HER SISTER'S KILLER an absolutely gripping killer thriller full of twists

by MICHELLE S. SMITH

  “But that’s crazy,” Victoria exploded, exhaustion making her speak more harshly than she intended. “I spoke to Paula Gardner, and she said Rebecca had her cell phone with her.”

  “Why did you speak to Paula when I’d already done so?” demanded Steve. She sensed that he was struggling not to lose his temper and felt an involuntary shiver of something — was it fear? She shook it off.

  “Are you checking to see if I slipped up? Have another look at your sister’s file. Paula Gardner left the body and returned to her car to call us. By the time I got there, the phone was gone.”

  Victoria stared at him.

  “You mean the murderer was interrupted by Paula Gardner before he could steal the phone, and hid until she left?”

  “Yeah, looks like it. Her empty wallet was found a short distance away from the body, and Paula didn’t recall seeing that when she found the body either. There’s been a dodgy character hanging around Hancock the past month or two, apparently a homeless war veteran with a drinking problem. A few of the people we spoke to claimed they saw a beggar near the Harris Center on the day your sister’s body was found.”

  Victoria shook her head. “It just doesn’t make sense. The preliminary autopsy results say my sister was attacked late on Thursday evening or very early Friday and died shortly afterwards. By the time her body was found, the murderer would have been long gone.”

  “Or the murderer was disturbed by someone and so came back later to accomplish his aim of stealing from her,” Karen said.

  “I need her phone records,” said Victoria, walking back and forth by the window. “And I have to speak to Megan to find out more about the court case. I don’t believe the motive behind my sister’s death was robbery. Beggar or not. Not here in Hancock. Maybe someone who had nothing to do with the crime found the phone and took it.”

  “I’ll get the phone records,” said Steve. “You speak to Megan.”

  He reached out a hand to stop Victoria pacing, and she turned to see him smiling disquietingly at her, the anger in his eyes replaced by an emotion she couldn’t quite place.

  “Shall we call it a truce, Detective Wharton?” he said.

  She withdrew but couldn’t resist the smile. She had just been alone for too long, she told herself, aware for the first time in ages that it was loneliness she had felt, even in Chicago, when she had thought she was doing so well. She was aware of a latent excitement, and her heart raced with anxiety.

  “Fine,” she said coolly, hoping neither Steve nor Karen could see through her veneer of bravado. “Let’s call it a truce.”

  Chapter 8

  Victoria stepped out of her car, gazing up in awe at the size of the country residence before her and the wealth that had clearly been lavished on its upkeep. Situated on the outskirts of Hancock, it was a triple-storied mansion in the nineteenth-century Italianate style, with broad green eaves providing a contrast to the white-painted clapboard walls. It boasted a front gable and a series of arched windows, the panes gleaming as if they had just been polished.

  Victoria was greeted at the door by a surly-faced teenager, who reluctantly admitted he was Gavin Jenkins and even more reluctantly agreed to fetch his mother. He left Victoria waiting in the hallway. She was contemplating the impressive staircase, one hand on the banister when a small, wiry woman burst in, clearly overwrought.

  “I’m Vict—” Victoria started.

  “What do you want?” the woman interrupted. “More photographs, I suppose? I’ve said everything I wanted to say.” She looked over at her son, still hanging around. “You needn’t wait, Gavin,” she said coldly. “I’m sure you have homework to do.”

  He stared at her resentfully before slouching off.

  “What newspaper are you from?” the woman asked Victoria.

  “I’m a detective. Investigating the murder of Rebecca Wharton. Are you Mrs Megan Jenkins?”

  It was the woman’s turn to stare at her, and her face whitened. “Won’t you come through and sit down?” she said, more courteously. “Yes, yes, I’m — we heard, of course. It was murder?”

  Victoria nodded, following her into a wood-lined living room that was larger than Victoria’s entire apartment. A fireplace was built into the wall, and large French windows looked out onto a lawn of grass that had been manicured into submission by some agricultural artist.

