Most Likely to Die

by Lisa Jackson

“That’s for you to find out. You’re the smart policewoman, aren’t you? Find me, if you can. Stop me, if you can.”

  “Why are you doing this? Why kill Jake’s friends?”

  No response. Rachel realized the caller had hung up.

  She sat there for a couple of seconds, her phone in her hand, her heart beating at breakneck speed. Hurriedly, she checked her phone for the number of the last call and hit the Recall button. The phone rang repeatedly. No one answered, which didn’t surprise Rachel.

  “Trying to crush that phone with your bare hands?” Dean asked.

  Nearly jumping out of her skin, Rachel gasped, then whirled around and glared at him. “You scared the bejesus out of me.”

  “Sorry. I seem to make a habit of unnerving you. What’s wrong? Unpleasant phone call?”

  Rachel flipped the phone closed and laid it on her desk. “I was talking to Jake’s killer. Or at least he or she claimed to have killed Jake.”

  Dean sat on the edge of Rachel’s desk. “No wonder you look pale. Did you recognize the voice?”

  “Just like with the other calls we’ve all gotten recently, they used something to disguise their voice.”

  Dean nodded. “Could you tell if the caller was male or female?”

  “Not really. I tend to think it was a woman, but that’s merely a guess.”

  “Working under the premise that it was a woman, exactly what did she say?”

  “Not much, just that she had killed Jake and was going to kill someone else.”

  “I don’t suppose she told you who.”

  “No. And there won’t be any way to trace the call or even pinpoint where it came from. My guess is she was using a prepaid cell phone again. My caller ID showed Portland.”

  “Probably, but we’ll run a check and see, just to make sure.” He glanced down at her cell phone. “You tried the number, right?”

  “Right. And no one answered.”

  Dean placed a lid-covered paper cup on her desk. “White chocolate latte. It’s your favorite, right?”

  She eyed the cup as if it were a snake. For the past week, he’d been doing thoughtful little things for her. Peace offerings? Or just business as usual for a notorious flirt?

  “Thanks.” She opened the lid, lifted the cup, and took a sip.

  “If the person who called you is on the level and did kill Jake, then we have a problem on our hands, don’t we?”

  “Yes, we do. The question is, who has she chosen to be the next victim?” Rachel stated the obvious.

  “The first thing we do is contact everyone on the reunion committee and warn them to be even more careful than usual.”

  “I can do that. There’s no need for you to—”

  “Look, honey, let’s get something straight, I’m involved in this, too. Maybe not officially, but I’ve bought into your theory—yours and Kristen’s and Lindsay’s—that whoever killed Jake might have killed Aurora and Haylie and is targeting other girls Jake knew.”

  Rachel patted the stack of files on her desk. “I’ve been through these time and time again. I’ve talked to numerous people who were there at the dance that night and I’ve gone over everything I personally remember.” She heaved a heavy, defeated sigh. “I have to admit that I’m as stumped as my dad was. There is just no evidence pointing to any one person. Jake was loved and hated in equal measure, yet nobody had a strong motive to want to see him dead.”

  “Other than Haylie, maybe. But she was one of the first suspects cleared twenty years ago, and she was the first new victim.”

  “Someone else hated Jake enough to kill him and do it in a spectacular way.”

  “Yeah, and it was someone who wanted to look Jake in the eye when they offed him.” Dean glanced at the file folders on Rachel’s desk. “The coroner stated that the shot was at fairly close range and that in order to pin Jake to the tree that way, Jake had to have been right up against the tree.”

  “He was probably leaning against the tree while he smoked.”

  “I’ve wondered more than once if Jake realized what was about to happen and simply froze, or if he didn’t understand what was about to happen until it was too late.”

  “Jake had been drinking that evening. And when he drank, he became more cocky and arrogant than usual. I can see him staring at his killer and laughing in his face. He probably thought it was a joke.” A fine mist of tears clouded Rachel’s vision.

  Dean cursed under his breath. “Damn it, don’t waste any more tears on that asshole.” He shot up off her desk.

