In the Dead of Winter (an Emma Cassidy Mystery Book 5)

by Karen Chester

“They could monitor his mail and his visitors while he was in prison, but he’s been out on parole for two years. In fact, his parole’s ended, which was why he could travel interstate without asking permission from his parole officer.”

  Becky was staring at the officer. “He’d been out for two whole years already?”

  “Yes. Why? Does that bother you?”

  “No, it’s just—” Becky shook her head, perplexed. She turned troubled blue eyes on Emma. “Why now? Why did he wait so long? Was he really trying to track me down? Did he come here to see me or someone else?”

  The naked anxiety in her voice triggered a surge of protectiveness in Emma. It made her heart ache to see her friend—strong, calm, serene Becky—so undone by something beyond her control.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Emma murmured, thinking how useless her words were.

  “Is it?” Becky’s eyes filled with tears, and her chin began to tremble.

  Martinez jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair in his haste, and hurried around the table where he crouched awkwardly in front of her. “Becky, please don’t cry. I, um, I’ll do whatever I can to find out more information. I’ll get O’Reilly’s phone records, see who he was talking to.” He spoke earnestly, his square face suffused with emotion. As if to prove his devotion, he grabbed her hand, but then didn’t seem to know what to do next.

  “Th-thank you, Eric.” Collecting herself, Becky gently extricated her hand from his grip.

  Embarrassed, Martinez scrambled to his feet and ran a hand over his hair. “Uh, you know I’ll do everything I can to help you, Becky,” he muttered.

  “I know.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “And thank you for telling us all this information. It’s…very helpful. We—we should go now and let you get on with your work.”

  “I’ll tell you anything I find out as soon as I can.” Martinez stood to attention as they rose to their feet.

  Outside the station, Becky leaned against Emma and handed her the car keys. “You drive. I can’t think straight right now.”

  Emma helped her into the passenger seat, then hurried around to climb in behind the wheel. Without asking, she drove them to Becky’s home, a small, cheerful house less than a mile from the diner. As soon as they were inside, Becky flopped down on the nearest armchair, her hair tumbling about her pallid cheeks. Suddenly she looked vulnerable and as fragile as Dresden porcelain. Becky had always been the woman Emma turned to in a crisis, the steady rock upon which she and so many others depended. But now Becky was the one in need of help, and Emma felt frustrated by her impotence.

  Emma turned up the heat and went to the kitchen to make tea. Becky had always sworn by chamomile tea for calming the nerves and kept a range of different teas in her house. Emma was in the middle of pouring boiled water into a teapot when she heard her phone ringing from the living room. A second later the ringing stopped.

  Becky walked into the kitchen holding the phone. “It’s Sherilee,” she said, looking apprehensive.

  Oh God, what if Sherilee had more disturbing news? Emma wiped her hands before taking the phone. “Do you want me to put it on speaker phone?” she asked Becky.

  Becky lifted her chin. “Yes, please. If she has any news, I may as well hear it straight away.”

  Nerves jangling, Emma pressed the screen before setting the phone down on the kitchen counter. “Hi, Sherilee. You’re on speakerphone. Becky and I have just got back from the police station where Martinez said Kieran O’Reilly has been positively identified. He also told us about O’Reilly’s prison groupies.”

  “Oh. Well, at least I don’t have to explain that to you,” Sherilee said, her voice clear and calm as always. “I’m sorry you had to hear that, Becky. It must be hard to understand, and I have to confess I don’t get it either, but there you are. Some people are attracted to killers, usually serial killers. I believe some have even gone on to marry these men.”

  “Have you learned anything else about—about O’Reilly?” Becky hastily asked, clearly reluctant to dwell on the psychology of these ‘groupies.’

  “Yes. I spoke to his ex-parole officer, and I visited his home, the place he moved to after his release.”

  Becky sank onto a stool at the counter. “His home? What—what is it like?”

