by Diane Noble
Kate settled in. Caroline leaned toward her. “That Newt Keller character still isn’t here.”
“Maybe he went out to breakfast,” LuAnne said. “Sometimes service at the diner can be slow, especially when I’m not around to set things in order,” she said with a wink.
“Maybe Newt never came back,” Millie Lovelace said. “After lunch yesterday, I mean.”
“Maybe somebody did him in,” Caroline muttered under her breath.
“Mama, that’s a terrible thing to say,” Renee sniffed, giving her mother a sharp look.
“You heard it here first,” Caroline said.
Daryl Gallagher strode to the front of the studio audience and asked for everyone’s attention. “Thank you all for coming, and I’m delighted to announce that I will be directing this morning’s segment as a guest fill-in for Newt Keller.”
Kate leaned forward, her heart thumping out a staccato beat. Trouble here in River City indeed.
“I told you so,” Caroline whispered.
Several people in front of Kate exchanged worried glances. Strangely, the onstage crew members seemed to take the news in stride, going about their work as if their producer’s disappearance was expected.
Or maybe they were just relieved.
The makeup artist had set up her portable makeup table and lighted mirror to one side of the soundstage. Susannah seemed much more relaxed as she sat down in front of the mirror. The artist picked up a long-handled brush and went to work.
Daryl went on, as usual, with her pep talk, telling the audience members they were the liveliest and most cooperative people she had ever worked with. She glanced back toward the stage, saw that the makeup artist had finished with Susannah, then she turned to the audience again.
“And so we begin,” Daryl said. “Newt isn’t here, but let’s make him proud.” For a moment, dead silence filled the room. Then the crew cheered and applauded, the audience joined in, and Daryl beamed. It seemed apparent to Kate that the cheers going up from the crew were not about making Newt proud. She was almost certain they were because he wasn’t there to direct the segment.
But why was he was gone? Producer-directors just didn’t do a “no-show,” did they? Something didn’t add up.
And what about the threats she’d heard against him? She considered each one. Then she considered the caked mud on the Miata tires.
Daryl called out, “Quiet on the set!”
Kate sat back and tried to relax, focusing her attention on Susannah’s performance. Her friend bantered with the audience even as she showed them how to make her no-fail chocolate soufflé. She literally had them eating out of the palm of her hand.
Despite her jokes and hearty showmanship, Kate could tell Susannah worried about something. It was obvious by the way she glanced at the door leading to the foyer, the worried scrutiny she gave her spices as she measured each, even the sniff she gave the eggs as she cracked them.
Maybe no one else noticed. But Kate did.
As the taping continued, Kate better understood Susannah’s nervousness. Someone forgot to turn on the oven. A key saucepan was missing. The electric mixer was stuck on its highest speed. Yet Kate had watched the preshow preparations with unblinking concentration. She hadn’t noticed anything—or anyone—unusual.
Susannah handled each little glitch with humor and grace, and the audience loved her for it.
Then, almost as if on cue, Kisses started to snore. What began as soft Chihuahua-size sleepy sighs rumbled into louder and louder full-blown, people-size snores.
From the stage, Susannah pointedly looked toward Kate with a quizzical frown.
Daryl put her hands on her hips and yelled, “Cut!” Then shielding her eyes from the bright stage lights, she turned to search the audience for the culprit.
Kate made a snap decision. “Let me have him,” she whispered to Renee. “He needs some fresh air.” And so did she.
When Kate gathered the little dog into her arms, he woke with a loud snort, then looked startled at his own noise. The audience laughed. Even Daryl chuckled.
“Well, now,” Susannah said from where she was still standing at the kitchen-set counter. “I never thought I’d be upstaged by a dog. A sleeping dog at that.”
As the audience laughed with Susannah, Kate led the Chihuahua from the studio by his jeweled leash.
She walked him around the parking lot for a few minutes, then caught herself meandering toward Susannah’s Miata. Kisses fixed his gaze on the rear tire, but Kate nudged him toward a clump of autumn-brown grass.
While he sniffed his way through the grass, Kate stooped to have another look at the mud. The mud made of red clay.
Suddenly, it came to her where she’d seen it before.
“Come on, little fella,” she said to Kisses. “We’re going for a drive.”
KATE SPED OUT of town, Kisses standing on her lap, ears perked, looking through the driver’s side window. She had turned on Smith Street, knowing the red mud came from a certain part of Copper Mill Creek where the creek meandered west, creating short, rocky falls and lengthy pools.
Joe Tucker’s house was in that same direction, five miles out, but the place she had in mind was about a mile short of Joe’s place.
It took her only a few minutes to reach the turn off—a dirt road that led to the creek. She and Paul had picnicked there once after Joe pointed it out to them. She remembered it as peaceful, the air filled with birdsong and bubbling brook sounds.
She rounded a corner, now in full view of the place she remembered.
There, just beyond a clump of willows and autumn-bare trees, was the Hummer.
Kate’s eyes filled. She didn’t realize until now how much she had hoped she was wrong.
This was the only place she knew of in Copper Mill where the Miata could have picked up such substantial amounts of this mud.
Susannah had been here.
