by Debra Webb
the dead girl
Debra Webb
A Novel
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Debra Webb
Cover Design by Vicki Hinze
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Pink House Press, Madison, Alabama
First Edition October 2018
Chapter One
Thursday, October 4
Two years.
Apparently that was to be the extent of Laney Holt's reprieve in paradise.
Laney stared at the dead girl on the floor. How the hell did a beautiful young woman who had the perfect life in the perfect town get herself murdered?
Pushing to her feet, Laney turned to the uniform standing by. “Find McCabe.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Officer Seth Trask, the first on the scene, hustled out of the room. Their chief of police hadn’t answered his phone when Laney called him. Knowing his bad habits better than she cared to, it was a relatively simple matter to guess that he had likely over indulged last night. She hadn’t broached the subject with him, but in the course of working together for the past two years she couldn’t help noticing Shutter Lake’s chief of police had a deep and serious relationship with alcohol.
Laney listened for the front door to close behind Trask. When she heard the telltale sound of wood against wood her gaze settled on the victim once more. “Shit.”
The coffee she’d gulped down on the drive from Main Street to Olive Tree Lane churned in her belly. Typically she grabbed a bagel with her coffee, but this morning her cell had buzzed with the call about a body before she’d made up her mind whether she wanted a blueberry or a poppy seed bagel. Cream cheese or honey? Instead of a leisurely morning discussing any homeless folks who had taken up residence at the century old mine outside of town, she was analyzing the kind of scene she’d thought she left behind in LA.
Body rigid with tension, she walked across the main living area of the rustic and yet somehow chic A-frame and leaned against the front door, pulling her attention away from the victim and to the room as a whole. Since the front door was slightly ajar when the victim was found, chances are the perp entered the home right here. A wisp of hair slipped loose from her ponytail. Laney smoothed it back, her gloved hand shaking, giving away the dread and uncertainty building inside her.
How the hell did this happen?
Shutter Lake, the perfect little village—according to countless lifestyle magazines—nestled amid the Sierra Mountains of northern California, now had its first murder. Anticipation roiling with uncertainty had her wrapping her arms around her waist to hold her body still. Worse, this was no poor wandering homeless person or visitor or newcomer to the area splayed on the floor. This was a lifetime resident, beloved by everyone—a daughter, business owner, and model perfect citizen.
Sylvia Cole, twenty-six years old and stunningly beautiful, was dead. Murdered. No question about that. Laney had seen more than her share of homicide victims in her former life. The life she’d left behind in search of peace, quiet and a slower pace.
Another burst of frustration laced with dread heaved from her lungs. As deputy chief of police, she was the closest thing to a detective assigned to Shutter Lake’s tiny department. There was the chief, Griff McCabe, who’d grown up in Shutter Lake. He’d joined the force following a two-year criminal justice program with an emphasis on the collection of evidence. His father, the former chief of police, often laughed and boasted that when other kids were learning to play t-ball, his one and only son was honing his skills in surveillance and keeping the peace. The old man had one thing right, about the only pastime available to cops around this town was keeping an eye on residents and their homes and businesses.
The occasional burglary occurred—always a perpetrator from outside of town. Someone passing through or a homeless person from a new camp in the woods beyond the city limits. Now and again a fender bender occurred, but that was generally handled between the drivers. Once in a great while a citizen had too much to drink and decided to stagger home rather than to call a taxi and ended up trying to enter the wrong house or ended up sleeping it off on a park bench. Even those instances were few and far between.
In reality, beyond the initial required training, Shutter Lake’s police force was nothing more than glorified mall rent-a-cops. Keeping an eye on things and occasionally nudging a citizen who misbehaved to watch his or her step. Laney had driven folks home from local pubs, she’d watched after their houses while they were traveling—even fed their birds and fish from time to time. The truth was, Shutter Lake hadn’t needed a seasoned detective like her. A seen-it-all former LAPD detective, at that. But she’d come here—to this paradise tucked in the valley—twenty-four months and one week ago badly needing the calm and tranquility the town offered. McCabe had been glad to have her on board. So much so he’d given her an impressive title to go with an unexpectedly generous salary.
Now it seemed they were going to need the special skill set she had hoped never again to drag out of retirement.
“Focus, Laney.” With both hands she grabbed the gritty cop instincts she’d once trusted completely and hauled them from the black hole where she’d tossed them two years ago. She’d promised herself she was never going back there. Never.
The home’s front door had been unlocked and ajar when one of the victim’s employees, one Renata Fernandez, arrived at the house to see what was keeping the boss this chilly Thursday morning. No indication of forced entry at that door or any other potential access points into the home.
Sylvia Cole, owner and operator of a local house cleaning service called Sparkle, was usually in her downtown office by six every morning, Monday through Saturday. When she hadn’t shown by seven-thirty, Fernandez had come looking for her. Fernandez had given her statement and was currently sequestered to the back deck. She’d told Officer Trask she couldn’t be in the house with her friend lying dead on the floor.
