“Thank you for your help,” Miranda said and marched out the door to the pier.
As she stepped outside, she heard Parker asking Delores if she’d be willing to go to the police station and make a statement. She said she’d go right away.
Forcing the outside air that had turned cool again into her lungs, Miranda leaned on the pier’s rail and turned her face to the wind.
After a moment Parker came up behind her. Without saying anything, he leaned on the rail next to her and stared out at the splashing wide blue ocean that seemed to go on forever.
Miranda listened to the gulls crying overhead a few minutes before she found the gumption to speak. “If that guy came here and got soused Friday night, he was in no shape to slice up Josie Yearwood.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“And if he was here until closing, he wasn’t in the Bayside Manor parking lot with her.”
“No.” Parker sounded as weary and disgusted as she felt.
She blinked back tears she was sure were caused by the wind.
Parker laid a gentle hand along her back. “It’s not your fault.”
Wiping her cheek, she stared out at the frothy waves playing in the ocean, rolling noisily onto the shore and back again. In the distance, boats were making their way through the inlet, heading out to the Atlantic for another catch. If only she could pull up a killer so easily. Not that professional fishing was easy.
“Why can’t I find this guy, Parker?”
“You will. We will.”
She knew he was avoiding the word “patience.” If she heard that, she might explode. But patience was exactly what she needed. A boatload of it. Ha, ha.
“We’ve come so close and we’ve got nothing.”
“We have the video from Bayside Manor. And we now know what Ulman said about the missing keys last night was the truth.”
“Was it?”
“The only thing he seems to have lied about was sleeping on the job. And he admitted that.”
She rubbed her arms. The sun had vanished again, and swirling dark blue clouds were forming in the sky.
“Where do you want to go next?”
She stared out at the expanse of water and the line where water met sky. There, she thought. Far away. But that was no way for a woman whose destiny was to stop vicious killers to think.
She pulled her hair away from her face and dug deep. “I want to go back to the crime scene. Maybe we missed something.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
As they made their way back up South Croatan, Parker made the call to Ballard. When he told him Ulman’s alibi checked out, and his girlfriend was coming in to make a sworn statement to that effect, the sergeant blew a gasket.
Miranda could hear him screaming through the speaker. “What in the flimp-flopping hell—you mean that guy is innocent?”
“That’s what we’ve just confirmed.”
Ballard let out a string of strange sounding cuss words. “We’re paying you a lot of money, Parker. You have to fix this.”
Miranda could see the muscle in Parker’s jaw twitch, but his voice remained calm and steady. “You remember our conversation from the other day, Sergeant?”
Silence. Ha, that took care of him. After a moment, he came back on the line.
“Okay, then,” he huffed. “But work fast.” And he hung up.
Overhead the sky was getting darker. Parker turned on the radio. “We need a weather report.”
He needed a distraction from his skirmish with Ballard. She didn’t blame him.
A weatherman had just finished saying something about a tropical depression when a familiar voice came on the air.
Angela Tremblay.
“Breaking news. Sergeant Ballard of the local police department has stated a suspect is in custody for the murder of Josie Yearwood last Friday. Ballard assured me the killer was off the streets and—”
Parker jabbed at the button and turned the radio off. “That woman is irresponsible,” he growled.
“She’s trying to make a name for herself.”
“At the expense of her listeners.”
“Right, but Ballard had no business telling her we had a suspect.”
Growling under his breath, Parker turned off the highway and into the subdivision where Josie Yearwood had breathed her last. As soon as he made the turn onto the block where the crime scene was, the bottom dropped out of Miranda’s stomach.
“I can’t believe it.”
Angela Tremblay’s news truck was parked in front of the house and the woman was standing in the yard, microphone in hand, talking into the camera her lackey had on his shoulder.
“Good Lord, the woman has gall.”
“She’s doing one of those onsite reports.” Even though no one was there and what she was reporting had little to do with the house right now.
As soon as Parker stopped the car, Miranda hopped out and raced up to the woman.
Tremblay held a paper in her hand. As Miranda neared, she heard what she was saying—the words the killer had written on the wall.
“Roses are red. Violets are blue. I got you—”
She was going to put the whole Outer Banks in an uproar. Miranda snatched the paper out of her hand.
Tremblay glared at her. “What are you doing?”
“Updating your story.” Miranda turned to the camera. “Sorry to disappoint, folks, but Ms. Tremblay was misinformed. There is no suspect as yet. Back to you, Tim.” She made a “cut it” gesture with her finger across her throat.
Stunned, the cameraman lowered his camera. “What’s going on, Ms. Tremblay?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.” Tremblay spun around to face Miranda. “What the hell do you think you’re doing breaking into my broadcast like that?”
“Saving you from embarrassment.”
Her pretty Asian eyes flashed like daggers. “And what do you mean you have no suspect? I spoke to Sergeant Ballard half an hour ago—”
“Ballard jumped the gun. Our lead didn’t pan out.”
That took the wind out of her sails, so to speak. “So the killer is still at large? Then the people have a right to know.”
