What Addison found most disturbing was the fact that in the three weeks since the murder, a suspect hadn't been mentioned. The thought sent a powerful sense of outrage rolling through her. Was it because of Agnes Beckett's lack of social status that the police weren't pushing for an arrest? Would the murder of a more affluent person have generated a greater degree of public outrage? Would the woman who had lived in that tiny mobile home be forgotten? Her murder left unsolved?
The questions troubled her deeply, and Addison knew she couldn't let it end this way. It seemed incredibly unjust that she had lost her family not once, but twice. First the only parents she'd ever known, then the woman who'd given her life.
There was a lack of closure in the- way her search had ended. She had come here to this strange little town to meet her birth mother. Three weeks ago, someone had taken that dream away from her forever. She would never meet Agnes Beckett. After all the effort and the hope, fate had intervened in the cruelest way, leaving her with nothing but a solitary trip to the cemetery.
The reality of that hit her hard, striking her in a place that was raw and exposed. She sipped the soda to ease the tightness in her throat and read the articles again, focusing this time on the status of the case. She put them in chronological order by date, realizing only then that the stories became smaller as the news grew older. Even in small towns people grew tired of news quickly, she mused.
Even brutal, unsolved murders.
But there were positive steps she could take to make sure her trip hadn't been in vain. She could visit the sheriff and make sure the case was being investigated in a professional manner. It was a painful thought, but she could go back to the mobile home and go through her mother's belongings. It might give her some insight into the kind of woman Agnes Beckett had been. It might give her some closure.
With a renewed sense of purpose, Addison rose from the bed and pulled on her coat, deciding her first stop would be the sheriff's office.
* * *
"You wanna know what?”
Addison resisted the urge to sink into the vinyl chair opposite Sheriff Delbert McEvoy's desk. She was bone tired, but somehow felt she'd have the upper hand if she stood. "I'd like to know how the investigation into the murder of Agnes Beckett is progressing."
McEvoy eyed her suspiciously. "You some kind of a reporter or something?"
"I'm a relative." She'd gone over the conversation they would be having during the drive to his office. She had foreseen the questions, and she was prepared.
"The newspaper has been carrying the story," he said.
She took a deep breath and grappled for patience, wondering why he seemed indisposed to helping her. "I've read the articles and have yet to see anything that tells me how the case is progressing."
He sat up straighter, his belly shifting to expose a large silver belt buckle. "Miss…"
"Addison Fox," she said, extending her hand. She hadn't realized it until now, but she'd accepted the responsibility of making sure her birth mother wasn't forgotten. Certainly not before her murder was solved.
Taking her hand, he shook it gently. "Just how are ... were you related to Agnes Beckett?"
That was the question she'd pondered most. Had her biological mother been alive, Addison would have kept her relationship to Agnes Beckett confidential. Now that the woman was dead, she supposed it really didn't matter. "I'm her daughter." Her voice seemed unnaturally loud in the silence. The words sounded strange, and she realized it was the first time she'd spoken them aloud.
"You're pullin' my leg." His face split into a lopsided grin as if one side of him believed her; the other, that she was somehow trying to dupe him.
Irritation sparked inside her, and she did her best to squelch a nasty retort. "No," she said coolly. "I'm not kidding."
As if realizing his rudeness; he lost his smile. "That's a mite surprising, is all I'm saying."
''That she had family?"
"Well ... yes."
"Why is that surprising? She was capable of reproducing, wasn't she?"
Crimson crept into his cheeks. "That's not what I meant."
"What exactly did you mean?"
"I had no idea she had kin. No one in town knew it," he said.
No longer feeling the need to stand, she sank into the chair, letting a long, tired sigh slide between her lips. "Well, she does, and I'd appreciate a little cooperation."
He leaned back in his chair and slid the wad of chewing tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other. "I reckon Pete Lyons down at the funeral home will want to talk to you."
"She left a debt?"
"The trailer is foreordained for auction to pay for the funeral expenses. Ladies Club paid for the marker."
"I'll take care of the debt," Addison said quickly. "And I'd like to go through her things." Both sentences were out before she realized her thoughts had taken that route. Odd what shock and stress did to one's mindset, she thought dully.
"I'm afraid that won't be possible until the estate goes through probate." His chest swelled with newfound authority.
"In that case, I'll have my attorney contact you." She felt a moment of satisfaction when he stiffened. "For now I'd just like to know if you've got any leads or if you're any closer to making an arrest."
Glowering, he sauntered to a vertical file cabinet. He reminded Addison of a big, fat turkey that had had its feathers ruffled by an unassuming hen.
"Her credit cards haven't been used." He paged through the file. "No checks have turned up."
She nodded, feeling minutely better now that he was cooperating. "Do you have any suspects?"
