by Mary Burton
The pieces, tattered like fabric scraps, needed a master seamstress to take needle and thread and sew them together into a bright, big memory quilt. Perhaps this quilt would never be perfect or pretty, but it promised some kind of warmth and comfort. If the memories joined, calm was sure to follow. And perhaps the headaches would stop.
But even as she imagined a needle and thread basting fabric edges together, a slight jostle, a loud noise or a bad night’s sleep undid the stitching in a blink and the scraps unraveled.
Soft blue velvet. Red lipstick. A wordless melody.
All that ever remained were worthless scraps.
And the headaches.
And the raw fury that burned like boiling water.
November 1
Sugar,
You make me feel like a princess. Grace Kelly and Princess Diana ain’t got nothing on me when I’m with you. The private dinner was so perfect. The twinkling lights. Music. Iced champagne. Fried chicken. And the kiss. The kiss so very sweet and so very . . . hot. I realize now why so many find you hard to resist. Your energy draws people. It certainly draws me.
I did not give you an answer last night but . . . yes! Yes! Yes! I would love to ride down to Memphis in your new candy apple red car. And stay at the fancy hotel you talked about. I look forward to silk sheets and breakfast served on silver trays.
Until next weekend . . .
A.
Chapter Five
Saturday, October 15, 8 AM
Deke arrived home late last night, showered, and too jazzed to sleep, had grabbed a beer and sat in the worn recliner that had been Buddy’s favorite. As ESPN played on the big screen, he’d sipped the beer and stared at football wondering how many hours Buddy sat in this chair, alone and chewing on a case? How many years would Deke sit here, doing the same before his heart gave out and he earned a big funeral filled with speeches, bagpipes, and a five-gun salute.
He’d fallen into bed at two and risen by six. He’d stopped for more coffee and an egg bagel and now found himself at his desk, the one place he belonged.
Deke sat at his desk, coffee in hand, and flipped on the desk lamp. Rolling his head from side to side he attempted to work kinks from tired muscles that needed a week’s worth of rest, not more caffeine and paltry stretches.
He powered up his computer and waited as it came online. All the interviews he and KC had conducted yesterday had done little to get them closer to a killer. They’d heard an array of comments about Dixie. Most included her obsession with men and singing. And though some flat-out didn’t like her, most liked her bubbly nature.
A check of his answering machine had him listening to Rachel Wainwright’s voice. A familiar tension twisted his gut. “Detective Morgan, this is Rachel Wainwright. I’m calling about the DNA in the Jeb Jones case. Have you heard from the state lab? Call me.”
He hit delete. She never made an effort to soften her requests. No please or thank you. She was all hard angles and edges. Not the kind of woman he pictured snuggling next to on a long winter night.
A knock at his door had him raising tired eyes to a uniformed officer sporting a dolly stacked high with dusty brown boxes. “Officer Morgan, you requested files on the Annie Rivers Dawson case?”
Deke rose, surveying the hefty stack of boxes. “I did. Tell me that’s all you have.”
The short, stocky officer grinned as he backed the dolly into the room. “Got one more pile as big as this one.”
“Ten boxes.”
“It was the case back in the day. Had every cop in Nashville working on it.”
“Right.” He jerked his head toward a corner. “Start piling them there.”
The officer tipped the dolly back and moved it across the room. As he started to unload, he added, “You gonna go through all these?”
He lifted the lid of a dusty, yellowed box and glanced at the files packed so tight it would take a crowbar to wedge one free. “Not unless I have to.”
“You think the DNA will go against you?”
“It pays to be prepared.”
“So you do think there could be a problem?”
“No. I don’t.” He closed the lid. Better to cut rumors off at the knees. “I’m curious, that’s all. Keep loading. I’ll be back.”
