by Nene Adams
Sarah Grace gave her a sharp look. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. Anyway, Axel’s family ran a social dance club over where the old theater used to be. The Cakewalk, they called it. Me and your father and a lot of the other boys and girls from school and from the college used to go over there on Friday and Saturday nights. We’d dance until dawn.”
“So I guess Annabel and Billy Wakefield went there, too.”
“I recall seeing them there a few times before Ann just up and disappeared. I think I told you, didn’t I, that Billy used to sell moonshine out of his truck before he got thrown out of town? He’d bring Mason jars of ’shine to the Cakewalk. Sell it for ten cents a swallow. Some of those boys would get blind drunk. Some girls, too.”
“Did Annabel get drunk often?” Mackenzie asked, checking the rearview mirror before switching lanes in preparation for the Trinity exit.
Sarah Grace considered the question. “I don’t know about Ann specifically. She was usually there with Billy. I know some of the rowdier boys would go buy a bottle of Coke for their girlfriend, then pour some out and replace it with Billy’s moonshine.” Her voice lowered. “At least one girl, a friend of mine from church, got pregnant after her boyfriend played that trick on her. There was a place behind the Cakewalk where couples went, you know. To be private. Your father and I never did, but I heard about it from my friends.”
Mackenzie grimaced. Of course she knew date rape wasn’t a modern invention, but she still found it slightly shocking that such immoral behavior happened in an “innocent” era. “Could Annabel have been ‘tricked’ by Billy that way?” she asked.
“I doubt it,” Sarah Grace said. “She doted on that boy. She loved him to distraction. See?” She brandished the picture. “Ann never took off her charm bracelet. Those charms meant something to her and Billy. Oh, Lord, how I coveted that bracelet! All those silver charms! But your daddy didn’t have two nickels to rub together most of the time. We were saving for the wedding.” Her eyes went soft. “The bracelet was so romantic. Even had a picture of Billy in a sweet little frame.”
“Here’s the exit, Mama. We’ll be at the hospital in about ten minutes,” Mackenzie said, turning off the expressway and onto the exit ramp. While stopped at a traffic light, she went on, “You’re wrong, Mama. It’s a picture of Annabel in the frame. I saw the charm bracelet at the police station.”
To her surprise, Sarah Grace laughed. “Baby, I know what I said and I know what I meant! Mr. and Mrs. Coffin didn’t approve of that no-account Billy Wakefield, so Annabel put a picture of herself over his to keep it hidden. I saw her showing it off one day in the girl’s bathroom at school. She thought herself quite clever.”
Mackenzie’s heart leaped. A photograph of Billy might not help her locate him, but it couldn’t hurt. At least she’d have a face to put with his reputation.
As soon as the light turned green, she drove through the intersection and straight to Trinity General and the visitors’ parking lot.
After helping Sarah Grace gather an array of magazines, crossword puzzle and Sudoku books, candy and a canvas bag of miscellaneous items including knitting, nightgowns and a small bouquet of bright yellow Gerbera daisies, Mackenzie led her mother into the hospital and through the maze of hallways to the orthopedics department.
“I’ll pop in to say hi to Aunt Ida Love, but I can’t stay,” she told Sarah Grace when they stood outside the right room. “I need to talk to Veronica. You know, Deputy Birdwell. Call me when you’re ready to go home and I’ll pick you up, okay?”
“That’s fine, baby. Ida Love and I can have a nice, long talk and I’ll make sure those nurses are treating her right.” Sarah Grace kissed her cheek and gave her a little push toward the room. “Go on, the sooner you make your polites to your aunt, the quicker you can leave. Though you ought to at least send Ida Love flowers or a card later.”
“Yes, Mama.”
On the way back to Antioch, Mackenzie tried to figure out how she could persuade Maynard to let her examine the charm without giving away her reason for wanting to do so in the first place, or letting him know she’d snooped around his office. She was certain if she asked, he’d refuse to let her see if a photo of Billy lay behind Annabel’s picture. Probably cite some stupid rule of evidence.