"Not yet." He pulled a file from the drawer and walked back to the desk, dropping it in front of her. "Excuse me while I get a cup of coffee." Snatching a Cincinnati Reds mug off the desk, he stalked out of the office.
Jerk, she thought with disgust, wondering how, in the span of just a few hours, this promising day had transformed into the afternoon from hell.
Her gaze dropped to the file. She stared at it, not sure if he'd meant for her to look at it or if she was supposed to wait for him to return. It took her all of two seconds to open it.
The police report was oil top. She scanned it first, making a mental note that there were no witnesses or suspects listed. She skimmed the particulars of the crime scene, the condition of the body, and the description of the weapon. She tried in vain not to allow the gristly details to affect her, but her hands began to shake despite her efforts.
Next, she found the autopsy report. The cause of death was listed as massive blood loss due to the severance of the carotid artery. Other injuries listed were blunt force trauma to the skull along with an array of superficial knife wounds. The autopsy report had been signed by Dr. Stephen Westfall just over two weeks ago.
Addison closed the file. Spotting a copier across the room, she rose, hoping to get the police and autopsy reports copied before the sheriff returned. She'd just reached the copier when a half dozen photographs slipped from the file and fell to the floor. Looking quickly over her shoulder, she bent to retrieve them. When she turned back and looked down at the photo in her hand, the sight that accosted her nearly sent her to her knees.
The photograph was of the crime scene, in horrible, vivid color. She saw blood. A shock of dark hair. Pasty flesh. Addison stared helplessly for what seemed like an eternity, unable to breathe, unable to move or tear her eyes away from the horrific sight. There were no inscriptions on the photo, but she knew with utter certainty that the twisted, butchered heap was her mother.
She straightened, felt the room around her begin to spin. The file slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a resonant thud, scattering the papers it held. Addison fought back a crushing wave of nausea. She closed her eyes, trying to erase a sight that would forever be etched into her brain.
Knowing there would be no more conversation with Sheriff McEvoy, she staggered to the desk and pulled her coat from the back of the chair. Still not sure if her
lunch was going to stay down, she left the file on the floor and rushed out of the office, nearly running into the sheriff as he passed through the door with a cup of coffee in hand. He called out to her as she pushed open the front door, but she didn't stop. He didn't bother to come after her.
Once outside, Addison stopped and stood vacillating for a moment before grasping the rail with both hands and taking a deep breath. She took another and another until the nausea passed. Slowly, she became aware of her surroundings, the hiss of tires on wet pavement, the sound of sleet hitting the sidewalk.
But it was the cold that brought her back. The wind slithered through her coat and wrapped around her, sending involuntary shivers through her until she was shaking uncontrollably. Grappling in her bag for the car keys, she started for her car.
She sat behind the wheel another five minutes with the heater running full blast, waiting for the chattering of her teeth to subside. Agnes Beckett had met a terrible end. Violent. Senseless. Addison knew she must deal with that. But even as she struggled to accept, she couldn't help but wonder how much her mother had suffered in the minutes before death had taken her; whether or not she'd given any thought to the tiny daughter she had relinquished twenty-six years earlier.
They were questions that would never be answered now that her birth mother was dead. Addison would have to accept this twist of fate and go on, knowing this final chapter would put an end to her search forever. .
When the shaking subsided, Addison put the car in gear and pulled into the street. Though she wasn't sure at first exactly where she was going, she found herself heading west toward the cemetery. The only one in town, Jewel Harshbarger had told her, past the bridge on the left.
Twin Oaks Cemetery was located several miles out of town, nestled between a clapboard Methodist church and a cornfield. The grounds were well kept, surrounded by a wrought-iron fence and manicured shrubbery. The skeletons of maples and oaks and a variety of evergreens dotted the property within.
The gate stood open. Addison turned the car onto the smooth asphalt drive and passed through the entrance. Even if she didn't find Agnes Beckett's grave, this trip to the cemetery was something she needed to do. It was a step she needed to take, one that would help her grieve, to accept, and to go on. Though she hadn't known, or had the chance to love Agnes Beckett, she had over the last months of searching for her developed a sort of bond with her. She knew there was a part of herself that was mourning.
To her surprise, among the dozens of graves she had no trouble spotting the mound of freshly turned earth. Her throat constricted at the sight of it, and Addison knew that in a town the size of Siloam Springs, burials were probably infrequent.
Leaving the warmth of the car, she slowly made her way toward the plot. Around her the wind had calmed, but the air possessed a sharpness that cut to the bone. Sleet continued to fall, mostly snow now, filling the silence with the high-pitched tinkle of ice particles striking the frozen earth.
A single spray of plastic flowers lay against a small granite headstone. Addison faced the monument, wondering who had left the flowers. As she read the simple inscription, a sense of loss pierced her. The familiar sadness began to flow.
