“Your fence is broken. Do you have more chicken wire?” Lance called from the yard.
Mr. Jackson waved toward a shed. Lance crossed the yard and disappeared inside the outbuilding. A few minutes later, he emerged with a roll of chicken wire under one arm and a toolbox in the other. In ten minutes, he’d repaired the break in the fence and checked the rest of the enclosure.
“I used to be strong like that.” Mr. Jackson sighed. “It’s an insult the way your body turns on you as you get old.”
When Lance had finished securing the chickens, he returned to the porch.
“Thank you.” Mr. Jackson went back into the kitchen. He filled a carton with eggs.
“I don’t need payment,” Lance said.
“Give them to Abigail.” Mr. Jackson put the carton in Morgan’s hands. Then he took a piece of paper from a drawer and wrote on it. “This is her address. Tell her I sent you. She’ll be able to tell you more about Crystal.”
“Do you have a phone number?” Lance accepted the paper. “We could call first.”
Mr. Jackson shook his head. “Won’t matter. At this time of day, she’ll be outside working in her garden.” He walked them back to the front door.
Lance and Morgan returned to the Jeep, and Lance headed for the driver’s side. “I’m perfectly calm now. I can drive.”
“All right, but why do you need to drive?” She dropped the keys into his hand.
“I like to be in control,” he admitted.
Which no doubt sprang from having so little of it over his life.
He drove to the address Mr. Jackson had given them. Abigail Wright’s cottage was as perfect as Elijah Jackson’s was dilapidated. A white picket fence enclosed a neat garden rioting with fall blooms. Blue clapboards and white gingerbread trim shone with fresh paint. Purple cabbages lined a brick walkway. Morgan led the way up three wooden steps to the front porch. The wind rocked a white wicker swing on the opposite end of the porch. Two cats ignored them from a sun patch next to the swing.
Holding the carton of eggs, Morgan pressed the doorbell. Standing back, she admired the deep purple of some daisy-type flowers that crowded a flower bed in front of the porch. “These are gorgeous.”
Lance barely glanced at the flowers, but he’d relaxed somewhat since they’d left Mr. Jackson’s house.
No one answered the door, but a red sedan was parked in front of the cottage.
“Let’s try out back. Mr. Jackson said she’d be working outside.” Morgan followed a brick path around the side of the cottage, calling out, “Ms. Wright?”
Lance fell into step beside her.
The late-morning sun took the bite out of the raw wind, warming Morgan’s head and shoulders.
They walked under a trellis. Blue jays splashed in a birdbath next to a stone bench. After the dark and depressing news of the past couple of days, Morgan suppressed the desire to stop, sit, and enjoy the sun on her face for two minutes. They rounded the side of the house and scanned the rear yard for a little old lady.
“Hold it right there!” a voice yelled from a shed fifteen feet away.
Morgan lifted her hands, raising the egg carton in the air. The shed door stood ajar. From the three-inch opening, the double barrel of a shotgun stared them down.
Lance caught Morgan around the waist in a tackle. She hit the ground hard, Lance on top of her, covering her with his larger body. He rolled them behind the stone bench and slid his handgun from its holster.
Chapter Twenty
“Put down the gun!” Lance shouted. He lifted his head, scanning the yard over the bench. He couldn’t see who was inside the shed. The bench was solid and would provide good cover.
Unless the shooter moved . . .
Underneath him, Morgan wheezed. He slid off her body, and she took a deep breath.
The shooting that had ended his police career and almost killed him rushed into his head. Sweat poured from his back and chest, and his heart jumped as if he’d been defibrillated.
Gun in hand, he peered over the stone bench again, his free hand on Morgan’s shoulder, pinning her to the ground. “Keep your head down.”
The sun glinted on the dark metal of the barrel poking out from the slightly open door of the shed.
“Ms. Wright!” Lance shouted. “We just want to talk.”
The shed door opened a few more inches. He caught a glimpse of gray hair.
Morgan grabbed the carton of eggs that had fallen to the ground when Lance tackled her. Golden yolks dripped from the cardboard. She waved the eggs over the top of the bench. “Elijah Jackson sent us with eggs for you.”
