Before she could answer, a white dog with black eye patches sprinted over to the fence and stood up against it, tail working in a furious rhythm. Tom stooped and stuck his fingers through the links to scratch the animal’s head. This was one of the ferals he’d helped Rachel and the animal warden catch, on a brisk fall day more than a year ago. They had waited out of sight across the road as the dogs crept from the cave where they’d been hiding, lured by the aroma of canned dog food used as bait in cage traps. All the dogs had been near starvation and covered with ticks and fleas when they arrived at the sanctuary.
“They’ve got a home, right here,” Mrs. Turner said. “Anybody that wants one is gonna have to prove they’ll treat it right and keep it the rest of its life. After everything they’ve been through, they don’t need to be shunted around anymore.”
She motioned toward the house, where they could talk without having to shout. Tom gave the dog a last scratch and rose to follow Mrs. Turner through the back door into the kitchen.
“Take a seat,” she said. “I’ll get us some coffee.”
Three mutts of different sizes and colors charged into the kitchen and surrounded Tom, sniffing his shoes and pants legs before lifting their heads to be patted. These were Mrs. Turner’s personal pets, two of them aging dogs she’d had all their lives. The smallest, a young terrier mix, was the last feral rescued from the cave, the one Rachel had crawled into the low, narrow space to find. Tom pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table. The dogs settled in a row next to him, watching him with expectant eyes. If he was the morning’s entertainment, they were probably going to be disappointed.
Mrs. Turner took her time pulling a couple of mugs from a cabinet and filling them from the fresh pot on the coffee maker. Stalling, Tom thought. Mentally rehearsing her answers to the questions she expected.
She placed a mug in front of him and took a chair across the table. Sipping the dark, fragrant brew, Tom wondered what Mrs. Turner did that was special. She made the best coffee he’d ever tasted. Eyeing her death grip on her own mug, sensing the anxiety that radiated off her, he decided to let her relax a little before he tackled the reason for his visit. “Are you and Holly planning to keep every animal you take in?”
She jutted her chin. “What’s gonna stop us? We’ve got plenty more land here. Holly’s got all that money Pauline left behind. We’ll just keep right on expandin’ as long as we need to.”
“There’s no reason you can’t, if you’re willing to cut down a few trees here and there.”
“Trees can be built around.” A little smile played on Mrs. Turner’s lips, and her eyes took on an almost mischievous glint. “I keep expectin’ Robert McClure to come around, tryin’ to get Holly to sell this land to that big company. I know it just about drives him crazy to see what we’re doin’ to his granddaddy’s place. First his brother married my scandalous Melungeon daughter and set her up here like a queen, and now there’s Holly and me and all these dogs. I bet it keeps him awake at night. I almost feel sorry for the poor man.”
Tom laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure you do.”
They drank their coffee in silence, and Mrs. Turner’s amusement faded to melancholy. Tom wondered if she was thinking about the Kellys or her own family, torn apart by murder and lies and mental illness. She never spoke of her lost daughters, one of them Holly’s mother and the other the former resident of this house. As far as Tom knew, Mrs. Turner had no contact with her one surviving daughter, now locked up in an institution for the criminally insane, nor with the granddaughter serving a prison term. Holly was the only family Sarelda Turner had left. With Marie Kelly’s death, she had also lost a good friend.
“I’m sorry you had to lose Mrs. Kelly,” Tom said. “Especially this way,”
“Well, now.” Mrs. Turner set her mug on the table and straightened in her chair. “I guess we ought to get down to business. Can’t sit here the rest of the day. We’ve both got other things to do.”
Tom sat forward, pulled his notebook from his shirt pocket. “Anything you can tell me might help me find the person who killed Marie and Lincoln.”
Pursing her lips, Mrs. Turner regarded the notebook with wary eyes. “I’m not scared to talk because of myself, you know. Anybody comes after me, they’ll get more than they bargained for.”