Before she realized it, before she could make herself stop, she felt tears on her cheeks. She cried for the birth mother she had lost. She cried for the parents fate had stolen from her earlier in the year. For the first time in months, she allowed the sadness to completely overwhelm her, to take her to a place she didn't often go, and she let her emotions run free. She dropped to her knees and cried openly, her sobs lost among the graves of strangers, the naked trees, and the dry, brittle corn.
Chapter 5
Randall parked in front of The Coffee Cup and sat there for five minutes trying to get his courage up. For the life of him he couldn't figure out why the hell he felt so damn compelled to go inside and apologize. Apologizing wasn't his usual modus operandi, particularly when it came to women. But in light of the fact that he'd made a complete ass of himself, he was going to bite the bullet and make amends. It didn't matter that she'd lodged a formal complaint with the Better Business Bureau against Talbot Investigations. It didn't matter that his brother's professional reputation was on the line and that Jack had, in no uncertain terms, threatened to put him out on the street if he didn't make things right.
It didn't matter that for the better part of the past month, Randall hadn't been able to get Addison Fox off his mind.
An array of colorful Christmas lights flashed in the front window as he approached, reminding him that it was the holiday season. A fact he could just as well live without since he couldn't remember the last time he'd bothered celebrating. The first couple of years he'd lived in D.C. he'd socialized with his coworkers at the NTSB. Back before the darkness of his profession had sent him crashing and burning.
Shaking off thoughts of the past, Randall opened the front door and stepped inside. The robust smell of coffee and the more delicate aromas of fresh-baked pastries and chocolate flowed over him, filling him with the vaguely pleasant memories of a childhood he hadn't remembered in years. Soft yellow light rained down from overhead tulip lamps, casting circular shadows onto a long, marble-topped bar. A row of old-fashioned stools ran the length of the bar. Several bistro tables were scattered near the front window. Tony Bennett's smooth-as-silk voice filled the shop with music from a simpler era.
The Coffee Cup was upscale and small, like many of the businesses, restaurants, and microbreweries that were revitalizing Denver's lower downtown.
It was closing time and the place was nearly empty. A man in a trench coat sat at the bar sipping coffee and browsing through the morning edition of the The Denver Post. A young couple shared a cappuccino at a comer bistro table.
Randall spotted Addison behind the bar and felt his mouth go dry. It was an odd reaction for a man who hadn't felt much of anything in the last six months. The company shrink had slapped a technical name on his emotional isolation, but Randall didn't put much weight in doctors, especially the nonmedical type.
He knew it wasn't wise for him to be there. He didn't like the responses this woman evoked. It had been a long time since he'd cared what somebody thought of him. He wondered how she would react if she knew he was a mental case. Of course, she probably already thought he was one.
Randall was thankful her back was to him since he wasn't sure how she was going to respond to his being there. He approached the bar slowly, watching her, wondering how he could have ever mistaken her for a topless dancer. Not that she didn't have the body for it. She most definitely did. But he could tell by her body language that she wasn't the type of woman who enjoyed being the center of attention.
She was vigorously scrubbing a stainless steel sink, oblivious of his approach. Her shoulders were slender with a rigid set. The black turtleneck she wore hugged a body that was willowy and nicely shaped. Because of the height of the bar, he couldn't see the rest of her and, frankly, he was glad for it. It wouldn't do him any good to waste his time thinking about how she filled out her jeans or wondering just how long those legs of hers were.
She was at least ten years his junior. Probably shallow-minded and immature to boot. Definitely not his type. Not that he was interested, he quickly reminded himself. A quick apology, a cup of coffee, and he was out of there.
Randall slid onto a stool and set the manila folder on the bar in front of him. He watched her work, mesmerized, amazed that a woman could look so damn sexy cleaning a sink. Her hair was mink brown and fell to her shoulders in unruly waves. From where he sat, he recognized the citrus and musk scent of her perfume from that day in his office. The warm, exotic scent he'd dreamed about on more than one occasion in the last three weeks.
As if she possessed some kind of sixth sense and had been alerted to the route his mind had taken, she straightened, then slowly turned. Clutching a pink sponge in one hand and a container of industrial-strength scouring powder in the other, she stared at him through brown, d
oe-like eyes. For an instant, the corners of her mouth turned up ill a smile that would have been dazzling—had she not ultimately recognized him.
He knew it the instant she did. Her smile faded. Her eyes cooled. She set down the scouring powder with a resonant thud. "I'm getting ready to close."
"The sign says you don't close for another ten minutes," he said.
Wordlessly, she turned away and left her place behind the bar. At the front door, she turned the sign to the closed position. As if on cue, the couple finished their cappuccino and started for the door. Calling them by their first names, Addison bid them good night. The man at the bar folded his newspaper and followed. Randall noticed he left a five-dollar tip, and he wondered if Addison Fox affected all men the way she did him.
The Perfect Victim Page 5
