Don't Look

by Alexandra Ivy

She jerked, as if he’d punched her. “I told you, I had the flu—”

  “I’m not interested in why Dad was on duty,” he sharply interrupted. “I’m asking about the details of what happened when he got to the liquor store.”

  “Oh.” She looked impatient. “I don’t know what sort of details you want. Rudolf got a call from the local liquor store that someone was hanging around the parking lot peddling drugs. When he got there he took a statement and then went in search of the perp. He was crossing the street when the dealer pulled a weapon and they exchanged gunfire.”

  He ignored her offhand tone. He needed information, not another bout of self-pity. “Were there any witnesses?”

  Kathy frowned, as if trying to recall the events of the night. “Just the store owner.”

  “And the shooter was alone?”

  “Yep.”

  “Were there any cameras in the area?”

  Her impatience became more pronounced as she planted her fists on her hips. “Not that I know of. Your father gave his statement and all the evidence corroborated what he said. It was an open-and-shut case so there was no need for an investigation.”

  That was no big surprise. Pike was a small town with limited resources. If Rudolf’s explanation was backed up by the store owner, everyone would have been happy to close the file and move on.

  “What do you know about Delbert Frey?”

  Kathy glanced away. Was she trying to remember the man? Or was she hiding her expression? Impossible to know for sure.

  “He was a regular guest in lockup. Petty theft. Drunk and disorderly. Drugs. A real creep.”

  “Where did he get his weapon?”

  “I think it was stolen.”

  “From someone local?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Kir swallowed a curse. It felt as if the woman was deliberately keeping her answers vague. As if she didn’t want to give away more information than absolutely necessary. “Did Delbert come from Pike?”

  “No. I think he grew up in Grange and his wife came from Madison,” she said. “I remember her sister came to pick her up the day after the shooting. She didn’t even bother to arrange a funeral for her husband.”

  Kir considered his limited options. He wasn’t ready to give up on his suspicion that the killer had some connection to that night. Unfortunately, he was running out of means to get more information.

  “I want to see the files from my father’s shooting,” he abruptly demanded. If nothing else there might be a way to contact the liquor store owner listed in the report. Or maybe Delbert Frey’s wife.

  “Come back this afternoon and ask the task force.”

  Kir scowled. “Why can’t you get them for me?”

  She folded her arms over her chest, the very image of implacable resistance. “I’m no longer on the case.”

  “But—”

  “I won’t tell you again,” Kathy interrupted. “Come back this afternoon.”

  “Shit.” Kir whirled on his heel and headed for the door. There was no point in trying to argue with the woman. He’d do as she said and return that afternoon. Maybe someone on the task force would be willing to listen to him.

  Until then, he intended to search Rita’s house. There was a very small possibility she might have returned home before she was murdered. If the letters were still there, he intended to find them before the killer did.

  Chapter 26

  It was midmorning when Lynne returned to the office. She’d spent the past few hours with her intern driving from one end of the county to the other. Farm calls were always a draining, physical ordeal, but the brutal weather made them even more difficult. She was frozen to the bone by the time she’d peeled off her outer clothing and entered her office.

  Like an angel from heaven, Bernadine followed behind her, placing a steaming mug of coffee on the desk.

  “You sit down and warm up,” the woman commanded.

  “Thanks.” Still shivering, Lynne slid into her seat and cupped the mug in her hands. “I’m becoming more convinced with every passing day that my dad made the right choice to flee to sandy beaches and sunny skies.”

  Bernadine heaved a small sigh. “I miss him.”

  Lynne sipped her coffee. She’d always wondered if Bernadine had harbored a secret love for her employer, but she’d never tried to probe. She adored the older woman and would never do anything to hurt or embarrass her.

  “Me too.” Lynne wrinkled her nose. “Especially now.”

  “There’s evil in this town.” Bernadine pursed her lips. “You should go spend some time with your dad. Get away from this place for a while.”

