Don't Look

by Alexandra Ivy

  “No.” Lynne’s jaw tightened with disgust. Obviously, her memories of her mother weren’t nearly as complicated as his own. “When she left Pike, she made it very clear she didn’t want anything to do with a husband or child.”

  “You don’t know where she is?”

  “My parents’ marriage wasn’t a romance story. They married a week after they graduated from high school. I think my mom assumed being the wife of a vet would give her a life of luxury.” Lynne wrinkled her nose. “She hadn’t considered the years she would be forced to work as a waitress to put my dad through school. By the time he was done, she wanted out of the marriage. She resented the years of watching her friends out having fun while she was constantly struggling to try and keep a roof over her head.” She glanced away, but not before Kir glimpsed the pain that darkened her eyes. “Just a week after she told my dad she wanted a divorce, she discovered she was pregnant. She stuck around long enough to have me, but she skipped town before my second birthday.”

  Kir knew it must have been difficult for Lynne. Not just because her mother had abandoned her, but he knew any child would wonder if they’d somehow caused their mother to disappear from their life. He’d done it himself.

  Still, she’d had a father who’d adored her.

  “I’m surprised your dad never remarried,” he said.

  “I don’t think my parents ever officially got their divorce,” she told him. “Anyway, my dad was married to his career. He barely had time to take care of me, let alone find a new wife.”

  “And you followed in his footsteps?”

  Her tension eased as a genuine smile curved her lips. “I suppose I did.”

  He stepped close enough to catch her floral scent. “We have a lot in common.”

  Her brows lifted. “Because we were abandoned by our mothers and now we’re workaholics who can’t commit to a healthy relationship?”

  “That’s not exactly how I was going to put it.” He chuckled, then glanced toward the lake as a sharp breeze swirled tiny tornadoes of snow over the ice. His grief was still raw, but Lynne’s presence had helped him remember the good times he’d shared in this place. “Thank you for coming with me,” he murmured in soft tones. “This is the good-bye I wanted for Dad.”

  There was a long silence before Kir started to move. It was too cold to linger, but before he could turn away, Lynne was pointing across the lake.

  “Is that the old air base?”

  Kir glanced toward the low line of buildings surrounded by a chain-link fence. The abandoned base was such a part of the landscape that he didn’t even notice it was there.

  “Yeah, I forgot it was so close.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “I used to sneak in there to party when I was in high school.”

  She studied the snow-covered runways, the vast empty buildings, and the rusty radar tower that looked like an alien landscape set in the middle of the dairy farms.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Nothing but a bunch of old, broken equipment and trash.” A puffy cloud drifted across the sun, stealing the meager warmth it offered. Kir shivered, grabbing Lynne’s hand. “Come on. We have one more stop and then we’ll have some breakfast.”

  They waded through the snow and climbed into the SUV. Twenty minutes later they were back on the main road headed north of Pike.

  “Now where are we going?” Lynne asked.

  “The bowling alley.”

  “Seriously?” He heard the hint of surprise in Lynne’s voice. “If you’re in the mood to bowl, you’ll have to drive to Grange. The local alley closed down a couple years ago.”

  He turned toward the outer road that ran along the outskirts of town. Long ago it’d been the place to go in Pike. There’d been a drive-in theater, an indoor ice rink, and a bowling alley that also served burgers and milkshakes.

  Now it looked like a scene from a dystopian novel.

  The movie screen had decayed until there was nothing left but the wooden skeleton, and the ice rink had collapsed into a pile of rubble. The bowling alley had fared better, he noticed as he pulled into the large parking lot. The one-story brick building was faded, and the roof looked as if it was groaning beneath the weight of the snow, but it was still standing.

  “I heard from an old friend last night that it’s now a charity shop run by Pastor Ron Bradshaw.” He pulled to a halt near the front door. “I’m going to donate my dad’s clothes and stuff from the kitchen.”

