by Joanna Wayne
There were little things he might pick up about the latest victim’s lifestyle, unexpected clues as to how she became the target of the killer. But he wouldn’t be looking for signs of guilt among the family members this time. While he couldn’t rule out a copycat murder, it was highly likely that the crime had been committed by the same man who’d killed Sally Martin. Cruel murder by a man with no conscience.
The way it had been with Peg.
His heart constricted as if someone were squeezing the valves and shutting it down. Time was supposed to heal all wounds, so said the all-knowing shrink the San Antonio police chief had made him see before he’d finally left there and moved back to Georgia. But seven years hadn’t done a lot toward dulling the memory or the pain.
It might have been different if he’d gotten some kind of closure. But he hadn’t. The guy who’d killed Peg had never been caught, even though Sam had been so obsessed with finding him that he’d lost his job. Even that hadn’t stopped him. Finally booze had.
Realizing he was turning into a bitter drunk, just like the stepfather he’d hated so much, he’d cleaned up his act and gotten a job with the Prentice Police Department, thanks to a recommendation from his old supervisor. Tony Sistrunk had probably saved his life.
Sam had come a long way since then. But these two murders brought it all back home. Two women had died needlessly, throats slashed and chests painted by some crazy punk with a knife.
And it wasn’t enough that he killed without cause. No, he had to be mesmerized by Caroline Kimberly, a woman who’d already managed to crawl under Sam’s skin the way no woman had done in seven long years.
Caroline had probably hit close to the truth with her analogy. Tonight she’d probably been the foreplay. The latest victim had been the orgasm. But how long would that be enough?
Sam started the engine and drove away with Peg and the pain of losing her in his heart, a killer on his mind. And the taste of a feisty, sexy reporter still clinging to his lips.
THE GHOSTS WERE out in force tonight, creaking floorboards and moaning with the wind as it rounded the corner outside Caroline’s bedroom. The noises of the old house were familiar. She knew it was crazy, but even if the spirits were only imagined, she liked thinking they were there. A link to the past. A sense of continuity that eased the loneliness that came from a life of belonging nowhere and to no one.
She’d been placed in the Grace Girls’ Home when she was seven. She’d been treated well there, but being treated well wasn’t the same as being part of a family. She didn’t remember anything before being at Grace. But by the time she moved there, the nightmare that still haunted her was already in place.
A church. Dark, steep stairs that led to a bottomless pit. The fear that she was going into that hell and would never come out. And the sound of a crying baby. Probably memories she’d locked away, a school counselor had once told her. If so, she hoped they stayed locked away forever.
And now she’d have the sights of murdered women and a heart-shaped cookie in a white paper bag to add to the cache of things better forgotten. She shivered just thinking about opening the bag and seeing the note. It had been only a few hours since she’d found it by her back door, yet so much had happened since then.
The murder.
And the surprise of the evening—Sam’s kiss.
Not that the kiss had been bad. To the contrary, she’d liked it a lot. Even when he was being a pain, Sam had a kind of brooding sex appeal that was impossible to deny.
She wondered what might have happened if he hadn’t pulled away when he had. Would she have stopped him before they went too far, or would he be in bed beside her now? She honestly didn’t know.
Caroline closed her eyes and began counting backward from a hundred, the way she did when she had trouble falling asleep. By the time she reached seventy-seven, her thoughts were drifting aimlessly, in and out of her consciousness, and she fell into a restless sleep.
The images crept in. Sam’s lips on hers, his hands in her hair, her heart beating fast. Too fast. He faded away and there was the cookie staring at her, sitting next to a bloody body.
She tossed and turned, the dream moving through space and time until she was a little girl, holding hands and giggling with her friends. But she was cold. And it was dark.
And then the baby started to cry.
Caroline jerked awake, an old familiar fear choking her. She threw her legs over the side of the bed, stuffed her feet into her fuzzy slippers and started to the kitchen for a glass of water.
Her bedroom was downstairs, at the end of the wide hallway. She hurried past the door to the basement, but still felt the cold draft that was always there. It was the only part of the old house she didn’t like. She’d started for water, but she paused at the foot of the winding staircase. The entire house held the essence of the Billinghams, but their spirits always seemed more pronounced upstairs.
Caroline climbed the steps slowly, turned on the overhead chandelier and breathed a little easier as the antique brass fixture sprayed the wide, second-floor hallway with a glow filtered through faceted crystal.
The grandfather clock downstairs struck three. Too early to start the day, but Caroline didn’t want to go back to the bedroom, so she curled up on the old sofa and pulled the patterned quilt over her legs. This time she slept till morning.
CAROLINE WAS at her desk in the Times office two days later, putting the finishing touches on a story about the reflections of the residents near Cedar Park concerning the brutal crime that had been committed in their historic and usually quiet neighborhood—and against one of their own. The victim had been identified as Ruby Givens, a twenty-six-year-old unmarried nurse who’d gone for a late evening jog.
