Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane Book 3)

by Melinda Leigh

  Unlike her husband, Natalie Leed wasn’t fighting the years. She’d gained weight. Her blonde hair was short and streaked with gray. A blue apron declared her the “World’s Best Grandma.”

  Brian introduced Morgan to his wife and then said, “Nat, do you remember Lance Kruger?”

  Natalie’s mouth formed an O as she shook Lance’s hand. “Oh. Wow. Didn’t you grow up handsome?”

  “He wants to talk about Vic,” Brian said.

  “Of course.” She gestured to the table. “Please sit. I just made a fresh pot of coffee.”

  They slid around an oak table and Natalie served coffee in dainty little cups with gold rims. Morgan sipped hers, her eyes closing briefly with appreciation.

  Natalie Leed set a thermal coffee carafe on the table, then went to the counter to open a cookie jar shaped like a rooster. She loaded a plate with cookies.

  “I try to keep in shape, but Natalie is just too damned good of a baker.” Brian’s arms were muscled enough to suggest he spent some time in the gym.

  In contrast to Stan Adams’s pretentious and aloof McMansion, the Leeds’ house felt homey and warm. Knickknacks—some of which looked like clumsy grade-school clay projects—and photographs of children crowded the surfaces of tables and bookcases. Not a speck of dust clung to any of the clutter.

  Lance had been in the house before, a long time in the past. In his mind, he pictured a summer day, tables in the yard, balloons tied to the backs of chairs, kids running and laughing. A birthday party?

  But as comfortable as the house felt, Brian’s occasional side-eye triggered Lance’s suspicion.

  “Are those your grandchildren?” Morgan pointed to a pair of school pictures that hung on the wall.

  “Yes.” Crow’s-feet crinkled around Natalie’s eyes. Her smile beamed with pride. “Joshua is six, and Kayla is five.”

  “And Natalie spoils them rotten,” Brian said with a hint of criticism.

  “That’s my job.” Natalie shot him a look that said their marriage wasn’t as perfect as Lance had imagined. “I’m their grandma.”

  Brian gave her a quick, irritated frown, then his face turned serious. “We saw that the police pulled your dad’s car from the lake on the news. I assume that’s why you’re here?”

  “Yes,” Lance said.

  “We haven’t heard any updates.” Brian lowered his voice. “They said a body was found in the car. Was it Vic?”

  “No,” Lance said. “Did either of you know a woman named Mary Fox?”

  Brian stared at his plate, his brows lowered, his mouth set. “I don’t think so.”

  Natalie shook her head. “That name doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “She was a waitress at PJ’s,” Lance prompted.

  Brian played with his fork. “There were several waitresses at PJ’s. Can you describe her?”

  “I can do better than that.” Morgan reached for the tote next to her chair. Pulling it onto her lap, she removed a picture from the side pocket. “This was Mary.”

  Natalie took the picture. “I remember her.” She frowned as she passed it to Brian.

  Brian’s jaw shifted as he took the photo. “Oh, that Mary. Her last name was Fox? Yeah, I remember her. Why?” He handed the picture back to Morgan, as if he couldn’t wait to get it out of his hands.

  Lance dropped the bomb. “Her skeleton was found in the trunk of my father’s car.”

  Brian gaped. “That makes no sense.”

  “Did she seem to have a special relationship with Vic?” Morgan moved her notebook to her lap and wrote something down.

  Brian looked away.

  “I don’t think so,” Natalie said. “But I only went to PJ’s once in a while. Brian, Stan, and Vic were the regulars.” Natalie cleared her throat, her lips pursing in a prudish frown. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but she wasn’t a very nice girl. She seemed to enjoy flirting with married men when their wives were sitting right there.”

  Brian stared at his plate. “She flirted with everyone. That’s just the way she was.”

  “Did you hear anything about her soliciting from the bar?” Lance asked.

  Natalie sniffed. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Brian winced. “There were rumors.”

  “Did either of you notice when Mary suddenly stopped working at PJ’s?” Morgan asked.

