The path had narrowed, becoming one lane for deer with their tiny sharp hooves. She hoped to see one before they saw or heard her, but she knew they might stand and watch her pass without her knowing.
When the path stopped, she knew she should go back, but she still wasn’t far from Elsie’s, and this was such a sanctuary. She had always enjoyed the woods at Grams, and memories of long fall days spent exploring flooded back. When she wasn’t an Indian maiden, she was a woods sprite, living in an enchanted knothole in a pine tree. Her bed was lined with dogwood blossoms in spring and emerald moss in the fall.
She continued, just a little way, she promised herself. Rounding a huge cliff of ancient rock, she saw the house. Belonging in a Civil War novel, the mansion had probably stood empty since the late eighteen-hundreds. Paint had peeled from its pillars and frame until it took on a gray hue, glistening silver from the rain. Broken windows, like haunted eyes, stared at her in the distance, as if questioning her seeing the house in disrepair.
Once stately, imposing, it was seedy, even sinister, repelling visitors. Vines choked the trees and shrubs that had once been smartly trimmed by live-in help. The mold of over a hundred years attacked the foundation, which crumbled slowly and would one day lower the house back into the soil, to rot and become a part of the earth again.
Fascinated, Vicki wondered who had lived here. Had they all died in the war? Had no one lived to continue the grandeur of those days? Or had one lone soul become a recluse, keeping the South alive as long as possible?
The house pulled her to it, radiating a certain charm, a remnant of the hospitality it had shown the surrounding countryside. She imagined pulling up in a carriage. Her dress poofed out, held by steel hoops covered with crinoline. Squeezing the skirt slightly so she could slide it from the carriage, jump out, and hurry to the party, she tiptoed closer.
But once she reached the driveway, a sudden change flooded over her. Now the house whispered, “Come in, come in. I’ve been lonely for you.”
Was it her imagination or was there movement at one window? As if someone, still living here or hiding from the world, watched her. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose. A cool breeze raised goose bumps on her arms. She wanted to turn and run, but her feet sank into the soft mud, miring them down, holding them prisoner. Her chest ached from holding her breath, and she choked from lack of air.
Bending to cough, to suck in oxygen, she shuddered. The malaise of last evening returned, rendering her exhausted, ready to collapse in twin shimmering pools of water standing in the ruts.
Ruts? She stooped, squatting, trying to gain strength, at the same time examining the muddy driveway. These tracks weren’t made from her imaginary carriage, but from a car, truck. And they weren’t left over from the eighteen-sixties, but recent additions. Perhaps even from last night.
Kids? Sometimes a carload of kids would find an abandoned house or shack to use for beer busts or a place to make out.
Could someone be living here? Hiding here? No way was Vicki going to explore this house alone. But if Scott would come with her, or Scott and Berk.…
She turned, trying not to run, trying not to show the house she was afraid of it, and hurried back down the path toward Elsie’s.
As the house lost its power, her mind seemed to function better, to catalog the possibilities. One final thought came and stayed to haunt her.
Could this have been the destination of David Altman? How could he know about this place? And why would he come here? But it was in the right direction, the way he’d started out last night. That idea alone, the remote possibility, was enough to make her determined to come back. And soon.
My Golden Girl
Could each get better? It didn’t seem possible, but Goldie had certainly been worth his time. He could hardly stay away from her. Time here had taken from his work, but this was his work, too. He must remember that.
He had been chosen to preserve these young women, their golden youth. If he let them live, they would become old, wrinkled, used, and ugly. Perhaps Goldie would have taken to drink, as his mother had. Goldie reminded him of his mother. Perhaps that’s why he had to spend so much time there. He loved his mother once. He needed to make up for having to punish her.
There was satisfaction in having punished her, but he missed her, too. He had eased her pain, he hoped. Her beauty had lasted until she had started drinking. Then she had become ugly quickly, so quickly. He had stopped wanting to look at her. Once he had loved looking at her, sitting in her lap, feeling her softness, smelling the light scent of lilacs.
