?