  She noted that he had balled his hands into tight fists and held them on either side of his thighs. What was his problem anyway?

  “Give me a little credit, will you? I’m not crying. I’m just a little misty-eyed, and it’s not about Jake.”

  Dean glared at her. “If you’re not all weepy and sentimental about Jake, then what?”

  “About everything. The past, the reunion, Haylie and Aurora…and if you want to know the truth, I’m uneasy about the threat this person made and concerned about the safety of my old friends and even myself.”

  The tension in Dean eased. He loosened his clenched fists and relaxed his stiff shoulders. “I’m sorry I jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

  She nodded.

  “Look, I dropped by with the latte hoping we could talk, and for more than two minutes,” Dean said. “I’ve been looking into something and I wanted to run it by you, get your take on it.”

  She eyed him inquisitively. “Sure. What is it?”

  “Call it my cop instincts or just a gut reaction, but ever since I talked to Patrick Dewey’s widow, I’ve had this niggling feeling that something was off with her.”

  “Did she say something that—”

  “No, it wasn’t what she said. It was more what she didn’t say and the way she answered the few questions I asked her.”

  “Maybe it was nothing. After all, her husband wasn’t involved in Jake’s case, except in a roundabout way. His bow was used in the murder, but he had reported it stolen a week earlier.”

  “That’s what’s been bothering me ever since I talked to Marilyn Dewey. I asked her to confirm what your dad’s old report stated, that the bow that was used to kill Jake was the only item stolen from their home.”

  “It was,” Rachel said. “I distinctly remember reading that report. Nothing else was missing from their home or garage, only Mr. Dewey’s bow.”

  “Why that specific bow?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean why just that one crossbow? Dewey owned several bows, one newer and more expensive. Why steal none of the other bows or his rifle or shotgun or none of his wife’s jewelry?”

  The wheels in Rachel’s mind spun at lightning speed. “You don’t think the bow was stolen, do you?”

  Dean shrugged. “It might have been, but let’s say it wasn’t stolen.”

  “Then why report it stolen?”

  “Why indeed.”

  “If it wasn’t stolen, then Dewey had to have a reason to report it. Insurance money? No, that wouldn’t make any sense. The bow was used to kill Jake, and whoever used it left it at the scene of the crime, as if they wanted it to be found.”

  “Let’s say that, for whatever reason, a bow hunter wanted to kill someone and intended to use his bow to do it. What better way to cover his butt than report the bow stolen?”

  “A logical scenario,” Rachel said. “Except for two things: Patrick Dewey didn’t know Jake and therefore had no motive to kill him, and he had an alibi for the night Jake was killed.”

  “Do you recall who gave him his alibi?”

  “Uh…yes, I remember now. His wife said he was at home with her.” Rachel gasped. “His wife could have lied for him. But why?”

  “Before we take this supposition any further, we should talk to Mrs. Dewey. After all these years and with her husband now dead, if she knows something, we might be able to persuade her to tell us.”

  “Did the Deweys have a son
? If so, maybe he knew Jake, maybe they—”

  “The Deweys’ two sons were five and seven at the time of Jake’s murder.”

  Rachel frowned. “So much for that thought.”

  “I say we drive down to Salem tomorrow and talk to Mrs. Dewey, face-to-face.”

  She hesitated momentarily, not sure that she wanted to spend an entire day with Dean, especially not trapped in a car with him for several hours making the trip to and from Salem. “Can you take tomorrow off?”

  “I think I can arrange it.” He grinned. “I have an in with the chief.”

  “So you do. Okay then, I’ll meet you here at—”

  “I’ll pick you up at the chief’s house around eight-thirty, if that’s not too early.”

  “It’s not too early. I’ve never been one to sleep until noon.”

  “Eight-thirty it is.”

  “You realize that this could turn out to be nothing, that your gut instincts could be wrong,” she told him. “I mean, what are the odds that the owner of the bow that shot the fatal arrow was actually involved in the crime?”

  “I’m not saying he was involved, just that I got odd vibes from his widow.”