  “It’s just an ordinary clapboard house in Santé Fe. The neighborhood’s run down, but not that bad. His house was old and shabby, but he kept the place clean. The yard was spotless, and so was the inside. He didn’t have many possessions. Just a small couch, a table, a bed, some boxes with his clothes folded inside. Some books and a radio, but no television. In his mini-fridge there was a block of cheese, ketchup, eggs. It looked like he knew he was going away for a while and didn’t want any food to spoil, or maybe he always lived like that.”

  An image rose in Emma’s mind of the Spartan house with its bare furnishings and lack of luxuries. It seemed strange. Wouldn’t a man who had been incarcerated for almost three decades yearn for some color and softness and indulgence in his life? Wouldn’t he want to gorge on all the things he’d been denied —food and drink and entertainment? Or had he become so acclimated to prison life that he couldn’t function without a straitjacket in its place?

  “What did he do once he was on parole?” she asked.

  “He worked at a meat processing factory two days a week, and he had a shift at a carwash. He also volunteered at a men’s shelter several nights a week and on outdoor projects on weekends. Plus he saw a therapist once a month to work on his anger issues. Seems he kept himself on the straight and narrow.” Sherilee paused, and her voice grew more hesitant.

  “I get the impression that he was trying to make amends. He was a model prisoner, and when he came out on parole he never put a foot wrong. It’s quite unusual, in my opinion, and his parole officer agreed with me. He’s used to parolees going off the rails, unable to assimilate back into society, but he had none of those problems with O’Reilly. In fact, the PO sang his praises. Said he really liked the man, and he was genuinely shocked and sorry when he learned he was dead.”

  Becky clenched her jaw as if she were in pain. Emma poured out two cups of tea and pushed one of them to Becky. She chugged it down, not seeming to mind its heat.

  “So you’re saying my father was an all-round nice guy?” Becky’s voice shook. “It’s just such a pity he killed two people, including my mother.”

  “Oh, gosh no. That’s not what I’m saying at all.” After a moment’s hesitation, Sherilee continued, “I’m so sorry, Becky. It must be really hard for you to hear all this. I’ll stop now if you like.”

  “No, I’m sorry for asking you to do this. I shouldn’t have. It’s not your problem.”

  There was another pause before the cop said slowly, “Actually, I’m not so sure about that.”

  Something in Sherilee’s voice made Emma sit up. “What do you mean? Have you found something suspicious?”

  “I don’t know if it’s suspicious, but it does seem iffy to me. I went through O’Reilly’s correspondence. He kept everything in one box, so it was easy. Most of it was bills, but he did get letters from his groupies. He had three current admirers. Two of them had only sent a couple of letters, but the third one was the most persistent and sent him at least a dozen. But they weren’t the usual kind of fan mail. Some of the letters were…kind of creepy.” She huffed out a breath.

  “According to the letters, this groupie had managed to track down his daughter and knew her name and everything, but she wouldn’t give O’Reilly the information. At first it seemed that she was simply teasing him, holding out on him as a way of getting his attention. It seems he hadn’t been replying to her letters, and she wanted a response. But then as the weeks roll on, the letters begin to sound more sinister. The groupie said she was friends with his daughter, that she was close to her and knew what she did every day.”

  Becky shivered. “She’s been stalking me?”

  “It sounds like it. But then the tone of the letters c
hanges again. The groupie starts telling O’Reilly to stay away from his daughter, that she’s better off without him.”

  “That’s weird,” Emma commented, sipping her tea. “She goes to the trouble of tracking down Becky as a means to make O’Reilly respond to her, and when he does, she tells him to stay away. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I agree, but there’s no mistaking these last few letters. Even though she still admires O’Reilly, she doesn’t want him near his daughter, but he must have persuaded her somehow, because in the last one she relents and asks him to meet her in Greenville where she will reveal all to him.”

  “So she was the person he met on the night he died,” Emma said. The thought uppermost in her mind seemed obvious to all, but still she had to voice it. “She must have killed him.”

  Becky set down her teacup with a thunk, her knuckles white.

  Emma took a breath. “Who is the groupie?”

  “I don’t know.” Sherilee sounded glum. “The letters are signed Jamie. That could be male or female. The writing doesn’t give much clue either, and there’s no return address. I don’t know any Jamies in Greenville. Do you?”