Laney glanced beyond the wall of windows on the other side of the room. The woman sat in one of the four metal chairs flanking a table on the expansive deck. Her cell phone was in Laney’s pocket. She didn’t want Fernandez calling anyone and discussing what she’d found. Fortunately, once the lady had called the police, she’d been too distraught to think to call the Cole family or anyone else from Sparkle. Trask had arrived on the scene to find her kneeling on the floor next to the victim, deep in prayer as she rocked back and forth.
Sylvia Cole’s arms were spread out to her sides, her legs slightly bent at the knees and angled to her right, her left hip prominent. Laney’s first impression was that the body had been posed. The victim’s long blond hair fanned around her head, her blue eyes stared unseeing at the steeply vaulted ceiling where a fan slowly turned. Her pink nightshirt sporting the Sparkle logo was hiked up to the tops of her thighs. When Laney crouched down for a closer look she noted the victim wore lavender panties. No bruising on the thighs or other visible indication of sexual assault.
No blood. No visible physical injury at all beyond the ring of bruises circling her neck. Laney didn’t need a coroner or a forensics expert to tell her the woman had been strangled. There were no ligature marks suggesting a rope or a scarf or belt. The bruises were unquestionably made by the ki
ller’s hands. Laney had seen it before. Pinpoint hemorrhages in the whites of the eyes suggested the same, manual strangulation.
This murder was close up, perhaps executed by an intimate of the victim since there was no sign of forced entry. Despite Shutter Lake’s peaceful reputation, folks weren’t naïve. Some of the most brilliant minds in the world lived in this small town. They locked their doors. And, maybe the oddest part of all, no indication the victim fought her attacker. As far as Laney could see there was no skin under her meticulously manicured nails. No bruises or other marks on her arms.
“Shit,” Laney muttered again.
She shook her head. If the killer was someone the victim knew, then in all probability he—and it was most likely a he—lived right here in Shutter Lake.
Clearing her mind of the disturbing thought, Laney absorbed the details of the room. The chair that had stood at an angle to the sofa was overturned. A teakwood tray, clay potted African violet and a magazine had been swiped or knocked off the ottoman that served as a coffee table. Potting soil from the shattered container had spilled across the floor. The victim’s purse lay on the floor by the table closest to the door. A wooden bowl atop that table held wads of keys. In addition to the usual car and house keys, the victim had keys to her office, to her clients’ homes and businesses. Laney hoped her clients’ keys were locked up in the office downtown. Sparkle serviced the who’s who of Shutter Lake.
Her wallet was empty of cash and credit cards. A hairbrush, lip gloss, a tampon that looked as if it had been in her purse for ages, and a bottle of over the counter pain medication had been unceremoniously dumped on the floor along with half a dozen of her business cards.
One of the cards, the side that featured Sylvia Cole’s gorgeous smile turned up, lay next to the pile. So young. Damn.
The rest of the main living area was undisturbed. Laptop sat on the dining table, opened to the online boutique where she’d been viewing holiday wear. No dishes in the sink, no clutter on the counters. No stacks of this and that on the dining table. Even the fridge was pristine. Wine, cheese, fruit and a box filled with tempting cupcakes from the local bakery were neatly organized. Evidently the queen of clean kept her own abode sparkling, too.
The small house had two bedrooms and two baths beyond the expansive main living area. Bedroom one and the smaller bathroom were located to the left of the dining area while the master suite was to the right of the living room. With another glance at the woman on the deck, Laney headed down a short hall to the master bedroom. This bedroom also looked out onto the back deck that spanned the length of the house. French doors were locked. Two towering windows looked out onto the woods that butted both ends as well as the back of the property.
On the bed pale blue sheets were tousled as if the victim had already been tucked in for the night when her killer arrived. Or maybe she’d been in bed with her killer. Using both gloved hands, Laney picked up the twisted flat sheet and sniffed it. Perfume—she glanced at the bottle of Angel on the dresser, the vic’s—and something more masculine. A combination of leather and something citrusy, maybe lemon. Definitely men’s cologne. The faint white stains on the fitted sheet would tell the tale of what took place in the bed most recently. Not that Laney had any doubts about her own conclusions.
On the bedside table a cell phone was plugged in to charge. Laney picked it up and scanned the calls and texts. Nothing since six yesterday evening until about six-thirty this morning. Sylvia either didn’t communicate with anyone during that time or those particular contacts had been deleted by the killer.
Beyond the tousled sheets, the bedroom appeared to be in order. No strewn clothes or overturned furniture. She ventured into the en suite bath. The pristine tile walls of the shower were dry, a loofah lay on the marble bench and a towel hung over the glass door. The terry cloth was dry to the touch.
A walk through the closet showed a chic wardrobe impeccably organized. The jewelry box on the built-in bureau was overturned. Costume jewelry pieces lay scattered on the smooth white surface. Any fine jewelry was gone. Laney would need a family member or friend to determine what, if anything, was missing.