He headed to the forensics lab where he found Brad Holcombe. In his late thirties, Brad had a thick, stocky frame that built muscle as easily as it did fat. Lately, months away from the gym had softened the muscle and robbed the man of color. Red hair swept over freckled skin that burned with the slightest kiss of the sun.
“Brad,” Deke said.
Brad looked up from a pair of overalls laid out flat on a large table. In one hand he had a magnifying glass and in the other a set of tweezers. “Deke. Come to ask about the DNA?”
He wanted free of this case and Buddy’s shadow. “I have. Heard anything?”
“I called last night before I left the office. It should be here in a few days.”
The door to the lab opened and his sister, Georgia Morgan, pushed into the lab, bursting with her customary gust of energy. Unlike her brother, Georgia had a fair complexion and blond hair that she kept twisted into a bun at the base of her skull while working. She had soft cheekbones, a heart-shaped face and full lips that easily split into a wide grin. A bundle of energy, she couldn’t speak without using her hands or keeping her voice from rising or falling with emotion. “What will be here in a few days?”
Deke sipped his coffee. “Lab results.”
Georgia scrunched up her face. “The Annie Rivers Dawson case?”
She’d been born with radar. “That’s right.”
“I saw the stacks of boxes in your office.”
He’d hoped to avoid any drama with Georgia. “I must have missed you.”
She dropped her backpack on her small corner desk and shrugged off her sweater. “Thought we could invite the clan over to the Big House in a couple of weeks.”
“Why is everyone coming over?”
“It’s brother Alex’s birthday.”
“Birthday.” He’d forgotten.
She shook her head, an annoyed brow arched. “Yeah, I know. Not on your radar. That’s my job to keep this rag-tag group of Morgans together. But I live in a one bedroom apartment and you’re camped out in the Big House, so you’re gonna have to host.”
“Fine.”
Since their mother’s death, Georgia had tried to honor the birthday party tradition. The Morgan brothers had played along while Buddy was alive but now all had scurried away like rats on a sinking ship.
“I’m baking a cake like Mom always did,” she said.
Deke grimaced as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “What if I pay you to buy one from a baker?”
Blue eyes flashed the first warning sign of Georgia’s trademark temper. “Very funny. I can bake a cake.”
Each time he stomached one of her cakes it weighed heavy in his gut for days. “Why don’t you sing “Happy Birthday”? You’re the one with a voice. I’ll buy a cake.”
“No, it has to be made. From scratch.” Give her a murder scene and she was cool and collected. Mess with a family tradition, and then you better expect a meltdown. “It’s what we’ve always done.”
Deke rubbed the back of his neck. “Georgia, you damned near burned the house to the ground the last time you cooked.”
“That was six years ago. And I have improved. Buddy said so.”
“He was always a soft touch with you. You could serve him roadkill and he’d have grinned.”
She scrunched up her face. “Funny.”
“Not kidding.”
She waved away his sour, if not begrudgingly playful expression. Blue eyes narrowed. “I’ll skip baking the cake if you let me help you with the Dawson case.”
There was always an angle with Georgia. “No.”
“I don’t like that word.”
“Tough.”
She stepped closer and lowered her voice as if remembering Brad was in the
room. “Why can’t I help? I can handle the extra work.”
He kept his expression neutral, knowing the more he fed this argument the hungrier she’d get. “No one’s digging into the files until the DNA comes back. Right now it’s a matter of if not when we reopen the case.”
“I’d still like to read the files.”
“No.” Deke, his growing annoyance caught Brad’s attention. “Brad, let me know when the DNA arrives.”
Brad glanced quickly at Georgia before he straightened and met Deke’s gaze. “Will do.”
Georgia glared at Brad and mouthed the word “traitor” before following Deke out the door. “Why are you shutting me out?”
When he’d been fourteen and she’d been four they’d been riding in the car with their mom who’d been dropping him off at the movies to meet friends. Georgia had wanted to go to the movies with Deke. Mom had said no and Georgia had screamed during the entire drive to the theater. She’d never gotten her way but she’d taken hostages. “This is not your case, Georgia.”
