by Lisa Jackson
“Oh, we will,” Morrisette assured him.
Either this guy was a really good actor or he was telling the truth. For the time being, Reed decided to believe him. “You know, you might just try talking to your wife.”
A muscle worked in the corner of Arbuckle’s jaw. “I think it might be too late for that,” he said wearily. He drew a breath and then asked, “So are we done here? There’s really nothing more to say, and I’m really busy.”
“We know. The Quinns are waiting,” Morrisette said as she glanced at Reed.
“Am I going to be charged with anything?” he asked.
Reed, disgusted, headed to the door. “That’ll be up to Ms. Gillette, but I think you’d better start looking for somewhere else to live.”
“So Blondell’s release is all set?” Nikki said to Trina upon returning to the office.
“As long as everything goes as planned, that’s the latest.” Trina pushed out her desk chair and stood in her favorite spot, on her side of the partition, where their desks merged, as Nikki switched on her desktop computer. Around them other reporters were on their phones, and keyboard keys were clicking, monitors glowing, a printer pumping out hard copy across the room. “You look remarkably okay after your ordeal last night.”
“The wonders of Cover Girl.”
“Yeah, right.”
Nikki was known for her lack of beauty routine. She just didn’t care enough, unless she was going out. Then she would hit the mascara, lip gloss, and fingernail polish a little harder.
“I would have freaked out if it had happened to me, I mean freaked. Antoine would have had to put me in a mental ward.”
“I’m really okay,” Nikki said, lying a little. She didn’t want to think too hard about the snake. “My car took a beating.”
“Is it bad?”
“Not good. I should find out today.”
Trina glanced across the spacious room, cut up by cubicles, to the wall where several computers were stretched along an expansive counter. “Everyone’s been asking about you, of course, once the word got out, but with her”—she glanced over toward Effie’s empty work station and Nikki’s eyes followed; Trina didn’t say Effie’s name aloud—“it’s different.”
“What specifically did she ask?”
“Oh, you know. ‘Where did it happen?’ ‘What was she doing at the cabin?’ ‘Does this have anything to do with the Blondell O’Henry story she’s writing?’ ‘Was she alone?’ ‘Was she hurt?’ ‘Did the snake strike?’ ‘Was she meeting anyone there?’ ‘Did Detective Reed know what she was doing?’ Maybe it’s nothing, but she seemed a little too eager for details and then she asked about your family, not just your father, but about your siblings and even your cousins, y’know, what were their names?”
“Hollis and Elton McBaine?”
“Lots about them and about their mother.”
“You mean their father. He was Blondell’s attorney.”
“Nope. She asked me if I’d met Penelope McBaine, and I had to tell her I’d never had the pleasure.”
Nikki’s gaze met Trina’s. “What?”
“I caught her a couple of times here, at your desk. Never really sitting in your chair, but just kind of hanging, y’know. A little too interested in what you’re doing.”
“She wants us to work together on the Blondell O’Henry stories, even worked it out with Fink,” Nikki said slowly.
“Hmmm. Good luck with that. Did you get the text I sent you with the snake guy’s sister’s name and number?” she asked; then, as her phone rang, she glanced down at her desk. “Oops. Gotta take this. Big benefit auction tonight, and somehow all the questions are routed to my desk. Guess it comes with the territory.”
Nikki wasted no time. She couldn’t worry about Effie and her seeming fascination with her, at least not today. Daylight was fading, and she had a lot to do before Blondell O’Henry was released.
She listened to her messages and learned none of the legitimate reptile dealers she’d contacted earlier had sold any copperheads, but they all were very interested in selling her another kind of snake or turtle or even alligator. “No thanks,” she said to herself. Her close encounter with the pit viper was enough.
She then tried the number Trina had texted her for Alfred Necarney’s sister and was shot right to voice mail. Drumming her fingers on her desk, she tried to remember something that was nagging at the back of her brain, a bit of conversation she’d had recently that she thought she should remember, but couldn’t. She shook her head and jotted down notes from her meeting with Lawrence Thompson, then added a few more questions to ask Holt Beauregard. Still online, she attempted to check out the Reverend Ezekiel Byrd and his congregation, but that group was pretty much under the radar, which wasn’t a surprise. No website or social media presence.
She was reviewing footage of Blondell’s trial, clips that had been posted on the Internet, when she was struck again by how much Amity looked like her mother. And Flint Beauregard, when he took the stand, was a handsome man, and steady in his testimony. He didn’t appear angry or rattled, just gave out the facts as he’d recorded them. During the entire time, Blondell O’Henry sat unruffled, staring at the cop who was trying to send her to prison for life as if she didn’t care, her expression nearly blank.
“Odd,” Nikki thought as the phone rang and she saw Reed’s number.
“Hey, handsome,” she said. “I was just about to call you, to see if there was any update on Blondell’s release. Our connection earlier was almost nonexistent.”
“Nothing yet. As I understand it, there are some details to be worked out, but it still looks like a go for tomorrow.”
“I want to be there.”
“I think Jada Hill will probably discourage the press.”