She wandered back to the main living area. The victim had money, no doubt. She’d started her business right out of high school with nothing but a broom and a bottle of window cleaner, she’d touted in her locally run commercials. By the time she was twenty-one she had an office downtown and a six-woman crew. Her only competitor had packed up and left town that same year and no other cleaning service had dared invade Sparkle’s territory.
But if a burglar was after money—Laney paused to consider the victim once more—why not choose the home of someone else in Shutter Lake? There were dozens of far wealthier residents.
Access.
Laney’s gaze strayed to the security system’s keypad. Generic, definitely not high end. According to the monitoring company, the system had not been activated in the past twenty-four hours. Why have a security system if you weren’t going to use it? Yet, lots of people had one installed and rarely used it. They loved the idea of having one, felt some sense of security just knowing it was available. But it didn’t work if it wasn’t activated.
Either way, Sylvia Cole likely knew the person who killed her. Clearly she opened the door to him or her. Laney was leaning toward a male perpetrator considering the semen stains on the sheets.
If the motive was nothing more than robbery, why not take any number of other highly marketable items—like the laptop on the dining table, or the latest video game console on a shelf right under the television in the living room? This didn’t have the feel of a robbery.
This was a murder staged to look as if a robbery attempt had gone very wrong.
As if she’d said the words out loud, the woman on the deck stood and turned toward the wall of windows. Her gaze landed first on the victim lying on the floor. Fernandez’s body visibly shook. Finally her attention shifted to Laney. She was afraid. Afraid of what the future held for her now that the owner of the business that represented her livelihood was dead, and devastated by the abrupt and unexpected loss of her longtime friend.
Laney walked toward the French doors that separated the stylish interior from the rustic outdoors. This home was an accurate depiction of the woman who had lived here. The interior reflected her taste in the finer things. But then, why not? Sylvia Cole was the only child of wealthy parents. A young woman born with the proverbial silver spoon in her mouth. Yet, as an adult, she had chosen to work hard and make her own way, even forgoing the Ivy League education both her parents had attained and offered to provide for her.
Sylvia Cole had been her own person and completely confident in who she was.
The air was crisp on the deck. The woman, Renata Fernandez, was the victim’s second in command at Sparkle. Fernandez had been with the service since the beginning. Like the victim, she was young, maybe twenty-five or six, and beautiful. One couldn‘t help noticing that all those employed by Sparkle were young and beautiful. Was that a prerequisite of employment? If so, why? Were these ladies providing more than cleaning service?
Slow down, Laney, you’re allowing your own dark experience to color your conclusions.
“Ms. Fernandez, it’s a little brisk out here. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be inside? We could go to the guest room.”
Fernandez shook her head. “No. Please. I can’t go back in there.”
Laney nodded. “I understand.” She pulled out her cell and sent Trask a text to bring coffee when he returned. Fernandez needed warning up and Laney could use a second cup herself. “Would you like to sit, Ms. Fernandez, or do you prefer to stand?”
This time of year the temps dropped into the forties, occasionally lower, at night. Laney would just as soon stand as to sit in one of the metal chairs but she would defer to the other woman’s wishes.
“Thank you, Deputy Holt. I prefer to stand.” As she said the words she turned just enough that the interior of the house was no longer i
n her line of sight.
“Ms. Fernandez, how long did you know Sylvia?” Laney knew the answers to many of the questions she intended to ask, but she needed the witness’s confirmation. The more mundane questions also helped to put the other person at ease.
Fernandez hugged her arms around herself much as Laney had done earlier. “Please call me Renata.” She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “We met at a club in Grass Valley when we were in high school.” She shook her head. “We both had fake IDs so we could get beer.” Her cheeks flushed. “You know how it is when you’re that young. You’re foolish and eager for the rest of your life to happen as quickly as possible.”
Laney nodded. “I did the same thing. I hated all the guys my own age. Older guys were far more interesting. They didn’t hang around the skating rink or the bowling alley.”
Fernandez nodded, her smile sad. “That’s why we went to the clubs.”
She fell silent for a moment. Swiped at her eyes with the wad of tissues in her hand.
A faint smile tilted her lips and she went on. “We became friends and she told me about her plans to start her own business. She had no desire to go to college the way her parents wanted. She talked her mother into giving her the college money to start her business and for a down payment on her home.” Fernandez looked around. “She bought this place when she was nineteen years old. She ran the business from right here for two years. Then we moved into the office downtown.”
“Were the two of you partners?” Again, Laney had the answer but she wanted to know more about their relationship. The best way to get all the right information was to ask all the wrong questions. Most people would go to great lengths to correct your mistakes, always adding more than requested in the process.
“No. I’m just like the rest of the crew, an employee, but we were best friends.”
“Did you feel as if after all this time you should have been more?”