  Lynne smiled wryly. “You sound like Kir.”

  “That’s not a bad thing, is it?” Bernadine’s expression softened. Clearly she’d fallen victim to Kir’s potent charm. “He strikes me as a smart, highly competent young man.”

  “Yes.” Lynne smiled. “He is.”

  “And he’s not hard on the eyes.”

  “Not hard at all,” Lynne readily agreed.

  Bernadine cleared her throat, as if considering whether to speak the words hovering on her lips. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say anything,” the older woman said in an apologetic tone, “but you’ve done worse.”

  Lynne felt a stab of regret. It didn’t feel fair to compare the men she’d dated over the years to Kir. They hadn’t been bad men. Not even Nash, despite his weaknesses. But they’d never been right for her, and in her mind they would never rival Kir. Not on any level.

  “Yeah,” she breathed.

  Bernadine studied her with a searching gaze. Lynne struggled to keep her expression from revealing all the emotions she wasn’t prepared to share.

  “Is he returning to Boston?”

  “We haven’t really discussed the future.” Lynne took another sip of her coffee, her stomach clenching as she allowed herself to recall how Kir was spending his morning. “Right now it’s enough to stay alive.”

  “God, yes.” Bernadine clicked her tongue. “We are all praying the monster is caught and put behind bars. Better yet, put in his grave. The sooner the better.”

  Lynne set aside her coffee. They were going to need more than prayers. “That reminds me.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know anything about Delbert Frey?”

  Bernadine stared at her with a blank expression. “Who?”

  “He was the drug dealer who shot Rudolf Jansen.”

  “Oh, I remember that.” Bernadine shuddered. “Just awful.”

  “Did you know the shooter?”

  “Not really.” Bernadine shook her head. “I’d heard his name around town. He was always causing trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  Bernadine glanced away, as if trying to capture some elusive memory. “It seems like I remember something.” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, yes. There was some sort of fight at the trailer park. They had to call in the state police and everything.”

  “The trailer park that Sherry owned?”

  “It must have been. I’m not sure there’s ever been any other trailer park in town.”

  “What happened?”

  Bernadine leaned toward her. Like all people did when they were about to share some juicy gossip. “I wasn’t there, of course, but I heard some people talking, and they claimed Delbert Frey was beating his wife and one of the neighbors tried to stop him. The neighbor ended up in the hospital, barely clinging to life, and Delbert ended up on the street after he was evicted from his home. They also said he threatened to burn the entire town to the ground.”

  A sharp stab of distaste sliced through Lynne. She didn’t remember the man, but she’d met others like him. They were so angry with the world that they tried to destroy everything and everyone around them.

  “Do you know his wife’s name?”

  Bernadine considered the question. “It was something odd. Marrow?” She shook her head. “No, that’s not right. Merrill? Yes, that was it. Merrill.”
r />   “What do you know about her?”

  “Nothing.” Bernadine lifted her hands in a gesture of apology. “They never came to this clinic. To be honest, I don’t think they mixed with the rest of town. At least not the decent folk.”

  Lynne leaned forward, opening her laptop. Then she typed a name in the search engine.

  “Merrill Frey,” she said out loud. “It isn’t a common name. I wonder if I can find some information on her.”

  Bernadine moved around the desk, allowing her to see the computer screen. “Why are you so interested?”

  “Kir suspects the killer’s obsession with his father might have started the night Rudolf was shot,” Lynne said, distracted as she scanned through the links popping up.

  “That was twenty years ago.”

  Lynne’s lips parted, only to snap shut. She didn’t want to reveal that Rita had left a message for Kir. Not only because she didn’t want people gossiping about the woman and the way she might have died, but it was possible the sheriff would want to keep the information secret. Her personal opinion of Kathy Hancock and her staff didn’t mean she wasn’t anxious for the killer to be caught and convicted.

  “It’s just a theory.”

  “I suppose it’s as good as any other.”

