Parker pulled into a clearing next to a large white stucco building with a blue roof. They got out and went inside.
The strong smell of fish greeted them, and they found themselves standing on a platform overlooking a huge space where workers in hairnets and blue aprons busily sorted filets and scallops and other seafood as it moved down several rows of noisy assembly lines. There were hoses and blue crates and ice bins everywhere and everyone seemed to know their part in the organized chaos.
A large man in a white coat and ball cap who’d been overseeing one of the rows stopped his machine and came over to glare up at them.
“Can I help you?” he shouted over the din in a thick North Carolina accent.
Miranda didn’t feel like screaming. She scampered down the steps to where the man stood. “I’m Miranda Steele and this is Wade Parker. We’re helping the police investigate the recent murders in the area.”
He nodded, recognizing them. “Angela Tremblay. What a shock. And that other woman. That sort of thing doesn’t happen around here.”
So folks kept telling her. “We’re hoping to keep it from happening again.”
“What do those killings have to do with this plant?”
“We’d like to speak to one of your employees. A man named Ernest Price.”
He shook his head, his jowls wagging in disbelief. Then he pointed toward one of the lines. “He’s right over there. Hey, Price,” the man yelled.
Miranda didn’t know how Price heard him, but he stopped his machine and came over.
“What is it, Stan?”
“These are those investigators from Atlanta. They want to talk to you.”
“To me? What about?”
“Why don’t you step outside for five minutes and find out.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Miranda’s eardrums were throbbing by the time they reached the parking lot, but she turned to Price and eyed the build under his form-fitting polo shirt with a single breast pocket. The heavy blue apron over the shirt didn’t hide the fact that he was husky. And even though he had on rubber gloves and plastic up to the elbows, she could tell he was a weight lifter.
Plus, he was a good looking guy with bright green eyes. The type many women would be attracted to—except for the smell of fish.
“Mr. Price, as you may know Wade Parker and I are looking into the murder of Josie Yearwood.”
“Right. I saw you on the news the other day. I can’t believe what’s going on around here.” He looked at Miranda as if she were responsible.
“I understand you dated Ms. Yearwood after she moved back to the Outer Banks.”
“A few times. She was too rich for my blood. She liked to be pampered.”
“In other words, she rejected you.”
He scoffed. “Not really. We dated a little back in high school.”
“High school? You lived in Manteo?”
“Born and raised. After I graduated, I got this job and moved down here.” He gestured over his shoulder.
That was interesting. “Were you and Ms. Yearwood serious?”
He let out a short laugh. “We were never more than friends. Josie Yearwood wasn’t serious about anybody. Not until she met that uber rich guy in New York. And he was arrested last night, wasn’t he? Angie said—” He stopped himself his throat catching. “I can’t believe Angie’s gone, too.”
“You’re referring to Angela Tremblay?”
“Of course. They found her in the water near Mariner Point this morning. But I guess you already know that.”
He seemed genuinely shocked by the news.
“You knew Ms. Tremblay by her first name?” Parker asked.
“Sure. She lives down the street from me.”
“Down the street?” Miranda hadn’t had a chance to see the address Parker had gotten for the new victim.
“Yes. She moved to this part of the island after her parents left for Florida about five years ago. Angie and I went out a couple of times since then, but it was nothing serious. She was too focused on her career. She wanted to go to New York. She hated being stuck down here in the boonies, as she called it.”
Shoulders tensing, Miranda gazed across a field toward a residential area where a row of distant trees peeked over rooftops. Was this their guy? He certainly had opportunity.
She turned to him. “Mr. Price, can you verify your whereabouts this past Friday evening?”
His brows shot up in surprise at the question. He looked from Miranda to Parker and back again. “Last Friday? I had a gig.”
“A gig?”
He gave her a shy, pretty boy grin. “I’ve got a band. I play lead guitar and sing. Some folks think we’re pretty good. Might go on tour some day. Last Friday night we played a beach party for some of the locals. We were there until everyone passed out around three in the morning. I can get you the information.”
“That would be helpful.” But Miranda believed him.
“Anything I can do to help.” He stared down at the sandy ground and shook his head. “If anyone back in high school had told me Angie would be covering Josie Yearwood’s murder—”
Miranda held up a hand. “Wait. Are you saying Ms. Tremblay and Ms. Yearwood went to the same high school?”
“Sure did. We’ve all known each other since then. Angie and Josie used to be friends. Until Josie beat Angie in a beauty contest. After that they didn’t speak to each other. Funny, they were both the kind of girl only the most popular guys got to date. I was playing guitar back then, so I got a turn. But the others—”
“The others?” Funny he should put it that way.
“The rejects—that’s what they called them.”
“What Ms. Yearwood and Ms. Tremblay called them?” Miranda asked, just to be sure.
“Yes. And a couple of their friends. They were talking about the guys they’d string along for a while then break up with. And then, of course, there were the losers who never stood a chance with them in the first place. Those two broke a lot of hearts in those days. A few of those guys had real grudges over it.”
