by Brant, Kylie
Intrigued, Dev rocked back on his heels. He’d need to do a bit more investigation, but his attention was caught, no denying it.
He shot a considering look at Rose’s cabin. It looked quiet. If she were up and around, he hadn’t seen her. Hopefully his luck would continue to hold. Because come dark, he was going to be back here to see if the readings compared to last night’s.
In the meantime, he had some local history to bone up on. It would, he hoped, as he placed his equipment carefully back into their bags, take his mind off the woman who had hovered at the edge of it for most of the day.
He was slamming the lid of his car’s trunk when his cousin pulled up beside him in the department-issued Jeep. Rounding the car, he went to the passenger side of the other vehicle. Mark buzzed down the window.
“Hey.” Dev bent down to rest his forearms on the opened window, peering inside. “I’m gonna get me a job like this someday. Spend my days ridin’ ’round the county, duckin’ out of my responsibilities at the office.”
“Bite me,” Mark suggested pleasantly. “You haven’t punched a clock since you worked for old man Hanly at the soda fountain back in high school. And all you did then was give free ice cream to all the pretty girls that came in.”
The memory had Dev smiling. “Hanly took it out regular from my paycheck, too. Finally had to quit when it got to where I owed him more than he paid me.” He’d held other jobs since then, of course. But all had lacked the appeal that came from the research and writing he did now.
Mark looked past him toward Rose’s cabin. “You always did like to live dangerously. Does Rose know you’re out trompin’ ’round her property?”
“Haven’t seen her this mornin’, but Ramsey and I spoke to her last night.” He neatly sidestepped the question. “Can’t say that she’s changed much.”
“You talked to her? Well, that’s one thing off my list for today. I was gonna check on her. Folks have mentioned she hasn’t been to town lately.”
“She’ll probably outlast us all.”
Mark eyed him shrewdly. “What were you doin’ with Ramsey out here anyway?”
“She saw some lights near the woods night before last, and we came to check them out. Saw them again last night and went to follow them. Had a run-in with Ezra T.” Dev recounted the incident, finishing with, “Have to say, I was pretty surprised. Didn’t figure on him bein’ the violent sort.”
The sheriff frowned. “Can’t say as I like the sounds of that.” He appeared to mull it over for a few moments. “Makes me wonder if Duane and Mary are seein’ to it that he takes his medication regular. That’s one of the conditions of them keepin’ him at home, I know. I’ll make it up there sometime today and have a talk with them.”
“Probably wouldn’t hurt.” But Dev’s mind was somewhere else. “You get a lot of poachers in these parts?”
Mark gave a shrug. “Always have some. More trappers than anythin’ else. That might account for the lights you saw. Some guys settin’ or checkin’ their traps for the evenin’.”
“Probably was,” Dev agreed. He wasn’t near ready to discuss what he thought the lights could be. There was a lot more evidence to collect before then.
He knew his cousin. He wasn’t any more open than Ramsey to “evidence” he couldn’t see or hear or touch.
But Dev was beginning to believe that he just might have stumbled on a site of genuine paranormal activity.
“Sonofabitch.”
Catching the curious looks from nearby diners, Ramsey lowered her voice as she continued the cell phone conversation with Agent Powell. “How much is the policy worth?”
“A hundred grand. The insurance company in Memphis contacted the local police when they heard of Frost’s murder. We just got word. Looks like Sanders took the policy out on Frost a year ago last fall.”
Well before their breakup. She thought of Sanders’s business and wondered if it was doing as well as the man would have them believe. “Smells like motive to me.”
“Damn straight. Since it’s the weekend, I had Jeffries contact a judge in Memphis. When I get there, I’ll swing by and pick up the signed warrant. I’ve already talked to Matthews and told him to wait for me.”
“I’m still here, too. I’ll stay until you . . .”
“No, I want you to head to Lisbon and check out Sanders’s story about the police report Frost made. See if you can line up any other verification. People she might have confided in. If this turns out to be another hole in his story, we can use it to nail him.”
More than a little deflated, Ramsey agreed. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“This doesn’t shake his alibi, of course.” Powell sounded as revved as she’d ever heard him. “But Sanders wouldn’t be the first to hire someone to off a loved one for that kind of money. We’ll know a lot more when we get hold of his financials.”
“Speaking of financials, can you check the log of Frost’s transactions? I’m looking for names that might be a landlord, salon, favorite restaurants.” She got a pen and paper from her purse and wrote down the information Powell read off for her on the back of her napkin.
The call ended moments later, and Ramsey put the list she’d made in her purse. Looking at the half-eaten sandwich on her plate without interest, she signaled the waitress for the check.
Her enthusiasm for the task ahead had waned considerably in light of the recent news. It would be cynical to think that the TBI agents were rushing to take control of what could only be construed as their best lead yet in the case.
