After Rusk Farm, she took the first left. It was much like she remembered, though the area was narrower than Meg recalled. The weeds and grass had grown over the chipped asphalt on either side of the road. It was the place for impromptu gatherings on boring nights when she was in high school, a place where couples might go to be alone. She and Paul had parked there several times, sometimes making out, sometimes talking and making future plans. Like the lockers in the halls of the high school, everything seemed closer and quieter. If things had a personality, these woods and those lockers seemed friendlier now, not as disparaging. They were part of the real world, not a place separated for getting away.
The gates were rusted, a burnished orange. Tall frostbitten grasses ran along the bottom of the barbed-wire fence. The trees and brush along the road looked thicker, denser than she recalled. How long has it been? Maybe forty-five years? Seems impossible.
There were no structures visible. A few knots of oaks were dotted across the field behind the gates, the brown meadows swaying on the ground beneath them. The road outside the gate, where Meg sat, staring through the windshield, was lined on either side with thick brush.
She slowed, removing her foot from the accelerator, rolling the window down to a chilly draft, as she continued to head toward the dead end. The dry grasses crunched under the tires as Meg remembered the times the moon shone over the pasture in the summer. Others would be there, sitting on the hoods of their own cars, passing a cigarette or beer among them. She eyed the gates, picturing the many late afternoons and evenings.
Planning to turn around as she got closer to the widening cattle guard, Meg was wary of pulling too far off the road and into soft mud.
Live oaks grew in thick copses on either side of the narrow lane, the brush growing beneath the trees concealing the spot from the county road. Meg continued to drive, glancing on either side for the trails she knew were there. She remembered mincing steps down the paths with her girlfriends, flashlight in hand, one of them with a roll of toilet paper under her arm.
Meg stopped and then backed up when she noticed something and put the car in Park. It was there, the reflection of a chrome bumper. Leaning over the console, she took Paul’s birdwatching binoculars from the glove box. Working with the dial to perfect the focus, she spotted a white vehicle. She could barely see it, concealed behind brush in a stand of trees. The tire tracks into the wooded area were fresh and rutted in the moist ground.
Think, Meg. It could be evidence.
She didn’t want to examine it closer—that would be someone else’s job—but she did want to notify Crawford as soon as possible, preferably before the detective arrived at her house for the scheduled interview.
Her heart quickened as she realized she might have found Lena’s vehicle. She picked up her cell phone with a shaking hand, only to find there was no battery left. She fumbled in the console to find the charger, reprimanding herself for not heeding Dorie’s recrimination, “You never know when you’re going to need your phone, Mom.” She plugged the phone into the charger.
Meg put her head back against the head rest and stretched her fingers in front of her, trying to calm herself so she could drive home to meet Detective Crawford or at least call her. The drive into town took all her concentration, though she still checked the screen on her phone multiple times—no service continuing to scroll. She had no reason to know the reception was so pitiful in the country.
Detective Crawford’s car was parked in front of Meg’s house when she pulled into the drive. Meg honked and then continued to the back of the house, seeing the detective seated behind the wheel, talking on her cell.
Meg unplugged her phone, catching the cord on the gear shift as she exited the car, then scurried up the back steps and entered the kitchen. LaRue was napping in her normal spot, a banquette window seat in the breakfast area. Meg fumbled to prepare the coffee-maker and turn it on, uncovered the scones she had taken from the freezer the previous evening, and put the plates and napkins on the table. She glanced at the kitchen clock. Only two minutes late, but I wanted to make a good impression.
A knock on the front door came shortly after Meg lit lamps in the living area. She opened the door, and Detective Crawford entered, holding a notepad and pen in her hand, a black brief case hanging from her shoulder. She accepted the offer of coffee, and Meg suggested they sit at the breakfast table in the bright kitchen. She pointed the way, allowing Crawford to walk in ahead of her. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the kitchen
“I have some news,” Meg said, going straight to the mugs she had set on the counter. She was almost breathless from the hurried trip home and the anticipation of telling the detective about finding Lena’s car.