“I could call her a nasty word, but I have too much respect for her, grudging though it may be,” Nikki said, rolling her chair away from her desk.
“I thought you’d like to know we caught our personal stalker.”
“What?” She sat up straighter in her chair. “Who?”
“Turns out it was kind of a mistake. Sorry to disappoint, but you, darlin’, weren’t the target, after all. Our man was none other than Charles Arbuckle, who thinks his wife might be cheating on him.”
He explained about Arbuckle’s fears and how he was trying to spy on his wife but had left the details of the electronic hookup to Leon Donnigan, who, apparently, had messed up big-time and ended up focusing on Nikki’s apartment. He finished with, “I called Donnigan and he confirmed, so I think another big mystery is solved, except that it doesn’t explain the feeling that you’ve had of being followed.”
“No . . .”
“And it’s not tied nicely in to the case we’re investigating.”
“Just a coincidence,” she said aloud, troubled.
“I don’t like coincidences,” Reed said.
“And I don’t like tenants who run around like they think they’re CIA operatives and spy on me. Once we get married, maybe we should kick them all out, remodel the whole damned house, and forget about renters.”
“I know,” he agreed. “Though Mrs. Donnigan is an innocent in all this.”
“Yeah, and so is Gloria Arbuckle, but they have lousy taste in family members. Even if this was a mistake, I wouldn’t put it past Leon to post some of the pictures on the Internet.” Her stomach soured at the thought.
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t by reminding him about all the laws he’s broken.”
“If I don’t get to him first. I think I could get some good shots of him smoking a—controlled substance—if I really tried.”
Reed actually laughed and said, “We’ll talk later. I gotta run now.”
“Much later. I’ve got a hot date with a private detective.”
“Holt Beauregard?” He let out a low whistle. “Good luck with that. I don’t know what his feelings on the matter are, but let’s just say Deacon isn’t taking Blondell O’Henry’s release all that wel
l. Thinks it’s a travesty of justice and is taking it as a personal black eye for not only the department, but especially his old man.”
“He’d better get over it.” She thought about telling him her suspicions about Flint Beauregard but decided against it. So far it was just a theory, with nothing much to back it up.
“Not happening,” Reed said. “At least not today. Oh, and the garage called. The lab’s finished going over your car. I can pick it up anytime.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll do it. I can get a ride from the rental car agency.” She was thinking of her uncle’s set of keys that she’d had to abandon in the car. If she could avoid it, she didn’t want to explain to Reed how she’d ended up with them. Until the key ring was returned, she’d basically stolen Uncle Alex’s personal property, no matter how much she sugar-coated it to herself.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive,” she said and decided she’d better return the keys at the first chance she got. “I’ll take care of it. You keep on chasing the bad guys.” Her uncle’s warning flitted through her mind.
She’s dangerous . . . Leave this alone!
Had his words been just the delusions of an older man battling with reality? Or had the warning been a ploy to keep her from finding out the truth—that he was romantically involved with his client? There was also, of course, potentially another more dire implication in his words: that Blondell O’Henry, the woman about to be released from prison, truly was a cold-blooded killer and that digging up her past was only asking for trouble.
CHAPTER 27
Sometimes things just seemed to work better without a man involved, Morrisette thought as she eased the nose of her Chevy off Victory Drive and into the neighborhood where Deacon and Holt Beauregard had grown up. She’d done some digging about their father, Flint Beauregard, and learned that he’d gone to school here, in Savannah, the very same high school Blondell O’Henry—well, actually Blondell Rochette, at that time—had attended, though, of course, years before.
Still, it was a little detail that had nagged at Morrisette for days. Today she was going to do a little poking and see what she could find. Sliding a pair of sunglasses onto her nose, she headed her car to Stevenson Street.
With aging post–World War II bungalows lining the streets, this part of Savannah could have been Anywhere, USA. Basketball hoops had been bolted to garage roofs, and cars were parked against the curbs. The sidewalks were lined with shade trees planted so long ago that their branches were tangled in the electrical wires overhead and their roots had buckled the cement.
The Beauregards’ house was in the middle of the block, painted khaki green, the decorative shutters the same brown as the trim; a walkway split the scraggly lawn, its mortar chipped and cracked, and weeds sprouted between the faded bricks. Morrisette walked up to the front door, rang the bell, and waited on the outside of an aluminum screen door.
As she dropped her sunglasses into her pocket, footsteps heralded the arrival of someone on the other side, and seconds later Flora Beauregard, in a sweater and jeans a size too tight, opened the sticking front door with an effort.
Morrisette flashed her badge and introduced herself. “I’d like to come in and ask you a few questions,” she said.
Flora’s hand reached for the latch to the screen door but paused. “I don’t know . . .”
“It won’t take long. I promise.” Morrisette managed a “we’re just girls here talking” smile.
“Well . . . I suppose,” Flora said in her soft Southern drawl as she unlatched the screen. She was thick in the middle, her hair a carefully styled blond bouffant, stylish glasses bridging her nose. “I’ve been expecting someone like you would be coming by ever since the talk started about that woman.” She held the door open for Morrisette. “I can’t believe she’s being released. I just can’t believe it. After what she did!” Latching the screen behind Morrisette with one hand, she motioned her into the living room with her other.
