by Terri Reid
“Mary, darling, you know I’d do that normally,” he replied, “but since I might be the only one with the key to saving the entire human race. I’m afraid I’d have to trip you and run.”
She started to laugh and then froze. Ian paused next to her and they both listened to the soft thudding sound in the distance.
“What do you think it is?” she whispered.
Ian listened for another moment. “If I’m not mistaking, someone is digging out here.”
“But don’t they use backhoes to dig new gravesites?” she asked.
“Perhaps they’re not digging up a new one,” he suggested. “Perhaps they’re reacquainting themselves with an old friend.”
She turned to him. “I really should go walking in the fog with you more often. I’ve seen a whole other side to your personality.”
The rhythmic thudding continued and, as they got closer, they could pick out the sound of metal occasionally scraping against rock.
“My money’s on digging,” Mary whispered.
“Do you want to know what I think?” Ian whispered back.
Mary paused and turned to him. “No, I really don’t.”
Ian grinned and they continued toward the sound. The fog seemed to thicken as they got closer, rolling like great puffs of steam that encompassed the world around them. “We must be going downhill,” he whispered. “Fog collects in low spots.”
Nodding wordlessly, Mary strained her ears to hear.
Suddenly, Ian stumbled on a loose rock and sent it clattering ahead of them.
“Who’s there?” a man’s voice called out into the fog.
“Um, hello,” Mary said in her friendliest voice. “I’m looking for Nick.”
“Who are you?” Nick asked, his voice laced with distrust.
Mary continued to move toward the voice. “I’m sorry,” she said, trying to buy a little more time. “What did you ask?”
“I want to know who you are and why you are looking for me?” he growled back.
Mary and Ian walked over a slight rise and caught sight of a slender man. He was standing near a large oak tree with a shovel in his hands, held like a quarterstaff, ready to do battle. The fog rolled around him, nearly obscuring his features from them. They could see the ground beneath had been freshly dug and hastily covered.
“Hello, Nick?” Mary asked as she tentatively moved closer.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked, his voice slightly high pitched, like he hadn’t really moved on past puberty.
“My name is Mary,” she replied as she moved even closer. “Mary O’Reilly. And this is my friend, Professor Ian MacDougal. We are doing some research and we were told you might be able to help us.”
He turned the shovel and thrust it into the ground next to him. “Help you with what?”
Since he was more or less disarmed, they both walked up next to him. Ian looked down at the overturned dirt and saw the flattened earth around the small section of freshly turned ground. He looked up at the man’s face. Nick’s face was slightly flushed and, even in the cool fog, he had worked up a sweat. “Did your pet die?” Ian asked.
“How did you…,” he paused, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Have you been spying on me?”
Ian shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ve a large place back home in Scotland and we’ve quite a family of cats. I’m fond of them and whenever one of them passes, I take it upon myself to see they’ve been cared for properly. I’ve dug many a small grave in the wee hours of the morning.”
Nick shrugged. “Wasn’t even my cat,” he said. “Some idiot ran it over this morning. Left it in the gutter to die like it was a piece of trash. Didn’t even stop.”
“Perhaps they didn’t see it,” Mary offered.
“Yeah, right,” Nick scoffed. “More likely they didn’t want to waste their time on something they considered beneath them. Assholes.”
“Do they let you bury animals in the cemetery next to people?” Mary asked.
Nick stared at Mary for a moment. “Nope, they don’t,” he said. “You gonna turn me in?”
“All I’ve seen is some loose dirt,” she replied. “Isn’t that a common occurrence at a cemetery?”
He nodded slowly, his scowl lightening a little. “Yeah, I guess it is. Besides, they deserve a proper burial more than most of the folks buried here.”
“You don’t like people much, do you Nick?” Ian asked.
His mouth turned up in a slight sneer and he met Ian’s eyes. “I like them best when I can put them six feet under,” he said. “They don’t bother me then.”
“Have you always felt this way about people?” Mary asked. “Or did it happen after Hope died?”
His eyes flashed with anger. “How do you know about Hope?”
“We’re actually investigating her death,” Mary said. “Her mother mentioned you to us.”
His laughter was bitter and quick. “Oh, yeah, and I bet she used the most flattering terms when she mentioned me,” he said. “Did she tell you I was a foreigner?”
Ian nodded. “She might have mentioned that.”
“My family has been here in Freeport for four generations,” he said. “My great-grandfather arrived here after World War I, but to someone like her, we will always be foreigners.”
“Did she oppose your relationship with Hope?” Mary asked.
“No, she didn’t give a damn about Hope,” he said. “But if I’d been interested in Faith, well, that would have been a whole different story.”
“Why?” Ian asked. “They were both her daughters.”
Nick lifted the shovel and shoved it back into the ground. “Hope was not quite…as acceptable as Faith,” he said angrily, his protruding Adam’s apple bobbing with emotion. “She was a little heavier, her skin wasn’t as perfect and she wasn’t the cheerleader type. Instead she was kind, sensitive and bright. Not the right temperament for the Foley family.”
“Why do you think she killed herself?” Mary asked.