  “No.” Emma glanced at Becky who shook her head. “Neither does Becky.”

  “Of course Jamie could be a false name, or the groupie could be using a different name in Greenville.” Sherilee’s voice grew ominous. “This Jamie could be anybody. Anybody who’s ever walked into Becky’s Diner.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Convivial laughter and conversation filled the confines of the Willa Arthur Center. The scent of roast beef and chicken wafted through the hall. On stage, the Morrisons played a country and western song, Rusty’s guitar twanging gently. Standing near the entrance doors of the hall, Emma surveyed the scene with some satisfaction. So far the New Year’s Eve fundraiser had gone off without a hitch. The food was delicious, the alcohol free-flowing, and the band entertaining. People were enjoying themselves, and hopefully their good spirits would see them give generously when it came time for the charity auction.

  Her gaze traveled across the hall and settled on Becky, seated at a table near the dance floor. Becky looked gorgeous in a bright red satin dress, her hair swept up into a soft chignon, her makeup flawless. After hearing what Martinez and Sherilee had to say about her father, Becky had wanted to stay at home, saying she was in no mood for partying. But Emma had persuaded her not to cancel. Isolating herself would do her no good, Emma had said. Plus, Nick would be hurt if she canceled at the last minute, and Emma wouldn’t be able to relax if she knew Becky was on her own. So Becky had made the effort to dress up, and though she had been tense in the beginning, after a couple of hours in Nick’s company, she now seemed at ease, participating in the conversation and even laughing at Nick’s jokes.

  Glad to see Becky enjoying herself, Emma focused on the charity auction, which was scheduled to take place before dessert was served. She walked out to the storage room off the lobby where the items to be auctioned were stored. She had already started ferrying contents to the stage in the hall when she’d paused to check on Becky. Now, she was surprised to see Hazel emerging from the storage room holding several auction pieces.

  “I thought you needed a hand,” the secretary said by way of explanation.

  “Oh, thank you, but you’ve helped so much already,” Emma said. “I don’t want to take you away from the party.”

  The secretary lifted her broad shoulders. Tonight she was wearing a navy blue evening dress and matching shoes with sensible heels, her few concessions to festivity being her red lipstick and gold stud earrings. Hazel Destefano was not a frivolous woman, but she was still attractive in a brusque, athletic sort of way.

  “You’re not taking me away from much,” Hazel said, pragmatic.

  “I’m sorry if you’re not enjoying the party.”

  “Oh, don’t feel sorry for me. I’ve never been a partygoer, but I enjoy observing others who are. It’s always interesting to see what people are like when they let down their hair, don’t you think?”

  The question startled Emma. “Er, yes, I suppose it could be interesting.” Emma picked up a couple of boxes. “Shall we go?”

  They walked into the hall and climbed the stairs to the stage, where the charity auction items were to be placed to one side. The band had finished their song, and some of the band members were taking a quick drink. Rusty, who had his back to the two women, swung his guitar, narrowly missing Hazel.

  “Watch out!” Hazel barked, glaring at the hapless singer.

  “Hey, sorry, man.” Rusty held up a hand in apology.

  “I’m no man!” Hazel seemed even more indignant as she drew herself to her full height, making her equal in height to Rusty.

  Confusion clouded Rusty’s amiable face. “Uh, sorry, lady.”

  With a final thunderous glare, Hazel set down the auction item and marched off the stage.

  Rusty lifted his shoulders at Emma. “What’s up with her? Did something bite her in the ass?”

  Thank heavens he hadn’t said anything like that in front of Hazel. “It’s nothing personal,” Emma replied. “Hazel is just, um, particular sometimes.”

  “Huh. Yeah, well, I’ve been noticing her a bit tonight.”

  “You have?” Rusty liked his women, but Hazel hardly seemed like his type.

  Rusty picked up a bottle of water and took a slurp. “It’s hard not to. She’s been sitting over there.” He gestured with his bottle at the table directly opposite the stage, the one occupied by Becky and Nick, and also by Emma’s friend, Stacey, and her boyfriend Greg. “I don’t know why she came tonight because she doesn’t look like she’s having a good time.”

