“Dump the jackass,” the short order cook, Rick, said as he rounded the corner and took off his greasy apron.
Karen came around the other end of the counter. “Don’t you listen to Rick, Celeste. Men say stupid things all the time. It’s part of their nature.” She looked at Ian. “No offense.”
Ian grinned. “None taken.”
“Well, I’m deeply offended,” Rick said with a smile. “But I’ll still give you a lift home. Unless you need anything else, Celeste.”
“No thanks.” She mustered a smile even though her heart and stomach ached. “You two head on out.”
After they’d left, Ian tugged at her hand. “Come on, let me take you home.”
During the short drive to her house, her thoughts remained on John. The anger had dissipated, leaving her miserable. For what could have been and for what would never be. And as Ian pulled into her driveway, a deep sadness swept through her as she stared at her empty home. John should have been here with her. Holding her, loving her. Now she’d walk into a quiet house, and crawl into bed with only her grief and her sorrow for company.
Realizing she didn’t want to be alone, she turned to Ian. “Want to come in?” While she could have asked Will to keep her company, she didn’t want him to know what had happened between her and John yet. Will would likely grab Lloyd and head to the Chippewa Inn prepared to kick John’s ass for hurting her. She didn’t want that. She wanted John to finish the investigation and leave. And after he was gone, she’d have to make some major decisions regarding her future. One thing John had proven to her, she’d been wasting her life in Wissota Falls and it was time for her to live for herself. Not everyone else.
“Really?” Ian asked. “I thought after…”
“We both screwed up,” she said with a tired shrug. “And besides, I’ve got a left over pie that needs to be eaten before it becomes a science experiment.”
He climbed out of the car, then opened the passenger door for her. “I love moldy pie.”
She grinned. “It’s not moldy yet.” Then her smile fell when she stared at her gnomes and remembered John’s parting remark.
Resting a hand on her shoulder, Ian pointed to the gnome bent over, with its pants down, mooning any critter or passerby. “You should let me drop that one off at John’s motel room. Sort of a kiss my ass gesture.”
“That wouldn’t be too childish,” she said with a half-smile, while tears filled her eyes again.
He put his arm around her and walked her to the door. “Don’t worry, tomorrow will be a better day. Just wait and see.”
Well, she thought, with a heavy heart, it couldn’t be any worse than today.
* * *
Dr. Alex Trumane woke on the sofa with a jerk, dumping an open water bottle in his lap. He jumped and righted the bottle, then went into the bedroom to change. When he glanced at the clock and realized it was already after five in the morning, he decided to shower instead.
Although the water wakeup call had him alert and wide awake, he needed to clear the cobwebs from his head. If he hadn’t known any better, he would have sworn he was hung over. His head pounded, his body ached, and the odor emanating from his mouth reeked enough to disintegrate his nostril hair.
But he hadn’t had a drink. He’d stared at the computer screen for too many hours during the night, had pushed his body too hard during his run, and had eaten too many slices of lousy sausage and onion pizza, with way too much garlic in the sauce.
After brushing his teeth, he stepped into the hot, steamy shower. As the water pulsed against his head, he tried to come up with another way to find Miranda Gates. While he still hadn’t reviewed any obituaries, after the daunting, and fruitless task of reviewing hundreds of death records, he didn’t look forward to another long day of dead ends.
Maybe he should hire a PI.
Paper trails.
No.
He rinsed the soap from his body. He didn’t have to work today or tomorrow. He’d review the obituaries. The PI would be a last resort, one he hoped he wouldn’t have to use. If Miranda had died of suspicious causes, he didn’t want a PI butting into his business or threatening to tell the authorities. If anyone would go to the cops, it would be him. He’d created this mess, he’d own up to it.
