Disturbing the Dead

by Sandra Parshall

  “What did you hear?” Tom asked.

  Holly looked directly at him for the first time and spoke in a rush. “Everybody was mad. Yellin’ and callin’ each other names. The pretty woman with the blonde hair, she said…she said she was gonna kill Aunt Pauline.”

  Good God. Rachel had to wonder what else was lurking in Holly’s memory, but she hoped the worst of it was out now. Holly had seen and heard more violence and threats as a little girl than any child should ever have to.

  The hard glint in Tom’s eyes made Rachel fear he would press Holly until she broke down. But Tom moved on. “Thank you. That’s what I needed to know. Maybe you can help me with something else too. I need to get in touch with your cousin Amy.”

  “Oh.” A smile of relief transformed Holly’s face. “Sure. I can tell you where Amy lives. She writes to me. She was always so good to me. She used to look after me while Mama worked at the diner.”

  Tom drew a pad and pen from his jacket’s inner pocket. “Can you remember her address offhand? And I need her married name.”

  “It’s Wood. Her husband’s name is Darrell, and they live in South Carolina.” Holly gave Tom a post office box address in a town Rachel had never heard of. While he wrote it down, Holly added on a wistful note, “Will you tell her I said hello and I’d really like it if she’d call me sometime?”

  They left Brandon with Holly. In the kitchen, Rachel asked Tom, “Is her word enough to prove anything? She was so young when it happened.” Rachel had seen photos of Natalie McClure in the Mountainview Gazette’s society column, and she had trouble imagining that pristine being wielding an ax on her sister-in-law. A jury would have the same difficulty.

  “I’m hoping Amy’ll back up Mrs. Barker’s story about the threat,” Tom said. “But to make charges stick, I’ll have to get a confession out of somebody.”

  The telephone on the kitchen wall rang, but when Rachel reached to answer it, it fell silent. Joanna must have picked up an extension elsewhere in the house.

  “What about the second victim?” Rachel asked. “Why was she killed?”

  Tom shrugged. “Could be as simple as wrong place, wrong time.”

  “When will you know for certain whether it’s Holly’s mother?”

  “Probably by the end of the day. The director of the county clinic is giving up his Sunday to go through old records and find Jean Turner’s dental chart. I’ll be back tonight. You’ll be all right with Brandon here.”

  “We’ll be fine.” Rachel folded her arms tightly and lowered her head, unable to look at him when she added, “It’s you I’m worried about.”

  “Me?” His fingertips brushed her cheek and sent a tremor through her. “There’s no reason to worry about me.”

  “You’ve already been shot once,” she blurted. “You’re out driving around, walking the streets, going to people’s houses, and one of those people is a murderer.” She could barely force her next words out in a whisper. “I’m terrified you’re going to get killed.”

  He nudged her chin up to make her look at him, his face somber, his dark eyes pinning her with an intensity that made heat rise to her skin. Gently he unfolded her arms and pulled her to him. She leaned into his warmth and wished desperately that she could keep him here, solid and real and alive.

  “I promise you I won’t let that happen,” he said, his breath warm against her forehead. “I’ve got too much to live for.”

  A movement at the doorway made her break away from him. Joanna stood just inside the room, looking from Rachel to Tom, her mouth open in astonishment. Rachel knew she was blushing, and she turned her back to Joanna, feeling like a teenager caught making out. When Tom chuckled, she wanted to kick him.

  Joanna cleared her throat. “Tom, Dennis Murray’s on the phone. They’ve found Rudy O’Dell. Somebody shot him.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Half a dozen Sheriff’s Department cruisers sat in the old motel’s crumbling parking lot when Tom arrived. The place had been closed, its rooms boarded up, as long as he could remember. It looked like the Bates Motel, with less charm.

  He ducked under crime scene tape and fought through shoulder-high weeds to reach the shed out back.

  Six deputies stood around the shed, in a patch of weeds flattened by their footsteps. Two were smoking. “Let’s not trample the physical evidence, guys,” Tom said. “And put out your cigarettes—but not here. Wait in the parking lot.”