But Ramsey had been born cynical. She’d also worked enough investigative teams to know how the politics worked. If there was a break in the case, the local law enforcement would close ranks. That way they could bask in the resulting glory of successful resolution of a high-profile investigation.
Being used to it, though, didn’t mean it didn’t suck.
When Dev arrived at the Historical Museum and found Shirley Pierson working as the day’s volunteer, he was tempted to skip this leg of the research and head straight to the library.
The woman hadn’t been friendly since he’d bloodied her son’s nose for him in the summer he’d been ten for calling him Killer’s Kid. In those days, he’d had more temper than restraint, and the woman had never forgotten it. There’d been a loud phone conversation with his granddaddy as a result, and then a lecture from Benjamin on the virtues of turning the other cheek.
He didn’t have enough cheeks to pacify Shirley. Based on a few things he’d heard over the years, Ira Pierson had only been repeating what he’d heard at home.
“Well, bless your heart, I can’t imagine what the likes of you would be wantin’ here, Devlin.” With the skill of a true southern gentlewoman, Shirley covered the insult with enough sugar to almost obscure the sting.
“Ms. Pierson.” Mindful to this day of his granddaddy’s lecture, he kept his tone pleasant. “How’s the family?”
“Fine. You might be interested to know that Ira is a writer, too. A real writer,” she stressed. “Just last month he had a short story published in Country Home and Heart magazine.”
He offered a bland smile. “I’ll bet you’re real proud. Tell him I said hey.”
Her mouth pinched together tightly. “I’m afraid I’m terribly busy. Perhaps you could come back another day.”
Since the place was empty, and it didn’t look as though the woman had been doing anything more strenuous than dusting the exhibits, he knew he was getting the brush-off. And had a fleeting moment to understand how Ramsey had felt when Donnelle had treated her similarly.
Undeterred, he held his ground. Sending a glance around the place, he said, “That’s fine, I won’t be a bother. Just point me in the direction of any information regardin’ the town’s foundin’ father, and I’ll be out of your way.” If her lips tightened any further, he observed, they’d disappear completely.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Okay.” He headed into t
he next room. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just poke ’round on my own.”
“I really can’t have you touchin’ anythin’.” He heard her scurrying after him. “The guidelines here are quite strict. Visitors aren’t to handle any items without supervision.”
He halted and turned to face her, irritation bubbling. “What do the guidelines say about volunteers who refuse to help town residents when they come in here?”
Her tone went regal. “I swear, Devlin Stryker, you didn’t learn those manners from your mama.”
The inference was clear. “No, ma’am, I didn’t. Turns out I learned very little from her over the years.” He didn’t bother to keep the edge from his words. “Now ’bout that information . . .”
With a sniff, Shirley swept by him, leaving him awash in the unmistakable scent of Chanel No. 5. It’d be difficult to say which of them was more out of sorts over the exchange.
Two hours of poring over the cramped writing in century-old journals was enough to have his eyes burning. He hadn’t brought his glasses, and he really required them to read. As a result, his eyes felt like he’d spent the last couple hours in a sandstorm.
With a harridan at his back.
Shirley hadn’t grown any more accommodating as the time went on, but she had eventually stopped hovering and had attended to her other duties, leaving him alone for stretches of time. He found himself skimming large parts of text that recorded in painstaking detail daily life in these parts a century ago. Making candles and soap. Tanning animal hides. Curing meat.
And prayer. There was lots and lots written regarding prayer services and “daily devotions,” whatever the heck that meant.
Dev leaned back in his chair and consulted the notes he’d written. He’d thought about using his microrecorder, but with Shirley fluttering around, he’d decided to handwrite the notes.
From everything he’d read so far, Rufus Ashton had been regarded with near godlike status from the writers of the journals. However, given that each of the journal authors had shared the Ashton name, he had to figure in a certain amount of familial bias.
Among the man’s accomplishments noted were the start of the first church, the quarry, the original bank in town, and the first general store. Even in these days, he’d be regarded as something of an entrepreneur. He couldn’t find any reference to the man’s original home or what had brought him to Buffalo Springs, but he did find the date of his death. That gave him a place to start.
“We close at three o’clock sharp on Saturdays.” Shirley’s voice behind him was crisp. “It’s fifteen minutes to, and I really need to get these journals back into place before I lock up.”
“Okay.” He pushed back from the small table he was sitting at and stood, working his shoulders. “I think I’ve read enough for a start.”
The woman’s gaze traveled between him and the stack of journals on the table and back again. Curiosity apparently getting the better of her, she blurted, “Whatever has someone like you so interested in that old history?”
He stilled. “Someone like me?”
She had the grace to flush. “I mean, given your interest in ghosts and such, I can’t imagine what you hope to find by looking up our foundin’ father. I just hope you aren’t going to write somethin’ unkind about him. There are still Ashtons in these parts, and they wouldn’t appreciate their ancestors bein’ slandered.”