Caroline had spent the morning interviewing the people who lived on the street bordering the park, and in every case she could see fear in their eyes. Most didn’t want to be mentioned in the article by name. Anonymity seemed safest to those too close to the crime.
The people in the area knew a lot more about the viciousness of the crime than they would have if the news media had not been first on the scene. The police hadn’t gotten a chance to run the information through their filter system before it was released.
Indications were that the killer was the man who’d called both the TV station and the newspaper offices. Apparently he craved the spotlight. As yet that was all anyone seemed to know about him, unless the police had leads they weren’t revealing.
But Sam’s words played in her mind the way they had all day today. Dead women don’t talk. Could that have anything to do with why they were dead? Had the killer stalked them, tried to get them to go out with him and been rejected? But if that had been the case with Sally Martin, why hadn’t her family mentioned it?
Duh. Who told their parents about guys hitting on them? But Sally would have told someone. Women always talked. So why hadn’t her friends told the police?
Fear. The same fear that had been so prominent in the people Caroline had interviewed this morning. The kind of fear that had turned her into a shuddering mass at the sight of a package by her door.
Maybe she should go back to the Catfish Shack and see if she could catch Trudy Mitchell. Trudy and Sally were about the same age. Both were employees at the restaurant, and come to think of it, Trudy had seemed nervous when Caroline had interviewed her right after Sally’s murder. But then, so had everyone else.
The phone on her desk buzzed. Light three was blinking. She picked up the receiver. “Caroline Kimberly, news desk.”
“So what’s the news these days?”
“Hi, Becky. I was just thinking about calling you.”
“Have you had lunch yet?”
“I grabbed a burger on my way back to the office.”
“Ugh. Greasy fast food when you could have stopped by Bon Appetit. You could come out now for coffee and dessert.”
“Sounds good, but I have a story to finish for tomorrow’s edition.”
“Th
en how about tennis tomorrow?”
She chuckled at Becky and her boundless energy, but Caroline could use the exercise. “Tennis sounds wonderful.”
“Super. Is ten okay? We can meet at the club.”
“I’ll see you there.”
Becky had the life. She owned Bon Appetit, a small coffeehouse and gourmet deli that was always busy—not that Becky needed the money. But she could go in and work when she wanted or hang out at the Prentice Country Club and play tennis whenever the mood hit her.
She had a great family, too. No brothers or sisters, but Dr. and Mrs. Simpson were as sweet as they could be, and they doted on their vivacious daughter. The only thing Becky didn’t have in her life was a steady boyfriend. But there was plenty of time, even though Becky wanted a houseful of kids. She was only twenty-six.
The same age as Ruby Givens. So back to the article and the gore.
THE CATFISH SHACK was located about ten miles southwest of town, off Highway 5 and overlooking the Chattahoochee River. It was too late for the lunch crowd and too early for the dinner crowd when Caroline arrived. A perfect time for talking to the blond bartender.
Caroline scanned the restaurant. There was a family with three small children sitting at a back table, an elderly couple sitting next to the window and a couple of guys in hunting attire sitting smack in the middle of the room. That was, no doubt, their mud-caked vehicle she’d parked next to in the parking lot.
“You can sit anywhere,” a middle-aged waitress said, scooting by her with a platter of golden-fried catfish. Caroline opted for the bar and had her choice of stools. Prentice was not a drinking town, especially before quitting time on a Friday afternoon. She waited for several minutes before Trudy came out of the kitchen and spotted her.
Trudy frowned as she walked over. “Are you here to drink or to ask questions?”
“I’ll have a cup of coffee.”
Trudy was attractive even in a uniform that did nothing for her slim figure. She didn’t smile or make eye contact when she set the coffee in front of Caroline.
“Cream?”
“No. I’ll take it black.”
Trudy picked up a damp rag and started wiping the counter, ignoring Caroline, but staying within speaking distance.
Caroline was almost certain she wasn’t going to get any more information from Trudy than what she’d gotten the last time, but she might as well give it a shot.
“Had you known Sally long?”
Trudy wiped all the harder on a surface that was already glossy. “I didn’t know her until she came to work here.”
“How long ago was that?”
“About six months ago.” She dropped the cloth and held on to the edge of the bar. “Guess that was her big mistake.”
An odd response. Unless, of course, Sally’s working here had something to do with her death. Maybe she’d met the killer here. But then, if Trudy thought that, she must have an idea who the perp was. “Did Sally date much?”
“You asked me that the last time. I told you then I don’t know anything about who she dated or where she went when she left here. We were friendly at work, but we didn’t hang out together.”
Caroline nodded. Wrong approach. She needed to be less direct. Had to consider the fear factor. “The catfish smell good. I don’t how you manage your weight so well working here.”
“I don’t eat the catfish. I look at it and smell it all day. That’s enough.”
“But I bet the tips are good.”
“Good enough. Not as good as they were when I worked some of the nightspots in Atlanta.”
“But at least it’s a family place so you don’t have guys hitting on you all the time like you would in a big city.”
“You’d think.”