She retrieved her cell phone and speed-dialed Veronica. “Hey, Ronnie,” she said when Veronica answered the call, “any way you can get your hands on that charm bracelet y’all found on Annabel’s body?”
“Detective Maynard’s keeping the evidence in his office right now,” Veronica replied in the fastidious tone she used when she suspected Mackenzie was up to no good.
“Just five minutes,” Mackenzie wheedled. “Please?”
Veronica sighed. “May I ask why?”
“I have an idea.”
“I want details.”
“I have reason to believe there’s a photograph of Billy Wakefield on Annabel’s charm bracelet. It’s under her picture in the frame.”
“Mac, where are you? Are you in your car? Using a handheld phone while operating a moving vehicle in Mitford County is a misdemeanor offense punishable by a fifty-dollar fine.”
“Only if you get caught.”
“Mac!”
“It’s fine, Ronnie. Can you sneak me a peek at the bracelet or not?” Mackenzie held her breath, hoping for a positive answer.
At last, Veronica said, “I have a break in a couple of hours. Meet me at the Hot Spot.”
Mackenzie grinned and ended the call.
Chapter Thrity-Three
After speaking to Veronica, Mackenzie decided to get some work done in her office. The repairs had been completed quickly once police released the scene. As she was fumbling with her door key, Paul Collier stopped on the sidewalk to speak to her.
“Ms. Cross,” he said, blinking his pale blue eyes. His brown hair seemed to have a little more silver at the temples than the last time she’d seen him. “I believe you know my daughter, Kelly.”
Mackenzie nodded warily, unsure what he meant to do. Would he break their lease agreement and throw her out of the building? She could work from home, but as long as her finances permitted, she preferred to keep work and home separate.
“I wanted to offer you an apology,” Collier went on, gazing at her steadily despite a quiver in his jowls. He stuck out his hand. “I’m sorry you were put in a terrible situation. I don’t know what happened to Kelly. I tried to raise her right after my wife, June, passed away, but my daughter’s always gone her own way, not necessarily the Lord’s way.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Mackenzie said, shaking his hand. “Have the police told you anything yet? I know Kelly was brought in for questioning. Is she all right?”
“The police let her go this morning. She sinned with Jacob Dearborn and she will have to bear the consequences, but she did not kill him.”
Mackenzie offered the man a nod, although in her opinion, most teenagers believed consequences were for other people. “How about Tucker? How’s he taking the news?”
“As you might expect, Tucker called off their engagement.” The sad, somewhat bewildered expression ill-suited Collier’s normally cheerful face. “The boy’s devastated. None of us knew what was going on. My girl hasn’t been thinking straight for a long time.”
“What do you mean, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“As I understand it, Tucker planned to leave Antioch after graduation. The boy wanted to make his own way in the world and told Kelly he wouldn’t take a penny from his father. Said he’d rather work hard and live simply until he earned his success. That didn’t suit Kelly.” Collier gestured helplessly. “She admitted seducing Jacob Dearborn to get at his money. The foolish man forgot himself. He gave her the things she coveted: jewelry, designer clothes, an expensive new car. I didn’t know. I swear to you, I did not know.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Collier.” At a loss for what to tell the man, Mackenzie gestured at the door. “Would you like to come inside and
have a cup of coffee?” Her leg had settled to a dull ache so she didn’t need a pain pill, but she’d love to sit down for five minutes.
He ignored her, his gaze turned inward. His shoulders sagged. “How could my daughter, my own flesh and blood, sell her body for trinkets? Condemn her soul for dross? And on the eve of her marriage to a fine young man. I don’t understand her. I never did.”
Your daughter’s a selfish, spoiled teenager who’s been indulged by everyone in her life to the point where she wouldn’t know a sound moral decision if it smacked her on the nose. Mackenzie didn’t voice her opinion aloud. The poor man was suffering enough. Why add to his pain? “Sir, I’m sure when Kelly grows up a little more, she’ll feel different.”
His eyes refocused on her. He shook his head. “My daughter is lost. Perhaps she’ll return to Jesus someday. I’ll pray for her. However, it wasn’t my intention to take up your time with my woes, Ms. Cross.” He attempted a smile. “In the interests of full disclosure, perhaps you’ll want to know that Kelly told me she enlisted your help to cover up her affair with Jacob Dearborn because, in her words, you were ‘dumb enough to do what you were told.’ I don’t believe that, not for a moment.”
