Siren's Secret

by Debbie Herbert

  Lily left. Shelly hugged her arms around her waist and realized she’d already made her decision. No doubt she’d be unhappier than Mom, who’d had a man who loved her, at least in the beginning. But if she didn’t pursue her feelings for Tillman, she might regret it forever. And if anyone could catch the killer, Tillman had the skill and the resources to do so. They didn’t.

  No matter what Shelly chose, she’d never fully belong on land or at sea.

  Chapter 9

  On the wall, pinned and mounted

  Specimens all tagged and counted

  Yet hidden in a secret cache

  The eyes, they have a special place.

  Someone was following him. A blue sedan with tinted windows had been on his tail all morning. Damn, damn, damn. Sweat popped out on his forehead and his head spun. Air. He needed air. Melkie turned the AC on high and sucked in the cold blast like a drowning person surfacing for oxygen. Rebel stuck his nose to the vent, competing for its bracing, cool draft.

  Coward.

  He’d wimped out last night, skittish that the cop car he’d dodged would show up any second. He should keep driving all the way to Mexico. Leave this stinking hellhole with its perpetual odor of dead fish rotting in swamp water. Nothing tied him here. No friends, no job and if he never saw one of his slutty sisters again, that would suit him fine. Melkie daydreamed about starting over. Him and Reb, living on the outskirts of some hot, dusty hacienda. Couldn’t be hotter or more miserable than this Alabama bayou. And if they made fun of him and his dog, at least he wouldn’t understand the jabbering.

  Reality set in. He had no money to start over. It always came down to that. Ten years after her death, and Mom was still screwing him. At least the ramshackle house she’d left provided a rent-free existence. Without it, he’d be homeless.

  Better the streets than in prison, the paranoid voice in his head taunted. You gonna live a life of crime, you should be robbing for money and not sticking whores.

  Melkie checked the rearview mirror. The sedan followed behind at a discreet distance. He wondered if the mermaid reported his break-in last night. Were the cops trying to keep hidden or were they fucking with his mind on purpose? Just messing with him, Melkie decided. If they had anything concrete, he’d be facedown in the dirt in handcuffs. He felt marginally better.

  “Wanna treat, ol’ Reb?” Melkie abruptly turned into the hamburger shack. If he was going down, he’d do it drinking a chocolate milk shake and with Rebel gobbling a cheeseburger. No such luxuries in prison or a hacienda. He dug out a thin wallet from the back pocket of his faded jeans and scraped together change from the console. Yep, his new motto should be Live Big or Bust. This was life on the edge in the bayou.

  Rebel drooled as the drive-through window girl handed over the wrapped meat with an expression of amused disgust, as if she was some beauty queen. Why he ought to choke some humility in her, make her... Melkie suppressed the thought, glancing at the sedan parked on the side of the lot, motor running.

  The first slurp of the chocolate shake restored a little cheer. Time for some fun with the mystery man behind the tinted windows. Melkie went to the nearest convenience shop and made his purchase. Coming out, he went to the sedan idling nearby and rapped on the window. It mechanically lowered, revealing a thirty-something male wearing dark sunglasses and a brown uniform. Melkie shoved a pack of glazed doughnuts at him.

  “Just in case you’re hungry,” he said with a smirk, walking away. He wanted the cops to know he was onto them. They were so stupid they couldn’t find a biscuit in a gravy bowl.

  “Hey, you,” the cop yelled. “You forgot my coffee.”

  Melkie tipped his baseball hat at the officer—as if this was all a big joke.

  He continued home. Melkie pulled into his driveway, refusing to give the cop the satisfaction of looking back. But once inside, he peered through the window. The sedan had parked about twenty yards down the road. Poor sucker must be blistering in the heat. The thought cheered Melkie as he sucked the last of the milk shake.

  Maybe this was a sign that he needed to move on from his past. There wouldn’t be much to pack up. Mainly his insect collections and his special prizes cached under the den floorboards.

  His prizes. Melkie hadn’t fondled them for days. He went to the far right corner of the den and lifted the rotted floorboard, pulling out several pint-size Mason jars.