The shed door opened, and a small, gray-haired woman stepped out. She wore khaki slacks and rubber boots. Leather gloves, a wide-brimmed hat, and a neat bun finished off her outfit. She could have been headed for a garden club meeting, except for the shotgun in her hands.
“Why didn’t you say so?” She tucked the shotgun into the crook of her arm and walked toward them.
“Please set the gun down, Ms. Wright.” Lance got to his feet.
“This is my property, so you put your gun away first, young man.” She chuckled. “I won’t shoot you. You can calm down.”
Lance debated. She didn’t look like a threat. But his pulse was hammering like the bass drum at an Iron Maiden concert. His body remembered what it felt like to be shot, and it wanted no part of a repeat.
Still holding the egg carton, Morgan raised her hands, palms out in the traditional surrender gesture. A glob of egg yolk dripped to the ground.
“Call me Abigail,” Ms. Wright said.
Lance tensed as she walked closer.
She shot him an exasperated look. “Put the gun away.”
Though his instincts screamed otherwise, Lance slid his handgun into his holster.
Abigail approved with a nod. “Now, who are you and what do you want?”
Morgan slowly slid a business card from the side pocket of her tote bag and introduced them. “Mr. Jackson said you could tell us more about Crystal Fox.”
The muzzle of the shotgun tipped to the ground as Abigail reached for the card and inspected it. “I heard Crystal hanged herself.”
In rural areas, gossip spread like fire through straw.
“We’re not sure what happened,” Morgan said. “Did you know her well?”
Abigail turned and headed for the rear porch of the house. “Let’s go inside.”
They followed her into the cottage. The back door opened into a mudroom. She stood her shotgun in the corner and hung her jacket on a hook by the door, then removed her gloves. Abigail led them into what Lance was sure she called the parlor. Flowers covered every surface. They filled vases, dotted the wallpaper, patterned the throw rugs. Flowers were even carved into the wood of the ornate furniture. The room was crowded with knickknacks and fancy, uncomfortable-looking furniture. Lance leaned on the wall, eyeing the fussy camelback sofa as if it would attack. The cluttered decor was claustrophobic.
“Your home is lovely.” Morgan perched on the edge of a blue velvet chair.
“I love flowers.” Abigail sat on the sofa. Her body was nearly hidden by an enormous orange arrangement on the coffee table. “Sorry about the shotgun. I’m a little paranoid since that good-for-nothing grandson of Elijah’s broke in here last month. Caught him halfway out the window with my silver candlesticks in his hand. I sent that little creep running. He was a dozen feet away from a load of birdshot in his butt.”
“That’s awful.” Morgan unbuttoned her coat, set her bag at her feet, and took out her notebook.
“It’s a damned shame. He used to be a cute little kid. You can’t trust anybody once heroin gets its claws into them.” Abigail shook her head and clucked in disgust. “Now what do you want to know about Crystal?”
“How long did she work for you?” Lance stifled a sneeze. The clashing scents of different flowers clogged this throat.
“She cleaned motel rooms for me on and off for more than twenty years.” Abiga
il folded her hands in her lap. “She’d get better jobs, but she couldn’t hold on to them. She always came back. It’s a dirty job. I have no illusions about my business or my clients.”
What kind of motel does Abigail own?
“Was Crystal a good worker?” Morgan plucked a leaf from her hair and discreetly tucked it into the side pocket of her bag.
Abigail laughed. “Not in the least. But she showed up more often than not. I used to pay her at the end of every day. If I gave her a full week’s pay, she’d spend the next three days in a bar.”
Warm, Lance opened his jacket. “Do you remember her daughter, Mary?”
“I do.” Abigail nodded. “Crystal tried to get her to work at the motel, but Mary wanted no part of it. She was a lazy girl, and she turned up her nose at the idea of cleaning up after other people. She preferred to work on her back.”
“I thought she was a waitress.” Morgan crossed her ankles.