“You have plenty of watchdogs inside and out to sound the alert if a stranger comes around.” He glanced down at the three dogs next to him, and the runt gave a soft yip. Tom scratched his head, then had to do the same for the other two when they pressed forward for attention.
“I don’t think it’s strangers I need to look out for,” Mrs. Turner said. “But as long as I stay right here, I’m safe as I can be. Holly, now, she’s out and about, drivin’ around by herself. It’s her I worry about.”
“I’ll have a talk with her and Brandon. We won’t let anything happen to her. You know Rachel and I both care a lot about your granddaughter.”
Mrs. Turner acknowledged that with a nod. But still she hesitated. Tom waited out her silence.
At last she cleared her throat and spoke. “I guess Rachel told you that all kinds of little things was happenin’ at Marie and Lincoln’s house. Lincoln, his mind wasn’t clear enough so he could understand what all was goin’ on. But Marie was scared. I tried to get her to talk to you about it, but she said there wasn’t anything real solid she could point to, like so-and-so did this or that. It wasn’t stuff you could arrest somebody for unless you caught them in the act. But she was afraid it was leadin’ up to something real bad. And she sure was right about that.”
Tom saw the grief welling up in Mrs. Turner’s eyes again, and he pushed on before she gave in to it. “Did she have any idea who was trying to intimidate them? Was she afraid of somebody in particular?”
Ronan, Tom thought, could have bought a few acts of vandalism for relatively little money. Arranging something like that long distance would be risky, though, with too many chances for discovery. Still, he almost expected Mrs. Turner to say Marie had been afraid of her own son. Although it would be hearsay, it might help Tom build a case for an arrest—if Ronan was, in fact, behind his parents’ murders.
Mrs. Turner surprised him. “She was scared of their neighbors. People they lived close to all these years. People they helped out, anytime it was needed.”
“Which neighbors?”
She seemed hesitant to speak names aloud, although the number of possibilities was limited: Jake, Tavia, the Jones sisters—and Tom doubted she was talking about the elderly Joneses. He allowed Mrs. Turner time to summon her courage.
“Jake Hollinger, for one,” she said at last. “But Marie was a whole lot more worried about that woman he took up with.”
“Octavia Richardson? What made her think Jake and Tavia were a threat to her and Linc?”
“They just wouldn’t let up about Lincoln and Marie sellin’ their farm. Marie said they’d come by together a couple times a week, regular as clockwork. Lincoln got all upset about it, every time. It was too much for him, on top of Robert McClure pesterin’ them. He didn’t understand exactly what it meant, but he could tell they all wanted to take his home away from him. And that woman, she’d come around by herself, too, real sly and nasty, a whole lot worse than she acted when Hollinger was there to see it.” Mrs. Turner sniffed, her expression soured with contempt. “She’s not from around here, you know. She’s from down in Florida somewheres.”
Right, Tom thought. Tavia had only lived here for the last forty years or so of her life. About as long as Joanna had been in Mason County. Both were still newcomers in the eyes of many natives.
Leaning forward, Mrs. Turner lowered her voice as if they weren’t the only two people within miles. “You know she killed her husband.”
“What?” The word erupted from Tom, jarringly loud in the quiet room. “Tavia Richardson?”
The largest of the dogs, a sha
ggy brown animal of indeterminate heritage, laid a paw on Tom’s knee and issued a little whine. He didn’t know whether the animal was offering reassurance or seeking it. Either way, she didn’t like his raised voice. He patted her head.
“Now don’t tell me you never heard the story,” Mrs. Turner said. “Everybody knows about her and her husband.”
“I know he abused her for years. I think she’s probably lucky she didn’t end up dead. But her husband died in an accident.”
Mrs. Turner pursed her lips and looked at him as if she found his ignorance pitiable.
Tom wondered about the source of her tale. “Are you repeating things Marie Kelly told you? Did she think Tavia killed her husband?”
“She didn’t think it, she knew it. That woman went runnin’ to Marie and Lincoln every time her man got drunk and started knockin’ her around. Her kids, too, they’d all show up on the doorstep. Her with a bloody mouth and black eyes and God knows what else. She could count on Lincoln to keep her husband away from them while he sobered up. And Marie got her ice packs and Tylenol and fed the kids.”