“But I’d like it to be.”
A wry smile twisted the edges of his mouth. “I’d like to win the lottery but the chances are slim to none.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Georgia, I don’t have the time or patience to argue with you. Stick to your own caseload.” He rarely pulled rank but didn’t hesitate now. “Stay out of my case.”
Eyes widened with shock and offense as if she hadn’t seen this answer coming from a mile away. “You aren’t being fair.”
“Life isn’t fair.”
“I’m baking that cake.”
“Bring it.”
A final glare and she turned and left. She didn’t scream as she’d done when they were kids, but he sensed the idea tempted. A turn of the heel and she vanished around a corner.
Deke returned to his office and stared at the stack of boxes. He sipped his coffee as he flipped off the lid of the top box, which he discovered was as crammed full of files as the first box he’d inspected. His father had never left a stone unturned and he liked to document. If Deke had been under the gun on a high-profile case he’d have saved every scrap of paper.
Deke hadn’t read any of his case files and could admit he was tempted. But there’d be no way Deke would have time to invest the one hundred and fifty man hours into a case reevaluation. He dialed his cell.
On the second ring he heard his brother Rick’s garbled, “What?”
“Don’t tell me you’re sleeping.”
“Sure why not? I was up late last night studying.”
“I always figured you’d be the one to keep a routine.”
“Not anymore.”
The second Morgan son, Rick, had changed in more ways than Deke could count since he’d been shot six months ago. He’d taken medical leave and gone back to school. “Near death experiences,” he’d said, “have a way of lining up all the stray ducks in your life.”
“Want some freelance work?”
“Depends.” He sighed into the phone.
“It’s the Annie Rivers Dawson case files.”
“DNA is back?” Interest sharpened the tone of his voice.
Deke slid his hand into his pocket and rattled the change. “Not yet. Any day now. But I’ve a gut feeling this case might go sideways. I want to be ready.”
“For what?”
“If the DNA proves Jeb Jones didn’t kill Annie Rivers Dawson. A shit storm.”
In the background Rick’s dog, Tracker, barked, his deep throaty voice still as menacing as it had been when he’d first been assigned to Rick seven years ago. Next came the sound of Rick moving through the house and opening the back door. “You think it will be that huge?”
“If Rachel Wainwright has a say. Yes.”
Rick chuckled. “The fair Ms. Rachel. I saw her on campus yesterday.”
Despite himself, his interest peaked. “Riding a broom?” He chuckled. “Visiting the math department. There’s a part-time teacher in that department who works as a private investigator from time to time. My guess is Wainwright paid her a visit.”
“Why would she need a PI?”
“She’s a defense attorney. They work with PIs all the time.” Tracker barked. A door opened again. Paws scrambled back inside. “When do you want me to get started?”
“Whenever you can get here. And the sooner, the better. Georgia came by my office and saw the files. And Georgia being Georgia won’t stay out of the boxes for long.”
“I’ll be by in an hour with my truck. Lend me a couple of uniforms and I’ll have the files out of your office in ten minutes.”
“Thanks. Oh and be warned, Georgia wants us to get together for Alex’s birthday at the Big House.”
A heavy silence crackled through the phone. “I’m not sure if I can make that one.”
His terse tone hinted at another fault in the Clan Morgan’s foundation. “You aren’t still pissed with Alex, are you?”
“Like you once said, I can carry a grudge for years.”
“Try and put this one aside. It’s important to Georgia that we all stay close. She’s baking a cake.”
He groaned. “If you are trying to convince me, that’s not doing the trick.”
“We can all eat dry cake and manage to be civil with one another for a half-hour.”
“As long as Alex keeps his comments to himself, I’ll try.”
“Great.”
More silence. “Maybe we could use the time to make some decisions about the house.”
