Cold Waters (Normal, Alabama Book 1)

by Debbie Herbert

  She took a huge bite of her cheeseburger and glanced at her cell phone lying on the table.

  “Lunch hour passes by quick,” I noted.

  Libby took a long draw of her malt. “Why did you call me? I mean, I’m glad you did. But I am surprised.”

  “You were right,” I admitted. “I could use a friend. Get out of the house a bit.”

  “How long you plan on staying?” She dipped a fry in ketchup and munched away.

  “Good question. I hadn’t planned on staying long. I’d intended to get the money my mother left for me in her will and then leave at once.”

  “So what’s stopping you?”

  Libby sure was direct. I wasn’t used to that. I held up a finger as I finished chewing a bit of my sandwich. Should I tell her the truth? What could it possibly hurt? Not like I’d be staying in Normal much longer. I swallowed, then gathered my courage. Yes, I’d arranged to meet her for all the reasons I’d stated, but I also wanted the gossip on Delaney.

  “No money to leave, for one thing. Seems like Delaney evades me or picks a fight whenever I ask her about the inheritance waiting on me.”

  “Do you think she’s spent it?” Libby asked bluntly.

  “No,” I said quickly. “Surely not. She and Dad were well provided for, and that old house is paid off. And it’s not like there was a huge amount left for me. But it would be enough for me to get my own place and start life over somewhere new.”

  “Then you need to go down to the bank and set matters straight,” Libby said firmly, pointing a ketchup-laden french fry at me.

  I dug back into my sandwich. Libby didn’t have much of a lunch break, and I didn’t want to eat alone if she had to cut out. I contemplated her advice. Should I go to the bank? I hated drawing attention to myself, but I needed the cash. I was well past twenty-one now, and the State of Alabama had officially declared me mentally competent and free. There should be no legal issues withdrawing the money. Twenty minutes or so of being scrutinized by employees, and I’d leave the bank with enough dough to find my own place to live, buy furniture, and get a used car, maybe even splurge on a decent wardrobe.

  “I suppose I should check on the account,” I said slowly. Tiny bubbles of suspicion about my sister frothed at the back of my mind.

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “That you’re right. That the money’s all gone.” I thought of the night Delaney had sneaked in those bags of designer merchandise. Admitting the bald truth made my stomach flip.

  “Maybe the bank’s kept your money protected. Was it saved in a trust account?”

  “Yeah, but I’m worried that Delaney could have withdrawn the money, saying that the withdrawals were made on my behalf.” I cleared my throat and looked away from Libby’s bright, kind eyes. “Since I was, you know, not mentally competent to handle my own affairs.”

  Libby took a long swallow of her drink and then forcefully set it down. “Did she ever do a damn thing for you while you were there? Visit you? Bring you gifts or presents?”

  “No. She only came to visit about four or five times.”

  “A year?”

  “No. The whole time I was gone. The few times she came were only because Dad wouldn’t visit and my doctors wanted to try family therapy.”

  “Then if she’s made false claims or submitted false receipts to make withdrawals on your account, she’s committed a criminal act and should be prosecuted.”

  The thought of police and lawyers made me cringe. And then the possible publicity . . .

  Libby leaned over the table and softened her voice. “Everything might seem overwhelming right now. Just take it one step at a time. And the first step is to get to the bank and find out the truth. If the money’s there, then all’s well and good. If it isn’t, you need to either confront Delaney and have her pay you back or press charges and force her hand.”

  I sighed. “You’re right. Time to start acting like a responsible adult.”

  “Damn straight.” Libby downed the last of her fries, tucked her phone in her purse, and stood. “Do this again sometime? Maybe come over for dinner one night, and we can talk more. I don’t have much free time or money to be hiring babysitters.”

  “That would be great,” I said in a rush, also rising from the booth. “I have to run too. Delaney’s going out, so I’m Dad-sitting.”

  We paid the cashier and headed out the door. Blistering heat covered me in waves.

  “Later,” Libby said, waving and heading to her car. “Let’s get together later in the week.”