His smile revealed none of the emotion twisting inside him. “You’ve always been an expert on slander, so I’m gonna take your word on that.” He moved toward the door, leaving her with her mouth agape at his rudeness. “My regards to your family.”
Chapter 17
“You’re one of them Mindhunters, ain’t ya?”
Ramsey looked up from the copy of Cassie Frost’s police report to the young Lisbon police officer on the other side of the counter. His nametag identified him as Joseph Redmond. She’d bet her next paycheck he went by Joey. Although she’d have pegged him for late teens, the fact that he was on the force meant he was probably at least twenty. Maybe even a couple years older. “I work for Raiker Forensics, yes.”
“I thought so.” With a practiced move, the officer raked his limp blond hair back from his forehead before propping his forearms on the counter. “I’ve been followin’ that story on the Spring County murder. Heard the TBI was bringin’ in a special consultant.” He paused expectantly, but Ramsey had gone back to skimming the police report.
“So how’d you get in to that line of work?”
Without looking up, she responded, “I used to be with TBI before Raiker contacted me for an interview.” She noted the signature on the report. “This statement was taken by an Officer Elwin Uetz. Is he around? I’d like to talk to him.”
“Naw, Elwin retired eighteen months ago. He and his wife moved to the Ozarks so’s he could fish all year round. I recall hearin’ ’bout the case, though.”
It had hardly qualified as a “case,” since it appeared from the information in her hand that the incident had consisted of little beyond taking Cassie Frost’s statement. Still, she looked up at the officer’s earnest expression quizzically.
“Frost was pretty spooked by the time Elwin got there. She seemed to think the man lookin’ in her window was the same as one she’d seen ’bout town a few times.” Redmond paused for a breath, his protruding Adam’s apple bobbing. “Ol’ Elwin figured she was just more scared than accurate. Her description wasn’t much help. Tall guy, ’bout sixty, with gray hair. Jeans and dark shirt.” The young man shrugged. “Fact is, there’s probably no way to be sure, ’cuz the man tryin’ to break in her window wore a face mask. Plus she woke up from a dead sleep, and it was dark out and all.”
“So Uetz thought . . . what? That she’d dreamt it? That it was just a window peeper?”
The edge of impatience in her tone had the young officer rearing back a bit, eyeing her more carefully. “No ma’am, she didn’t dream it. There were fresh scrapin’s on the window. If’n Frost hadn’t woken and called 911, whoever was out there would have gotten in that window, no doubt ’bout it. Looked like he was takin’ the screen off to gain entry. She had the inside window cracked, and it would have been easy ’nough for him to pull it open farther, climb inside.”
Ramsey’s skin prickled. Frost had been asleep. Vulnerable. But not defenseless. She’d had the foresight to put a call in to the police.
Which bore out at least part of the story Sanders had run by them.
“What exactly did Uetz do about it?”
Redmond scratched at his smooth jaw, which probably didn’t need shaving more than once a week. “Well, he checked ’round, I ’member that. We’ve got a couple no-goods in town who aren’t above a free peepshow, if’n they can get one. Neither have ever done more than look, near as I’ve heard, but Elwin, he spoke to both of ’em. Followed up real thorough. Nothin’ ever came of it, though. Middle of the night, no one can dispute if a fella claims he was home in bed. Elwin figured one of ’em got brave when he saw the window cracked open and tried to get in. That happens sometimes you know.” The officer’s voice went solemn. “People think peepers are harmless, but there was an article in Officer’s Quarterly last year that said some rapists start out that way, so could be one of them peepers was escalatin’. Got scared off when Frost woke up.”
“Have there been similar reports since?” At Redmond’s furrowed brow, she went on. “Seems like if one of them was escalating, they would have made another attempt.”
That gave Redmond pause. “No-o-o,” he admitted slowly. “Can’t say that there has been. But Uetz didn’t get nowhere checkin’ on the stranger Frost claimed she saw ’round a few times, neither. And she moved a few weeks later, so there wasn’t much follow-up.”
Ramsey digested the information silently. No way to tell if the incident was connected to the victim’s murder a couple weeks later. But it seemed coincidental, to say the least. She’d never been fond of coincidences.
On the other hand, the descr
iption she’d given sure hadn’t matched Quinn Sanders. If the man had hired someone to off Frost, would that person be dumb enough to speak to her first? Be caught watching her? And what connection did the man have with Spring County? Because whoever had killed Cassie Frost had been thoroughly familiar with the woods and Ashton’s Pond.
Since there would be no answers to those particular questions to be found here, Ramsey rolled the copy of the report up loosely and used it to gesture to the man. “Thanks for this. I have a few other stops to make, so I’ll be moving on.” She turned for the door. Was stopped by Redmond’s voice before she took more than a couple steps.
“Miz Clark?”
