by Rula Sinara
Emily watched the young woman closely as she smiled at Fred and managed to brush his hand with hers when she picked up his cup to refill it.
Oh, please. Bad enough Fred was showing a complete lack of judgment by flirting with her. Now she was flirting back. Ridiculous.
Right after lunch—if Rose stopped flirting long enough to take their order—Emily would go back to her apartment and run an internet search for this new name. Rose Daniels was hiding something, and Emily had a hunch whatever that something was, it would turn up. Then she would call Jack at the police station and fill him in on the latest intrigue.
The door opened and the two stock boys from Henderson’s Hardware came in and settled into the booth that Emily liked to think of as hers and Fred’s.
“Be right back,” Rose said.
Emily waited until Rose was at the booth, handing out menus and reciting the lunch specials—which she still hadn’t mentioned to her and Fred—before she leaned toward her friend.
“What’s going on here?” she hissed.
Fred was still grinning. “I think I might ask her out.”
“Are you out of your mind? Look at her.”
“I think she’s kind of cute?”
Cute? “I guess, if you go for the vampire look.”
Fred shook his head. “You’re jealous.”
“That’s ridiculous. You can go out with anyone you choose, and I’ll be very happy for you, but Rose? There’s something weird about that girl.”
“Weird?” Fred shook his head at her.
“There is.” She ran through her list, starting with her random appearance at a small-town B & B and ending with this new piece of evidence, the mix-up over her name. “None of it adds up.”
“Are you sure you’re not trying to cook up another mystery for your blog?”
Cook up a mystery? “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You can only get so much traction with your Riverton bandit posts. If no one catches this guy, and soon, then your readers will lose interest.”
“You know perfectly well I am not making up those stories, and for your information, I have no intention of blogging about Rose Danvers or Daniels or whatever her name is.”
“It’s Daniels—she told you herself—and like you said, you or your sister must have made a mistake. Why would she lie about her name?”
Good question. Emily shrugged and glanced over her shoulder to the booth where Rose was now coyly laughing with the two young men from the hardware store. “If you’re going to ask her out, you’d better be quick about it.”
Fred briefly followed her gaze and swiveled back to the bar. “Do you have to read something into everything? She’s only being friendly.”
Emily patted his hand. “Right. You keep on deluding yourself. I’m going back to my place.” She stood, fished two dollars out of her wallet and dropped it on the counter.
“What about lunch?”
She shot another glance at Rose, who now appeared to be on the verge of pulling up a chair. “Yeah, good luck with that. She hasn’t even taken our order. I don’t think you’re going to see food anytime soon.”
“Suit yourself.”
Emily hated it when she and Fred disagreed—they always ended up sounding like preteen siblings—but she wasn’t backing down on this. There was something shady about Riverton’s newest resident. She intended to find out what that was, and then people like Fred and Annie would have to listen to her.
Back in her apartment, she poured herself a glass of milk, opened a can of soup and slapped together a grilled cheese sandwich while the soup heated. Pretty much what she’d planned to order at the Grill, if ordering had been an option.
Emily opened her laptop on the table, and while it booted up, she ladled soup into a bowl and set it on a plate next to her sandwich. She sat down and swallowed a spoonful of soup. Then she rubbed her hands together.
“Okay, Rose Daniels from Chicago. Let’s find out what secrets you’re keeping.”
There were too many hits to count. The subject lines included phrases like “triple murder” and “suspect in custody.” A series of thumbnail images across the top of the page confirmed she had found the right person. Emily scanned the sources, and then, with her heart racing and her hands shaking, she clicked on an article in the Sun-Times.
Chicago police have discovered an unexpected link between the murders of three Chicago women, who were first thought to have been randomly selected by the alleged serial killer Jason Caruthers.
Rose Daniels was connected to the murders of three women? Emily shoved her plate aside and fixated on the screen. Tempting as it was to scroll down until she found Rose’s name, she forced herself to read the article from the beginning.
Twenty-seven-year-old Caruthers, from Albany, NY, is undergoing a series of psychiatric evaluations to determine whether or not he is fit to stand trial. His lawyers have filed a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity.
Emily had heard the story on the news, read a few snippets on the wire, but they didn’t run articles like this in the Gazette. Frankly, they totally creeped her out.
Jack Evans, lead investigator on this case, says the evidence to support a conviction is overwhelming.
Jack. Of course. This had been his last big case. He hadn’t said much about it, and Emily had put it out of her mind. Besides, they had plenty of personal matters to work out. But a case like this, one that involved a woman who had recently come to Riverton, a woman about whom she had expressed concerns that he had all brushed aside? Why hadn’t he said anything? What was he hiding? She continued reading.
The murders, committed over a three-day period, took place in different parts of the city. The first victim, a social worker with the Department of Child and Family Services, died from multiple stab wounds. Her body was discovered by a coworker in the parking lot behind their office complex.
Emily shuddered. Why her? Why this woman, who had dedicated her life to helping others? This was why Emily hated reading stories like this, and one of the reasons she hadn’t wanted to work for a big city paper.