Showered and dressed, yet exhausted after little sleep, he rubbed his eyes and headed into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. His knee cracked. Damn he was growing old. He should probably start wearing a brace when he ran. The shin splints had been bad enough, but blowing out a knee—
Alex dropped the empty mug into the sink and raced back into the living room. “Nee. I can’t believe I didn’t think...” He sat in front of his computer. With renewed determination, he began to search through the Mississippi obituaries from five years ago. Miranda had been alive then, otherwise she wouldn’t have been listed in her grandmother’s will.
As he viewed one obituary after another, he grew restless and increasingly despondent. The words on the screen were beginning to blur together. Then he finally found her. He moved the arrow on the screen over Anna Lynn Gates’s name, then hit enter.
“Come on, come on,” he coaxed the computer as he waited for the website to produce her obituary. After a few more seconds, and enough toe tapping that if he had neighbors below him, they’d have thought he’d just taken up tap dancing, the screen went blank.
“What the...?” He checked the cord leading to his laptop, then quickly plugged it into the wall socket. He rebooted the computer, and sighed with relief when the screen instantly opened with Anna’s obituary.
“Okay,” he said, then began to read out loud. “Anna Lynn Gates, nee Hamilton, age 83. Beloved wife of Thomas J. Gates, deceased. Loving mother of Robert, deceased. Devoted grandmother of...Miranda Malvern, nee Gates. Husband...Daniel.”
Dan Malvern.
“Oh my God.” He swiped a hand down his face. “She married a monster.”
Chapter 27
THE NEXT MORNING, tired and in need of more caffeine after talking with Ian until nearly midnight, Celeste slowed her car and pulled into the Malvern’s long, gravel driveway.
Decked out in his beige uniform, gun belt and all, Dan stepped onto the front stoop. “Mornin’.” He gave her a big grin, his red mustache twitching over his upper lip as he walked toward her car. “Thanks for coming out and keeping an eye on Randa for me. I really appreciate it.”
“I’m glad I can help,” she said as she stepped out of the car carrying a fresh batch of kalachkis.
“Here, let me.” He took the box, then led her into the house.
The moment she walked through the front door, the odor of bleach and antiseptics permeated her senses. The stale smell reminded her of sickness and death, of the hospital room they’d tried to force her mom to stay in when she’d been dying. The scent brought back painful memories, but she ignored them as she followed him into the living room.
Noon.
The hospice nurse would arrive by then, and she’d be free to leave. She could handle staying there, and keeping an eye on Miranda. Besides, if she couldn’t be part of the actual search, at least she’d be helping in some capacity.
“Randa’s asleep now.” He placed the bakery box on the coffee table. “I told her you were coming over before she dozed off.”
“Anything I need to know?”
“Well,” he began. “She had a bad night again, but seemed to be okay this morning. Rest is what she needs.” He blew out a breath, hitched his hips, then placed his hands on his gun belt. “I’m worried. I don’t know how much more her body can take.”
She didn’t know what to say. His situation was too familiar, too close to her heart. She’d watched her own mother go from strong and healthy, to weak and sickly, and it hurt. It still hurt.
You’ve spent the past three years hiding in Hicksville avoiding your grief and your guilt.
John’s words had stung, especially because she knew he was right. She had been hiding, using her grief and gu
ilt as an excuse to not move on with her life. Too bad it had taken a heated argument with the man she loved to make her realize it.
“I know this is a difficult time for you.” She did know, and wouldn’t wish the pain and suffering on her worst enemy.
“Thanks.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to get going. Let me show you her room before I leave.”
She followed him down a short hallway. The carpet screamed circa 1975, yet was immaculate and clean, along with the stark white walls.
“Here we are,” he said, and pushed open the door.
As he moved around the bed, she held back a gasp. She hadn’t seen Miranda in nearly two years, and her physical condition shocked her. Her pale blond hair had thinned, likely from the medications. Her face was ashen, her cheeks hollow. She’d lost so much weight she appeared skeletal.
“Not how you remember her, huh?” Dan asked as he stroked Miranda’s hair.
“No,” she whispered as she fought back the tears. It pained her to see the results of this horrible disease, how it had robbed a vibrant woman of her life.