Pouring coffee into two Christmas mugs, she placed them on the kitchen table next to the matching creamer and sugar bowl. Meg noticed Crawford eyeing the scones, as she took a seat across the table.
“I took a casserole over to the Hillards’ this morning. I went to high school with Brian. We’re not close, but he was a classmate of my husband’s, and I thought I’d be expected to show him some sympathy.” Meg was babbling. She took a sip of coffee to try to calm her nerves.
“Well anyway, Brian and Wayne were both there and Brian mentioned Lena’s car was gone, and he had no idea where it could be. I had a wave of nostalgia thinking about high school, though I have no idea why, but it’s the only place I knew where to hide back in those days. I drove out past Rusk Farm to the Double Gates.” Meg ran her hand over the table and up to the handle on the mug in front of her. “I didn’t get out of the car, but I think I spotted a white vehicle down a trail out there.”
“Hold on.” Detective Crawford held up her finger and took her phone from her bag. She dialed a number and spoke to someone, then handed Meg the phone with a nod. “Tell him what you just told me.”
Meg repeated the information to a man she assumed was an officer. He promised to check it out, and she passed the phone back to the detective.
“So tell me again what made you go out there.” Detective Crawford tilted her head as she asked the question, her lips a fine line above her jutted chin.
Meg felt as if she were being confronted by a parent. This may be another reason for me to be a suspect.
She smoothed her hair, running both hands across the top of her head and around her ears. “I have no idea. While I was talking to Brian and Wayne, memories of high school came to me and I thought of all the people I’d seen out at the Double Gates at unplanned gatherings. I can’t explain it. It was an instinct I just had to follow. I tried to call you. I hate to admit my phone battery was dead, and there’s no phone reception on those little roads. They’re hilly and hidden.” Meg turned her palms up and shrugged, like she was asking for forgiveness for being unable to reach the detective.
“Have you mentioned the car to anyone else?” Crawford asked.
“No, only you. Am I a suspect?” Meg asked, worried she had provided a piece of information that others wouldn’t know. Despite the chilly morning, she wiped a bead of sweat from her upper lip. Her knee bounced up and down under the table.
“According to the medical examiner, Lena Hillard was in fact murdered, so everyone is a suspect at this point. We’ll work until we narrow things down. The location of the missing car will help. Thank you for that tip.” Detective Crawford looked over her previous notes.
Meg was sure it was murder, but slightly relieved Crawford didn’t dwell on her as the suspect. Crawford wasn’t as excited about the discovery of the car as Meg had been. If she was, it didn’t show. Crawford didn’t offer much emotion or betrayal of her thoughts.
She’s professional, but I need some assurances.
“You mentioned someone named Wayne,” the detective asked. “Who is he?”
“Wayne Landry is the preacher at that big mega-church just outside the city limits, the one with a full parking lot most of the day on Sunday. They have a day care center, coffee shop, and library. I went to high
school with Wayne. I wouldn’t have thought he could ever be a preacher.
“Oh, and I took a good sniff of Brian this morning. He wasn’t wearing any cologne or aftershave. I couldn’t find any in the bathroom either. According to Nell, he doesn’t like fragrances, but Pastor wears Old Spice. That’s not the scent I noticed at Darrow, though.”
Detective Crawford held her pen, suspended over the notepad as she stared at Meg, unsmiling. She finally placed the pen on the tablet and put her chin in the palm of her hand. “You searched the bathrooms at the Hillards’?” Crawford didn’t blink.
“Not both of them, just Brian’s. At least I think it was his. It was clearly a man’s bathroom. His medication was in the medicine cabinet. There was a urinal in there.” Meg cocked her head at Crawford, certain the detective would be surprised by that detail. “You know they live in that new neighborhood behind gates over there off Cardinal Lane. It’s a big house, probably more than two baths. I just happened to go into the one he uses. I’m sure it was his.”
Detective Crawford leaned forward, looking at Meg over her black-framed glasses. “You went through his medication?” Her head dropped slightly and she closed her eyes.