He looked out into the fog for a moment and then inhaled deeply. “They must have done something to her,” he finally said. “They must have said something or done something. She would have never… She wasn’t planning…”
He picked up the shovel and slammed it against the tree. Mary and Ian jumped back.
“Damn it, she had just told me she loved me,” he said. “You don’t say that and then kill yourself. She had too much to live for.”
“Did you…were you anywhere near the house on the night it happened?” Ian asked.
“We were supposed to meet, after the lights went out,” he said. “I waited. I waited for her. I saw the light in her room go on. Then I heard the ambulance…”
He thrust the shovel into the ground again. “I was right outside,” he said, his teeth clenched. “All she had to do was come outside. We could have run away together… Why the hell did she leave me?”
“Why did she leave you?” Mary asked. “Didn’t she leave you a note?”
He shook his head. “No, no note. When I asked about her, her family told me to leave and never come back. I didn’t even get to go to her funeral. They only allowed the family.”
“None of her friends attended the funeral?” Ian asked.
Nick shook his head. “No. The only ones at the funeral were Mr. and Mrs. Foley. Faith was already gone. They sent her to Europe. She probably didn’t want to attend anyway.”
“Has she ever spoken about it?” Mary asked.
“Listen, Faith and I don’t run in the same circles,” Nike replied. “I haven’t seen Faith since the day Hope died.”
“You saw Faith the day Hope died?” Ian asked. “Why?”
Nick’s face flushed and he turned away for a moment. “She asked me to meet her,” he finally said.
“Why?” Mary asked.
He kicked at the ground for a moment, and then looked up and met Mary’s eyes. “Because I was an idiot.”
“I don’t understand,” she replied.<
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“Faith was beautiful,” he said resentfully. “She looked like she just stepped out of a magazine. Tall, thin, nicely built, long straight hair, white straight teeth – she was the whole package. Well, on the outside. The inside was not as nice.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“She flirted with me,” he yelled. “She told me she thought I was cute. Said she thought nerdy guys were hot.”
“She was setting you up,” Ian said.
Nick nodded. “Yeah, she met me behind the school, got me hot and bothered and timed it just perfectly.”
“Hope?” Mary asked.
“Hope found us kissing,” he said. “She ran away crying.”
He looked away from them. “I turned to Faith and she was laughing. She was watching her sister run away, broken hearted and she was laughing. Then she turned and walked away from me,” he said, then he turned back to face them. “She had done what she’d set out to do. She might as well have put the cord around Hope’s neck. She killed her sister. She was nothing but a bitch then and I’m sure she’s the same now.”
Chapter Thirty-one
“I don’t think he killed Hope or witnessed her death,” Ian said once he and Mary were back in the car together.
“Yes, I agree,” she said. “But I wouldn’t rule him out as the person seeking revenge on those who made fun of her.”
Mary turned the car on and slowly pulled out into the street. “So you don’t think the deaths of the other women were suicides?” Ian asked.
Shaking her head, she kept her eyes on the foggy road ahead of her. “No, but right now it’s just a hunch. Katie was right, people who are contemplating suicide aren’t planning for the holidays,” she said. “I think we need to get some more information on their deaths.”
“Okay, we could start with the police reports,” Ian suggested. “I know it would make a certain police chief really happy if you were working nearby.”
She turned and smiled at him. “I think you’re right,” she agreed. “Should we swing by Cole’s and get doughnuts before we go there.”
“You know the whole doughnut-eating police officer is an overused stereotype,” Ian said. “Not all police officers like pastries.”
Mary nodded. “Okay, I can agree with that,” she paused for a moment. “So, are we picking up doughnuts?”
Waiting just a beat to answer, Ian smiled at her and nodded. “Aye, we are.”
Once they arrived at the station, they dropped the doughnuts off at the front desk and knocked on the door to the Chief’s office. “Come in,” Bradley called from inside the room.
Mary opened the door and peeked inside. Bradley was at his desk, reviewing some paperwork. “Good morning,” she said.
He immediately lifted his head and smiled at her. “Now it is,” he said, getting out of his chair and walking to the door. “Come in.”
Mary and Ian both entered. “Ian and I wanted to look over the police reports on the other girls that committed suicide.”
“Aye, we thought it would be better to start here than try to interview their relatives,” Ian added. “Their comments back then are probably more relevant.”
“That’s a good idea,” Bradley agreed. “Do you know where the record room is?”
“Yes, just down the hall,” Ian said. “I’ll head over there now and give you two a couple of minutes.”
Ian pulled the door closed behind him as Bradley stepped over and slipped his arms around Mary’s waist and she folded her arms around his neck. “Good morning,” he said quietly, bringing his lips down to hers.
“Now it is,” she murmured with a smile as she returned the kiss, feeling the slow burn in her abdomen as she tightened her arms to deepen the kiss.
He kissed her again, first gently, exploring her taste, enjoying her response and responding to her soft murmurs and sighs. Then he let his desire take the reins as he crushed her lips beneath his and pulled her closer. She reacted with an answering passion and kissed him back, breathing in short staccato bursts as her heart pounded in her chest, moaning in frustration as she felt the tension build inside of her.