“She worked part time at PJ’s,” Abigail said. “But she used the waitressing job to troll for clients in her more lucrative enterprise.”
“How do you know she was a prostitute?” Lance pulled at the neck of his shirt. With adrenaline still sliding through his veins, the heat in the cottage was suffocating him.
“She brought clients to my motel on a regular basis. I was never sure if she did it because I had the cheapest rooms in the area or to spite her mother.” Abigail pointed a slim, dainty finger at him. “Mary was a nasty girl.”
“Would you recognize one of these clients after all these years?” Lance’s chest went tight.
Will Abigail verify that my father was sleeping with Mary?
“Maybe.” She narrowed her eyes.
“Could we come back with some pictures?” Lance asked. Why didn’t I think to bring a photo of my dad?
Deep down, he didn’t want to own the possibility that the sheriff was right.
Abigail thought about his question for a few seconds. “Did Crystal really kill herself?”
“That will be for the medical examiner to determine,” Lance said.
“I heard her daughter’s body was found.” Abigail picked up a small pair of shears from the coffee table. She clipped the dead head of a flower from the arrangement in front of her. “A reporter on the news speculated that’s why she did it.”
“You sound like you don’t believe it,” Morgan said.
“Crystal wasn’t a very good mother,” Abigail said. “She never put Mary’s needs before hers. Most of the time, her child seemed like an afterthought. Mary had been gone for weeks before Crystal reported her missing. It’s not like she’s been pining away for her lost child for the last two decades.”
“Mary was murdered,” Lance said. “It’s her death we’re investigating.”
Abigail paused, pruners hovering in midair. “We all thought Mary left for greener pastures. She hated it here. All she ever talked about was getting out of town.”
“Do you know of anyone in Mary’s or Crystal’s lives back then who could have been a threat?” Lance asked.
“Crystal’s husband, Warren, comes to mind.” Abigail ferreted out another limp bloom and cut it off. “Crystal married him when Mary was about ten. I always thought he had the wrong sort of interest in that little girl, if you know what I mean.”
Lance’s gut twisted. “You think Warren Fox abused Mary?”
Warren Fox shot to the top of Lance’s mental list.
“Yes. And that’s what I told Crystal.” Abigail shook her shears at Morgan. “But that woman was too wrapped up in herself. I don’t know whether she didn’t want to believe it or if she just didn’t care all that much. Back then, Warren was a truck driver. He brought home cash, and cash made Crystal happy.”
Morgan looked up from her notes. “What makes you think Warren molested Mary?”
“The way he looked at that child made my skin crawl.” Frowning, Abigail shifted some greenery. “Mary would do anything to stay out of his reach. She started acting out shortly after the marriage, and she made sexual jokes she was entirely too young to understand. I put two and two together. It wasn’t rocket science. Besides, owning and operating a low-end motel has given me a fairly good creep detector.”
I’ll bet.
The idea turned Lance’s stomach. If it were true, maybe Mary had threatened to rat out Warren.
“What happened to Warren?” He didn’t remember seeing a man’s clothes or other personal belongings in Crystal’s house.
“A few years ago, he got fired for drinking on the job. So naturally, he started drinking more, which led to him beating Crystal. She kicked him out. At one point, she had a restraining order against him, but it expired. He works at the county recycling center now.” Abigail deadheaded another flower stalk. The wilted head fell to the table.
“Did Mary ever say anything to you to confirm Warren was molesting her?” Morgan’s pen waited poised over her notebook.
“No.” Abigail shook her head. “But it wouldn’t surprise me if Mary had tried to blackmail him. She was the scheming sort.”
Morgan made more notes. “In the weeks before she died, did Mary bring anyone in particular to the motel?”
“She had regulars.” Abigail nodded. “I worked the registration desk back then too. I might be old, but my memory is still intact.”
Lance wondered if scheming Mary could have blackmailed any other clients. “Did any of Mary’s clients seem violent? Did you ever see her with bruises afterward?”