  “I noticed your Facebook posts to Rebecca,” Victoria said.

  Before she could continue, a dark-haired, heavy-set man entered the room, a riding whip in his hand. He was middle-aged but attractive in a rather overbearing way. Probably used to using his looks to get his way, Victoria thought cynically.

  “Are you bothering my wife?” he growled through a thick moustache. He stalked over to her. “We’ve had journalists annoying us all week trying to find out about our lawsuit. Don’t you think it’s time you focused on another story?”

  “Like the murder of Rebecca Wharton?” suggested Victoria. She smiled tightly. “I’m Detective Victoria Wharton.”

  “Wharton,” repeated Megan. “Are you related to Rebecca then?”

  “Her sister,” Victoria replied tersely, turning to Megan’s husband. “And you must be Maurice Jenkins?”

  “That’s right.” Megan took her husband’s arm and drew him to a plush armchair.

  “Detective?” The man glared at her. “That’s what we need to uncover the truth about my mother-in-law’s death.”

  Victoria was grateful to see him drop the riding whip on the carpet.

  “My mother went into hospital with a leg infection and ended up dead,” said Megan.

  Victoria nodded. She had gone to the hospital first, and the doctor had spoken at length about the pending lawsuit.

  “I understand she had decided against the operation the hospital staff wanted to do,” said Victoria. “And as a result, she developed gangrene.”

  “It was horrible!” exclaimed Megan, her temporary calmness giving way to agitation. “We begged the hospital time and again to let her take the medication she had always taken for infections of that kind.”

  “From what I was told, though, her circulation had deteriorated, so the medication was no longer effective, even though they apparently tried it?”

  “Total garbage,” said Megan, her voice rising shrilly. “The nurses kept trying to give her other concoctions and to force her to agree to being opened up and having stents put in.”

  Victoria lifted her eyebrows. “To allow the circulation to reach the infection, so that the medication would be effective?”

  “Completely unnecessary,” said Megan. “If they had just allowed her more time on her medication she would be here today.”

  “The case notes indicate that once the infection set in, the hospital had to operate to amputate the gangrenous part of the leg.”

  “And my mother-in-law died from the shock of the amputation,” Maurice Jenkins said. Though he was attempting to inject anger into his voice, Victoria was aware of a strange undercurrent in his tone. But why? She frowned. What are you hiding, Maurice?

  “What did this have to do with Rebecca, my sister?” asked Victoria. “The administrators say she was often the nurse on duty while your mom was in hospital?”

  Megan nodded, her head bobbing as her emotions got ahead of her words. “We thought at first she was different from the others,” she said. “She seemed so kind and gentle. But in the end,” she added, her teeth gritted, “she was just the same as the others. Insisting that my mother subject her body to dangerous operations instead of just treating her with the medicine we knew would work.”

  “That’s right,” Maurice said. “It was completely irresponsible of her.”

  “And so you blamed her when your mother-in-law died, Mr. Jenkins?”

  Maurice glanced uneasily at his wife. “The word ‘blame’ is a strong one,” he said awkwardly, “but there is no doubt there was negligence involved.”

  “And so you sent threatening images to her Facebook page?�
�� Victoria said quietly to Megan, who shifted in her seat and fidgeted with her hands before answering.

  “I would hardly call cartoons threatening,” she said evasively.

  “But the message was clear. You intended to let my sister know you blamed her.”

  “Well, if the glove fits . . .” Megan shrugged. “If her actions were above board, she had no need to feel guilty or to let the cartoons bother her.”

  “And where were you last Thursday evening and Friday morning, which we’ve established was the time of Rebecca’s death?” asked Victoria, leaning forward. “You didn’t decide to do one of the walks from the Harris Center?”

  “We do sometimes, but I don’t believe we did then . . .” Megan trailed off.

  “Actually, I think we might have on Friday,” said Maurice, “but later in the day. Much later. We had an appointment with our lawyer about the hospital case.” He leaned a little closer toward Victoria. “What happened to your sister?” he asked.