  “Oh.” She glanced over her shoulders at the pile of cardboard boxes Kir had loaded into the SUV before leaving his dad’s house that morning. “That’s generous of you.”

  “It’s not completely altruistic,” he admitted, his gaze taking in the half dozen cars and trucks in the lot. “I want to check this place out.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve been trying to find a way that Sherry and Randi could be connected. They don’t seem to have anything in common beyond the fact they were both from Pike.”

  She glanced toward the bowling alley. “So why this place?”

  “I heard that Sherry was a regular visitor. I want to know if Randi was ever here.” He shrugged, not revealing his suspicion of the good pastor. “Like I said, I’m just looking for a connection.”

  Her lips parted, as if she wanted to remind him that it wasn’t his job to investigate the victims. Then, glancing at his face, she heaved a resigned sigh. No doubt his expression was stubborn enough to convince her any argument would be a waste of time.

  She shoved open the door of the SUV, glancing back at him when he left the engine running. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I’m going to unload the boxes in the back. I’m assuming that’s where the drop-off is located.”

  She nodded, slipping out of the vehicle. “I’ll stroll around. There might be someone who has seen Sherry or Randi around.”

  “Be careful,” he called out.

  She sent him a wry glance before closing the door and heading toward the front entrance. He waited for her to disappear into the building before he drove to the end of the parking lot. Then, grabbing the boxes, he crossed the icy cement to push open a door that was marked for deliveries.

  As he hoped, he found Pastor Bradshaw sorting through a pile of used shoes at the front of the storage room. The younger man was casually dressed in jeans and a thick sweatshirt.

  Strolling forward, Kir set the boxes on a long table that was shoved against the wall before casually turning to glance around the narrow space lined with steel shelves filled with clothes, shoes, old electronics, and piles of china plates. There were also several open bins loaded with coats and boots.

  Kir suppressed a shudder. The drop ceiling nearly brushed his head and there was a staleness in the air that made the room unpleasantly claustrophobic. It felt as if the mounds of junk were ruthlessly consuming the space. Like a living organism.

  “Hello again,” a male voice intruded into his dark imaginings.

  Kir turned, pasting a faux look of surprise on his face. “Oh. Pastor Bradshaw.”

  The man wiped his dusty hands on a handkerchief before stretching one out to offer it to Kir. “Ron, please.”

  Kir clasped the outstretched hand, hiding his grimace at the man’s moist, clammy skin.

  “Ron.” He pulled his hand away with a jerk that was just short of rude.

  Ron didn’t seem to notice. “How can I help you?”

  “I brought a few boxes from my dad’s house. There’s nothing fancy, but it’s all still in good condition.”

  “Thank you, Kir.” Ron smiled, his thin face pasty in the fluorescent light. “That’s a wonderful way to honor your father’s memory.”

  Kir ignored his tiny pang of guilt. “I hope it can help someone in need.”

  “Yes.” Ron’s smile faded. “There’s a great deal of need in Pike these days.”

  Kir glanced around the crowded storage area. “It looks like you have plenty of donors.”

  “Not as many as we used to have. Since
the paper factory shut down, the families who used to give are now forced to take. It’s been a difficult transition for people who consider it a weakness to accept charity.”

  “Thankfully, you’re here to provide it.”

  Ron pressed his sweaty hands together in a prayerlike gesture. “I do what I can.”

  Kir offered a sympathetic smile. “Yes, I’m sure you do.” He paused, then abruptly shifted the conversation. “A shame about Randi Decker.”

  “Who?” The man blinked, looking confused.

  Real or fake? Kir was betting on fake.

  “The woman they found murdered at the lake,” he clarified. “I believe she ran the local flower shop.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes. Ms. Decker. Such a tragedy.”

  “And Sherry, of course,” Kir added.

  Ron heaved a sigh. “These are dark days for Pike.”

  “Have you talked to the sheriff?”

  The question came without warning and Ron jerked in surprise. “The sheriff? Why would I talk to the sheriff?”