The odor of liquor had replaced her perfume. She had become an ugly shell.
Remembering made him sure of what he was doing. He was saving these young women. They would remain beautiful forever.
Chapter 16
Scott was waiting for Vicki when she and her mother returned to Sparksville.
“Scott, come and have lunch with us,” Mrs. Valentine invited. “I’ll have chili reheated in a jiffy. I didn’t see any reason to go into the office without eating first.”
“Did you have the radio on in your car, Mrs. Valentine?”
“What’s happened, Scott?” Vicki clutched his arm. “Goldie?”
Scott nodded. “The custodian at the high school called the police early this morning. He saw something from a window, then went out onto the football field. She was even laid out on a plastic sheet to protect her dress.”
Vicki bit her lip. “She was football queen. Homecoming is Friday night, Scott. How could someone know that?”
Mrs. Valentine pulled Vicki into her arms and hugged her close. “She might have told him.”
“Mom said she had police all over town, even after the storm last night, but they concentrated on the courthouse, since that’s where the first two girls were found.”
“Was—was there a note?” Vicki asked, as they followed her mother inside.
“Sure you want to hear it?” Scott hesitated. There was no way he could protect Vicki, since the poem would be on the front page of the next day’s paper.
“Yes.”
Scott pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and read.
October leaves this golden girl
The chosen football queen.
Red hair, orchids, all a-swirl,
So lovely at eighteen.
She will thank me for this gift,
Since beauty does not stay.
Youth slips away, departure swift,
Time would her looks betray.
“There were orchids in her hair?” Vicki guessed.
“Brown ones. Mom’s working on that. She figures not too many florists would have brown orchids this time of year.”
“Her rust-colored dress—she had it made for the football ceremony and dance, saying she’d wear it again in the spring for the prom. It was so lovely on her, setting off her red-gold hair.” Vicki started to cry then, and Scott pulled her close. “When is this going to stop?” she said.
“When they catch whoever is committing these crimes.” Mrs. Valentine set bowls of reheated, leftover chili at three places.
Scott dug into his chili, but noticed that Vicki only picked at hers. She had dark circles under her eyes as if she still needed extra sleep.
“Maybe you should go back to bed and sleep all afternoon, Vicki,” he said. “Then you’ll be as good as new tomorrow.”
“I think that’s a good idea, too, Vicki.” Mrs. Valentine added her opinion. “You look tired. I have to go to the office for a couple of hours and do some paperwork, but I’ll come home early.”
She looked at Scott as if to say, between us, we’ll look after Vicki, won’t we?
After Mrs. Valentine left, Scott tried to get Vicki interested in talking instead of leaving her to dwell on Goldie’s death. “I asked Peggy Pomeroy what the girls who have disappeared have in common, Vicki. The only thing she could think of was that they were all beautiful. By reading all the notes the murderer has left, it would seem tha
t’s true. They all mention beauty.”
Vicki seemed to mull that over as she dipped her spoon in and out of her chili, playing with it, not eating. “I have it, Scott. By killing each girl, he’s preserving her beauty. Since she won’t get old, she won’t fade. Let me get the first two verses. I cut them out of the paper.” Vicki jumped up and left the room, returning almost immediately.
When she returned, she placed the clipping alongside the scribbled note Scott had written when he talked to his mother.
“See, looks don’t last, beauty is fleeting fast—that’s SueAnne’s,” Vicki said. “Beauty fades—this is Belle—but up here he says youth is on her side.”
“And Goldie’s says she’ll thank him for killing her, since beauty doesn’t stay. I think you’re onto something, Vicki. But my mom has to have made this connection.”