  “No.” Natalie broke off a piece of cookie. “There were other waitresses. She wasn’t there every time I went anyway.”

  “No. Maybe.” Brian still wouldn’t meet Lance’s gaze. Was he hiding something or was Lance overly suspicious? “Like Natalie said, we wouldn’t give much thought to a change in waitstaff.”

  Lance changed topic. “Did you notice anything unusual about my dad in the weeks before he disappeared?”

  Brian toyed with a cookie. “He was worried about your mom. She seemed overwhelmed all the time.”

  Morgan turned to Natalie. “How well did you know Jenny Kruger?”

  “Not that well. I invited her over for Tupperware parties, book club, that sort of thing. She didn’t seem very interested in being closer friends.” Natalie gave Lance a pitying look. “I reached out to your mother several times after Vic went missing. She never responded, and I’m ashamed to say I didn’t push the issue. I should have. I should have checked on you. I’m sorry. I assumed she had family or other close friends.”

  She hadn’t.

  Sorrow filled Lance when he thought of all the milestones his dad had missed. He couldn’t think of any more questions. Emotions and memories were clogging his brain. “Thank you for your time.”

  He and Morgan left the house in a rush. Anger and frustration welling deep in Lance’s chest.

  Morgan took his arm as they walked to the Jeep. Her grip was solid and sure. “That must have been hard for you.”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say.

  She let go of him when they reached the Jeep parked at the curb. But she didn’t drop the subject. “Talk to me. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “For all Natalie’s perfection as a mother, she utterly failed to check on a child who needed help.” Morgan shut her car door extra hard. “She keeps a perfect house. Probably cooks every meal from scratch. But she didn’t do the one thing she should have.”

  “I’m sure she’s not that bad.” Lance had an epiphany. “My mother never had any close friends that I remember. She probably did push Natalie—and other people—away.”

  “Doesn’t your mother have any family?”

  “Not that I know of,” Lance said.

  Morgan tapped her armrest.

  “What?” he asked.

  “For a guy who loves his wife’s baking, Brian didn’t eat a bite of his cookie.” She stilled her fingers. “Lying must have interfered with his appetite.”

  “You noticed it too?”

  Morgan steepled her fingers. “He was definitely lying.”

  “But about what?”

  “I guess we’ll have to find out.”

  His phone buzzed with a message from Sharp. Lance read it out loud. “Mary’s mother’s name is Crystal Fox. Sharp wants us to meet him at her house in an hour.”

  “We should stop for dinner,” Morgan said. “How about that deli on Oak Street?”

  Lance was too preoccupied to think about food, but he didn’t like it when Morgan skipped meals. He turned the Jeep around and headed in the right direction.

  Maybe Crystal Fox would have the answers he needed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Secrets.

  So many of them.

  Whispering in the woods. Sitting on the bottom of the lake. Threatening to rise from the past and grab him by the ankle.

  He would not go down. He’d worked too hard to cover his misdeeds. But frankly, there were too many to bury in one place.

  He’d thought he’d snipped off all his loose ends. But some threads had been pulled free. He must cut them off immediatel
y or they would continue to unravel.

  But which ends needed to be severed?

  Who remembered what?

  He couldn’t risk it. They all had to die.

  Starting with . . .

  He drove past her house one more time. Not too slowly. He couldn’t attract attention, not that he’d seen another car for at least a mile. He lowered his window. The sound of a dog barking floated on the morning breeze.

  He fucking hated dogs.

  A quarter of a mile down the road, he slowed the car, then turned it around. He needed a plan. No impulsive decisions. No acting without considering the consequences of his actions.

  He would not let one mistake ruin his life. No one could know. Ever.

  He could still see her mailbox, though trees screened the house from the street. He could park right in the driveway, and no one would know. She was even too far away from her nearest neighbor for the barking dog to be more than a nuisance. Turning at the mailbox, he stopped just past a thick stand of pines. An old Aerostar van was parked near the house.