“Doesn’t work that way, huh?”
“Not always.”
Trudy looked away, but she was biting her lip, and Caroline was almost certain she’d hit a nerve. “Bet Sally had a few admirers, pretty as she was.”
“She had them.” Trudy walked over and refilled Caroline’s coffee cup. “Are you thinking that one of the guys who came in here might have killed her?”
“I don’t know enough to even venture a guess. What do you think?”
Trudy didn’t say a word, but Caroline read the answer in her eyes and the way her hand shook when she put the coffeepot back in place.
Now was the time to push. “Your co-worker is dead, Trudy, and so is another young woman. If you know anything that might lead to finding the guy responsible, you owe it to both of them to say so.”
Trudy picked up the cloth again, but this time she only wrung it in her hands. “I don’t know anything.”
“I know it’s scary, but you can level with me. I’m not a cop.”
“Same difference. If I tell you something, it goes right in the newspaper for everyone in town to read.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. I won’t print it if you don’t want me to.”
“But you’d tell that detective who keeps coming around.”
“Detective Turner?”
“Him and the young detective who works with him.”
“Matt?”
“Yeah. He comes here almost every day. All the waitresses like him. But I’ve told him time and again I don’t know anything.”
“If you tell me, I can give them the information without letting everyone know you’re the one who told me.”
“Wouldn’t you have to if they asked?”
“A reporter never has to reveal her sources.” That wasn’t entirely true, but in this case it wouldn’t matter. “I’d only give the information to Detective Turner, and he isn’t going to leak the information, Sally. He’s not going to endanger you.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“Because I’m a woman, too. I feel the same fear you do and I won’t put you at risk.” Caroline’s pulse quickened. “Was someone stalking Sally?”
“No. Nothing like that.” Trudy leaned in close and lowered her voice to a whisper. “But there was this one guy who came in all the time. He never ordered food, just hung around the bar and talked to Sally when she’d go back and forth to the kitchen. He watched her, too. All the time.”
“What was his name?”
“I don’t know.”
Caroline was sure she was lying again. “A name would really help.”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Was he Sally’s boyfriend?”
“No. She was still hung up on some guy at Auburn. They’d had a thing while she was in school there, but he’d broken up with her. That’s when she flunked out and came home.”
Caroline wondered if Sam knew about the guy at Auburn. She was almost certain he didn’t know about the guy who hung out at the Catfish Shack. “Do you think Sally ever saw this guy away from the restaurant?”
“I don’t think so, but I’m not sure.”
“How old is this guy?”
“Late twenties, maybe.”
“Has he been in here since Sally was killed?”
Trudy backed away and went back to scrubbing the bar. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything else.”
Caroline reached across the bar and laid her hand on Trudy’s. It was cold as ice. “Tell me what the guy looks like, Trudy. I promise he won’t find out that you told me.”
“He’s nice-looking. Blond hair. Wears it short.”
“How tall?”
“I’m not good at heights.”
“Taller than you?”
“Oh, yeah. Average, I’d say, for a guy.”
“Is he slim?”
“No. Average. He’s just pretty much average, except on the cute side if you consider most of the guys around Prentice.” She leaned her elbows on the bar.
“How did he dress?”
“Slacks and a sport shirt usually. Sometimes jeans.”
Caroline scribbled down some notes, then stuck the
pad and pen back into the side pocket of her handbag. The description would fit about half the population of Georgia.
“There is one other thing,” Trudy said. “I don’t think he’s from Prentice.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, I never saw him around town, just in here.”
Very interesting. “Thanks, Trudy.”
“Remember your promise. I didn’t say nothin’.”
“You have my word.”
Caroline paid for the coffee, left a more-than-generous tip and hurried out to her car. The second she was inside, she took out her cell phone and punched in Sam’s number. Busy. She put the phone away and reversed out of the parking spot.
The road back to the highway was short but fairly isolated. Not many houses, and the few that were there sat back near the river and were barely visible through the thick growth of trees.
When her phone rang, Caroline grabbed it, hoping it was Sam, that he’d picked up her number from a calls-missed message. She couldn’t keep the excitement from her voice when she answered.
The caller wasn’t Sam.
“Hello, Caroline. Did you enjoy your cookie?”
Chapter Six
Caroline switched the phone to “speaker” to free her hands for maneuvering the winding road. The caller’s voice was low and guttural, as if he was talking through a device to alter his voice. Her flesh grew clammy, and when she tried to respond to his question, her throat closed on the words.
“I asked if you enjoyed your cookie. It’s not polite to ignore a friendly question.”
“Y-yes.” She had to get control. If he knew how badly he was getting to her, it would give him even more power. “Why did you buy me a cookie?”
“It was Valentine’s Day, and I wanted you to know I was thinking of you. Have you been thinking of me, Caroline?”
“Who are you? How did you get my address and my cell-phone number?”
“Oh, sweet, innocent Caroline. You have so much to learn. A smart man can find out anything about anyone. And I am very, very smart.”