  “Exactly.” Lynne concentrated on the computer screen.

  There were plenty of hits on businesses and a few people with the last name Merrill. Even a Facebook page with a cat called Merrill.

  “There’s no Merrill Frey,” she muttered in frustration. Then a link to a newspaper announcement caught her eye. “Wait. Merrill Bowen-Frey weds Ernie Rucker from Warsaw.”

  “What’s the date?”

  She clicked the link. “2005. A couple years after Delbert was killed.”

  “That could be her.”

  Lynne read through the short announcement. There wasn’t anything beyond the bare facts that they’d been wed at the courthouse in Warsaw and planned a short honeymoon in Green Bay.

  “Merrill Rucker.” Lynne typed the name in the search window. “Maybe I can get an address or where she works. . . .” Lynne’s words trailed away as the obituary popped onto the computer screen. She leaned forward, her heart lurching at the sight. “No.”

  With a shaky hand, she clicked on the link. It had to be another Merrill Rucker, right? What were the odds that the woman had died just a few years after her first husband?

  But it wasn’t another Merrill Rucker. And worse, she hadn’t just died. She’d been brutally murdered.

  “What is it?”

  “She’s dead,” Lynne rasped, sitting back in her seat as she tried to regain command of her shaken composure.

  Bernadine made a sound of surprise. “She must have been young. Was it a car wreck?”

  Lynne shook her head. “She was found murdered in her backyard New Year’s Day 2007.”

  “Murdered?” she demanded in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

  “Her throat was slit.”

  Bernadine swayed, grasping the back of Lynne’s chair. Obviously, the older woman had the same stunned reaction as Lynne. “My God. Just like here,” the older woman muttered. “How did it happen?”

  With an effort, Lynne forced herself to lean forward and reread the article. It was high on drama and sketchy on details. “There isn’t much information,” she said. “Just that the body of Merrill Rucker was found naked in her backyard with her throat slit.”

  “Did they find the killer?”

  Lynne skimmed to the end of the article. “They arrested her husband, but they eventually released him due to a lack of evidence.”

  “Where is he now?”

  There was no further information in the article. Lynne clicked back to the search engine and typed in the name Ernie Rucker. She found a dozen links to the trial, and one that connected to his high school graduation. But there was nothing after 2007.

  At least no public information.

  “There’s no record of him. As if he disappeared.” A chill spread through her, an icy dread that was intense enough to make her teeth chatter. “I need to tell Kir.”

  She was reaching for her phone when the sharp ring of a bell echoed down the hallway. The front door had just opened.

  “Sounds like your next appointment is here,” Bernadine said, hustling out of the office to greet the client.

  Lynne glanced at her watch. She had two more appointments and then she was free for lunch. She’d wait until then to call.

  * * *

  Kir drove toward Rita’s house with a prickling sense of foreboding.

  He tried to tell himself he should be relieved. The task force that Kathy Hancock promised was going to arrive in a few hours and they would surely be capable of tracking down the murderer. Pike was too small to hide a serial killer.

  But he couldn’t shake the sensation that the clock was ticking. And that they couldn’t wait for anyone to ride to the rescue.

  It didn’t matter if his sense of impending doom came from his frustration with the sheriff and his certainty that her incompetence had put Lynne in danger. He had to keep moving, keep trying to track down the killer before he could strike again.

  Circling the town square, he was headed toward Rita’s house when he glimpsed the steeple in the distance. The sight abruptly reminded him that he wanted to speak to Pastor Ron Bradshaw.

  He angled toward the church, his mind still sorting through his encounter with the sheriff. Someday he was going to have to deal with her confession that she should have been on duty the night his dad was shot, and the fact that her wounded pride had allowed her to ignore Rudolf’s belief a monster was writing him letters.

  Not that he was going to place all the blame on the woman’s shoulders. She couldn’t have known what would happen when she called in sick. And she’d been right when she claimed no one had believed Rudolf’s drunk ramblings, including Kir himself.