The second woman was a homemaker and a PAWS volunteer who worked part-time at a nearby library. She was stabbed multiple times. Her body was found by her husband when he returned from a full day at the office. He was never considered a suspect.
The article didn’t say whether or not they had children. Emily prayed they didn’t. She had skimmed past these women’s names. It was less personal that way.
The third victim was a homeless woman...
Seriously?
...a homeless woman, fifty-one-year-old Scarlett Daniels, who was found in the alley next to the shelter where she had been spending the night. She died as a result of multiple stab wounds.
Scarlett Daniels? Was this Rose’s mother? What if...? No. That was a ridiculous thought.
But Rose was here in Riverton. Why? Was this more than just some bizarre coincidence?
It had to be. Jack knew about Emily’s mother, and he obviously knew about Rose and Scarlett Daniels. He would have told her if there was a connection. Wouldn’t he? Of course he would.
Emily tried to steady her breathing. Part of her wanted to stop reading while the other part desperately needed to know the whole story. Besides, she still hadn’t found the reference to Rose, so she pressed on.
The murders initially appeared to have no motive, until Chicago PD detectives pieced together the connections. The link turned out to be Daniels’s daughter, Rose, who had spent much of her life in and out of foster care. Now an adult, the daughter had befriended Caruthers, whose DNA was found at all three crime scenes.
Emily jumped to her feet, whirling in a frenzied circle, then rushed out of her kitchen and through the apartment to the bathroom. She felt sick, as though she might retch her guts
out, but there was nothing in her stomach but that spoonful of soup. She splashed cold water on her face, struggled to draw a breath, and another. She was suffocating, having a heart attack, dying maybe.
“No, you’re not.” You know how to do this, how to control your breathing, lower your heart rate.
She needed to lie down, close her eyes, get herself centered. She forced herself to turn around, walk into her bedroom and lie on the bed. This was no different from any other panic attack. She could do this.
One scattered thought after another chased through her mind. Did Jack...? Was Rose...? Was Scarlett...? No. Stop, breathe, focus.
Within minutes, Emily’s breathing had calmed, and in a few more, the tightness in her chest had disappeared, and her heartbeat had slowed enough so she was able to get up and return to the bathroom. With shaky hands, she pressed a damp washcloth to her face and forehead. Her stomach was still unsettled, but some food would help.
In the kitchen, she spooned some lukewarm soup into her mouth, bit into her sandwich. The bread had gone crunchy and the cheese was congealed, but none of that mattered because...it just didn’t matter. She managed to eat the soup and half the sandwich. She washed it down with the milk that was now the same temperature as the soup.
She contemplated her laptop, debated whether or not to finish reading the article, but decided she had seen enough. Too much, really, so she snapped it shut. She dumped the uneaten half sandwich into the trash, rinsed her milk glass and soup bowl and left them in the sink with her coffee cup from that morning. Finally feeling calm enough to drive, she knew what she had to do. She needed answers, and she was going to get them. She grabbed her bag and keys, let herself out the back door and hurried down the wooden steps to her parking space at the back of the building.
CHAPTER TWENTY
JACK SAT AT his desk and opened the lunch his mother had packed for him. He desperately wanted a place of his own, but after returning to Riverton, he had decided to hold off until Emily accepted his proposal. With any luck, he thought, tracing the outline of the horseshoe with the tip of his index finger, that would be this weekend.
His mother’s lunches almost made sleeping in his old room worth it, though. He was polishing off a roast beef sandwich when he heard raised voices at the front desk.
“I’ll let Chief Evans know you’re here,” Karla said.
“No need. I’ll surprise him.”
It was Emily. He stood and was halfway around his desk when the door burst open, and there she was, eyes alight with anger.
“Em, what’s wrong?”
“Is Scarlett Daniels my mother?”
In that instant, he experienced every cliché he’d ever heard about having his world collapse around him. “Listen, I can explain—”
“She is! You knew, and you didn’t tell me. My mother was a homeless drug addict. She had another kid. Rose is my—” The last word was swallowed up by a sob.
“I was going to tell you, but I didn’t want to upset you. I was worried about you. And the baby.” He reached for her.
She pulled away, tears streaming down her face. “No. I can’t do this. I can’t talk to you. Don’t touch me.” She swung around and rushed out the door.
“Emily, wait!”
He stood in the middle of his office for a few seconds, silently cursing Rose Daniels for doing this to Emily, and himself for allowing it to happen.
“Everything okay, Chief?” Karla asked from the doorway.
“Not even close.” He grabbed his jacket and brushed past her. “I need to go after her. Lonnie Gable’s on patrol this afternoon. Tell him I’ll be back as soon as I can, and ask him to keep an eye out for Emily Finnegan.”
* * *
EMILY DROVE THE short distance from the police station to downtown, fully aware she was exceeding the speed limit and not caring one bit. She wished she dared to go faster, break all the rules. Why shouldn’t she? Everyone else did. All the time. And they got away with it.
