Violet Dawn

by Collins, Brandilyn

  Each network took her cell phone number and said they’d look into sending out a camera crew and reporter. Leslie winced at the r word. As for the camera crew part, she knew renting a satellite truck from Seattle and getting it to Kanner Lake would take the afternoon at the very least. They’d probably try renting the smaller microwave trucks from Spokane, since it was so much closer. But the Spokane stations would be needing those trucks for their own coverage at Kanner Lake.

  Last call made and her mouth totally dry, Leslie lowered the phone to her lap with relief.

  Now. Until those fancy national reporters showed up, she needed all the inside scoop she could get. A quick trip into Java Joint for an iced mocha and any new leads she could muster, and she’d be on the road again.

  Leslie switched off her engine and withdrew the keys. Her hand was on the door latch when she spotted a familiar fig ure across the street and up one block, turning into Simple Pleasures.

  Chief Edwards.

  Leslie froze, her reporter’s antennae waving furiously. At a time like this, no way the man was shopping. Why wasn’t he at the station, setting up his command post for the missing person case?

  Oookay. Maybe she didn’t need that iced mocha after all.

  The car was already getting hot. She restarted the engine.

  Then perched in her seat, muscles twitching, eyes laser focused on the door of the shop. A few minutes later Chief Edwards materialized. With him was a twentysomething woman. Short, spiky black hair. Prominent cheekbones, model pretty. Leslie had seen her around a few times.

  Whoa. One-on-onesies with the chief of police, so soon after he left Edna San’s place? This girl knew something.

  Leslie watched them walk up the street one block and cross.

  She opened her car door, stuck one foot out on the pavement, half-rising. Craning her neck to see where they went.

  Into the chief’s police car, that’s where.

  Double whoa.

  When the car pulled out of its parking space,Leslie followed.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Well now, look at that.

  Black Mamba stood in the doorway of Savors, a restaurant on the third block of Main open for dinners only. With its long white awning, recessed entrance, and current closed state, Savors afforded him the perfect place to wait and watch. Shadowed in the tiled and arched threshold, he wore a baseball cap and new T-shirt he’d bought over in Spirit Lake.

  With great satisfaction he watched the Kanner Lake chief of police escort a young woman up the street to his car. Paige Williams.

  For this, Mamba had returned from Spirit Lake before making his phone call. Standing at the pay phone in that town, he’d felt something. A primal instinct coiling within, the sense that events in Kanner Lake were slipping along like a serpent through swamp. In his work over the years, he’d felt the same prescience many a time and knew to heed it. Mamba had stilled, the phone in his palm. In such a moment an apprised snake would pull up, flicker its tongue, seeking the source of vibration. He fancied himself doing the same, in tune with the primordial fibrillation . . .

  After a moment he’d replaced the receiver.

  Now he would wait no longer in the Savors doorway. Passersby who happened to spot him would think little of someone stepping out of the sun for a cooling moment but might wonder if he lurked too long. He would cruise the shops idly, watching the entrance of Simple Pleasures. Would the police bring Paige Williams back? Or had they already linked the earring to her?

  Little matter. His phone call would seal her fate.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Rachel is caught. Trapped in her own bedroom.

  Red Shirt fills her threshold, the spread fingers of his huge left hand lingering against the door. From his right hand dangles a pocketknife — the tool that so easily popped her lock. Music and TV noise swell from down the hall.

  Rachel can’t move. Her mind zings, frantically searching for some weapon she can snatch up to defend herself.

  He steps inside, closes the door. His eyes don’t leave her face.

  Rachel tries to convince herself not to panic, but it’s no use. His calculating expression screams his intent. Her legs shake. She slips a hand over the back of the chair and holds on.

  Red Shirt raises his chin, looks at her down his wide nose. “We can do this quietly or you can get stupid and fight — the choice is yours. Either way I win.” He speaks with perfect calm, as if talking about the weather. Then shrugs. “Just trying to save you some bruises.”

  Rachel’s limbs go numb. “Where’s Rosa?” The words squeak from her throat.