“They already know that. There’s no need to sensationalize it.”
Tremblay put a hand on her hip. “You can’t tell me how to do my job, Ms. Steele.”
“I’m telling you you’re playing a dangerous game.”
“What are you talking about?”
Miranda held up the paper. “Didn’t the words of this poem sink in? ‘I’ll get the others, too.’ He could strike again and soon. You’re feeding his ego.”
“I’m feeding my public.”
“You’re giving him the attention he craves. It might make him act sooner.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Tremblay reached for the paper.
Miranda moved her hand away in time. “You’re playing with other people’s lives.”
“That’s your opinion, Steele.”
Parker’s low stern voice broke through the fracas. “It’s the opinion of a professional who’s faced killers like this before. I happen to share it.”
Tremblay turned to him, aghast. Then she grabbed the paper out of Miranda’s hand. “You two have your job to do, and I have mine. If you care so much about someone else getting killed, I suggest you get busy and do it. C’mon, guys.”
And she and her crew climbed into the truck and took off.
“She’s ruthless,” Parker growled watching her drive away.
Miranda stared up at the porch, the words of that poem going through her head. I got you dead. I’ll get the others, too. Who were the others?
The image of Josie Yearwood’s mangled body formed in her mind. The gaping bloody wounds, the vicious hearts, Josie’s own initials. Her killer had been mocking her.
A cold wintry wind blew at Miranda’s back, making her shiver. No, it wasn’t the wind. It was the vision standing on the porch.
Tannenburg. He was laughing at her.
Feeling herself go pale, she turned away.
“Are you all right, Miranda?”
“I—I don’t think I can go in there again.”
He put an arm around her. “You need a break.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Parker found a quiet Chinese spot in a nearby mall and ordered her a spicy Kung Pao dish with shrimp so fresh it tasted like it had been caught that morning.
Miranda scarfed down the food as if she hadn’t eaten in a year. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. Chasing dead ends over the OBX coastline could really work up an appetite. One that won out over depression and images from the past.
At least for the moment.
She finished her plate and sat back, her eyes closed. “Thanks. I needed that.”
“I thought as much.”
She opened her eyes to Parker’s warm gaze. He always loved feeding her.
His fingers found hers. “Are you better?”
Giving his hand a squeeze, she nodded. “The brain’s clearing. Sorry I lost it for a bit.”
“You’re under a lot of pressure.”
“We all are.” She wiped her mouth and dropped her napkin on the table. “So what are we going to do about it?”
“I was about to ask you that very question.”
“Really, Parker. If you’d like to take this case over now, I wouldn’t mind.”
Parker studied her a long time. He refused to let her see it, but he was worried about her. More than usual. She was showing signs of wear he hadn’t seen in her before. Not since their last case. And he knew this one reminded her of Tannenburg. And yet he had faith in her strength, her resilience, her determination.
Besides, he’d put her in charge and there was no going back now.
He reached for his teacup. “It would confuse the team.”
Watching him drink, Miranda narrowed her eyes. “Would it?”
“Yes. Would you like desert?”
He was changing the subject. “I’d like to catch our killer.”
“Then what’s our next move?”
“You tell me.”
He sat back, his penetrating gaze analyzing her face. “We haven’t followed up on the lead Dave gave us this morning.”
True, though she didn’t hold out much hope for that. She should probably check in with Wesson and Deweese, but she didn’t have the stomach for the downer vibes everyone must be feeling at the station right now.
She got to her feet. “Let’s go check out Becker’s lead.”
Parker paid the bill and they stepped out into the windy air. Miranda stood on the sidewalk, rubbing her arms, taking in the area.
It was a typical mall. A couple of clothing stores, a donut shop, a cell phone place, a cookie shop. Maybe she should bring a couple dozen chocolate chip cookies back to the station. That would brighten everyone’s mood.
“Why don’t we—”
And then her gaze focused on a little shop at the end of the row.
“What were you about to say? Miranda?”
Roses are red. Purple roses. That Red Roses song. Something was up with those roses.
“Look over there.” She pointed toward the corner of the building and the sign reading “Blossom’s Blooms.”
“Hmm.”
“I’ll bet you a prime rib Garwood hasn’t checked out that place.”
“I don’t believe I’ll take that bet.”
She headed for the shop with Parker at her side.
###
A friendly bell jingled as they stepped through the door and into the heavy scent of carnations.
The space was small and crowded with its wares. Against one wall stood a refrigerated case filled with flowers of all sorts. In the opposite corner was a large round table stacked with tall vases of lilies and tulips and roses in an array of colors. Miranda didn’t see any purple ones.
While Parker studied the flowers, she moved over to the cash register. No one was manning it. Behind the counter stood a whole wall of shelves stuffed with ribbons and vases and candles in a wide assortment of fall colors. The counter was littered with spools of netting, half assembled bows, and colorful paper. Under a piece of floral tissue, Miranda found a bell.
She gave it a tap.