  Four deputies departed, two looking embarrassed and two red-faced with anger at the rebuke. The Blackwood twins, Kevin and Keith, stayed in their guard positions at the shed’s door. Both wore latex gloves, a precaution none of the other men had bothered with. “We’re the ones that found him,” Kevin told Tom.

  “Good work. You can’t even see this shed from the road.”

  The twins smiled, and Keith said, “We’re intrepid.”

  “That you are.” Tom replaced his leather gloves with the latex pair he carried in his jacket pocket. “Okay, let’s take a look.”

  Kevin pushed the door open. It creaked on rusty hinges. A stench billowed out, a warm fetid fog on the cold air.

  Tom took the flashlight Keith handed him, pinched his nostrils to shut out the odor, and moved inside the dilapidated structure. O’Dell lay on his back, arms and legs straight. His head touched one side wall and his boot-clad feet came within inches of the other. A milky blue haze covered his staring eyes. Long red hair formed a tangled halo around his head, and a bushy beard covered bloated cheeks. The visible part of his face had turned the mottled green-black of corroded copper, but his fingertips were a bloodless white. His heavy wool jacket lay open in front, exposing three bullet holes over his heart.

  When Tom lifted the left shoulder, he found no blood on the floor except for smears from O’Dell’s soaked jacket. The combined exit wounds formed a hole the size of Tom’s fist in the man’s back.

  Tom left the body and stepped out into the crisp morning air. He paused for a cleansing breath before he spoke. “Any sign of a gun?”

  The Blackwoods shook their heads in unison.

  “He was killed somewhere else,” Tom said, talking more to himself than the twins. “He’s been dead for days. Maybe since the day he shot me.”

  Kevin stated the obvious. “So he couldn’t have been the one that fired at Dr. Goddard and Holly Turner yesterday.”

  “You two stay here,” Tom said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He waded through the weeds again to reach the deputies in the parking lot. “I’ve got a job for you. Two teams, two men each. Go look for Troy Shackleford and deliver him to me at headquarters. Don’t tell him we found O’Dell’s body. Say I want to question him. If I’m not back yet, make him wait.”

  ***

  The door opened a crack and the bony, suspicious face of Rudy O’Dell’s mother appeared. Before Tom could say anything, she barked, “He ain’t here and I don’t know where he is. Leave me alone.”

  Tom placed a hand on the door to keep her from slamming it. “We found Rudy a while ago.”

  Her face crumpled. “I guess you went and throwed him in jail already.”

  “No. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

  Mrs. O’Dell gasped and staggered back from the door, horror distorting her face. “You killed him. You killed my boy.”

  “No, ma’am.” Tom entered the house and closed the door behind him. “He was dead when we found him. Somebody shot him.”

  She bent double and let loose a long, high-pitched wail. “My boy, my little boy. Oh, God, my baby.”

  Tom steeled himself against the riot of pain boiling out of the woman. The ache in his wounded arm reminded him that the baby boy she mourned had been a fugitive, possibly a killer.

  “Where is he?” she sobbed.

  “At the hospital. You have to go with me and identify the body, then he’ll be sent to Roanoke for an autopsy.”

  A fresh wail tore from her. �
��My poor little boy, they’re gonna cut him to pieces.” Mrs. O’Dell stumbled around the room like a woman struck blind, lurching into furniture, careening into walls. Tears cascaded down her face and mucus bubbled from her nose.

  Tom raised his voice to get through to her. “Do you have any idea who could have killed him?”

  She stopped with her back to Tom and choked out the words, “If it wasn’t the law, it was Troy Shackleford.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  She rounded on him, her face blotchy with fury. “Rudy probably went to him for help and got killed instead. I told him a million times, don’t trust that bastard, stay clear of him.”

  “What—”

  A howl of misery cut him short. Mrs. O’Dell flailed her arms and whacked a lamp off a table. Tom dove for it, too late. It crashed to the floor and shattered.