  Still, he needed to find some sort of peace with the past.

  A worry for another day, he acknowledged as he parked in the graveled lot next to the church. He was just switching off the engine when he caught sight of a figure darting out of the front door and scurrying down the street.

  Was that Chelsea Gallen? It was hard to tell since she’d been bundled in a heavy parka with a stocking cap pulled over her hair. But he could have sworn it was Lynne’s ex-receptionist.

  After climbing out of his SUV, he moved up the steps and entered the church. Instantly he was surrounded by the humid warmth that only came from an old-fashioned boiler. It drove away the chill in his bones but left behind a moist layer of heat on his skin. Not the most pleasant sensation.

  Glancing around the shadowed pews, he noticed the altar that had once been decorated with Randi’s flower arrangements. Now it looked . . . barren. As if it were mourning the passing of the woman.

  Kir frowned at his odd musing, wondering if stress was affecting his brain. He was a tediously logical person. Not someone who believed in omens or spirits or premonitions.

  Thankfully, his thoughts were interrupted by Bradshaw. The pastor stepped into the nave, a smile pasted on his face.

  “Welcome to. . .” His words stumbled to a halt, his expression becoming hostile as he eyed Kir. “Not again.”

  “The proverbial bad penny,” Kir quipped. “Was that Chelsea Gallen I just saw leaving?”

  The pastor clenched his teeth. He clearly wanted to tell Kir to go to hell, but he bit back his words. Was he afraid Kir might reveal his secret connection to Randi Decker? Probably.

  “She stopped by to ask if she could speak at Nash’s funeral.” Something that might have been genuine sympathy darkened his eyes. “Unfortunately, I had to tell her that it would be up to his mother to decide who would be allowed to have a part in the service.”

  Kir arched a brow. “You’re officiating Nash’s funeral?”

  Bradshaw looked at Kir in surprise. “He was a member of my flock, even if he didn’t attend as regularly as his mother might h
ave wanted.” He smoothed his hands down his chunky sweater. “In fact, I’m preparing my sermon now. So, if you don’t mind. . .”

  Kir folded his arms over his chest. He wasn’t going anywhere until he had the answers he wanted. “I have a few questions.”

  The pastor rolled his eyes. “Of course you do.”

  “These questions aren’t personal. These are about my father.”

  “What about him?”

  “I want to know what happened the day the two of you met.”

  “I already told you. And as I said, I have work to do.”

  “This is important, Bradshaw,” Kir snapped as the man waved a dismissive hand.

  Bradshaw stiffened with a defensive anger. “So is my sermon.”

  Kir ground his teeth. He didn’t want to bully the man into answering. Not this time. What he needed wasn’t a confession, but a detailed account of exactly what Rudolf Jansen had told him on that fateful day. He was only going to get that if he could convince the man that he wasn’t his enemy.

  “I’m sorry,” he forced himself to apologize, his tone strained. “I need your help.” He held Bradshaw’s gaze. “Please.”

  A portion of the man’s stiffness eased. “Why?”

  Kir considered how much he wanted to reveal. Right now, the only person in Pike he trusted was Lynne. Everyone else remained suspects. “I think the day my dad came to this church he’d discovered something about the killer,” he told the pastor.

  Bradshaw looked confused. “That was before any of those poor souls were murdered.”

  “I know, but I think the killer was already in Pike.”

  The man arched his brows, as if considering the possibility. “You know, I recently heard rumors that your father claimed to be getting letters from a crazed lunatic before his death.”

  “Yes, he was,” Kir said in firm tones. “I’m assuming they must have given him some clue to the identity of the person sending him the letters.”

  There was a short pause before the pastor asked the obvious question. “Did he tell you who it was?”

  “Not in so many words.” Kir reached into the pocket of his leather coat to remove the list, holding it in front of Bradshaw’s face. “He left the answer with you.”