  “She sustained head injuries,” Victoria replied. “Her body was found along one of the hiking trails.”

  She stood up.

  “That’s all, thanks,” she said. “If you think of anything that might be relevant, I’m staying at the Hancock Inn.”

  Megan rose too and came across to her, clutching her elbow as they left the room ahead of Maurice. Victoria stepped back instinctively, removing her arm, only to have Megan clutch her again. Out of the corner of her eyes, Victoria caught sight of Gavin in the distance, a sardonic sneer on his face, and wondered whether he had overheard the conversation. Her attention returned to Megan.

  “We had nothing to do with her murder,” she said, lifting lined eyes to Victoria’s then turning to her husband for affirmation. “We never even saw her after my mother’s death — did we, Maurice?”

  Chapter 9

  Early on Saturday, Janet walked through the entrance of the Hancock Inn, hoping to find Victoria. There was no sign of her in the dining room. She dodged around a cluster of early risers about to leave the breakfast table, and flagged down one of the servers.

  “I haven’t seen her yet. Check her room. You know the way? Straight down the passage, the room at the very end.”

  Janet knocked loudly on Victoria’s door, and on hearing a stifled gasp, walked in on Victoria, sitting straight up in her four-poster bed, her hand to her chest and her face white.

  “Vicky!” Janet hurried forward and dropped down onto the bed. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Victoria managed a laugh and fumbled for her water on the bedside table.

  “Several,” she muttered, taking a sip of water. “I thought the nightmares were in the past.” Her hand fluttered to her chest again as she inhaled deeply to regulate her breathing.

  “Your father?” Janet asked, gently taking the glass of water from her friend’s shaking hand.

  Victoria nodded.

  “And then when I heard you knocking and you walked in, I thought for a moment—” She managed a smile. “And my mother still blames me. Says that I destroyed her marriage. Even though it was long dead. I can never remember a time when they seemed happy together. I don’t know what happened. I’ve often wondered.”

  Janet patted Victoria’s hand, careful not to infringe too much on her space. “You know damn well if he’d stayed, he would have been found guilty and imprisoned, and her marriage would have been over anyway. What he did was unforgivable.”

  “Yes. You know, if I hadn’t reported him, he would have done the same thing to Rebecca.” She sank her head onto her drawn-up knees. “I was trying to protect her.”

  “You did protect her,” Janet said gently. “And yourself.” She smiled at her friend, then stood up, flinging open the curtains. “You’re coming with me,” she said. “Get dressed. You have five minutes.”

  “Where are we going?” Victoria protested.

  “You remember the Historical Society, don’t you? It’s their annual plant sale.”

  Victoria groaned as she plodded to the bathroom, but Janet wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  “And don’t tell me you have to work,” she shouted through the closed door, “because it is the weekend, and you need to rest.”

  Twenty minutes later, Janet was dragging her reluctant friend around the plant sale.

  “At least they sell food too,” Victoria mumbled through a mouthful of Karen Timms’s cheesecake.

  “Stop whining,” ordered Janet. “No one can enjoy cake as much as you’ve been enjoying that and still complain. Just look at the plants around you, breathe in all the oxygen they’re releasing.”

  “Who’s whining?” Victoria heard a voice behind her ask, and an oddly familiar face grinned at her.

  “This one,” Janet said to the man who had spoken, poking Victoria with her finger. He was standing behind a table brimming with chocolate cakes, the icing cascading temptingly down the sides. “How are you, John?”

  Of course. John Gardner, son of Paula. No wonder she thought she had seen his face before. There was the healing scar curving over his jaw, and his head was topped by short copper curls. Powerful shoulders. Friendly smile yet sad eyes, she noted, wondering fleetingly what made them so wistful.

  “Did you make these?” Victoria asked, hoping to engage him in conversation. It wasn’t difficult. He was clearly bored.

  “I wish. I’ve been too busy down at the surgery, but my mom made them, and I offered to help her out for a few minutes while she was busy.”

  “Surgery? Are you a doctor?” Victoria asked in surprise.