  “Well, it’s better than anything I’ve come up with. And if there’s even a one in a hundred chance that Mrs. Dewey knows—Oh my God! What if she knew Jake? What if he was fooling around with an older, married woman and her husband found out?”

  Dean grinned. “Honey, I like the way you think.”

  After Rachel’s call telling her about the threatening message she had received from someone who claimed to have killed Jake, Mandy thought twice before taking Emily out for her afternoon stroll. But she couldn’t stay cooped up in the house, scared to go anywhere without Jeff. Doing that would be handing over control of her life to some lunatic. Besides, what could happen to her in broad daylight, in their neighborhood and in a park filled with other women and children?

  As with so many days here in Portland, the sky was overcast and gray, a hint of rain in the air. But being late June, the breeze was warm and balmy.

  Enjoy this daily ritual with your daughter, she told herself. Don’t allow fear to control your actions. She had heard other mothers say that their children picked up on their moods and always acted up whenever they sensed something was wrong with Mom. Emily had been cranky all afternoon. Mandy had taken her temperature, which had been normal, and had asked her if she felt bad or hurt anywhere.

  Emily had frowned at her and shook her head, then proceeded to knock down a house constructed of colorful building blocks, a project they had worked on for over an hour after lunch. And then Emily had refused to go down for her nap, screaming her head off when Mandy placed her in her crib and left the room.

  But now, outside in her stroller, rolling along the sidewalk, Little Miss Spoiled Rotten was smiling and waving at everyone they passed. For Emily’s sake if not for her own, Mandy couldn’t allow the fact that someone might be stalking her to bring her life to a standstill. But try as she might, she couldn’t quite get Rachel’s warning phone call off her mind. Was the person who had spoken to Rachel really Jake Marcott’s killer? Had this person killed Haylie and Aurora? Would they kill again? Or had the call been some terrible hoax?

  “Afternoon, Mandy,” elderly Mrs. Johnson said as they met her at her mailbox. The white-haired woman glanced up at the sky. “Looks a bit like rain. You brought along an umbrella, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I always do.” Mandy patted the pouch attached to the back of her daughter’s portable stroller. “We’re just going over to the park, so if it starts raining, we can be back home in no time.”

  Clasping her mail in one hand, Mrs. Johnson stared down at Emily. “She’s growing like a weed and getting cuter every day.”

  “Thank you. We certainly think she’s a little beauty.” Mandy waved at her neighbor but kept pushing Emily along. As much as she loved Mrs. Johnson, once in a conversation with her, you might be trapped for a good twenty or thirty minutes.

  Moving at a steady pace, Mandy reached the neighborhood park in five minutes. As she strolled along the brick sidewalk shaded by towering trees and lined with colorful summer flowers, she remembered how often she had jogged through here in the past and spotted mothers with their young children. Oh, how she had envied those women. But now, with the blessing of Emily, she was one of them. A mother.

  When they reached the kiddie swings, Mandy removed Emily from the stroller and set her in one of the swings, double-checking the safety harness. Only one other parent and toddler were using the swings. Mandy recognized the divorced dad who had gotten custody of his two-year-old.

  “Hi, Tim.” Mandy waved at her neighbor, who lived in a two-story Colonial only three houses down from her.

  “Afternoon,” he replied. “You two might not get to stay long. I think we’re going to get some rain. Joey and I are heading out in a few minutes.”

  Before Tim and Joey left for home, Mandy and Tim chatted about their children, about this year’s Rose Festival, and about the Neighborhood Watch. When the wind picked up and the sky grew darker, Mandy considered leaving despite the fact that they had just arrived. But Emily was enjoying herself so much, Mandy decided to give them a few more minutes. After all, windy and gloomy didn’t necessarily mean rain. Not in Portland.

  Ten minutes later, Mandy realized the park was all but deserted. Time to go. As she released the swing’s safety harness, she felt the first drop of rain.