  “Drugged out, like the rest of them. They probably think I walked out the front door.”

  She swallows. “I’ll scream. They’ll be here in no time.”

  He lunges.

  Before Rachel can move, he clamps her body and arms against himself in a vise, the other hand around her throat. He shoves his big face into hers, snarling. “You scream, you pay. Got it?”

  Rachel struggles to breathe. Her nostrils flare, her jaw hinges open. His fingers press harder and black dots crowd her vision. Choking sounds gurgle from her mouth. Somehow she manages a nod.

  “Good girl.” He releases her throat and she slumps against him, furiously rattling in air.

  He massages her shoulder like some longtime lover. “I prefer a relaxed ambiance myself.”

  The feigned warmth of his tone chills her soul.

  He pushes her onto the bed. A voice within Rachel accuses that she deserves this, that the remaining part of herself she should have given Devon will now be trampled in the dust. Devon won’t want you now, you know. He won’t want you at all.

  She closes her ears to the words.

  Red Shirt puts his hands on her. Cold. Grasping. Stripping away her dignity. Her very self. Rachel endures the violation — until its black treachery will swallow her alive.

  She clamps down all emotion then. Every little piece of it. Just like when she was a kid and Rosa beat her.

  I am not here.

  Her defeated spirit draws away, up, up, and out of her. Helpless, hovering in the far top corner of the room, Rachel turns away from her own degradation.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Questions ran through Vince Edwards’s head like ticker tape as he opened the passenger door of his vehicle for Paige Williams to get in. And every one of them made him uneasy.

  This should be a routine interview. Although he was obligated to follow up on the lead, he hadn’t expected it to get him very far. How could a twentysomething gal with no priors be savvy enough to shoot a guard dog in the head, enter a protected house without setting off the alarm, and force testy Edna San all the way through the woods to a waiting car?

  And yet the girl next to him was scared to death.

  She’d been frightened the moment he walked into the shop.Oh, he’d pretended not to notice, chatting with Sarah, keeping it all friendly. But the young woman’s pulse practically beat through her neck, and her body looked stiff as a board. Her anxiety had only increased when he escorted her out of the store and up the street. Now her taut spine barely touched the back of the seat.

  He headed for Kanner Lake Road, which ran west over to Highway 41. He couldn’t think of one place in town where he could take Paige with any amount of privacy. The streets were already buzzing with the news of Edna San’s disappearance. During the few minutes he spent at the station equipping himself with the hidden tape recorder, they’d received nearly a dozen phone calls from the curious, wanting to know if the rumors were true.

  Out a few miles on Kanner Lake Road sat a small diner called Lakeside. A misnomer, since it was nowhere near the water. Owner Bud Brankser, a retired California policeman, no doubt had been dreaming big when he opened the place over ten years ago. Dreaming either of the lake overflowing its banks all the way up to his doorstep or of making enough money to move to a building at water’s edge. Either way, his dream hadn’t come to fruition. But his diner was quiet, with checkere
d plastic tablecloths and decent sandwiches, and one particular table removed from the rest in a small raised alcove. “Lovers’ Ledge,” Bud called it, due to the privacy it afforded occupants. Vince had used the table numerous times. As for Bud — once a cop, always a cop. When Vince asked for that table, Bud knew the drill.

  Vince glanced at Paige as he drove. She was staring blankly out her window. “You all right? Air-conditioning cool enough for you?”

  “It’s fine.” Her head did not move.

  He spotted a familiar car some distance behind them. Wonderful. Leslie Brymes, reporter extraordinaire. How had she heard about this so quickly? He cast another look at Paige, hoping she remained unaware of the blaringly painted VW behind them and who was at the wheel. Knowing a reporter was on her tail might spook Paige even more, cause her to clam up. That he didn’t need.

  “We’ll be there in just a few more minutes,” he told her.

  No reply. They drove the rest of the way in silence, save for the squawks on his radio, which he turned as low as he could.