  He slipped out of his car and walked to the front door. A little dog barked on the other side of the door. Maybe he could talk his way inside, then surprise her. But she didn’t answer his knock. The way the dog was yapping, if she was home, she was ignoring the door or in the shower.

  The latter idea excited him.

  He crept around the side of the house. Inside, the little dog followed his movement, yapping as it ran from room to room. A chain-link fence encircled the rear of the property. The gate squealed when he opened it, so he didn’t bother to shut it. He waded through the high weeds to the back door. Donning a pair of gloves, he tried the sliding glass door. Locked. Cupping a hand over his eyes, he squinted through the glass, but the house was dark inside. He walked around the perimeter, testing windows, until he found one with a broken lock.

  Someone needed a lecture on proper home maintenance.

  He eased the window up and listened. The only sound he heard was someone snoring and the jingle of dog tags. He boosted himself over the sill, landing in a spare bedroom filled with boxes and random junk. He stood still for a few seconds, but the snoring continued in an even and steady pace.

  With a tiny growl, the dog rushed his leg, grabbing his pant leg and hanging on. He kicked it with his other foot. The creature yelped but came back for another nip. The second kick sent it flying into the corner. As it tried to slink out, he grabbed it by the scruff of its neck and tossed it out the window.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  His pulse kicked up as he slid out of the room. Adrenaline flooded his veins, giving him an instant erection. It had been years since he’d killed another person. How could he have forgotten the buzz?

  A floorboard creaked under his weight as he crept toward the master bedroom. The snoring paused, and he froze just outside the open door.

  How could his footstep wake her when the dog’s barking had not?

  Bedding rustled, and he held his breath. When the snoring resumed with a snort, his muscles relaxed.

  He could feel every heartbeat in his chest, the blood pumping oxygen through his body. His limbs tingled, every inch of him more alive than he had been in years.

  Twenty-three of them to be exact.

  He peered around the doorframe into the bedroom. The moment of truth.

  She lay on her back, one arm flung to the side, her mouth open. Once she’d been attractive, but hard living had taken its toll. Sallow skin and stained teeth showed a lack of personal care, echoed by the bottle of gin and a glass on the nightstand.

  Maybe he was doing her a favor. She lived in a dump. She didn’t take care of herself. She was squandering her life. But he bet that when faced with her imminent death, she’d fight to hold on to the very life she was wasting.

  There was only one way to find out.

  Crossing the room, he slid the rope from his pocket. The end was already tied in a simple noose. He shook out the loop. A tug on the ceiling fan convinced him that it would hold her weight just fine. Years of choosing alcohol over food had left her gaunt.

  A chair sat in front of a vanity. He grabbed it and positioned it under the fan.

  Easing up to the side of the bed, he leaned close.

  “Crystal,” he said.

  She shifted in the bed. Her mouth closed, and she swallowed.

  “Crystal.” He touched her shoulder.

  Her eyes opened. Confusion shifted quickly to alarm. She bolted upright. Her mouth gaped as if to scream, not that it would matter. There was no one close enough to hear. But he clamped a gloved hand over her face and dragged her from the bed. He put her back to his chest and looped his arm around her body. She struggled, her kicks and bucks surprisingly strong for a slender woman of her age. But she was no match for him.

  He slipped the simple noose around her neck. No worries about screaming now. She stopped moving, paralyzed with fear. He yanked the noose tight.

  “Please, no,” she gurgled, the rope strangling her words, cutting off her air.

  Using the rope around her neck and the arm around her body, he lifted her higher. Her feet frantically sought the chair to take the pressure from her throat.

  Her head was just below the fan. He estimated the distance needed between her feet and the floor and wrapped the rope around the base of the fan. Before he tied off the end, he left a few inches of slack.

  She wheezed as the extra length allowed her to take a single breath.

  He smiled.

  And kicked the chair out from under her.

  Her eyes went wide, and her bladder released, soaking her gray sweatpants. The sharp scent of urine hit his nostrils. He stepped back as her body dangled at the end of the rope. Her toes stretched toward the floor, but she couldn’t reach. Her arms and legs flailed, her movements violent.