  I waved and then walked in the opposite direction, careful to avoid the sidewalk cracks. Step on the crack, break your mother’s back. Having avoided the bad luck, I stepped off the curb and prepared to climb into the sauna of my car’s interior. I’d rolled down the windows of the ancient Continental, but it would still be unbearably sticky.

  “Violet Henderson?”

  I jerked my head to the side and studied the tall, lanky man dressed in a worn gray suit.

  Detective Kimbrel. I’d remember him anywhere. His dark hair was peppered with gray now, and his skin sagged slightly at the jawline, but it was him, all right.

  I stiffened but forced my voice to be civil, if not friendly. During the investigation into Ainsley’s death, he had always been kind to me. Hell, he’d even been with my mom when she’d found me wandering the woods that night. “Detective Kimbrel,” I responded with a polite smile.

  He stuffed his large hands in the pockets of his trousers. “Heard you were back in town.”

  “Just a brief visit.”

  He nodded and studied me. A prick of unease shivered at the nape of my neck as I recalled that the work to drain Hatchet Lake had begun. If Ainsley had died there, they’d find skeletal remains. Would this same man be the one investigating me all over again? Maybe this time even charging me with murder?

  My hand clenched the car keys so hard I felt the metal ridges burn into my palm. I had a mad urge to rush to the bank, demand my inheritance, and take the first plane to the Bahamas. I wiped a bead of perspiration off my upper lip. What if the seasoned detective could read my thoughts—see right through me?

  “How are you doing?” he asked, squinting in the sunlight. “Plan on staying in Normal for long?”

  Damn. The questioning had already begun. Did this mean he was going to warn me not to leave town next?

  “I don’t really have any plans yet,” I said past the dryness in my throat. It was the truth, even if it sounded evasive.

  He shuffled from one foot to the next. “How are your sister and father?”

  “Fine.”

  I could almost swear he seemed as nervous as me, although I must have been imagining it. What did he have to be nervous about?

  “Good, good,” he muttered.

  An awkward silence gathered between us. “Guess I’ll be moving on then,” I said lamely.

  “Okay. Good to see you. And here . . .” He pulled a card from his pocket and held it out to me. “If you ever need anything, call me. I mean it.”

  His kindness touched me and made me uneasy, all at the same time. I stuffed the card in my purse. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  I felt his eyes on me as I walked away and climbed into my vehicle. The ivy sprig in the ashtray was brown and crumbly. I made a note to myself to replenish it when I got home, perhaps adding a pinch of basil and ginger to the mix for even more protection. Once driving down Main Street, I glanced back in my rearview mirror. The man still stared after me, and I licked my dry lips. I had a hunch this wouldn’t be the last I saw of Detective Boone Kimbrel.

  Chapter 7

  BOONE

  Present day

  I stood on the sidewalk feeling as though I’d been mule kicked in the stomach. Violet, with her heart-shaped face and large soulful eyes, was Hy all over again. Not a trace of Parker Henderson to be found—damn it. Although perhaps it was for the best. Nothing for Parker to be suspicious of, since Violet was the
spitting image of her mother. If there was anything of me in my daughter, it was her long fingers, which I’d noticed as she’d taken my business card, and her above-average height.

  Hyacinth. The woman I’d never forgotten in spite of every vow and good intention to do so. I remembered every kiss, every stolen, illicit moment of the past.

  Mostly, I led a contented life. Ellie was a decent wife, and our two boys were fine, if somewhat distant, young adults. They’d both ended up taking jobs in Atlanta after college. We were disappointed, but who could blame them? More opportunity there than in a small town. My job was steady and secure and afforded us a solid middle-class existence, same as the three generations of my family who had lived in this town. But often late at night, as Ellie softly snored beside me, I played the what if game. What if I had run away with Hy all those years ago when she’d discovered she was pregnant? What if I’d raised Violet with her? Perhaps that terrible tragedy by the river would never have happened.

  “Hot damn, who’s the looker?”

  Josh Adams, my partner, was suddenly by my side.