Deke rubbed his hand over his short hair, missing the undercover days when he could hide behind long hair and grungy clothes. “The one time I suggested we sell and split the proceeds Georgia blew up.”
“This conversation won’t be fun for any of us. The house deserves to have someone living in it that wants to be there.”
Deke wanted to argue. He wanted to say that he still loved the house and would find a way to make it family central again. But he couldn’t promise that. He might sleep and eat quick meals at the house, but it wasn’t home anymore. In fact, he spent as little awake-time there as possible because it felt as if the house, a monument to the unstoppable Morgan family, stood in silent judgment of his failed marriages and unsettled life.
Rick was right. The house deserved better. A decision had to be made.
“I’ll let her sing “Happy Birthday” before I open the subject,” Deke said.
“Do it before she cuts the cake.”
“No way, bro. We eat her crappy cake and smile first. Then the house.”
A whispered oath escaped through the phone line. “Agreed.”
“See you in an hour.”
“Will do.”
Rachel slid the DVD into her computer and leaned back in her chair as the PC whirred and readied the disc. She sipped her morning coffee as the image of Jeb Jones appeared on the screen.
He had a long lean face, deeply lined but freshly shaven. An orange jumpsuit robbed what little color remained in his gaunt face and emphasized shoulder-length gray hair slicked back. A fading spiderweb tattoo clung to the side of his neck as a jagged scar meandered along his jawline. He’d gotten both in prison.
She’d made this tape six weeks ago when she’d driven three hours west toward Memphis to visit Jeb at the federal prison.
The camera shot over her right shoulder directly into Jeb’s face.“Jeb, I’m taping this so that I can show it in court if need be.”
Silver handcuffs rattled around his wrists as he threaded his fingers together. His hands trembled slightly, not from fear but Parkinson’s. “What do you mean if need be?”
“If the DNA proves you didn’t kill Annie.”
Jeb scratched his clean-shaven chin. “Unless the cops monkey with it, it will show I’m innocent.”
“Jeb, I need for you to tell me in your own words what happened the night Annie Dawson vanished.”
He looked at her and then at the floor before drawing in a deep breath. “I’ve told this
story so many times. Can’t you read my file?”
“I need to hear it from you in your own words. I need you to say it in the camera.”
He raised a manacled hand to his temple and scratched. “Where do you want me to start?”
“Start from the moment you woke up. It would have been October sixteenth. A Tuesday.”
“Oh, I know exactly what day it was. I’ve replayed it over the last thirty years and I don’t imagine there is a detail I’ve forgotten.”
“Tell me.”
He hesitated and then nodded. “Like you said it was a Tuesday. And it was warm that day. Really warm. I had to get up early to work at the garage. There was a transmission job that needed to be done by lunch. A ’71 Cutlass. Green. Anyway, I wasn’t feeling so good that morning. Hungover. I’d won money in cards the night before and spent it on extra rounds at the bar.” His gaze grew distant.
“What are you thinking?” she prompted.
“About my boy. He was nine at the time. I could have come home the night before and spent time with him, but I chose to go to the bar. At the time I thought I deserved a special night for myself. Thought I was owed a good time. So I left Kirk at home with his mom even though I’d been promising to spend time with him.”
Jeb’s poor parenting had been a painful regret that he’d expressed to her often. He’d said several times that he didn’t want to go to his grave branded a murderer in his boy’s eyes.
“What happened next?” she prompted.
“I grabbed a smoke and left the house about five. The transmission would take every bit of six hours and I didn’t need to lose this job.” He sniffed, shaking his head. “I spent the day at the garage working on the car. Took longer than I’d imagined and I didn’t knock off until six. I could have gone home but I took a detour.”
“Where did you go?”
His gaze dropped. “I drove by Annie’s house.”
“Why?” When he didn’t answer, she added, “Jeb, there’s no downside.”
“’Cause I wanted to see her,” he ground out. “I couldn’t get her off my mind.”