Tom wasn’t surprised by any of this. The Richardsons had never been part of his parents’ circle, but he had been aware of the violence in the family because he went to school with a couple of their daughters. Scandalized whispers and murmurs of pity had always surrounded the girls, who kept to themselves and never invited other kids to the house. The boys had also been friendless, as far as Tom knew. The four Richardson offspring had fled, one by one, as soon as they were old enough, and Tom had never heard of them coming back to visit.
Still, all that misery didn’t add up to murder. “Ron Richardson died in a tractor accident. What made Marie think Tavia killed him?”
“You’re a lawman. You know how something can be fixed so it looks like an accident.”
Tom paused, remembering. “My mother told me about it. She was one of the nurses who treated him at the hospital. She said he was so far gone by the time he was brought in that nothing could be done.”
Mrs. Turner nodded as if he’d made her point for her. “How long did he lay out in that field with a turned-over tractor on top of him before his wife called for help? A couple hours?”
“Yeah, I know, but—”
“She told Marie she was gonna kill him someday. Said it every single time she showed up lookin’ like a kicked puppy. She said she was gonna kill him, and she finally did it.”
Tom held up his hands in surrender. “Okay. All right, let’s put aside the question of whether Tavia killed her husband. Even if she did, what does that have to do with the Kelly murders?”
“Don’t you see?” Mrs. Turner shook her head, clearly impatient with him for being so dense. “She got away with murder once. She let Marie know she’d do it again if she had to. Didn’t come right out and say it, now. Never put it in words anybody could use against her. But she sure did get her message across. She planned it, just like she planned how she’d kill her husband.”
“But gunning down two people in their back yard is a long way from tinkering with a tractor to make it turn over.” Tom shook his head. “I can’t believe Tavia would plan something as blatant as those shootings and think she could get away with it. She’s not stupid.”
Mrs. Turner sat back, nodding, with a satisfied little smile on her lips. “No, she’s not a bit stupid. She knows exactly what she’s doin’. And she’s got the county sheriff himself sittin’ here in my kitchen swearin’ up and down that she’s innocent.”
Chapter Fifteen
Rachel threaded through the noisy, milling crowd in the high school parking lot, working her way toward the door into the gymnasium. Bright sunshine warmed the midday air, and the gathering of hard-faced people had an eerily festive atmosphere. As if they were collecting in the community square to watch a hanging, she thought.
Rachel found Holly near the door, where Deputy Brandon Connolly, her fiancé, scrutinized people as they entered the auditorium one by one.
“Tom’s inside,” Holly told her. “Joanna is too. She got here early so she could get a seat in the front row, and she’s savin’ room for you and me.”
Rachel wasn’t surprised that Joanna wanted to be right in the faces of the Packard people, but she was a little leery of putting herself there. Too much temptation to voice her own opinion. She had to practice self-restraint today, for Tom’s sake.
“Do you know if Tom has talked to your grandmother yet?” she asked Holly. Rachel hadn’t seen or spoken with Tom since he’d left for work early that morning.
“He was gonna stop by before he came out here. But I don’t know if she told him anything. She wants the killer to get caught, but she’s worried it might be dangerous to help the police. You know how she is.”
Rachel knew all too well how stubborn and secretive Mrs. Turner could be. “It’s more dangerous to keep things to herself. Come on, let’s go in.”
Rachel wanted to bypass the chaotic line and slip into the gym, but Brandon blocked everybody by stepping in front of the open doorway. He held up a hand to stop a young man with a shaved head who wore a camouflage jacket with his cargo pants. “Just a minute, sir.”
The man, who looked about twenty-five, directed his affronted gaze at the palm raised in his face. “What?”
“I believe you’ve got a weapon there in your pocket.”