The room, dominated by a big picture window, looked as if it had been redecorated around 1975 and not touched since. The heat was blasting—the temperature had to have been pushing eighty degrees—and an underlying odor of cigarette smoke and bacon grease lingered in the air.
“Is there anything I can get you?” Flora offered. “Sweet tea? Coffee?”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, then.” Waving Morrisette into a striped side chair, Flora took a seat in what seemed to be her favorite rocker, positioned to face the television, a knitting bag overflowing with balls of yarn at its side. Several tabloid magazines were strewn across the worn carpet, though she gathered them up and tucked them into a rack that also served as an end table. On the muted television set, a cooking program was in progress, a stout woman frying some kind of sizzling meat while furiously chopping bell peppers and onions, from the looks of it.
“Deacon said someone would probably show up,” she admitted.
“Yeah.” Morrisette couldn’t help but stare at the thick wooden mantel upon which rested framed photos. In the place of honor, just under an antique rifle and a picture of Jesus mounted on the chimney face, was a framed, oversize portrait of Flint and Flora, their two sons flanking the happy couple. The boys, appearing uncomfortable in creased shirts and narrow ties, had probably been in high school at the time. Flint hadn’t yet begun to flesh out; his jaw was still strong, his eyes intense, his mustache thick and dark. Flora too had been twenty or thirty pounds slimmer as she smiled, hands folded, into the camera.
“What is it you want to know?” she asked. As in the photo, she sat with her hands folded in her lap.
“I wondered if you had any of Detective Beauregard’s personal records, his notebook, tapes, that sort of thing, that he might have kept while investigating the Amity O’Henry homicide,” Morrisette told her.
Behind her glasses, Flora’s eyes narrowed a bit. “Why?”
“Because the department could use anything you have that might be helpful in keeping Ms. O’Henry in prison.”
“I wish I could help you. I really do.” Her lips tightened, and almost as if she didn’t realize what she was doing, she picked up her knitting needles, which were entangled in a pink yarn. “I can’t imagine that she’ll be set free. Flint worked very hard to see that she would spend the rest of her life in prison for what she did to those poor children.” Though she attempted to appear calm, Flora was obviously agitated, a little twitch visible just above the bow of her glasses, her needles moving fluidly as she unconsciously added row after row of stitching to what appeared to be the beginning of an infant’s sweater.
Click. Click. Click.
“My husband worked tirelessly on the case against Blondell O’Henry.”
“I understand. But the primary witness has recanted.”
“Ridiculous!”
Click. Click. Click.
“You met your husband in high school?” Morrisette tried, hoping she would open up some.
The needles stopped for a second. “Actually sixth grade, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“Did he know Blondell Rochette?”
“No!” she said vehemently. “She was much younger, so he didn’t know her when we were in school. He met her during that investigation, of course.”
Again the needles began moving rhythmically.
“She had older brothers, I think. It’s not impossible to think he’d met her.”
Her lips pulled into a knot, and she dropped her knitting into her lap. “Detective Morrisette, what are you getting at?”
“Nothing specific. I’d just like to know how personal this case was to him.”
“Very personal.” She was angry now, her needles silent, her knuckles bent and showing white. “He was a father, and he found it incomprehensible and cruel and evil that a mother would do such a brutal act. Garland Brownell, the DA at the time, didn’t press for the death penalty. They used Old Sparky, back then, y’know, and Blondell, she would have fried, but no
one wanted that. Personally, I think it would have been the best thing, saved the state a ton of money keeping her locked away.” She looked up, her eyebrows vaulting over the rims of her glasses as she kept right on knitting. “Considering all this business now, this testimony changing, having the switch thrown would have saved everyone a whole lot of trouble!”
Man, Flora was really worked up, her color high. “Did you know her?” Morrisette asked.
“No, and I didn’t have to.” She kept on furiously knitting. “That woman is evil. Pure evil.” Taking a deep breath, she stopped and sketched a hasty sign of the cross over her ample bosom. “Since you’re here, I’ll tell you what I think. Blondell O’Henry should never be allowed out of prison. Never! Find a way to keep her in there, Detective. Make sure what my husband worked so hard for remains as it is. Lock her up and throw away the damned key!”
Nikki picked up her car without incident and was relieved to find both sets of keys inside. She signed for everything, swore what was listed was, indeed hers. If Reed saw the inventory, he might wonder about a second key ring listed along with her gloves, keys, half-used box of Tic Tacs, registration, insurance forms, and umbrella, and, she supposed, she would have to come clean and admit to her crime. However, she doubted he would ask and felt only a smidgen of guilt that she hadn’t confided in him. Of course, she really couldn’t, as it would make him an accessory to her “crime,” so she figured that in this case what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Her CR-V was drivable, if dented, so she figured she’d deal with the insurance later. Right now, she had too much to do to worry about the damage. All she needed was a set of wheels that would get her where she wanted to go.
First up, Steve Manning, who would start his shift within the hour, which was perfect.