  Vince’s mind drifted to Tim. Then Nancy. If this investigation stretched into fateful tomorrow — which was likely — he couldn’t take the day off. As much as he’d promised his wife to stay by her side on the anniversary of Tim’s death, duty would call. And Nancy would not understand, not this time. She needed him far too much. He should be with her. Holding and soothing her.

  Fact was, Vince had no energy for that. Even worse, a part of him was glad for the excuse to be away. For work to keep his mind occupied. If he could blitz through the day, distracted by responsibilities, how much easier would that be?

  Vince, you are pathetic. What kind of a husband have you turned into?

  He rounded a curve and Lakeside diner came into view.“There’s a place to stop up ahead.” He spoke the words with a smile in his tone. “They make a great chicken salad sandwich.”

  Paige nodded.

  So fearful. Guarded. Why?

  Maybe it was nothing more than being questioned by an officer during an investigation. But his gut told him it was more than that.

  He’d soon find out.

  Before getting out of the car, he slipped a hand under his shirt and switched on the hidden tape recorder.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Sometimes it didn’t pay to drive a yellow VW bug with pink daisies on the side. Like now, as Leslie tried her best to tail Chief Edwards without being noticed, like some clandestine CIA operative. Worse, this wasn’t exactly San Francisco, where she could hide in traffic. Chief was tootling down Kanner Lake Road — with no one but Leslie behind him. The best she could do was hang back, waaay back, keeping her focus glued on his sun-soaked, gleaming silver bumper, hoping he didn’t maneuver some sudden turn that left her in the proverbial dust.

  Where was he going?

  Energy revved through Leslie like gasoline through a racing engine. She was onto something, no ifs, ands, or buts — and she wasn’t about to lose it. Whatever it was.

  The chief’s car disappeared around a curve. Leslie resisted the urge to punch the accelerator. “Okay, Chief, just don’t do a beam-me-up-Scotty while you’re outta view.”

  She rounded the curve and caught sight of him once more.

  Yo, girl, go.

  Driving with her left hand, not daring to take her eyes from the road, Leslie fumbled for her phone on the passenger seat. Clutching it in her palm, she used her thumb to dial 411 for a connection to Simple Pleasures.

  Sarah Wray answered on the first ring.

  “Sarah, hi! Leslie Brymes here.”

  “Oh yes. Hello, Leslie.” Sarah sounded worried.

  Ah, I can use that.

  “Listen, Sarah, I’m on this Edna San case, as you’ve probably guessed.” Leslie spoke rapidly before the woman could cut her off. “I’ve been out at the estate and talked to Chief Edwards and know quite a few things that haven’t been made public yet. Now I see the chief taking your employee off in his police car. That can’t be good on a day like this. What’s going on?”

  “Oh, Leslie, you’re not going to print anything about this, are you?” Sarah’s voice pinched. “Paige hasn’t done anything wrong. Chief told us this was just a routine interview. Besides, what happened yesterday was Edna San’s fault, all of it.”

  Paige. Leslie made a mental note of the name.

  “Sure, Sarah, I can believe that, knowing Edna. But I want to get my story exactly right so there’s no unnecessary dirt thrown on Paige. Hit me with the details, would you? I won’t quote you if you don’t want me to. But I will help straighten things out about your employee.”

  As Leslie drove, keeping an eye on the chief’s car, the story tumbled from Sarah. Whoa. A run-in with Edna San the day before she disappeared. Rotten timing for this Paige person.Leslie yearned for a third hand to write down everything. But best she could do was file the information away in her ninety-mile-an-hour brain.

  When Sarah finished, Leslie pumped her for a few extra details. What was Paige’s last name? Who else was in the store when the unfortunate event took place? Why should the chief believe Paige had something to do with Edna’s disappearance just because the actress had behaved like a complete toad?

  “I have no idea ,” Sarah huffed. “No way Paige could be involved with this. She is one of the sweetest girls I’ve ever met. She’s just quiet. Keeps to herself, but then I don’t think she’s had the easiest life. You should call Paige sometime, Leslie. She needs a friend. Doesn’t have any family of her own, can you imagine that? No one.”