  “I just assumed that since you knew both women she’d have questions for you.”

  “I didn’t really know them,” Ron protested. “I’ve seen poor Ms. Higgins in the store, of course. She came every Monday afternoon to see what furniture had been dropped off over the weekend.”

  Kir didn’t miss the edge in the pastor’s voice. Sherry was no doubt the type of person who took advantage of his charity, swooping in like a bird of prey to snatch the best furniture to use in her trailers. “Was she here last Monday?”

  Ron furrowed his brow, as if trying to think back. “She must have been. I would have noticed if she didn’t stop by.”

  “And Randi? When was the last time she was here?”

  The pastor narrowed his eyes, as if annoyed by the question. But his good manners overcame his irritation. “The local PTA collects canned goods at the school for our food pantry,” he told Kir. “This year Randi was president, so it was her responsibility to deliver the collection at the end of each month.”

  Satisfaction flared through Kir. He’d been right. Both women had been regular visitors to the charity shop.

  Along with Pastor Bradshaw.

  “When was the last time Randi was here?”

  “School was closed through the holidays, so I guess it would have been the end of November.” Ron pointed toward the back door. “She usually leaves the cans in the large container in the parking lot, so she doesn’t have to come in. For all I know it could be her husband, or even one of her employees, bringing them by.”

  Kir narrowed his eyes. Was it his imagination or did Ron’s efforts to deny any interaction with Randi sound forced?

  Tucking the thought in the back of his mind, Kir glanced through the nearby door to the actual store that had a half dozen customers strolling along the towering shelves. Including Lynne, who was chatting with a weary-looking woman with three small children tugging on her frayed coat.

  “How many people work here?” he asked his companion.

  “We have several volunteers,” Ron said. “But no one is on the payroll. This is a charity in its truest form.”

  “Any men?”

  Ron lifted his brows at the question. “Sam Lind and Ted Madsen are usually here in the mornings. They’re both retired, and coming here gets them out of the house. As a matter of fact, they just left.” The pastor paused, before he seemed to recall that Sam and Ted weren’t the only men. “And on Mondays the sheriff sometimes brings by parolees who need community service hours to help me with deliveries or pickups.”

  Kir swallowed a curse. Parolees? That could mean dozens of men and women who’d seen Sherry and Randi around the store. And many of them violent criminals. Instead of scratching Ron off the list of potential suspects, he’d instead added endless possibilities.

  “Did you have any of them here the last few months?” he asked, hoping to narrow down the list.

  “A few.”

  “Do you have their names?”

  Ron’s expression hardened. “That’s not something I’m comfortable discussing.”

  Kir wanted to kick himself. Ron had gone from polite man of the cloth to eyeing Kir with a barely concealed dislike. Kir had not only stepped over the line, but had ruined any hope of getting more information out of the pastor. At least for today. “Of course.”

  “Thank you for your generosity,” Ron said in cool tones. “I’m sure your father’s belongings will find a grateful home.”

  Turning away, the pastor headed into the store.

  And that was that.

  Chapter 11

  Lynne settled in the leather seat of the SUV as they pulled away from the charity shop. Next to her, Kir was focused on the icy streets, his expression difficult to read.

  “What did you find out?” she asked.

  “I confirmed that both victims spent time at the shop,” he told her. “Sherry came to pillage free furniture for her trailer park business and Randi stopped by each month to deliver donations from the school to the food pantry.” He paused as they turned onto the main street leading to the center of town. “And then there is Pastor Ron Bradshaw who runs the shop.”

  “What about him?”

  “He crossed paths with both women.”

  She sent him a confused glance. “So did a lot of people.”

  “Yeah, but Pastor Bradshaw is the only one who gave me a note with the initials of potential victims on it.”