  Thirty years my junior and new to the job, Josh managed to grate on my nerves even after two months working together. I gave him a stern look. “The young lady’s name is Violet Henderson.”

  “Any relation to Delaney Henderson?” he asked with interest.

  “Sisters. How do you know Delaney?” Josh had transferred over from the Huntsville Police Department upon his promotion from a beat officer to detective and—lucky me—had been assigned to be guided on detective work under my senior experience. I didn’t expect him to be familiar with any locals.

  Josh winked at me. “C’mon. You’re not so old you haven’t heard the rumors around her? The easy chick who likes rich, married men? The nymph of Normal?”

  “Didn’t take you long to get wind of local gossip.”

  “Part of the job.”

  I followed him into the patrol vehicle and let him drive. My thoughts drifted as we traveled through town. Delaney. Hadn’t thought much of her over the years, despite the raised eyebrows in some circles whenever her name was mentioned. Hyacinth had certainly never cared for her stepdaughter. According to Hy, the girl was a born liar and manipulator.

  “What other gossip have you heard about the Hendersons?” I asked, curious if he’d heard news about Violet.

  “Something vague about possible murder being associated with that family. What’s the deal?”

  Might as well tell him. Hatchet Lake was being drained as we spoke. Soon—very soon—they would in all probability find the skeletal remains of one Ainsley Dalfred. A knot of dread in my gut had been my constant companion ever since I’d heard news of the dam repair job. What was this going to mean for Violet?

  “Eleven years ago, a young girl, age fifteen, went missing,” I began. “The last one to see her alive was Violet Henderson.”

  Josh’s young face lit with curiosity. “That chick I just saw, huh? She must have been pretty young when this happened.”

  “Violet was fourteen. The girls had a habit of sneaking out of their homes late at night and meeting each other down by the river. They lived only about a quarter mile from each other.”

  “What were they doing out there? Partying?”

  I stifled a sigh. Josh always had a hundred questions. But I had to admit curiosity was an excellent trait in a detective.

  “Apparently, they liked to skinny-dip. Some of their clothing was left behind when Ainsley disappeared. That’s how we knew exactly where they were that night.”

  Josh’s mouth curled. “What was their deal? Were they meeting guys there?”

  I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable with the question. “It means they were young and thought it would be fun to go swimming. Don’t always jump to conclusions,” I warned.

  “Right, boss,” he said in a tone that let me know he believed me an old fuddy-duddy who knew nothing about teenagers and sex.

  “Anyway, I received a call late one evening from Violet’s mother, concerned—”

  “Hold on.” Josh lifted a hand from the steering wheel and shot me an incredulous look. “Why call you? Wouldn’t she have called the police department or 911?”

  “We didn’t have a 911 system out here until six years ago. This isn’t Huntsville.”

  “So why not call the police station directly?”

  Josh was sharp and not easily evaded—I’d give him that. “I’d been out to their house before on a domestic-dispute call. Mrs. Henderson didn’t press charges, but she did accept my business card. Seems she’d held on to it in case she changed her mind or needed assistance without having to state her business with a dispatcher.”

  I hadn’t thought about that first night we’d met in ages. By the time I’d arrived at their house, fear had sobered Parker, and Hyacinth had been more embarrassed than hurt. She hadn’t wanted the gossip that would follow after filing a report. Both her and Parker’s families ran in exclusive sets.

  And here we were, decades later, and I’d also palmed my business card off on her daughter.

  Our daughter.

  “Quite the family. I get the picture,” Josh said with a nod. “Go on. Mrs. Henderson called you because . . .”

  “Violet was missing. She woke in the night, checked in on her, and found her bed empty. Delaney tattled and told where Violet often met Ainsley by the river. Mrs. Henderson walked down there and found one of Violet’s sandals and Ainsley’s shorts and T-shirt, but both girls were gone.”

  My voice trailed off as we crossed the bridge, and I gazed into the swirling Alabama River. How many lives had the water claimed? Probably twice the number of bodies found or that we even knew of had been swallowed in its secret depths.

  “That’s odd.”