“No, not really. I just glanced at it. The cabinet door was ajar, so I peeked in to see if there was cologne. I saw his name on the labels of prescription bottles.” Meg shook her head as she realized she must sound like a snoop.
“Mrs. Miller, you have taken liberties here that I don’t recommend. We have a murderer in the community, and we don’t know who it is. This may be dangerous. I caution you about doing any detective work on your own.” She took her glasses off, placing them on the notepad, and ran the fingers of both hands across her forehead.
La Rue began pacing by the back door. Meg went to the door and opened it, allowing the cat to leave the kitchen. A chilly breeze brushed her bare arm, making her pull her sweater closer around her shoulders.
“I would appreciate it if we could just go over your entry into Darrow House again.” Crawford took a sip of coffee before continuing as Meg returned to her chair. “First, is there anything else you need to tell me about your outing this morning?” The detective’s eyes met hers.
Meg swallowed. Crawford thinks I’ve overstepped my bounds. She knew she needed to proceed with care. “No, I think that’s it.” She thought about Hal’s phone call and Brian’s reaction. After Detective Crawford’s cautionary comments, she didn’t think it was worth mentioning. However, she had filed them for future reference.
The detective knew nothing of old relationships in the town. Crawford hadn’t known who Wayne was, and she probably wasn’t aware of the history of the Hillards’ church or any of the other details Meg was recalling about former relationships between the men she had linked in a triangle in her mind.
Meg had no desire to back off her own investigation. She would do it to satisfy herself, if nothing else, convinced the history of the people in the mega-church was as important as their present relationships.
The community was small enough to know the most influential people in town, but not small enough to know everyone, as there had been consistent population growth as Dallas spread closer to the county. Dorie didn’t know all the people in her graduating class, however, when Meg was in high school, she was certain she had known everyone in her class as well as the classes on either side of hers.
Meg wanted to tell the detective about most of the women in the church, their penchants for expensive jewelry, designer clothing, nice cars, and plastic surgery. Crawford might not believe it was relevant to the case, but Meg was certain there was a connection. There was a thread of desire running between the individuals she encountered recently, and it wasn’t only a weakness for the material. There was also a desire for other things: power, standing, visibility, and something else. There wasn’t something present in the people, but an absence. She had been suspicious and a little envious of the church’s congregation. However, when she examined the people and considered their backgrounds, it was clear they were attempting to plug a hole in their souls, not open themselves for anything spiritual.
Her envy was deceptive. She admired the sense of style and wealth, but she had no desire to be one of the wealthy. Meg loved her wrap, knitted from the ends of skeins in the bottom of her yarn basket. It reminded her of the coat of many colors; however, it was more like Dolly Parton’s coat than Joseph’s. What had the members of that mega-church been denied? What made them grasp at the attention and finery?
If Detective Crawford had been more receptive, Meg might have chatted with her, but it was clear she only wanted to take notes on facts, not Meg’s intuition. She wanted the details of Meg’s day: the time prior to her entry into Darrow, the names of the people she saw, the stores she visited, and the phone calls she made.
Meg knew this was important, as it would be her alibi, the reason she couldn’t have been involved. Relaxing with the recollection of each conversation and the knowledge that she was surely on the security cameras at several businesses, she realized there was no way to link her to Darrow at the time of Lena’s death.
It wasn’t her whereabouts or activities that occupied her thoughts, though, but the real murderer. She longed for Dorie, knowing there was no way she could explain her ideas to Crawford and make sense of anything. She wanted to speak her thoughts aloud with someone to help her process them.
When Meg had finally answered all the questions, Crawford pointed to the scones. “Those are tempting me. Would you mind if I have one? I left the house in a hurry this morning and didn’t have a chance to eat breakfast.”
“By all means, that’s what they’re for.” Meg pushed the plate closer to Crawford. “Would you like some jam or butter?”
“No, this is great. Thank you. I’m enjoying this coffee too. Much better than the stuff I drink at the station.” Crawford took a bite and wiped the crumbs from her lips, following it with a sip of coffee.