Miranda glanced at Parker. “Grudges?”
“You know. It’s one thing if a guy breaks up with a girl. But if she breaks up with him, it doesn’t go down so well.”
High school. Had they been focusing on the wrong timeframe?
Miranda folded her arms. “Anyone in particular that you can remember? Anyone with a grudge that would last a long time?”
He blinked at her, then caught her meaning. “You think one of those guys from high school might have been the killer?”
“You tell me.”
Frowning, he shrugged. “How should I know? There were maybe a half dozen or so who made rude comments about Josie or Angie in the locker room. You know how guys are.”
Yeah, she knew. “Anyone you can remember?”
He thought a minute, looked like he wanted to scratch his head, then thought better of it with his fish gloves on. “Not really. It was years ago.”
Miranda took out a business card and stuck it into his breast pocket. “If you do come up with a name, give us a call.”
“Okay. Sure.”
“Thank you, Mr. Price,” Parker said in his silky style. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“No problem. I hope you find that killer soon. I still can’t get over what happened to Angie. Or Josie.”
And he turned and ambled back inside the building and his fish sorting.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Miranda sat in the car with Parker, taking in what she’d just learned. Neither of them said anything for several minutes. Miranda’s brain was racing.
Parker had just started the engine when his cell rang.
It was the television station confirming that Tremblay went straight home after her broadcast last night around midnight.
She held up a finger. “So either the killer followed her home—”
Parker nodded slipping the phone back into his pocket. “Or he already knew where sh
e lived.”
“Hmm.”
Parker read her thoughts. “Time of death was early this morning.”
“Yeah? So?”
“If Ms. Tremblay was taken by the killer and her body dropped in the water here, it’s unlikely she would have floated up to Mariner Point by the time you found her.”
“Good point. Hold on a minute.” Miranda brought up the map of the area on the GPS. She pointed to the jagged outline of bays and lagoons along the southeastern tip of the island—where they were now. “There are two marinas with fleets belonging to the seafood companies and charter boats close by. Maybe our guy used one of those.”
Parker remained skeptical. “Someone would have noticed if he took a boat belonging to a seafood company. Likewise for a charter boat if he hadn’t booked it.”
“Okay. He probably wouldn’t have risked identifying himself like that. But there are private boats here, too. So he nabs her, takes her to the boat—”
“Or lures her onto it.”
“Right. Then he cuts her up, kills her, cruises up to Mariner Point and dumps her body.”
“A possible scenario.”
The wheels in Miranda’s head began to whir now. “The local police are already at Tremblay’s house, right?”
Parker nodded. “I gave the address to Deweese earlier. He passed it onto the sherriff’s department.”
“I’m thinking about what Price said about Josie’s ‘rejects’ from high school.”
“And?”
“We need to figure out who they were.”
“How do you propose we do that?”
If going through the names on Josie’s dating sites wasn’t bad enough, this search would be nearly impossible. And yet— “Josie’s grandmother had a photo of her when she was in a beauty contest around that time.”
“The one in which she bested Ms. Tremblay.”
“Yeah, probably. Maybe she’s got some other memorabilia.”
Slowly Parker nodded. “Or she can remember who those rejected boys were.”
“We could be onto something.”
“Yes, we could. Excellent idea.” And with a smile that made her heart thump, Parker pulled out of his spot and headed back north to Manteo.
Chapter Forty
The little green house on Agona Street with the white picket fence was just as cozy and welcoming as it had been during their first visit there. And so was their hostess.
Louella Yearwood answered the door in tailored gray slacks and a drab green sweater vest over a button-down blouse, with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her short white hair seemed a little flatter today and she seemed smaller, beaten down.
Still, she gave them a warm smile. “It’s so good to see both of you. Please come in.”
She led them into the comfy living room with its country air and its homey plaques and pillows. The photos on the tables and mantelpiece hadn’t been touched, but Miranda noticed the smell of something chocolatey coming from the kitchen.
“Brownies,” Mrs. Yearwood explained reading the expression on her face. “I’ve made three batches since I heard the news about Angela today.” Shaking her head in dismay, she pressed a tissue to her eyes. “Angela Tremblay. Why, I knew that girl when she was in high school. Josie was friends with her.”
“I’m so sorry you had to hear the news that way,” Parker said.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t prevent it,” Miranda said bluntly, still angry at herself.
Mrs. Yearwood patted her arm in a motherly gesture. “It’s not your fault, dear. You’re doing the best you can. Sit down and let me get you a brownie.”
“We don’t need—”
Before Miranda could finish, she disappeared into the kitchen.
Miranda shook her head at Parker. The poor woman was so distraught with grief she might not be much help, after all.
After a few minutes, Mrs. Yearwood returned carrying a tray of brownies and cups of coffee. “Here we are. You both look like you could use some refreshment. Sit down. Have a brownie.”
She didn’t give them much choice. Miranda took a seat on the couch, reached for a cup and took a sip of the rich brew.