  I furrowed my brow and frowned at Josh. “Of course it’s odd. We’re talking about two missing teenagers.”

  “Not that part.” Josh waved a dismissive hand. “I meant about her mom checking in her room during the middle of the night. Violet must have caused Mrs. Henderson lots of trouble for her to be so suspicious.”

  I shrugged and attempted to strike a casual tone. “Meh, just the usual teenager stuff.”

  “If you say so. How long did it take to find Violet?”

  “Almost two hours. We found her wandering barefoot in the woods, dazed and confused. Couldn’t even remember her own name and didn’t recognize her mother.”

  “Is it possible both girls were hurt by some perverts? Or maybe they’d hooked up with some guys for a party, and things turned rough?”

  “Violet wasn’t physically injured, other than a few scrapes and cuts that appeared to be caused from roaming the woods. We later had her tested, and medical personnel determined that there were no signs of sexual assault. Some of her memory returned a few days later. She remembered meeting Ainsley that night for a swim. But nothing after that.”

  “How convenient,” Josh said dryly.

  “Again, don’t jump to conclusions.” It was hard, but I kept my tone mild. Wouldn’t do me any good to show a personal bias toward helping the person of interest in this case. “At first light, we assembled a search team. We discovered a large amount of blood on a rock where the girls swam. Turned out to be Ainsley’s blood. Divers were called in, but she was never found. The prevailing theory is that Ainsley swung from the rope on the cliff above, hit her head on that rock, and drowned. The current must have moved her body toward the lake.”

  “But the victim could have been pushed from the cliff, correct?” Josh pressed. “Or maybe even stabbed or shot by the murderer. With no body to examine, anything could have caused that spilled blood.”

  “There’s no proof that Violet, or anyone else, caused the victim’s death.”

  “That loss of memory—it’s too convenient.”

  I took two slow, deep breaths. “If it was fake, she managed to fool a team of state psychiatrists who questioned her for the courts,” I pointed out. “And there was no motive. She was best frie
nds with the victim.”

  “And what’s the school of public opinion say?”

  “Most Normalites would say she’s guilty,” I admitted. “But that doesn’t make them right.”

  “Or wrong.”

  “Look, Violet had severe PTSD or something after the incident and spent most of her adolescence and young-adult life cooped up in mental health facilities. She’s suffered enough without the town’s blame and suspicion.”

  “You like her,” Josh accused. “Maybe that’s clouded your judgment.”

  “I have compassion. And my mind is sound.”

  He shrugged. “Touché.”

  This old case might mean nothing to my partner, but it consumed me. That night, and all its secrets, would haunt me forever.

  Chapter 8

  VIOLET

  Present day

  The scent of fried chicken sent a pang of nostalgia through me as I remembered many a Sunday afternoon eating it at church socials. Nobody, and I mean nobody, could fry chicken like the old ladies of the church. There was some kind of hoodoo magic in those battered breasts and wings that no restaurant fare could touch.

  Too bad that the price of such a treat came at the expense of a visit by the church hospitality committee. An unannounced house call to welcome me back into the community.

  Some welcome.

  Ruby, Shelby Jean, and Dixie—the Burkhardt sisters—could scarcely contain their avid curiosity about me. I stifled the urge to jump out of my seat and yodel at the top of my lungs like the crazy person they believed me to be. Crazy or a murderess—perhaps both.

  “We’re so glad you’ve come home,” Ruby said, sipping her glass of iced tea. “After all these years. Imagine.”

  Shelby Jean ripped her gaze from me to Delaney. “You must be so pleased to have her back.”

  “Of course.” Delaney bestowed a sweet smile upon me, appearing angelic and poised. She’d washed up from working in the garden and donned fresh clothes. I was all too conscious of my grimy T-shirt and jeans from scrubbing floors all morning. I scrambled to my feet, eager to escape their circling around me like a flock of birds. That matronly threesome of old biddies wanted to peck away at me, as if I were on trial at a crow tribunal. Much as I loved my corvid feathered friends, I knew that they were notorious for occasionally murdering one of their own.