Chapter Eight
At 4:13 AM, Kate’s eyes flew open. Her sleep had been restless at best, and since midnight, she had spent more time tossing and turning than sleeping. After she found the Hummer, she’d called 911 immediately. As difficult as it was to stay away from the vehicle, she wasn’t ready to intrude on what might be the scene of a crime.
Now she wondered if she should have taken the risk and checked out the Hummer. She knew the sheriff had launched an investigation after she called, but what if he—or his deputies—missed something important? With so much at stake, she should at least have taken a peek through the windows.
After Sheriff Roberts had called for the investigation, the hills and valleys around Copper Mill Creek had been combed by his staff, by volunteer search-and-rescue members from neighboring towns, by concerned citizens who just wanted to help, and by a few of the less disgruntled Taste crew members.
It was one of the biggest events to hit Copper Mill in years, and Kate suspected many of the searchers were looking for him not out of love but because they hoped for a bit of media attention. That assumed, of course, that the media got wind of the news—and Kate was certain they would.
But that wasn’t what had kept her awake most of the night. She’d been thinking about Newt Keller himself. No matter how abominable the man had been to others, he didn’t deserve whatever foul play that had apparently befallen him.
Kate swung her legs out of bed, grabbed her robe, and padded into the kitchen to make a cup of chamomile tea. She usually made coffee as soon as she got up, but caffeine was the last thing she needed when her brain was buzzing already. While she waited for the teakettle to heat, she leaned against the counter, arms folded.
She tried not to think about the three people she’d heard make threats against Keller, but she couldn’t push them from her mind any longer. Birdie. Armand. And the one person she still couldn’t bear to consider: Susannah...The teakettle rattled to a simmering boil, and Kate lifted it from the burner before its shrill whistle woke Paul. After pouring herself a steaming mug of tea, she carried it into the livi
ng room, flipped on the switch to the fireplace, and settled into her rocking chair with a sigh.
She bowed her head, praying for peace to flood her soul. How she needed it this morning! A verse from the Psalms came to her, and she whispered it as a prayer. “Let your unfailing love comfort me, just as you promised me...”
As was her custom every morning she prayed for Paul and his ministry, the Faith Briar parishioners, their children, and friends...and especially for Susannah. “Let your unfailing love comfort her this day, Lord,” she whispered.
As she finished praying, her thoughts returned to her friend. How well did she really know Susannah? Was she capable of carrying out her thinly veiled threats against Newt? What about the clumps of mud on her tires?
Kate rocked gently and sipped her tea, sick at heart that she even had to consider her friend’s possible role in this dreadful twist of events. Sick at heart that she had to get to the truth about her prime suspect.
IT WAS WELL BEFORE DAWN when Kate turned the Honda into the hotel parking lot. A damp mist had settled close to the ground, and she pressed her lips together nervously, trying not to think about the ghost said to haunt the place. She’d left Paul a note, letting him know she had some investigating to do before breakfast. She flicked off the headlights and rolled silently to a halt beside Susannah’s Miata. She needed a sample to compare to the mud at the creek where she found the Hummer.
After a quick glance around to make sure she was alone, Kate crept to the sports car to get a better look at the mud in the wheel wells.
As she knelt down beside the rear tire on the driver’s side, she pulled a putty knife, a penlight, and a Ziploc baggie out of her jacket pocket. Then, holding the penlight in her mouth, she aimed the beam at the tire to retrieve the sample she was after.
Even in the dark of predawn, she could see that something was different.
Frowning, she directed the penlight beam along the wheel well. There was no mud on the car. Not even a speck!
Kate rocked back on her heels and aimed the beam at the front tire on the driver’s side.
Clean. Shiny. Newly washed.
With a sigh, she stood and brushed off her hands. Why would Susannah go to the trouble to wash her car? Copper Mill didn’t have a car wash, which meant she had to have hosed the car off herself, or hired someone to do it.
Still puzzling over what it could mean, she started to turn to head back to her car.
A hand touched her shoulder.
Her hair stood on end. She whirled around, heart thudding. Images of ghosts and flickering lights turned her knees to jelly in the split second before she completed the turn.
“Renee!” she breathed, relieved and irritated at the same time. “What are you doing here?”
Renee Lambert, dressed in black and wearing a photographer’s vest with pockets for every possible sleuthing tool, held her finger to her lips. She wore a miner’s headlamp, though, thankfully, it wasn’t turned on.
“Shh,” she mouthed. “We can’t let anyone know we’re here.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Kate whispered. “But you didn’t answer my question. Why—”
Renee pointed to the path leading from the hotel to the creek. “I’ve been patrolling the area ever since we saw those spooky lights.”
“You haven’t been here all night, have you?”
“No, I stopped by at midnight to patrol the area, then I came back just before you arrived. You scared me to death with your little flashlight. I thought the ghost had returned.”
“I didn’t see your car.”
She harrumphed. “You think I would leave it in plain view?” She tilted her head toward the Grits 101 coach. “It’s over there, behind the star coach.”
“You haven’t seen any more lights?”
Renee’s shoulders slumped. “No.”