“I’ll bet she did, too, but one, she doesn’t want anyone to panic, and two, maybe she doesn’t want to let the murderer in on any of the investigation.” Vicki took a deep breath. “Scott, how did you get over here? I saw something this morning that—”
“I borrowed Berk’s jeep, but I promised him I’d bring it right back. I have a test after lunch, too. So I have to run, but I was afraid you might be here alone and hear about Goldie. Listen, you take a nap, and I’ll get Mom’s car after school. We can talk more then.”
“But, Scott—” Vicki protested.
“Do as your Doctor Mom asked, I’ll be back in two hours. You’ll hardly know I’m gone.” Scott hurried out to Berk’s jeep. He did have a test, but also he could see that Vicki was still tired. If he didn’t hang around, she’d sleep.
People hurried into the building when he parked in the lot and jerked the key from the ignition. He had dumped his notebook and math books into his locker, so a stop there was essential. Grabbing his trig book, he pitched his jacket into the mess and slammed the metal door, hooking his lock into the latch and snapping it shut.
“Peggy, hey, aren’t you going the wrong direction?” Scott slid to a stop when he saw the tiny girl hurrying toward him.
“I’ve been called to the office, Scott.” She looked at him with fear in her large gray eyes. “A policeman wants to talk to me. Scott, I’m scared. Go with me, will you?”
Scott hesitated only a second. “Yeah, sure, Peggy. Did he say what he wanted?”
“No. I—I—” She turned and ran toward the office.
Scott followed her. He recognized Officer Wilcox, who was in plain clothes, and steered Peggy in that direction.
“Hi, Scott. What are you doing here? This your friend?”
“She asked me to come with her. What’s this about, Mr. Wilcox?”
The elderly detective shook his head. “Peggy, have you seen Davita Renwick today? We’ve checked in class, and she’s not there.”
“No, she was going to stay home another day. I talked to her before school. She said she still didn’t feel good.”
“Isn’t she at home?” Scott asked for Peggy, who stood frozen in place.
“Her mother left her asleep to go to the grocery store. Said she wasn’t gone more than an hour. When she got back, Davita’s bed was empty, and Davita wasn’t anywhere in the house. Mrs. Renwick said it looked as if she’d gotten dressed in a hurry.”
“Where would she go except to school?” Peggy twisted a handkerchief until it was a mass of wrinkles.
Scott’s mother came from the principal’s office in time to hear Peggy’s anguished cry. “He’s got her, hasn’t he? I know he does. It’s like I told you yesterday, Scott. The school beauties. He’s taking the school beauties.” Peggy collapsed onto a bench sobbing.
“What’s this, Scott? What does she know?” Mrs. Lawrence pulled Scott aside.
“We were just guessing, Mom. I asked Peggy what she thought all the girls who were murdered had in common. Immediately Peggy said beauty, said there would be five school beauties in the annual if they still had those pages.”
Mrs. Lawrence nodded. “Yes, we’ve figured that out, too. He’s preserving beauty by killing the girls. The last note he left on Goldie makes that obvious. And I’ve seen Davita’s picture. She may be the loveliest of the lot.”
“But not for long,” Scott said, almost to himself.
“Right,” Mrs. Lawrence echoed. “But not for long. And this time he didn’t even wait one day to take another victim.”
Chapter 17
Vicki knew Scott and her mother were right. She should take a nap, but she felt restless. Her mind raced from one possibility to another, not stopping for long on any.
Proof. Proof. Mrs. Lawrence kept saying she couldn’t do anything without proof. And she didn’t have any, obviously, or couldn’t get any. What would it take?
If there were just some way she could search Altman’s studio. Maybe she and Scott could break in there tonight. But Altman lived in the back apartment. If he was home, that wouldn’t work. And would Scott break the law like that? It would certainly embarrass him and his mother if he got caught. She felt stronger and stronger about just seeing David Altman, being around him. Maybe she could sense something or get him talking.
But before she went over there, she had an idea. If she could throw him off guard, then see him, she might see that he was nervous or panicked.