He placed a kiss on his wife’s forehead, then moved toward her. “I’ve already given Miranda her morning medication. It has a sedative in it.” He stopped in front of her. “So she should sleep.” He glanced over his shoulder at the bed, then shrugged. “Oh...forever.”
She blinked and shook her head. Sure she’d misunderstood, even as her skin prickled with unease. “What are you—?”
His fist slammed into her jaw, knocking her back into the door, which bounced against the wall, pushing her into him. Seeing stars, she tried to right herself, but fell forward. He caught her, gripped her shoulder, then punched her again.
She dropped to the floor, her face hitting the carpet. She shook her head and spat blood as she pushed with all of her might to scramble away from him.
He caught her legs. She kicked out and made contact with his chin. As he toppled backward, deep satisfaction mixed with the fear seizing her chest and coating her skin in sweat. Taking advantage she twisted and lunged to her feet.
“Shouldn’t have done that,” he growled, and grabbed her legs again, then flipped her on her back and pounded his fist into her stomach.
Crying out, she cradled herself, but he flung her arms away and straddled her. Panic she’d never known ripped through her. Why was he doing this? “Why?” she whispered.
He leaned his body over her, pressing his erection against her aching belly and pinning her to the carpet. “Aww, honey, you haven’t figured it out yet? Some psychic.” His hot breath coated her cheek, and his rough mustache rasped against her as he licked her from her jaw to her temple.
She cringed and sobbed. “Stop, oh God, please stop,” she wailed.
“No one’s gonna stop me.” He reached into his pocket with one hand, while keeping her arms confined with the other. “Not you. Not your powers.” He held a rag above her. “Not your limp dick boyfriend. You’re mine.”
“Wait,” she screamed, her breath coming in shallow pants.
“No time for talking.”
“Please, just tell me why. I don’t understand.” She stared at the rag, not sure what he was going to do with it.
A slow smile crossed his lips. “Women should be obscene and not heard,” he said mimicking Groucho Marx to a tee, down to the twitching mustache and wriggling eyebrows.
She stared at him as he laughed, realizing she didn’t know this man. This demented, scary man who she’d once considered a friend.
“Still don’t get it? Okay, okay.” He sighed. “Time’s a wasting, so let me set you straight. Those women you’ve been dreaming about? I killed them. Winston? He’s my brother. Too bad he’s such a fuck-up, because if he were free, we’d sure have some fun with you.”
“Oh my God. No.” Screaming as loud as she could, she fought him. Turning her head from side to side, trying desperately to avoid the rag he dangled over her face. Not Dan. He couldn’t be Winston’s partner. He couldn’t be the masked man from her trances.
Laughing he held her still. “Fight me.” He pressed his erection against her. “I love it when they fight.”
She did fight, until her muscles burned with the exertion. Until her neck ached from trying to avoid the rag he teased in front of her face.
“I’d love to keep playing this game, but like I said, time’s a-wasting.” He clamped the rag over her mouth and nose. “Breathe. Take it.”
Holding her breath, she knocked her body against his, refusing to give up the fight.
He only groaned with sexual gratification. “Yeah, keep fighting me,” he encouraged, and pushed himself against her.
She went still. With fright. With horror. She wouldn’t give him what he wanted. He wasn’t going to rape or kill her now, she assured herself, but he would try later. She’d escape him then, or maybe John would...
Dread gripped her. No one knew she’d volunteered to help Dan today, except Ian and Will. But she’d told Will she wouldn’t be at The Sugar Shack until around twelve thirty. As for Ian, he was supposed to leave for Chicago this morning.
Her lungs burned. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold her breath. Would Will even suspect something was wrong if she didn’t show? Would he call John?
John. Despite what had happened yesterday, she loved him so much. He’d blame himself for this. For all of the things he’d said last night. He’d never forgive himself if anything happened to her. She wished she could tell him she loved him, that none of this was his fault.