Kate knew that Renee loved slipping around, spying on unsuspecting suspects. Law and Order was one of her favorite TV programs. Kate wouldn’t have been surprised if Renee knew more police lingo and procedures than Sheriff Roberts did.
“What would you have done if you’d seen something?” Kate asked gently. Renee might be brusque and aggressive, but Kate worried about her. Renee considered herself no older than thirty-nine, but in reality, she was in her early seventies. She never complained, but Kate knew from the way she sometimes winced that the aches and pains of aging had begun to set in.
Renee sniffed. “I’d have gone to investigate, of course.”
“Are you coming back for the taping this morning?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. I want to see who looks the most guilt—” Her breath caught midword, and she whirled at the same instant the hair on the back of Kate’s neck stood on end.
An unearthly sound carried toward them from the creek path. It was the same sound Kate had heard a few nights earlier: the light padding of footsteps.
But no one was on the path.
“Ghosts supposedly don’t walk; they float,” Kate whispered, then she realized how ridiculous that sounded and added, “If we believed in ghosts, that is.”
A chilly wind whistled through the trees as the two women crept toward the creek. Kate shivered, wishing the fog would lift. The path leading away from the hotel was an eerie place to be in the pale light of dawn, especially when she could see only dark shadows of barren trees on either side. She pushed thoughts of what might be lurking behind them from her mind.
She took a few more steps, then stopped and blinked in surprise. She heard Renee halt a few steps behind her.
Just beyond a stand of trees a barely visible light pierced the dense fog.
It seemed more like a flickering glow than a flashlight.
Candlelight. Diffused because of the fog, but candlelight, just like the ghostly night the folks from Taste Network arrived.
“Do you see that?” she whispered to Renee. “It looks like someone is carrying a candle.”
“Or something...” Renee whispered back. Her voice trembled.
Kate frowned and told herself for the hundredth time that she didn’t believe in ghosts. “Okay,” she said out loud, “I’m going to get to the bottom of this.” She clicked on her penlight, broke into a trot, and headed down the path.
Behind her, Renee’s footsteps sounded reluctantly slow at first, then sped to a scuttle.
“Hey, wait up,” she puffed.
Kate rounded a corner. The fog was now thinning into eerie fingers that laced around the barren tree trunks. Kate could see the path several feet ahead and, beside it, the rushing creek...but nothing more.
No ghostly being. No being of any kind, human or otherwise.
With a sigh, she halted.
Renee caught up with her, still huffing and puffing.
“Whew,” she breathed. “You really can move when you’re motivated.”
“A lot of good it did,” Kate said, rubbing her arthritic knee while she scanned the brush around them. Then she frowned and peered into the mist. Ahead, by the creek, lay something that hadn’t been there the first night she was led on the same wild-goose chase.
She squinted at the curious object and then headed toward it. Renee followed close behind.
“I think it’s a boat,” Kate said when they were closer. “A rowboat.”
“Upside down,” Renee said, stating the obvious. “Hunh.”
Kate trotted to the side of the boat, which was resting on the bank. It was light enough now to see the skid marks where someone must have dragged it from the water.
Kate walked around it, looking for footprints in the damp soil. At first it appeared there were none. Then to one side, an indentation caught her attention. She stooped to have a better look. It was a print, but it had been left by someone wearing slippers, ballet slippers with their distinct gathered-leather soles. Her daughters had worn them when they took ballet lessons years before. She knew them well.
She brushed off her hands and stood, studying the area around the rowboat.
The only
other clue that someone had been there recently was a candle, partially spent, lying near the ballerina prints. It might have been there a while, or perhaps...
Kate stared at the candle for a moment, then stooped to pick it up. She pinched the wick between her thumb and forefinger and looked up at Renee.
“The wick is still warm.”
Renee’s eyes widened. She looked frantically around, then whispered, “The ghost is still here.”
Chapter Nine
Afew minutes before nine that same morning, Kate returned to the hotel. This time the parking lot was alive with media activity. News vans from network TV affiliates out of Chattanooga and Nashville were parked in front of the hotel. Satellite dishes had sprung up like mushrooms atop the vans, and reporters were milling about the front of the hotel.
Before Kate reached the hotel entrance, two reporters asked for her comments on Newt Keller’s disappearance.
She declined.
As she entered the foyer, she spotted a distraught-looking Sybil standing by the reception desk and went over to her.
The hotel manager shuddered. “I thought the ghost stories were bad enough. Now this.” She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know if we’ll ever recover.”
“It’ll blow over,” Kate said, trying to encourage her. “These things always do.”
“If Keller is found alive and well,” Sybil muttered.
“From what I understand, the authorities don’t think it’s anything more than an abduction.”
A reporter holding a wireless microphone trotted toward them, a cameraman on her heels. Before Sybil could get away, the mike was thrust toward her, and with camera rolling, the pretty young reporter chirped, “Someone from your reservations staff told us that Newt Keller was staying in room 213, which is the same site as a 1929 murder. In light of the news that the Hamilton Springs is haunted, wasn’t it risky to assign him—or anyone—to that room? And now he’s disappeared, and rumor has it that blood was found in his SUV. That’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think? Any comment?”