Mackenzie flushed and bit her tongue.
“I’m sorry for my daughter’s attitude, I truly am,” he went on. “I hear you think you owe me something on account of the work I’m having done on the building to fix the storm damage. I want to reassure you that you shouldn’t feel obligated in any way. The repairs are my responsibility. If I ever gave you the impression otherwise—”
“No, sir, not at all,” Mackenzie hastened to reassure him.
“I’m glad to hear it.” He shook her hand again. “Good day, Ms. Cross, and God bless.”
Mackenzie turned to make a second attempt at opening her office door, but this time, her cell phone’s ring interrupted her. “Cross speaking,” she answered, tucking the phone between her ear and her shoulder while juggling her set of keys.
“I’m told you do appraisals?” asked an unfamiliar, hesitant, older female voice. The rising inflection made each sentence seem like a question. “You know, of antique furniture and so forth?”
“Yes, ma’am, I can give you an appraisal,” Mackenzie replied, finally unlocking the door. A gust of hot air rushed out. Sweat beaded her face. She’d forgotten to set the timer on the air-conditioner. Must be a hundred degrees in there. She hesitated.
“My mother recently passed, and my sisters and I inherited some furniture?” the woman said. “You know, old wooden stuff?”
“Uh-huh,” Mackenzie encouraged, standing on the pavement under the broiling hot sun, holding her office door open in a futile attempt to cool the interior enough so she wouldn’t bake like a muffin when she went inside.
“Mother always said they were Chip and Dale?”
An image of cartoon chipmunks flashed through her mind. “You mean Chippendale?” Mackenzie asked, coming to attention.
The woman sniffed. “I suppose? Real old, Mother said?”
Mackenzie thought about the eighteenth century Chippendale Bombe Chest-on-Chest that sold about a decade ago for nearly two million dollars at auction. Some of her regular clients would love to add antique Chippendale furniture to their collections. “Well, I can give you a valuation of the pieces, ma’am,” she said. “When would be a convenient time?”
“When’s the soonest you can come? I have the address here, if you want?”
Mackenzie dashed into the heated office to fumble a pen and notepad off the desk in the reception area. She had a little time before she was supposed to meet with Veronica. “I can come out right now, if that’s convenient.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s fine?”
“Where do you live?” Mackenzie scribbled the address the woman gave her. A drop of sweat rolled off her nose and splashed on the notepad, smearing the ink. She straightened and made a grab for a tissue from the box on the corner of the desk to blot her face. “I can be there in twenty minutes, Ms…?”
The woman hung up without giving her name.
“Damn it.” Mackenzie slipped the phone into her pocket, wiped the sweat from her face with the tissue and went to adjust the thermostat on the wall.
The air-conditioner kicked in with a subtle whoosh. It took a few moments before cool air began to flow from the ceiling vents. She didn’t have time to bask, so she hurried out of the office, making sure to lock the door behind her, and climbed into her car.
During the drive, Mackenzie found herself excited about the prospect of discovering genuine Chippendale furniture as opposed to “Chippendale style.” Even an experienced appraiser might have difficulty telling the difference, but she knew an acknowledged expert who could provide a second opinion if needed. Of course, if the woman had provenance for her late mother’s furniture pieces, that would be even better.
The address raised her spirits even higher. The house was in Dawn Rise, the wealthiest neighborhood in Antioch, populated by lawyers, doctors, bankers and other people with money to burn on luxury real estate. No doubt the woman’s mother had lived in one of those pseudo-Antebellum mansions built in the seventies with graceful Palladium architecture, tall columns, classical lines and manicured lawns.
When she and her friends had been driven to the Rise as kids on Halloween to go trick-or-treating, Mackenzie had learned a couple of important lessons. Having money didn’t make you a nice person—she’d had more than one asshole slam a door in her face after screaming at her to get lost—and rich folks were too cheap to hand out name brand candy bars. The best she’d received on the Rise had been discount lollipops, tiny boxes of stale raisins, apples and once a lecture on the merits of dental hygiene.