  Sets of eyeballs, preserved in formaldehyde, stared back at him. Rebel pawed at a jar.

  “Get back, boy,” Melkie growled. Rebel scooted backward.

  The murky liquid held the eyeballs in suspension like a lava lamp. Melkie picked up each jar and twirled it, remembering how he came by each.

  “I want those glowing ones,” he said aloud. “The freaky ones that light up and swirl.” If—no, when—he captured the mermaid he’d also preserve that glittery fish fin he’d glimpsed before she’d disappeared into the sea. His collection wouldn’t be complete without it.

  He retrieved two more Mason jars from the secret niche. One held the mermaid’s rings and necklaces, a separate one held the coins. He sifted through the gold and silver disks, convinced he was holding booty from sunken shipwrecks. Too bad he couldn’t sell it now.

  Later. He had to be patient, wait it out a bit. No more hooker-trawling nights until Alabama was hundreds of miles behind.

  Lie low, keep your cool. His mermaid encounter might turn out to be for the best—if he kept the rage at bay. The need to kill, to take control, grew stronger with each bloodletting.

  Just a couple of weeks, he consoled himself, and there would be new women, new opportunities.

  * * *

  Tillman set his chin in his hands, dismayed at the evidence spread before him: tax records and payroll and disbursement statements, all dating five years preceding Dad’s death.

  Prior to the infusion of “consulting fees,” their family had been plunging in a downward spiral of debt. Eddie’s therapy, Tillman’s college tuition, Mom’s town car and jewelry. Loans and interest payments lay hidden beneath the comfortable lifestyle, like an army of worms feasting on decay.

  The pisser of it all was that the amount claimed to the IRS probably didn’t represent a fraction of the cash-only payments from Jet Bosarge.

  Just yesterday, had anyone asked, he’d have sworn Dad was the epitome of honesty, the person in the world he most trusted.

  “What are you still doing up?” Portia stood in the doorway, knotting the cord on her robe. “You’ll be exhausted at work tomorrow.”

  She swept past him, got a glass from the cabinet and poured some water.

  Tillman stared at her back, resentment and frustration building like a storm inside. To hell with walking on eggshells. “Dehydrated from all that alcohol?”

  She spun around, eyes wide, lips parted in surprise until she compressed them into a thin line. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that. I won’t have it.”

  “And I won’t have you driving drunk with Eddie.”

  “I wasn’t drunk. Just a little tipsy. Janelle Piers and I had a couple of cocktails at lunch.”

  “Bullshit. You were stinking drunk in the middle of the afternoon.”

  “Tipsy,” she corrected. Portia lifted her chin. “I can’t believe you’re talking this way to me. I’m your mother.”

  “I know who you are.” Tillman crossed his arms, stood his ground. “You’re an alcoholic.”

  “No!” The glass of water fell from her hand and exploded around their feet. “Look what you made me do.” Portia strode past him and retrieved a broom and dustpan from the pantry.

  Tillman stepped back as she angrily began sweeping up the broken pieces.

  “How dare... Your father would never... Can’t believe you...” She jerked the broom with each sweep, making an even bigger mess.

  Tillman grabbed a dish towel by the sink and blotted up water.

  Portia slapped his hand away. “I don’t need your help. Get out of here.”

  With that
bitter tongue, it was no wonder she had few real friends or people who cared enough to stand up to her. Shelly’s face flashed before him. She had taken a stand and refused to let his mother drive drunk. Not only that, Shelly had done it in the kindest way imaginable and with the least amount of embarrassment possible for his family. If Shelly could do that, how could he, her son, do any less? So Tillman ignored the harsh words, squatted down, picked up the larger glass chunks and placed them in the towel. “I think you do need my help.”

  Mom glared at him, both on their knees on the hard floor. She wasn’t so elegant now, without her makeup and fancy clothes. She looked like a tired, middle-aged woman who’d found life too hard. She wasn’t an easy woman to love, but she was still his mother. “Mom,” he said, as gently as he could. “Please. You need help.”

  She jerked as if he’d slapped her. “I’m fine. Fine. So I made a mistake today. Let it go.”