  “Veterinarian. I’ve started a practice here recently,” he said. “Are you new here?”

  Victoria hesitated for a moment then put out her hand and said, “Detective Victoria Wharton. I’m with the Chicago police but staying at the Hancock Inn while I investigate the murder of my sister, Rebecca. I understand you were friends?”

  Did she notice a wariness creep into his eyes? She couldn’t be sure.

  “Right. I’m so sorry about your loss.”

  “Perhaps we could chat later?”

  “We can chat now,” he said, coming around the table. His mother had returned. He took Victoria by the elbow and steered her through the crowds.

  Janet waved at her. “Catch up later,” she mouthed.

  Victoria shook off his hand. “Please don’t touch me,” she said, annoyed at, rather than threatened by, his proximity.

  He dropped his hand and looked thoughtfully at her. “This place is crawling with people. Shall we speak at my surgery?”

  * * *

  “I’m not sure it’s much quieter after all,” he said with a grin a few minutes later. An overgrown St. Bernard leaped up at them enthusiastically at the door. “This is St. Patrick. Not a patient, just a nuisance who invited himself to stay and hasn’t left.”

  John led her through to his rooms, closely followed by St. Patrick.

  “No, don’t shut him out,” Victoria said nervously as John tried to close the door. The room was neat and sterile with several qualification certificates on the wall and one other framed page that appeared to be a poem.

  “Sure.”

  John left the door open so that the big dog could wander in and out. He indicated the seat closest to the exit. She took it with relief, and he smiled at her. He had a small dimple in his cheek, just above the scar.

  “You’re much closer to the door than I am,” he reassured her. “You can always make a bolt for it if you think I’m dangerous.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Yeah, you did. You checked all possible exits. It’s not a problem.”

  She stared at her hands, thrown off track. This wasn’t how she’d expected the interview to go. “Are you always this frank?” she asked, trying to hide her embarrassment.

  “Often,” he said. “Not always. I mean, I didn’t tell anyone your sister and I were friends.”

  “Just friends?”

  He reached for a packet of dog biscuits and tos
sed one to St. Patrick.

  “Yes, not my choice.” He shrugged. “I was really keen on her. She was beautiful and had an unworldly quality about her, I guess.”

  “An innocence,” nodded Victoria. “Everyone says so. Also that she was naive.”

  “Is that so wrong? I mean, it’s pretty unusual to have that sort of outlook on the world, especially these days.”

  “It can be dangerous.”

  He stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  Victoria tried to articulate the picture she was starting to build up. “I mean that she didn’t always understand people’s true motives. She was intelligent, but she was so genuine herself that it could blind her to less honorable motives in others. She accepted a friend request from a patient’s daughter on Facebook and ended up being on the receiving end of online threats. It could also make her vulnerable in her relationships with men.”

  “Such as myself?” John asked.

  “Possibly, yes.” If he was going to be frank, why shouldn’t she? “She hardly even seemed to notice how attracted to her men were. Treated everyone with the same kindness and friendliness but—”

  John laughed ruefully. “That’s true. I never felt like I made any headway in our relationship. I took her flowers, lent her books I had bought because I thought she’d enjoy them, invited her on walks, but in the end, I just realized we were going to be friends and nothing more. Her whole focus was elsewhere.”

  “My mother?” asked Victoria.

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “She wouldn’t even let me meet her. Apparently she is really sickly.”

  “And controlling.” Victoria hadn’t meant to say it, but it slipped out. “Rebecca was all she had once I left, and she was grimly determined not to let her out of her grasp. Rebecca messaged me often, although we hadn’t seen each other for ages. My mother used to fly into . . . abusive rages, if she suspected anyone was overly friendly with Becky. She once even smashed a plate on the floor. My sister learned the hard way to keep quiet about her relationships, however innocent they were.” Victoria bit her lip. “And now she’s gone.”

  He hesitated, looking for a moment far more like a vulnerable little boy than the confident young vet before her. “There is a hike this Saturday that I’m doing.”