  “She admits herself that she’s not a party animal.”

  “She’s got that right. The whole night she’s been giving Becky and Nick the stink eye.”

  “Oh?” Emma’s satisfaction at the success of the party subsided as her instincts switched into alert mode again. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean she really doesn’t seem to like seeing them together.” Rusty paused and rubbed the back of his neck, his expression growing rueful. “Not that I blame her. I can’t say I like it much myself.”

  Emma gazed at the crestfallen singer, her heart going out to him. “You’re a good friend of Becky’s,” she said, wanting to console him.

  “Yeah, but that’s all I am to her, right?” After a moment he pulled his shoulders back and pasted on a grin. “It’s okay. Becky and I have been pals for years, and nothing’s ever happened, and I know it never will.”

  He glanced over to the table where Nick was telling a joke, and everyone at the table, Becky included, was listening attentively. When he delivered the punch line, the whole table erupted with laughter, Becky included, her face warm with amusement.

  Rusty’s smile had faded. “But it’s hard seeing all these other guys make a play for her. Not just Nick, but Wayne Goddard, too, and even that dentist dude.” He picked up his guitar, his expression hardening. “Guess being a good friend isn’t enough these days. A guy has to make a statement to get noticed.” His fingers clenched the neck of the guitar, the muscles in his upper arm tensing.

  For the first time since she’d known him, Emma felt a faint flicker of apprehension. Rusty had always seemed like such a laid back character, but maybe that mildness hid a welter of emotions. He knew Wayne Goddard, and he had the kind of wiry strength that would make lifting a propane heater a piece of cake. He even knew that Wayne possessed a propane heater. Maybe Rusty, frustrated that his friendship with Becky would never progress to anything more, and angry at Wayne’s brazen flirting, had snapped and decided to do away with his rival.

  Emma took a step backward, dismayed by her thoughts. Rusty shot out an arm and grabbed her by the wrist.

  “Watch out!” he growled, making her already stretched nerves jump. “You almost fell down the stairs.”

  She glanced down and saw that he was right; she’d been half a foot away from
tumbling down the stage stairs. Rattled, she pulled her wrist out of his grip.

  Rusty’s eyes narrowed. “You okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I, er, better get on with my work or Hazel will start barking at me.”

  ‘Yeah, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of her.”

  Emma hurried away, conscious of the singer gazing after her. She was being silly, she told herself as she hurried out of the hall. It was ridiculous to suspect Rusty of murder. But then she thought of the white van that had almost mown her down in front of the diner. Didn’t the Morrisons transport their gear in a couple of white vans? Rusty could have borrowed one of them and used it to scare her, to distract her from her pursuit of the truth.

  She shook her head. Her suppositions were getting even more fanciful. It was almost a relief to see Hazel in the storage room and be forced to think about practical matters again.

  When all the items for the auction were set up on stage, Mayor Benson swaggered up to the microphone and made a speech. Then his wife took charge of the podium. When Emma had been informed that Monica Benson was to act as the auctioneer, she’d been taken aback and worried that they might not raise much money, but as the auction got under way, she was relieved to be proven wrong. The mayor’s wife was at her bossiest best, haranguing and shaming the wealthier partygoers to open up their wallets. The bids came thick and fast, with each piece making more than expected. Monica Benson wasn’t afraid to play off one bidder against another, bringing out the competitive spirit in them, much to the crowd’s delight.

  Eventually they came to the smaller items like chocolate hampers, lake cruises, and gym vouchers. And Becky’s chocolate-eggnog pie. All the other miscellaneous prizes were swiftly dealt with, but Becky’s pie drew a volley of bids. Nick, who had placed the first bid for twenty dollars, quickly had to up his call to fifty and then seventy, as two other men pushed up the price.

  Then, a new, confident voice spoke up from the back of the hall, “One hundred dollars!”

  Everyone craned their necks to see who the crazy guy was willing to pay a hundred bucks for a pie. It was Frank Lipperman, looking like Count Dracula in a black tuxedo and his shiny hair slicked back. The dentist smiled at Nick, but to Emma it looked like he was baring his fang-like teeth to his rival.