  “Drat.” She removed Emily from the swing—despite her pouting protest—slipped her into the stroller, and then pulled the umbrella from the pouch. When she tried to open the umbrella, the strong wind blew it inside out. As she struggled with the unruly umbrella, she felt someone approach her from behind. A long-fingered hand reached out and grabbed for the umbrella handle. Mandy cried out, horrible thoughts flashing through her mind. She released the umbrella, whirled around, and grasped the handlebars of the collapsible stroller, intending to run.

  “Mandy, it’s all right,” a familiar voice said. “It’s me.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. With her heartbeat roaring in her ears and her pulse racing like mad, she gasped for air when she recognized the person standing behind her, working diligently to turn Mandy’s umbrella right side out.

  What is she doing on this side of town, in this park, at this time of day?

  “You really shouldn’t be out here with a storm brewing.” She handed the umbrella to Mandy as small, soft raindrops peppered down from the sky.

  “Emily loves our afternoons in the park so much that I hate for her to miss them.”

  Why is she staring at me that way? Mandy wondered. There’s something odd about her being here and something strange about the way she’s acting.

  “Well, you’d better head for home now. As it is, you’re going to get drenched.”

  A streak of cloud-to-ground lightning zigzagged through the sky behind them. Mandy gasped. When the deafening boom of thunder followed, Emily let out a yelp and then started crying.

  Clutching the umbrella in one hand and the stroller handle in the other, Mandy glanced back and said, “You’re right. We’d better head for home. See you later.” Every instinct Mandy had screamed, “Get away. Run. Run for your life.”

  Don’t be ridiculous. You two have known each other since high school. You’re on the reunion committee together. She’s not the type of person who could kill another.

  Or is she? It’s not as if you two have stayed close all these years.

  Just as she gave the stroller a quick push, intending to flee, Mandy suddenly realized it was already too late. Something came down and around her from behind, circled her throat and jerked her backward. She clawed at the silk scarf tightening around her neck, but the harder she fought, the more powerful her attacker’s hold became, strong and fierce enough to subdue her.

  How could I have been such a fool? Why didn’t I stay home today? Why didn’t I try to get the Mace out of the diaper bag? Are y
ou listening, God? Don’t let her kill me. Please, I don’t want to die! What will happen to Emily if I die?

  Rachel stood in the doorway of police headquarters and watched the late-afternoon thunderstorm. She really hated getting out in this mess, but she had promised Aunt Laraine she’d come home early today. They planned to go shopping for Uncle Charlie’s birthday present while he attended his Shriners meeting.

  “Need to borrow an umbrella?” Dean asked as he walked up beside her.

  “No, thanks, I brought one with me.”

  He skimmed his gaze over her. “Where is it?”

  She huffed. “In my car.”

  He chuckled.

  “Why don’t I walk you to your car?” He popped open a large black umbrella.

  “Hey, McMichaels,” the desk sergeant called.

  “Yeah, what’s up?” Dean replied.

  “Call for you.” He held up the telephone receiver. “It’s the chief. He said to ask you why you aren’t answering your cell phone.”

  Dean patted his belt where he usually kept his cell phone, then groaned when he realized it wasn’t there. “Wait for me, okay?” He handed her the umbrella.

  Rachel waited. Not because she had promised she would. Not because she wanted Dean to walk her to her car, but because she was curious as to why Uncle Charlie had called Dean.

  After closing the umbrella, she walked over to where Dean stood talking quietly to Charlie.

  “I must have left the damn thing upstairs on my desk.” Dean listened then, frowning at whatever Charlie had told him.

  Rachel could tell by the expression on his face that something was wrong. Her gut tightened. Dean groaned as if he were in pain. Whatever had happened, it must be something terrible.

  “Yeah, she’s still here. I’ll tell her.” Pause. “No, I can’t do that.”

  Rachel tugged on Dean’s arm and when he looked at her, she mouthed the question What is going on?

  “Yes. I know. I understand,” Dean said to Charlie. “So the baby is fine, right?” Pause. “No way we can ignore the implications, not this time.”

  Dean handed the phone back to the desk sergeant, then turned to face Rachel.

  “What? Who?” she asked.