Quickly, she looked up and dialed the number of his studio. He answered on the second ring. “Altman’s Photos. David Altman speaking. May I help you?” So polite.
She placed a handkerchief over the phone. “David, I’m so glad to find you there.” She imitated SueAnne’s voice and accent perfectly to her ears. “This is SueAnne Groober. I need another portrait taken. I’ve bought a new formal for the holiday parties. I’ll bring it with me.”
There was a moment of silence on the line. Vicki felt her hand begin to sweat and gripped the phone so tight her hand cramped.
“David, are you listenin’? Your photos of me are lovely. Can I come over right now? You’ll make time for me, won’t you?” Vicki remembered to leave the g off all her ing words and to speak as slowly as cool honey flowing from a pot.
“Who is this?” He spoke at last, a growl, anger in his voice. “SueAnne is gone. You know that. Who’s calling me?”
“I know SueAnne is gone, David. I know you took her. You took Belle and Goldie, too, didn’t you?” She continued speaking in SueAnne’s voice.
“Whoever you are, this is a sick joke.”
“No, you’re sick, David. I know about you. I’m sure now. Be careful.” She hung up quietly, and her mind cleared.
If she went right to the studio, would he know or guess that she had been the one calling? Had she made herself suspect? If she had, she doubled the danger of seeing him.
She couldn’t talk herself into staying home. She felt driven to do something besides lie in her bed and worry or speculate on Altman’s guilt.
It was broad daylight. What could happen? Especially with her on her guard, with her being careful?
Pulling on a lightweight jacket, she got her bike and rode to the Photography Studio. She would pretend she needed to order more wallet-size prints of her graduation photo. Yes—for her Christinas cards—that was believable. She wanted to include a photo for relatives or old friends.
Leaning her bike against a light post, she pulled a chain around the frame and locked it with the tiny silver key on her key ring. As much as she dreaded being around Altman, she felt better doing something. Sitting at home thinking about what to do was frustrating.
Just as she straightened up and started for the front door, a movement caught her eye at the side of the building. She stepped that way on the walk. Altman screeched backward onto the street from his driveway, then pulled away. She watched until he got to the corner, swerved right, then kept going. Going to town, probably, and in a hurry. Or he was angry.
What luck! Maybe. She’d get inside someway and look around. There might be something, some clue to connect Altman to the girls who had been murdered. Going inside alone would b
e less scary than actually talking to him right now with him upset over the phone call.
Glancing right and left, Vicki walked casually toward the back of the building. Perfect—there were shrubs alongside the drive and around the back door of the studio. They would hide her from the street, from anyone unless that person was right here with her.
First she tried the door. Locked, of course. The lock looked new and not easy to fool with and pop open. This was something she wasn’t skilled at doing, breaking and entering, but she’d seen movies and TV programs where people broke in. If a door stopped them, they tried the windows.
They were all securely locked. She stood, puzzled. A blue jay shrieked at her. A honeysuckle smell, like leftover summer, wafted through the air. She walked toward the garage. Altman had just taken out his van.
Leaning down, she tugged on the handle at the bottom of the big door. To her surprise, the door swung upward easily, rumbling slightly, squeaking a little. She stepped inside, then pulled the door closed behind her. The garage was dim, but a window gave her enough light to find the back door. She could see through the nine-pane design; it opened into the kitchen. It was locked, but an old style of lock that was easier to jimmy open. If she broke a window and stuck her hand in, it would be too obvious later.
Tools were scattered on a bench in the back of the garage. A slender screwdriver did the job. She slid the blade into the narrow space between the door and the jamb and clicked the bolt aside.
She entered the kitchen. A stale smell of grease lingered, probably a permanent odor of the old house. She peeked into a bedroom and felt really strange being there. She’d look it over more carefully if the studio didn’t provide her with something interesting. Walking through a living room, furnished in early Salvation Army thrift store decor, she went into the studio.
The Photographer II Page 10