At least Jacob Dearborn’s scheme to transform Sweetwater Hill into another Dawn Rise had died with him, she hoped.
She turned onto Troy Avenue, checking the numbers on mailboxes. The driveway she wanted led uphill off the street and seemed long, perhaps a quarter-mile or so, lined on either side with hickory trees. Sunlight flickered through the leaves as she drove, creating patterns of dark and bright on the windshield that made her blink. At the end of the driveway, she saw the huge, gleaming white Gone With the Wind-style mansion she’d expected.
Mackenzie parked the car. As she emerged into the stillness and heat, she sensed movement behind her. She spun around, catching a glimpse of Annabel’s oddly sorrowful, silver-gray face before a canvas bag was yanked over her head.
Hands pinioned her arms roughly behind her back. She fought against the hold, trying to head-butt her captor, but someone else grabbed her ankles and wrenched her feet off the ground. Pain flared in her leg. Still she twisted in panic, her screams muffled by the fabric.
She sucked in a terrified breath, accidentally inhaling a mouthful of canvas tasting of mothballs and dust. A cough turned into retching that tore something in her chest. The burning pain felt as if her sternum had crumpled.
Suddenly, she was free, she was flying, and when she crashed, her head struck something solid. The lights bursting inside her skull faded to black.
So did her consciousness.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Mackenzie woke slowly, her head hurting, her leg on fire, her mind fogged.
What the hell happened? She wanted to rub her aching skull, but her arms wouldn’t move. Her body felt like dead weight, slumped in a seated position on her tailbone. Did I have too much to drink last night? I guess Jose Cuervo is not a friend of mine.
She cracked open an eyelid and recoiled.
Rev. Wilson Wyland stood in front of her. He looked old, thin and vulturine in his customary black suit and string tie. His white mane of hair was tousled. He saw her staring up at him and gave her a grave look in return, bending over so they were face-to-face.
“Glad you’re awake, Ms. Cross,” he said in his beautifully modulated baritone. His breath smelled faintly of peppermint. “I hope you aren’t too uncomfortable. I apologize for my colleagues, who were su
pposed to deliver you unharmed. Your wounding was an accident, so I’ve been given to understand. Please find it in your heart to forgive them.”
Mackenzie remembered the assault on Dawn Rise. The woman’s call about an appraisal must have been fake, meant to lure her out of her usual haunts, away from potential witnesses into a trap. She glared at Wyland, realizing she was unable to speak because of the duct tape over her mouth, and unable to leave or defend herself because her wrists and ankles were bound with it as well.
“I wish it hadn’t come to this,” Wyland said, shaking his head.
He straightened and walked away a few paces, giving her a better view of her surroundings. She immediately recognized the cross on the wall, the upright piano in the corner. She’d been assaulted, kidnapped—by whom, she didn’t know yet—and taken to the Covenant Rock Church of God with Signs Following, where she’d been put on the dais floor and concealed behind the pulpit. Wyland must be behind it—but why?
“When you approached me the first time, I thought you were a Christian woman,” he said, rubbing his wrinkled dry hands together with a sound like old paper rustling, “until I learned you were doing the bidding of that young whore and her panderer. We must forgive the trespasses of sinners, but you wouldn’t let it go. And then God gave me a sign.”
Mackenzie wondered what he meant, since he had made a complaint to the police.
“I saw you enter my church that day,” Wyland said. “I saw you leave after being bitten and I knew the Lord had punished you. God used one of His own creatures to deliver His judgment. I saw the signs and knew my faith had been rewarded.”
She recalled her rattlesnake bite in this same church and how she thought she’d seen an indifferent Wyland watching her from a distance. In the hospital, she’d believed his silent presence was an hallucination, but she’d been mistaken.
Wyland paced a few steps, stopped and turned back to regard her. His gaze held an unnerving conviction. “But you survived. I thought the Lord’s grace had saved your life, for did Jesus not say the very hairs of a man’s head are numbered by God? God’s eye never wavers upon us. All happens according to His plan.”