As she set the cup back down, Mrs. Yearwood handed her a saucer with a brownie. “Most folks can’t say no.”
Miranda didn’t feel like eating, but she took the plate anyway. “Mrs. Yearwood—”
“Go ahead. Try it.”
She wasn’t going to get anywhere with the woman if she didn’t, so she picked up the thick dark piece and took a bite. Deep rich chocolate with a soft center and a chewy crust. “Hmm. This is delicious.” She reached for a napkin.
As Mrs. Yearwood nodded with approval, Miranda wiped her mouth and took another swallow of coffee.
The woman was right. The sugar was clearing her head. Enough to press on with her task.
“These are exquisite,” Parker said after finishing a brownie himself.
“I thought you could take some of these to the station. You and all the police have been working so hard and I’m so grateful. I’ll wrap them up for you before you go.”
“I’m sure they’d appreciate that.” Parker nodded to Miranda.
He wanted her to take over. This was her theory, after all.
“Mrs. Yearwood,” Miranda began again.
“Louella,” she corrected.
“Louella. We’ve been going through lists of men Josie might have dated since she came back home.”
Blinking with surprise, she sat back in her chair. “Oh? How did you find that information?”
“We discovered Josie was registered with several dating sites.”
“She was? She never told me that.” The poor woman looked bewildered.
“All of the men we questioned have solid alibis for the night Josie was killed.”
She hadn’t put that very delicately, but Mrs. Yearwood nodded with an earnest look.
“So we thought maybe we weren’t going back far enough. Today we spoke to someone who knew Josie in high school. He mentioned there were boys back then who—” How could she put it?
She turned to Parker.
“Young men who felt a bit rejected when Josie didn’t go out with them.”
How did he do that? Put things so delicately?
Still Mrs. Yearwood frowned. “Rejected? Josie was a very friendly young girl. Everyone loved her. I’m sure she never intended to hurt anyone.”
“I’m sure she didn’t. But we’re wondering if you might remember any of her classmates, or have anything belonging to Josie that would give us information about who she went out with back then.” Or didn’t go out with.
Mrs. Yearwood gazed out the window a moment. “Josie and Angela were friends for a while. I didn’t let her date until she was a junior. She had a strict curfew. But she did go out with a lot of boys. So did Angela. Let me think.” She tapped her fingers against her lips. “For the life of me, I can’t remember any of their names right now. Oh, I know.”
Miranda’s heart jumped. “What is it?”
“I still have Josie’s yearbooks from high school. They’re in her old room. Give me a minute to go and fetch them.”
Before Miranda could reply, she disappeared down a hall. A yearbook? Could that be their Rosetta Stone?
Her nerves on edge, Miranda leaned close to Parker. “Do you think that will give us what we’re looking for?”
“I think it’s as close as we’ll get.”
Feeling antsy, Miranda got up and strolled to the fireplace. Once again she studied the pictures of the youthful Josie Yearwood, and her heart broke all over again for her. She was looking at the one from the beauty pageant when her cell buzzed.
“What is it?” Parker asked.
“It’s Wesson,” she said after digging out her phone. “She wants to talk.”
Quickly, she thumbed a message. Do you have a lead?
Not a lead. Just have to talk about something.
Miranda suppressed a groan. Ballard must be giving Smith
a hard time again. She couldn’t deal with that now. She shot out another message.
Can’t talk now. We’re at Mrs. Yearwood’s. Might be onto something. If you have anything, send it.
She sent the text and looked up as Josie’s grandmother returned to the room holding a thick bound book.
“This is from her senior year. I don’t know how it would help, but you’re welcome to it.” She handed it to Miranda and looked away sadly.
Probably thinking about what she would do with Josie’s things.
As Miranda sat down on the couch with the book in her lap, her heart went out to the woman. C’mon, she thought. This has got to be it. She had to find this creep.
She ran her hand over the embossed gold foil lettering of the cover, then opened it.
The inside flap was covered with signatures. There were quips about what an honor it was to sign “Yearwood’s yearbook,” lots of “Good luck!” and “We had fun” messages. Silly rhymes, a knock-knock joke or two. Nothing that seemed obsessive or vengeful.
Miranda turned to the title page. Again the white space was covered with youthful writing. Smiley faces, exclamation points, and more well wishes. Some were from teachers. “You have talent. Remember to use it,” the Art teacher had written. “Algebra wasn’t your strong suit, but the world needs your eye for design.” From the Math instructor.
She read through them all while Parker read over her shoulder.
Briefly she flipped through the pages of photo upon photo of students, most of them signed with the same kind of cute quotes.
“How many students went to this school?” Miranda asked.
“Over five hundred, I believe,” Mrs. Yearwood said.
Another long list of names for Deweese and Hill and Garwood to go through and track down. Names that might lead to nowhere, she thought wearily as she turned another page.
There was a stunning color photo of Josie on a float wearing a glittering tiara. She was dressed in a white gown with a blue sash, and in her hand she carried a single long stemmed purple rose.
Roses from My Killer Page 17