Meg relaxed at the gesture and decided to ask a question that haunted her, but first she had a burning question for Crawford. “Uh, I had a ticket on my car when I left last night. I knew it needed to be moved and planned on it before I was detained for questioning. Is there any chance on getting that waived?”
Crawford had a mouth full of scone, but wiped the crumbs and swallowed. “Give it to me and I’ll take care of it,” Crawford said. Meg felt better. Surely detectives didn’t routinely take care of a suspects parking ticket. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, Detective, Brian mentioned bruises on Lena’s face. He said she would never have risked being seen in public, and he was surprised she left the house. Do you know what he was talking about? Was she beaten?” Meg held her fist in front of her bare lips, hoping Crawford wouldn’t avoid the question.
“This is still under investigation, Mrs. Miller. However, I think it’s okay to mention that it’s apparent Mrs. Hillard had had a facelift recently. There were still stitches. Many of the people we’ve already interviewed were aware of it, and Mr. Hillard has given us the name of her surgeon.” Crawford took another bite of the scone and placed it on the holly-shaped plate.
“Oh.” Meg tried not to let her surprise show. “There was no blood, no wounds I could see. How did Lena die?”
“It’s been confirmed she was strangled. That’s what will be released to the media this afternoon.”
Strangled? A facelift? She took some comfort in Crawford’s sharing that information; she didn’t think the detective would have mentioned it if she was actually considering Meg a suspect.
“That was common knowledge around town?” Meg asked.
“Yes, most of her friends were aware. One of them drove her to the appointment.”
So did Brian kill Lena, or was it one of his cohorts in my Bermuda Triangle of a brain? Why would he spring for a facelift and then murder the face?
SIX
After watching the detective drive away, Meg was sure Crawford didn’t consider her a vi
able suspect. It gave her a sense of comfort that the detective tended to caution her and treat her as if she were naïve, like an errant child. She admitted to herself that she was a little naïve, but it helped her approach the misogynistic men she had been talking with. She didn’t mind playing the game to gain their trust. And the cranberry scones came in handy when she wanted Crawford to view her as less likely to be a murderess. She didn’t consider that manipulation—it was the truth.
LaRue had come back inside, winding herself between Meg’s legs as she stood at the sink washing mugs and plates. She felt the warmth of the cat’s body through her denim leggings. It was past noon, but she wasn’t hungry, having pinched off nibbles of scone while tidying the kitchen.
Meg had located a new legal pad and pens in the box she’d packed before the downsizing move. It was labeled “Paul's office,” closed tight, sitting in the bottom of the coat closet. When she opened it, a familiar breath of leather escaped. The desk set she had given Paul to celebrate winning the seat as county attorney had been wrapped in tissue and stored in the bottom of the box. The scent reminded her of Paul and his desk at the county courthouse, as memorable to her as her own cubicle at the library. She recalled packing the things they’d kept from their work lives when they retired—bittersweet memories of the milestones.
Aware she was embarking on a new adventure, Meg allowed those icons of work to reenter her life. She released them from their cardboard prison, hoping they still carried the life-force of their purpose. The function of the pens and paper was secondary, Meg wanting them to inspire her toward an end. They were symbols that she could perform and be helpful, still useful.
She’d lured LaRue to the living room with kitty treats so she could talk aloud while she was brainstorming. “I’ve just been considering that these office supplies have a temperament. Now LaRue, you’re my Watson.” Silly thoughts, maybe, but they were guiding Meg, somehow bolstering her.
Meg had a fresh cup of coffee and her necessities arranged on the end table beside her favorite easy chair as she began to list names of possible suspects. The names of the men written on the right side of the page were: Brian, Wayne, Hal, and Tom. Are they all members of Wayne’s church, Hilltop Assembly of the Holy? She wrote the acronym down and circled it, HAH. They might as well have called the place God of the Chosen Hereafter, GOTCHA. On the right side of the page, Meg began to write the females: Lena, Nell and then the phone rang.
A Dickens of a Crime Page 4