“I’ll be right with you,” sang out a friendly female voice.
After another moment a small middle-aged woman with short dark hair and round cheeks appeared. Wearing a festive burnt orange tunic with a name tag that said, “Blossom Daniels,” she smiled at Miranda like she was a long lost relative.
“So sorry to keep you waiting. I didn’t hear you come in. I was finishing up in the back. We’re about to close.”
“We won’t take much of your time, Ms. Daniels.” Miranda told her. “I take it you’re the owner of this shop?”
“I certainly am. And it may take longer than you think to find what you want.” The woman wagged a motherly finger at her, then turned her head, got a peek at Parker, and her eyes grew as round as her spools of netting. “Are you planning a winter wedding?”
“No.”
“Spring then?” She craned her neck to get another look at Parker, then gave Miranda a how-lucky-are-you? grin. “Or are you early planners and getting ready for summer?”
If she only knew. Miranda had planned their wedding in three weeks and solved a murder case at the same time. Well, not all by herself.
Oozing charm, Parker strolled over to the counter. “We’re wondering if you carry purple roses, Ms. Daniels.”
“Oh, please. Call me Blossom. Everybody does in these parts. Purple roses? We should have some right over here.” She started around the corner.
Miranda held up a hand. “We’re not looking to buy them.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’re private investigators from Atlanta, working a case in the area.”
The woman slapped a hand to her chest as she sucked in a noisy breath. “You’re Miranda Steele and Wade Parker from the Parker Agency, aren’t you?”
Didn’t even have to tell her their names.
“I heard about you two on the news. You’re here concerning that awful murder in Nags Head. What a terrible thing that happened to that poor girl.”
Parker nodded solemnly. “Yes. It was tragic.”
“But why are you looking for purple roses?”
Evidently Tremblay hadn’t released that detail in her reports—yet.
“It’s related to the case,” Miranda said. “We need to know if you carry them, or if you know any other florist in the area who does.”
“And if anyone ordered a large quantity recently,” Parker added.
“We usually do stock that color. It’s supposed to signify love, but folks don’t order it as often as white or blue.” She tapped a finger against her lips. “Wait a minute. There was someone in here asking for purple roses the other day.”
Miranda’s heart nearly stopped. “Do you remember when?”
“Friday morning, I think.”
Drawing in a breath she glanced at Parker.
“Are you sure it was this past Friday?” he asked.
“Yes, it was. I remember I had just sent Denise—that’s my daughter. She works with me. I had just sent Denise out for coffee and doughnuts from the shop down the way. She’d been gone a little while when a man came in looking a little lost. And rather sad, as I recall.”
“And he asked for purple roses?”
“Yes. Three dozen.” She thought a moment. “I told him we would have to special order that large of a purchase. He said he’d try somewhere else.”
Three dozen? “Do you remember what the man looked like?”
“Tall, dark-haired, good-looking. By his clothes he seemed to have money, but so do a lot of folks around here. I thought he might be a vacationer.”
Miranda’s heart beat faster. “Did he leave a number?”
Blossom shook her head. “No. He was here only a few minutes.”
“Did he seem to be in a hur
ry?” Parker asked.
“A bit, yes. Who was he? He wasn’t that killer, was he?”
Miranda reached for the phone in her pocket and once again scrolled to Josie Yearwood’s dating site photos. She stopped at the one Becker had identified this morning and held the phone out to the woman.
“Is this him?”
For several minutes Blossom studied the photo, turning her head this way and that. Then she sighed. “I don’t think so.”
As if she were looking for something else, Blossom swiped her finger across the screen. When the next photo came up, she sucked in another breath, this time sounding like she had asthma.
“What is it?” Miranda asked.
Blossom pointed her finger at the phone. “That’s him. That’s the man who came in here last Friday asking for purple roses. And he’s standing next to the woman who was killed.”
Miranda angled her head to see the screen. When she did, she sucked in her breath almost as hard as Blossom had.
Parker came around to get a look.
The man in the photo was the tall good-looking one in the business suit. The one Inez had said was kind of a jerk. The one Mrs. Yearwood said her granddaughter hadn’t spoken to in years.
Josie’s ex-husband.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Half an hour later Miranda burst into the back of the police station with Parker. Ten minutes after that, she had the team assembled in the room where they’d met the previous day. Two seconds after that, Smith rushed through the door with the photo from Miranda’s phone she’d asked her to print.
As quickly as she could, Miranda explained what she and Parker had learned. Then she turned to the white board. She couldn’t help taking in the crime scene photos of Josie Yearwood’s body. With new determination she added the new picture to the ones already on the board.
“There he is, ladies and gentlemen. Our number one suspect. Aaron Connor Afton.”
Looking astonished, Wesson blinked at her. “You mean Josie’s ex-husband is here in the Outer Banks?”
Miranda nodded. “And looking for purple roses.”
Deweese let out a low whistle. “He sounds like our guy.”
“He is our guy. Now we just have to prove it.”
Roses from My Killer Page 13