  Let it go. He’d been letting it go. Watched her get progressively worse as he found more bottles stashed around the house, more empty alcohol containers in the garbage, the length of sobriety shorten from late night until midafternoon. Dad’s death had been the catalyst for her to stop trying. Tillman pulled out the big guns.

  “Eddie needs you,” he said.

  She stood, emptied the dustpan in the trash. “Don’t tell me what my son needs.” She put the dustpan and broom back in the pantry, started to sweep past him.

  Tillman sighed. “Next time you’re indisposed in the middle of the day, or have a cocktail party scheduled with your friends, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know. I’ll drive you.”

  “You’re not around half the time,” she snapped.

  “Then call a taxi. Or ask Carl to help.”

  His mother ignored him as she went to her bedroom.

  Tillman surveyed the half-cleaned mess on the floor. “Shit, that went well,” he grumbled. He got back on his hands and knees, making sure to get up every tiny broken glass sliver. Thirty-one years old and still cleaning up Mom’s messes. If he didn’t watch it, he’d be doing it the rest of his life. Just like Dad.

  Dad. The paper trail of deceit lay on the table. He wearily returned the financial records to the appropriate files. Separating and burying each incriminating piece. Had Mom known about it? He considered the idea briefly, dismissing it almost at once. Dad had shielded Mom all during their marriage. He wouldn’t tell either.

  Another secret. Each one wore him down a fraction every day. All he wanted right now was to find Shelly and bury himself in her hot body, feel her hair cover his naked skin like a blanket. Hell, even that was screwed up right now. If Shelly had her own set of secrets, which he highly suspected she did, that would be a deal-breaker. He’d had it with lies, even lies of omission.

  * * *

  Shelly stabbed her pillow and turned, trying to get comfortable. But it was no use. The alarm clock on her nightstand blinked the time, 2:10 a.m. She needed a good swim to relieve stress. Shelly smiled wryly. What she really needed was Tillman in bed beside her.

  She flung off the sheets, went to the window and peeked through the curtain. Was the killer out there watching? Waiting for an opportunity? She shuddered, though the room was sticky with humidity.

  No matter what, she would see Tillman tomorrow. She needed his help to catch the killer. He might be angry at her, and embarrassed she knew about his mother’s drinking, but he was good at his job and would find the killer. Resolutely, she texted him a message that she needed to see him. Perhaps a lunch date?

  Shelly went to the bathroom, filled the tub and submerged her entire head and body, letting the liquid weight calm and soothe. Beneath the water, the blue tile surrounding the tub appeared distorted and whirled, almost making Shelly feel that she was in the ocean.

  After her bath she checked her cell. Tillman had texted despite the early hour. They were on for lunch.

  * * *

  “Appears we’re at a standstill until the crime lab comes through with something.” Carl sliced absentmindedly at the wooden block in his hands.

  Tillman sighed, frustrated. “Let’s keep our officers knocking on doors and asking questions. Make sure we keep in touch with our informers.”

  “Snitches.” Carl’s lips curled. “Not any help at all when you really need them.” He blew on the wooden piece, sending sawdust flying. At his feet was a growing mound of wood chips.

  “You’re not making me feel any better.”

  Carl chuckled.

  “I meant to tell you thanks for getting those financial records for me yesterday.”

  His deputy looked up sharply. “Any help?”

  Tillman nodded curtly. No sense dragging Dad’s name in the mud.

  “Mail call.”

  They turned as their longtime dispatcher entered with a stack of mail. “Same old, same old in here.” She nodded at the deputy. “Carl’s whittlin’ and piddlin’—” her gaze swung to Tillman “—while you’re pacing like a caged cougar.”

  Carl held up a hand. “I do my best thinking this way.”

  Tillman opened envelopes, glancing through the contents before sorting them into tidy stacks: bills, complaints, technical reports. He paused at a sheet of paper filled with large, childish handwriting.

  Dear Sheriff,

  You need to take a look at Lily Bosarge. She is a killer. She killed those women and cut out their eyeballs.

  Yours,

  A Concerned Citizen

  “Holy hell.” Tillman waved the paper at Carl. “Listen to this.” He read it aloud.