Bradley drew back and nearly lost all control when he looked down at her kiss-swollen lips, her face flushed with passion and her eyes soft with desire. “Mary,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I think we’d better slow things down.”
In an emotionally charged daze, she nodded at him and tightened her arms to continue the kiss.
He ducked around her luscious lips and kissed her neck, which caused her to shiver deliciously in his arms. “Darling, unless we stop, we’re going to have to move the wedding up to yesterday,” he whispered into her ear.
She paused, confused, “Yesterday? I don’t understand…”
The sensual fog she was in had been even more powerful than the fog she had walked in that morning. But suddenly it lifted away and Mary looked up at Bradley, his eyes still filled with desire and tenderness.
“You pack a punch,” he said, smiling down at her.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” she replied, still trying to catch her breath.
“How many months until we get married?” he asked, placing a kiss on her forehead.
She shook her head. “Please don’t ask me to do math right now,” she complained. “I’ll be lucky if I can think straight for the next hour.”
Chuckling, he ran his hands up her arms and rested them on her shoulders. “I have that problem whenever I’m in the same room with you.”
She smiled at him. “Really? I think I like that.”
“It doesn’t bode well for anyone relying on me to solve a crime, though,” he said.
She reached up and kissed him quickly on the lips. “Well, then, I’d better let you get back to keeping Freeport safe,” she replied. “And I’ll go help Ian solve a mystery.”
“If you need anything…,” he began.
“I know where you are,” she interrupted with a smile. “By the way, I brought in doughnuts. They’re at the front desk. I had Dorothy put two of them to the side for you.”
“I love you, Mary O’Reilly,” he said.
“Good, because the feeling’s very mutual,” she replied just before she slipped out the door.
Chapter Thirty-two
Ian had acquisitioned a table in the middle of the record room and had set two chairs on one side. On the table were five sets of files, placed in separate piles and a white board in the center. Mary entered the room to find Ian scribbling away on the white board.
“Ah, Mary, excellent,” he said, looking up when she opened the door. “I’ve located the files and have just started reviewing them.”
“Five files?” she asked, walking forward and picking up the first file. “I thought there were only four copycat suicides.”
“Yes, you’re right,” he agreed. “But I thought it wise to also look at the original file and see if we pick out anything we might have forgotten.”
“You are brilliant,” she replied. “So what have you found so far?”
He grinned up at her. “Well, I’ve found the files so far,” he said. “And now the fun begins. Have a seat and let’s begin our adventure.”
She sat down in the seat next to him and shook her head. “You really like research, don’t you?” she asked.
Flipping open the first folder, he glanced at her and winked. “I live for research,” he said. “It’s like being a detective without having to shoot people.”
“There’s nothing wrong with shooting people,” Mary interjected, “if the situation calls for it.”
He nodded. “And there you have the difference between a professor and a cop.”
She opened her folder and then turned to him. “Being a cop is sexier,” she said.
Cocking an eyebrow, he just looked at her.
Sighing, she nodded. “Present company excluded, of course.”
Grinning, he nodded, “Of course. Now, come, come, the game is afoot.”
“Oh,
so you get to be Sherlock Holmes now?” she asked. “You do remember, he was the detective.”
“First one with a clue gets to be Sherlock,” Ian said.
“You’re on,” Mary agreed.
She picked up the folder that contained the information about Hope Foley’s death and started reading. After a few minutes, she set the folder down and took a deep breath.
“Are you okay?” Ian asked her.
She nodded, but didn’t say a word for a moment or two. “This is just so heartbreaking,” she finally said, her voice thick with emotion. “When I see a ghost reenact their own death, it’s pretty emotional. But I never see what happens afterwards. What happens to the people who find them or the loved ones who grieve for the rest of their lives?”
“It takes a while, but they learn to move forward,” Ian murmured.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” Mary said.
“Oh, nothing, just muttering,” he said with a smile. “What did you find?”
She pushed the folder over to Ian. “Hope’s mother, Gloria, found her. The report says she saw her hanging from the ceiling fan, ran across the room, wrapped her arms around Hope’s legs and lifted her up, trying to relieve the cord’s pressure from Hope’s neck. It was already too late, but she wouldn’t let go. She must have held her up for thirty minutes. Finally, the EMTs had to sedate her in order to get her to release her hold from her daughter.”
“She was fighting for the life she thought her daughter had thrown away,” Ian said.
Mary nodded. “And we know better.”
“Aye, and the more we learn, the better chance we have of saving someone else.”
Going back to work, they studied the files in silence for the next sixty minutes, both scribbling notes and checking back and forth between cases. Mary, chewing on the end of her pen, finally pushed the folder away from her and sat back in her chair. “They all look like viable suicides,” she said. “Not one seems to be assisted.”
“Aye, but none of them showed any of the telltale signs of someone who was going to attempt suicide,” he said. “No hints about dying, no getting their lives in order or giving things away, no talk about how unfulfilling their lives were, none of the typical warning signs.”