  It suddenly hit Lynne why they’d gone to the charity shop. It hadn’t just been because he suspected Sherry and Randi had been there. No doubt the two women had also been at the grocery store, the post office, and a dozen other places in town. It was because Pastor Bradshaw ran the charity. “You can’t believe he’s a suspect?”

  “Why not? I only have his word that my father asked him to speak at the funeral or to give me the mysterious note.”

  “But—” Lynne cut off her protest. She better than anyone knew that the most devoted, seemingly kind people could hide a dark side. She’d seen the evidence in the animals they brought to her clinic. She never let herself be fooled by the façade they showed the world. This was no different. Anyone could pretend to be godly. Still, it didn’t make sense that Ron was the killer. “If he was involved in the murders, why would he give you the note?”

  “I’m not sure a lunatic has a reasonable explanation for the things he does.” Kir’s jaw tightened. “But my guess is that he wanted to include me in his sick game now that my dad is dead.”

  Lynne’s mouth went dry. Was it possible? Could the killer now be fixated on Kir?

  “Oh God. That’s an awful thought,” she breathed.

  “And nothing more than a wild theory. I have no idea how to discover if the good pastor is involved or not.”

  Lynne’s hands clenched in her lap. She wanted to reach over and give the man a good shake. Or maybe a kiss. Wait, no. A good shaking. “It’s not your job to discover if he’s involved.”

  “Maybe not, but I can’t ignore the fact that the women of Pike are being murdered.”

  She frowned. Kir was stubborn—almost as stubborn as she was—but he wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t deliberately put himself in danger unless. . . Oh.

  “You’re doing this because you feel guilty,” she accused.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You think you should have believed your father when he warned you about a killer in Pike.”

  His fingers tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. “It’s more than that.” He slowed to a mere crawl as they passed the local park where kids were playing in the thick layer of snow. It wasn’t unusual for someone to lose control of their sled and end up in the street. “It’s almost as if he’s whispering in my ear, urging me to stop the madness.”

  Lynne shivered. She was a scientist at heart. She believed in hard facts, not mystic fantasies. But she couldn’t deny the tendrils of dread creeping down her spine, as if there was something or someone try
ing to warn her of danger.

  Was it Rudolf Jansen’s spirit?

  She shook her head, refusing to let her imagination run wild. “I knew your father, Kir, and the last thing he would want is for you to put yourself in danger.”

  “Where do you want to eat breakfast?” he asked, changing the conversation rather than admitting she was right. “There’s not much choice when it comes to restaurants in Pike. I can cook if you want.”

  Lynne swallowed a sigh. It was a waste of energy to try and convince Kir to give up his determination to hunt down the killer.

  “Let’s have it at my house,” she said. “It’s my turn to cook.”

  “It’s your day off,” he protested. “Besides . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Ah.” He tried to look innocent. “Nothing.”

  Lynne narrowed her eyes. “Are you scared of my cooking?”

  His lips twitched. “I’m sure you have many fine skills, but is cooking one of them?”

  She rolled her eyes as he allowed his words to trail away. “I might not have your magical talents in a kitchen, but I can pour out some cereal and toast a few slices of bread.”

  Kir’s tension seemed to ease as he turned onto the street that led to the small, ranch-style house that Lynne had called home from the day she was born.

  After pulling behind her battered truck, he switched off the engine and they climbed out of the SUV. “It seems strange to think of this place without your father.”

  “I still expect him to walk through the door and call out my name,” she admitted as they entered the house. They shed their heavy coats and wiped the snow from their boots before she led Kir toward the kitchen. “I’m happy he’s enjoying his life in Florida, but it gets lonely without him.”

  “You could always get a roommate,” he suggested.

  Lynne shuddered at the mere thought. “I’d be a horrible landlord.”

  “Why?”

  “My hours are crazy, I foster sick animals, and I walk out of the house with the oven on or the door wide open when I’m preoccupied.” She moved to the fridge to pull out the milk and butter.

  “I’m sure the benefits of sharing a home with you would outweigh any drawbacks.”