Rachel peered over shoulders to get a better look. The man’s jacket, hanging open, revealed the black butt of a handgun protruding from his pants pocket. A shiver of alarm made Rachel take a step back. In her three years in Mason County, she’d learned a lot about quick tempers and casual violence among people who usually had their guns nearby, if not on them. Holly moved with her.
“I got my permits,” the man said. “Concealed carry and open carry both. I got a right.”
“I can’t let you take a weapon into the school building, sir. Sheriff’s orders.”
The man thrust his face into Brandon’s. The two were close in age, but Brandon was taller and more muscular in addition to wearing a deputy’s uniform. The other man, however, clearly felt he held all the authority in this encounter. “You don’t have a goddamned thing to say about it, and you can tell the sheriff to go to hell.”
Brandon visibly stiffened. Rachel had to admire his steely tone when he answered. “The Sheriff’s Department put out the word ahead of time that weapons wouldn’t be allowed inside the school and people should leave them at home. Now, sir, if you want to go in, you’ll have to turn your pistol over to me for safekeeping, or lock it in your vehicle, or empty it and give me the ammunition. Your choice.”
The man’s face looked like a pan of water coming to a boil. “My gun goes where I go. I don’t hand it over to nobody. And it stays loaded. You accusin’ me of goin’ in there to shoot somebody?”
“No, sir.” Brandon kept his voice level. “But you know people are going to get all worked up. If somebody gets mad and decides to do something about it, we don’t want a gun in easy reach. They could grab your pistol out of your pocket and use it. I doubt you’d want that to happen.”
Bravo, Rachel thought. Tom himself couldn’t have been more reasonable or steadfast.
Every thought streaming through the man’s head revealed itself on his face. Rachel saw him waver, saw him debate whether giving in to this fresh-faced deputy would make him look weak in front of the suddenly attentive crowd.
A white-haired woman poked the young man’s back with her cane, making him flinch and swivel to face her. “Oh, come on, Lamar,” the woman said. “Do what the deputy tells you. You’re holding up everybody behind you.”
The middle-aged woman with her added, “Your grandma here needs to sit down. Step aside and let the rest of us get by, then you can stand out here and run your mouth all day if you feel like it.”
Now that his mother and grandmother had scolded him, a dozen more women
added their voices, calling Lamar by name and demanding that he show some consideration for others. Embarrassment overtook him, and he flushed a deep red that turned a blue eagle tattoo on his neck a lurid purple.
Interesting, Rachel thought. The women didn’t hesitate to chide him for inconveniencing them, but the males in the crowd stayed silent rather than argue with a man who had a gun on him.
“Aw, hell,” the young man grumbled. “I’ll lock it in my truck.” Calling on his dwindling supply of gruff defiance, he warned Brandon, “My gun better not disappear, or you’re gonna be in a shitload of trouble. You understand me?”
“I understand you, sir.”
As the gun owner shoved through the crowd, Holly whispered to Rachel, “I’m just so proud of Brandon sometimes. Heck, I’m proud of him all the time.”
Rachel smiled, watching Holly touch a finger to the tiny diamond chip in her engagement ring. Although Holly’s inheritance from her aunt had made her rich, she would always be a girl with down-to-earth dreams. She had everything she needed to make her happy: an animal sanctuary she had created with her grandmother’s help, a job as an aide at Rachel’s vet clinic, and plans to marry Brandon.
Brandon waved Rachel and Holly past the people in line, and they stepped through the doorway into the gymnasium.
The bleachers already overflowed, with more people filing in. The crowd’s chatter echoed off the high ceiling. A speaker’s podium bearing the Packard Resorts logo stood under the backboard at one end of the basketball court. In the center of the floor there was a long steel table covered with a green drape. From the dips and rises in the cloth, Rachel assumed it concealed a mockup of the proposed resort facilities, ready to dazzle all of them. She had to admit to herself that she was curious to see what it looked like.
Tom stood beside the podium, hands on hips, ostensibly listening to Lawrence Archer, the young Packard representative, but his vigilant gaze roamed the room and kept tabs on the crowd.
Poisoned Ground Page 9