  Panicked.

  Desperate.

  Her hands went to her neck. Her fingers clawed at the rope. Her nails raked her own skin, leaving bloody trails on her neck. But she couldn’t free herself.

  Death came in a minute or two as the tight rope cut off both her breathing and blood flow. He watched as her face slackened. Her arms and legs stopped moving. Life faded from her eyes until she stopped seeing him. Her body swayed for a few minutes, then stilled.

  It was done.

  This must be what an addict experiences when he finally gives in to his urges. Was the rush of heroin similar to this?

  He should be ashamed. He should feel guilty, but all that surged through his body was satisfaction.

  He’d silenced her so she wouldn’t talk. But he’d enjoyed every second of the act. It didn’t matter how long he’d maintained his self-control. Deep inside, he was a killer.

  Crystal had been the first thread to be snipped. But there were more that needed severing.

  He backed away from the swaying body, savoring the sight. The cell phone in his pocket begged to take a picture so that he could relive this moment forever. But he resisted. Stupid mistakes could get him caught. Instead, he simply stared, imprinting the sight in his mind. His memory would have to suffice.

  A few seconds later, he backed out of the bedroom. He crept back to the open window. The overgrown yard was empty. He slipped out the window and back across the weeds to the driveway and his car.

  He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t enjoyed the kill any more than he could pretend that he wasn’t looking forward to the next death.

  Chapter Sixteen

  If Sharp closed his eyes, he could picture everything as it had been in 1994. Jenny becoming more hysterical as the hours passed. Ten-year-old Lance trying to calm her. He’d been just a boy, but he’d become his mother’s caretaker that night. Sharp had helped as much as he could. His only other option had been to put Lance into foster care, and Sharp had seen too many kids destroyed by that system. In his opinion, unless a kid was in major danger, he was better off with his own family.

  They’d survived, but neither Jenny nor Lance had l
ived a full life. Until now. Until Morgan had entered the picture. It had taken Lance bringing a woman around for Jenny to see that her illness had a death grip on her son as well as herself.

  Morgan had made all the difference. And Sharp would be damned if he’d let Vic Kruger’s disappearance put Lance’s newfound joy in jeopardy.

  This time, he was going to find the truth. This time, he would not fail them. But what if the truth was more painful than they’d ever imagined? Vic’s car had been found in a lake with a woman’s body in the trunk. If Sharp were investigating that discovery, with no previous connection to the case, he might conclude that Vic had killed the girl, covered up the murder by putting her in the lake, and left town because of his crime. But if he wanted to dispose of a body, Vic could have dumped her in the lake and gone home. No one would have known. There would have been no need to complicate the situation by using his own car.

  Unless Vic also wanted out of his marriage and the stressful situation. In that case, it made perfect sense.

  Shit.

  Should he share the theory with Lance? Not yet. He’d keep it in the back of his mind and see where the evidence led.

  Sharp cruised to a stop at the sign and turned right.

  Crystal Fox lived in Grey’s Hollow, a mostly rural community just north of Scarlet Falls. Weeds and woods lined both sides of the country road. At six o’clock in the evening, the sun had set, but the night wasn’t yet full dark. In the gray twilight, Sharp passed a rundown farmhouse with a sagging porch and a barnyard full of knee-high weeds.

  A quarter mile later, he turned at a broken mailbox onto a narrow, rutted driveway. Trees arched overhead and shadowed the lane.

  Ahead, taillights glowed in the dim, and Sharp spotted Lance’s Jeep. Morgan and Lance were already there. As soon as Sharp pulled in next to the Jeep, they climbed out and waited for him on the driveway.

  The small one-story house was muddy brown and miserable looking. Paint peeled from the front door. Shutters and roof shingles were missing. A lamppost halfway between the driveway and the house stood dark. The porch light wasn’t on either, and the lawn, more meadow than grass, hadn’t seen a mower since the 1970s.