She pushed a few breaths out, still refusing to inhale. But her lungs demanded air. Her face grew hot as she stared up at Dan. The excitement in his eyes sickened her. Bile began to rise in her throat, and her airways opened instinctively.
“That a girl,” he crooned as she drew in a deep, ragged breath. “Take it all.”
Her head swam. Her eyes drooped.
Then everything went black.
* * *
“About fucking time,” Dan muttered, then unable to resist, he ground his dick against Celeste’s limp body. He’d prefer her awake for what he’d do to her, though. He did like when they fought, and she was a fighter. He couldn’t wait to break her and show her who held the power, the control.
He lifted her into his arms, then carried her to her car. Racing back into the house, he grabbed the duffle bag he’d packed last night, her purse and keys, then paused at the front door.
Miranda had still been breathing when he’d bent down to kiss her. She should have been dead with the amount of morphine he’d pumped into her body. With his hand on the door knob, he fought the urge to go back and check if she’d finally died or not. Glancing at his watch, he realized he was already behind schedule.
Burn the place.
He could, but the fire would alert them to him. He needed to make sure he had hours between them and the time they discovered Celeste was missing.
The phone rang. He jumped and dashed into the living room for the receiver. If Roy or anybody else were calling, he’d have to play it cool. After all, he was the concerned, doting husband with the terminally ill wife.
He checked the caller ID, then relaxed.
Private Number.
Probably another solicitor. He tossed the phone on the couch, and without hesitation this time, slammed the door behind him.
* * *
Dr. Alex Trumane cradled the phone against his ear. When a computerized voice message came on the line, relaying the number he’d dialed and nothing more, he ended the call, then rested the phone in his lap.
It had been a stupid idea to call in the first place. If Miranda had answered, what would he have said? Worse yet, what if Dan Malvern had answered? The man was a walking nightmare.
Thank God he had an unlisted phone number. He didn’t want Dan to know he’d called. Malvern had been a cop when he’d first blackmailed him, and now Alex wondered if he were still in law enforcement.
He quickly Googled: Dan Malvern, Wissota Falls, WI. T
he screen popped up with more links than he’d expected. None of them had to do with Dan, but with a serial killer plaguing the county. Frowning, yet curious, he opened the first link from the Chippewa Gazette’s website, then jerked back with a gasp.
Garrett Winston. He stared at what was likely a photo taken from Winston’s driver’s license. He had a beard now, but those cold, arrogant eyes, the hard set of his mouth—he’d never forget that face.
Skimming through the article, he shook his head in disbelief. Winston had killed four women, and was suspected to have murdered two others.
In Wissota Falls.
Where Dan and Miranda Malvern lived.
Alex opened another article. This one reported that Winston had murdered a prison guard, and was now hospitalized after suffering severe injuries.
He clicked on several other links, hoping for more information, but they all told the same story. Then he found an article, dated two years ago, this one also from the Chippewa Gazette, and about Deputy Daniel Malvern. He read through it, then snorted.
The Wissota Falls mayor had honored Malvern for acts of bravery. Apparently the deputy had gone to a house because neighbors had complained about the traffic and noise that had been disturbing them during all hours of the day and night. Instead of handling a case of simple noise disturbance, Malvern had discovered a meth lab.
“What a prince,” Alex muttered, then looked up the number for the Wissota Falls Sheriff’s Department. They needed to know about Malvern and his connection to Winston. He knew they’d ask him questions, but he no longer cared. What he’d found today went beyond making amends with Miranda Malvern. If she were dead, he’d have to live with that. But what if, as a deputy with the means and the badge, Malvern tried to help Winston escape? What if Malvern had taken part in Winston’s killing spree, or knew about it all along and had turned the other cheek?
He dialed the phone number that had popped up on his computer screen. A woman answered the call, and he froze. Damn, he should have rehearsed what he’d planned to say.
“Hello?” she asked. “Are you there?”
“Ah...yes, may I speak with the sheriff?”
Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology Page 98