  “Lily Bosarge?” Carl asked, his voice skeptical.

  Tillman’s mouth twisted. If he had to pick a Bosarge, it would have been Jet. “Probably a hoax. Based on what you’ve told me about Lily, this could be from a jealous wife trying to cause trouble. I’ll question Lily, see what she has to say.”

  “Your girlfriend’s not going to like it,” Carl said.

  Tillman glanced at his watch. “As a matter of fact, I’m meeting her shortly for lunch.”

  “You going to tell her about this note?”

  “Not before I question her cousin.” He frowned. “I’m meeting Shelly in half an hour. Go to Lily Bosarge’s salon and bring her here. That way, Shelly can’t tip her off before the interview.”

  “That’s some kind of trust you have going,” Carl noted.

  “I do what I have to do.” Tillman waved a hand at the door, letting Carl know the conversation was closed.

  After Carl exited, leaving a trail of wood chips in his wake, Tillman tapped a pencil on the edge of the desk, thinking. Damn it all, this latest development came just as he was ready to make amends with Shelly and tell her he appreciated and cared for her. This note changed everything. If it wasn’t a hoax, if Lily was involved in the murders and Shelly was covering for her cousin, all bets were off.

  He would drill Shelly at lunch and then interview Lily. “Follow the evidence” was his mantra and he would do just that—no matter what the personal cost.

  * * *

  “What can I get you today, Ms. Bosarge?” The teenage waitress waited, pencil poised over a notepad.

  “I’m Shelly. You’ve mistaken me for my cousin Lily.”

  The waitress’s mouth dropped open. “You kidding me?” She squinted at Shelly. “Oh, yeah, I do see a difference. Lily’s more like, you know—” She shifted uncomfortably. “Like smaller or something.”

  She means prettier, Shelly thought with an inward sigh. Snapping her menu shut, she said, “I’ll have a tuna salad, no bread and iced tea.”

  “And you, Sheriff?”

  Tillman looked at Shelly with a speculative gleam she couldn’t decipher.

  “Sheriff?” the waitress repeated.

  “A barbecue sandwich and sweet tea.” Tillman handed the waitress their menus. When she left with their order, he faced Shelly again. “You get mistaken for Lily a lot?”

  “All the time.”

  “Easy mistake. What with the long blond hair.”<
br />
  “I guess. Strange how she and I look more like sisters than she and Jet do.” Shelly fidgeted with the silverware. Bringing up Jet wasn’t smart. But since she had... “I’m sorry Jet told you about your father.”

  Tillman studied her in silence several moments. “How close are you to your cousins?”

  “They’re the only family I have. After my parents’ car wreck, they let me know their home was always open for me.” Shelly laid down the silverware. “I owe them.”

  “Family loyalty only goes so far.”

  Look who’s talking, Shelly thought. The man takes care of an alcoholic mom and an autistic brother, and defends his dead father’s reputation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That you have to protect yourself.”

  “Are you saying I have to be on guard against my cousins? That’s crazy.”

  “I’m warning you more about Lily than Jet.”

  “I’m confused. What about Lily?” Shelly’s face darkened. “You’re not talking about her reputation, are you? Because if—”

  “Here’s your drinks.” The waitress set down their glasses. “Your order will be here shortly.”

  This wasn’t going at all like she’d planned. She thought of the disgusting baggie in her purse with the soiled panties. Better keep her temper in check if she wanted his help. Shelly leaned across the table. “I don’t want to argue with you, Tillman. I realize things between us have been awkward because of Jet and then the incident with your mother.”

  He stiffened and a muscle worked near his jaw. “Thanks for keeping Eddie safe,” he said flatly.

  Shelly waved a hand. “No problem.” So he was sensitive on that score, just as she suspected. “I see you have your own burdens when it comes to family loyalty. We probably have a lot in common.”

  His gray eyes studied her intently, revealing nothing. Shelly couldn’t help the ball of hurt unfurling inside. He was so remote, so unlike the passionate man she’d made love with a short time ago. But maybe it had just been sex for Tillman.