She had no idea where she was going, though. Not to her apartment. That was the first place Jack would look for her. The barbershop was the second place, so she couldn’t rush over there and cry on Fred’s shoulder. Besides, he was probably still at the diner, flirting with Rose. What she wanted most was to go home and be with her family, but she couldn’t go there, either. How could she break the news to her sisters that their mother was dead? Murdered! That Rose Daniels was their half sister? That the girl must have come to Riverton because she knew about them, and had lied to them about her reason for being here.
Jack had known all along who Rose was, and he hadn’t told her. That was unforgivable. He’d known that Scarlett Daniels was her mother and withheld that, too, along with the sordid details of how she had lived and the gruesome events that had led to her death. How could he? What right did he have?
She slowed down when she pulled onto Main Street, drove past the barbershop, the newspaper office and the stupid Riverton Bar & Grill where at this very minute Rose Daniels was coming on to half the men in town.
Emily turned onto Second Avenue and then onto Cottonwood Street and then the next thing she knew, she was stopped in front of Mable Potter’s place. She had known the woman most of her life, which meant Mrs. Potter had known her and her family.
Emily had never asked anyone about her mother. Somehow, even as a small child, she had known the subject was off-limits, if not downright taboo. Well, not anymore. She pulled up and parked by the curb. She had promised the elderly woman she would visit again soon, so she shouldn’t be too surprised to see Emily on her doorstep. Dropping by to have an afternoon cup of tea with an old friend was a perfectly normal thing to do. And no one would look for her here.
She looped her bag over her shoulder as she climbed out of the car and gazed admiringly at Mrs. Potter’s home. She loved the salmon-pink house with its tidy window boxes and flower beds. The front porch had a welcome mat that actually read Welcome. On the front door was a black sign in the shape of a dog with white lettering that read Be Aware of Dog. Perfectly normal.
Emily knocked and waited. She knocked again, but there was no flurry of footsteps, no barking Banjo to greet her. Mrs. Potter and the dog must be out. Emily tried the doorknob, and the door opened. She quickly pulled it shut again. Just because this woman seemed oblivious to the need to lock up her house when she wasn’t home didn’t give Emily, or anyone, the right to go inside. She went back down the steps and strode to her car. She was standing there, pondering her next move, when she spotted Banjo racing up the sidewalk with his jaws clamped around a pink plastic flamingo.
What on earth? Ken and Marthe Bartlett were the only people in town who had pink flamingos. They lived two blocks away. The dog dashed across the front yard and through the gate, which Emily realized she had left unlatched because it had been unlatched when she arrived. She carefully closed the gate and followed Banjo to the backyard. Sheets and pillowcases flapped on the clothesline, a pair of aluminum lawn chairs with faded green webbing had been unfolded on the tiny patio by the back door, and Banjo’s bright yellow tennis ball lay on the neatly trimmed lawn. Perfectly normal.
The dog deposited the lawn ornament on the grass and gazed up at her, tail wagging, as though expecting a reward. Finally, the penny dropped. Mrs. Potter must have forgotten to shut the gate when she went out, and Banjo had gone out on his own. “Banjo, did you steal the Bartletts’ flamingo?” Was he the garden-gnome thief? The dog grabbed his tennis ball and dropped it at her feet. As she reached for it, he snapped it up and dashed away.
“Silly dog. I’m not going to chase you.” She would sit here in the sunshine, wait for Mrs. Potter to come home and find a way to ask if she knew anything about the other things that disappeared around town. Besides, this was the last place Jack would look for her. She settled into one of the chairs, leaned back and closed her eyes. Her
phone buzzed with an incoming text message.
Emily, where are you? We need to talk. I can explain everything. Love, Jack
Love, Jack. Right. Because when you loved someone, you withheld life-changing information about a person’s family. Jack Evans wasn’t in love with her. He was in love with doing the right thing. Or what he perceived to be the right thing, including making decisions on her behalf. Her phone buzzed again.
You okay? Jack’s looking for you. The guy is frantic. Fred
Great. Now he was dragging her friends into this mess. Another message popped up.
Sweetie, what’s happening? Jack called and he’s looking for you. It sounds pretty urgent. Call him, OK? Call me, too. Annie
Stop already! Emily turned off the phone—something she seldom did—and shoved it into her bag. She settled her gaze on the garden shed and noticed that, unlike her previous visits, the door was ajar. She crossed the yard and stepped inside.
The space was dimly lit and smelled of dust and garden fertilizer with a hint of gasoline. As her eyes adjusted from the bright sunshine to the shed’s dark interior, Emily began to make out items. A lawn mower and gas can stood on one side. Next to those, a wheelbarrow. Gardening tools hung from hooks across the back wall. Low shelves spanned the other side wall, cluttered with plant pots, coiled garden hoses, an ancient watering can. On the top shelf there was a garden gnome. And another garden gnome, and another, as well as a pair of black rubber boots, a welcome mat, a trowel and a garden stake that read “Weed It and Reap.” All items that anyone might expect to find in any garden shed in Riverton. She squinted and gasped. But a window-washing squeegee?