  He caught her by the shoulders and steered her to the couch. “Come on now, calm down. If you know anything that’ll help me catch the person who killed your son, you have to tell me. Don’t lie to me.”

  She collapsed onto the couch and lowered her head to her knees. Tom took a chair and waited until her crying subsided to shuddering gasps.

  Raising her head, she looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. “I got nothin’ left to lose. I don’t give a damn if he comes after me. Rudy was all I had. And now he’s gone.” She sniffled, took the handkerchief Tom handed across, and blew her nose. “Whatever my boy done all them years ago, he done because Troy made him. I remember that night so clear. Rudy didn’t come home for supper, he didn’t come home till the middle of the night, and he was all broke up. Cryin’, sayin’ somethin’ awful happened at Mrs. McClure’s house.”

  She paused to wipe her wet cheeks with the back of one hand, and Tom struggled to control his impatience.

  “Rudy told me she was dead—before word ever got out about her disappearin’. He said Troy made him do somethin’ horrible. He wouldn’t say what. But I don’t believe for one minute that my boy helped Troy Shackleford kill anybody.”

  Tom leaned forward in his chair. “What else did he say? Try to remember.”

  “That’s all. Except for what he said about the girl.”

  Tom stopped breathing for a second. His skin prickled. “What girl? Who?”

  “I don’t know who. He said, Mama, Miz McClure’s dead, and the girl is too.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  By late afternoon, O’Dell’s body was on its way to the state medical examiner in Roanoke. The deputies Tom assigned to pick up Shackleford reported that he’d apparently left the county, but Tom wasn’t worried about losing him. He couldn’t stay away from his source of income for long.

  Tom headed out of Mountainview to Ed and Natalie McClure’s estate. This might be his only stab at Natalie. The sheriff would have stopped him from interrogating one of the county’s most prominent ladies, but Willingham and his wife were spending their Sunday with Mrs. Willingham’s ancient mother at a Lynchburg nursing home, and for the time being Tom didn’t have to ask anybody’s permission to do his job.

  Light snow drifted down. As he passed Dennis Murray’s house, he saw Dennis’ two young sons running around with their tongues stuck out to catch flakes. Smiling at their antics, Tom honked the horn. The boys jumped up and down and waved wildly.

  He should have a family of his own by now. Dennis and he were the same age, but Dennis went home every night to a wife and kids while Tom rattled around in his parents’ house with only his dad’s bulldog for company. Thoughts like that used to stir up regret, but now he found himself wondering what his and Rachel’s children would look like.

  He was getting a little ahead of himself. He’d think about the future when this case was behind him. Right now he had to organize his thoughts before he faced Natalie McClure.

  The scenario that played out in his imagination made perfect sense. Ed had been in love with Pauline. When he’d found out Pauline was having an affair with John Bridger, he’d pitched a fit. That led Pauline to cut him out of her life completely. Ed went a little crazy and started making a nuisance of himself. For Natalie, already wounded by her husband’s obvious feelings for Pauline, Ed’s out of control behavior was the last straw. Instead of leaving her husband and her comfortable life, she decided to get rid of her rival.

  Shackleford and O’Dell had played some part in Pauline’s death. That was a given. Maybe Shackleford had killed her for money and roped O’Dell into helping. But even if Natalie herself was the killer, Tom was betting the men had disposed of the body for her.

  “Bodies,” Tom corrected himself aloud. Mama, Miz McClure’s dead, and the girl is too. What girl was O’Dell talking about when he came home that night? O’Dell wouldn’t have described Jean Turner as a girl. Who, then? Not Mary Lee. Tom had seen her, alive and well. Amy? She’d been writing to Holly for years, sending regular Christmas and birthday cards and occasional short letters.

  Tom had asked Dennis to find out Amy’s home address and phone number. With any luck, she would not only confirm that Natalie had threatened to kill Pauline, but would also have a good idea who the dead girl was. If Amy had stayed silent all these years out of fear of the Shacklefords, Tom would have to find a way to persuade her to talk.

  Every bit of this made sense. So why did he have the niggling feeling that he was overlooking something vital?