  No one? Leslie narrowed her eyes. Everybody had someone. Maybe it just wasn’t a someone Paige Williams wanted anything to do with . . .

  Leslie added that piece of information to the tickler file in her head. This definitely needed a follow-up.

  The chief’s car vanished around another curve. When Leslie spotted it again, the vehicle was pulling into the small gravel parking lot of Lakeside diner.

  Ah. He was taking Paige to lunch. A friendly little chat over a meal. How nice.

  Leslie slowed down. No way to avoid being spotted now. As she passed the diner, the chief was opening the passenger door of his car. She caught a quick glimpse of Paige as the girl slid out. Chief Edwards glanced in Leslie’s direction and gave a small wave.

  Drat. Leslie thumped the steering wheel with her palm. He’d probably known she was behind him all along.

  Head held high, even though she was now out of Chief Edwards’s sight, Leslie drove on, telling herself her cheeks were not flaming and she was still a knock-’em-dead sleuth. That she’d been spotted was totally the VW’s fault.

  Besides, she shouldn’t let it get to her. She was just doing her job.

  Leslie slowed further, seeking a place to turn around. For a moment she considered pulling off and waiting for the chief and Paige to emerge from the diner, then nixed the idea. Nothing more to be gained by following them back to town. Her time would be better spent checking out the latest happenings at the San estate.

  And sometime very soon she’d start working on that friendship with Paige Williams.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Hard wooden slats on the chair pushed against Paige’s back. The cramped alcove made her claustrophobic, the window on her left with cheery red curtains doing little to reduce the pressure in her chest. The knotty wall to her right sported various hunting pictures — a dog with a bird in his mouth, a man sighting down the barrel of a rifle, three men in a duck blind. Hunting — an apropos theme. She may just get shot out of the water herself.

  You’d better get a grip, Paige.

  Chief Edwards settled across from her, elbows on the table, hands loosely clasped. He regarded her with an open expression and kept his tone neutral, almost light. Paige wasn’t buying his demeanor for a minute. If this little lunch was so routine, why was it happening now, with the news of Edna San’s disappearance so fresh upon the streets? This leader of law enforcement should have better things to do. His focus upon her smelled of priority as
surely as Edna San’s body had smelled last night.

  Paige repressed a shiver.

  “Hey there, folks.” A balding man, about sixty, approached their table, all smiles, two plastic-coated menus in hand. These he lay before them, his brown eyes flicking from the chief to Paige. No question in that expression, no hint of surprise. He folded his arms, stood with feet apart. “What can I get you to drink while you’re deciding?”

  Paige ordered a Coke, and the chief, a 7-Up. The waiter spread his hands as if to say Whatever I have is yours and left them.

  For a moment they perused their menus in silence, Paige huddled over and frowning as if choosing the last meal of her life. She hid her hands in her lap, afraid the chief would notice the scrapes on her palms.

  The chief put down his menu. “Because we’re talking, I need to tell you your rights. Just a formality, you understand.” Before she could respond, he launched into Miranda. Her right to remain silent, her right to a lawyer, and so on. Paige’s nerves tingled. This was sounding less and less like a friendly little chat. Why had she agreed to this?

  “Do you understand your rights?” he asked.

  “Yeah, sure.” Paige’s throat felt tight.

  “Good.” He leaned back in his chair. “So tell me, when did you move here?”

  Paige pushed her menu aside, struggling to gather her wits. “A month ago.” Did her voice sound okay?

  He nodded. “How long have you worked at Simple Pleasures?”

  “Almost that long. I was lucky to find the job right away.”

  “Do you like it here?”

  “Yes, very much. The area’s beautiful and I like Kanner Lake. I hope to stay a long time.”

  “Where do you live? In town?”

  “No. Out on Lakeshore Road just a little down on the west side, about ten minutes from town. It’s a rented house kind of up on a hill, with a view of the water. I can look at an angle across the top of the lake and see the lights of town at night.”