“There was this one man. Mary said he liked it rough, and she always looked shaken when he was through with her. What was his name?” Abigail tapped her shears in her palm. “Most of Mary’s clients would use fake names. You have no idea how many men register in my hotel as Mr. Smith.”
“You don’t check driver’s licenses?” Morgan asked.
“Honey”—Abigail’s tone shifted to aren’t-you-sweet—“most people who rent rooms by the hour generally prefer anonymous cash transactions.”
“What do you remember about this man?” Lance asked.
“He used a ridiculous fake name. It stood out.” She pressed her forefinger to her pursed lips; then her face brightened. “Mr. Joshua.” Her eyes rolled in a what-an-idiot expression. “Those Lethal Weapon movies were really big back then, with all their martial arts fighting. But this guy didn’t look like he could fight traffic. He was too clean cut.”
Morgan leaned forward. “Would you recognize a picture of him?”
“I might,” Abigail said.
“Mary was reported missing in August 1994. We’d like to know about the clients she entertained that month. Do you keep old registration information?” Lance asked.
“Yes.” Abigail nodded. “Back then I still used a paper system, but I kept everything in the storage room. I keep meaning to clean it out. There’s no reason to keep records that old, but I never seem to get around to it even though I’m there most evenings.”
Lance’s surprise must have shown on his face.
“Yes. I am too old to put in that many hours, but like I said, you can’t trust anybody anymore.” Abigail let a deep breath out through her nose. “I have been thinking about selling the place. The world is going to hell in a handbasket. Even the quality of my low-life clients has deteriorated. Used to be I only had to worry about vomiting drunks and married cheaters. Last year, I had two people overdose in my rooms. I don’t need that kind of stress in my life.”
“Could we stop by the motel and look at the old registries?” Lance asked.
“I’m usually there between six p.m. and midnight,” Abigail said. “That’s our busiest time of the day.”
“Thank you.” Morgan stood.
“You’re welcome. Mary didn’t have much of a chance with Crystal for a mother, and she certainly didn’t deserve to be murdered.” Abigail showed them out.
Back in the Jeep, Lance started the engine and stared through the windshield. “The sheriff thinks my dad was one of Mary’s clients. He was ri
ght about Mary not being a nice person. Maybe he’s right about my father too. I don’t know how I would ever tell my mother that.”
Had Lance been that wrong about his father?
His phone buzzed, and MOM displayed on the screen.
“Mom?” he answered. But her words were too fast and jumbled to understand. “Hold on. Calm down. What’s wrong?”
His mother took a huge, audible gulp of air. “The sheriff is on TV. He says Vic is a person of interest in Mary Fox’s death.”
“I’ll be right there.” Lance lowered the phone, put the Jeep into gear, and relayed the call to Morgan.
“Oh, no.” Morgan fastened her seat belt. “Let’s go.”
“Don’t you have to pick up Sophie and Gianna?” Lance backed out of the driveway.
Morgan shook her head. “It’s OK. I’ll call Mac. He’ll get them.”
Lance pulled onto the road and stepped on the gas. “But then he’ll have to leave your grandfather alone.”
Morgan turned and took his hand. “It’s all right. Grandpa can behave himself for thirty minutes. My family will always pitch in. That’s what we do. We help each other, even if our responsibilities sometimes seem like the same deck of cards that gets shuffled and dealt out to new people each morning.”
“But I want be there for you and your girls”—frustration filled Lance—“not take you away from your family.”
“Life isn’t neat and clean. Family responsibilities aren’t divvied up in perfectly equal slices all the time. Look at my family. I live with Grandpa and Stella is nearby. So we handle his needs. Mac isn’t family at all, but he does more for Grandpa than my brother, Ian, or my sister, Peyton, because Mac is local.”
Lance couldn’t articulate his feelings, how much he wanted to be a part of her family, because in the end, it just might not be possible.
Chapter Twenty-One
Thirty minutes later, Lance stood in his mother’s office, watching the computer monitor over her shoulder. On the screen, the sheriff stood behind a podium. The image changed to a mocked-up picture of what Vic Kruger might have looked like if he had aged to the present day.
Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane Book 3) Page 13