  The McClures’ maid answered the door promptly. Before Tom could ask for Natalie, the mistress of the manor glided into the foyer, her golden hair shimmering under the chandelier’s lights.

  “Hello, Captain Bridger.” Natalie smiled, appearing neither surprised nor distressed that he’d shown up uninvited. “Come in out of the cold. Cora, make some coffee, please.”

  Tom brushed snow off the shoulders of his jacket and stepped into the foyer.

  “How can I help you?” Natalie wore slim navy slacks and a pink turtleneck sweater that looked soft and costly. “I assume you’re here about poor Pauline.”

  “Yes. I have a few questions for you.” Closer to her now, Tom detected tension around Natalie’s eyes and mouth.

  “Let’s go in the living room where there’s a fire,” she said, “and you can warm up. The snow is so beautiful, isn’t it, but I hate to be out in it.”

  Tom’s boots shed mud and snow on the foyer’s white marble floor. Why would anybody have a white floor in the country? He was momentarily overwhelmed by the opulence of the living room, the swagged red draperies with gold fringe, red oriental carpets, huge oil paintings on cream-colored walls. He’d thought Mary Lee’s house was pretentious, but this one had it beat.

  “Sit near the fire,” Natalie said. “You must be frozen after that long drive out.”

  “I’m fine, really.” Did she think his vehicle was unheated? She settled in a red velvet armchair and Tom sat on a sofa covered in cream silk. He felt like a clodhopper in his brown wool uniform.

  With long fingers Natalie brushed back her hair. “What can I help you with?”

  “Is your husband around?”

  “He’s out in the greenhouse. Would you like me to—”

  “No, I’m here to see you.” With any luck, Ed would stay out of the way. Tom got right down to business. “You said you didn’t know Pauline well. Was that your choice?”

  “No, it wasn’t.” Natalie’s expression melted into sadness. She laced her fingers together in her lap. A diamond ring sparkled on the right hand, a gold band gleamed on the left. “Heaven knows I tried. But we had nothing in common.”

  Except your husband. “You married brothers.”

  “Yes, but Pauline was…different. She preferred animals to people. I don’t know how anyone can be a friend to someone like that.”

  “I keep hearing she had a lover,” Tom said. “Maybe more than one.”

  “Oh, well.” Natalie’s little laugh sounded breathy and nervous. “She wouldn’t have confided in me about that.”

  “But you
’ve heard the gossip.”

  “I never listen to gossip. I don’t mean to be uncooperative, but may I ask where these questions are leading?”

  “I’m trying to find out who had a motive to kill her. A lover, a lover’s wife—those would be leads I’d want to follow up on.”

  She bit her full lower lip and averted her eyes.

  The maid bustled in, carrying a silver tray laden with cups and saucers, sugar and cream servers, a silver pot. Wordlessly the servant deposited the tray on the coffee table. As Natalie poured, Tom was again reminded of his visit to Mary Lee a few days before. Mary Lee was the first to mention Ed McClure’s “friendship” with Pauline.

  Tom took the coffee Natalie offered, sipped once, set the cup and saucer back on the tray. “I’ve received some information that’s…” He paused as if searching for the right word. “…disturbing. I thought you’d want to give me your side of the story.”

  Color suffused her cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  In all these years, Tom thought, she hadn’t learned how to hide her emotions. Had she been terrified every day since Pauline’s bones were found that the police would come after her? “I’ve heard from more than one person that your husband and Pauline were…close.”

  “Ed tried to be a friend to her after Adam’s death. She needed a friend.”

  Tom held her gaze, hoping he could provoke her into filling the silence with more than she intended to say.

  Her expression altered to a mixture of anger and desperation. She leaned forward. “Who’s been telling you lies about my husband? I have a right to know.”

  “Exactly what lies do you think I’ve been told?”

  She drew back in confusion. “I—You’ve implied—”

  “What have I implied?”

  “That my husband and Pauline—” She broke off.

  “What about them?”

  “Why are you doing this?” she cried.