Dead Little Darlings

by Herron, Rita

  Darling had either forgotten about these things or hadn’t been able to part with them.

  Ryker set the box back where he’d found it, walked to the window and glanced outside. That tree . . . it looked like the tree in the picture. Except two small beds of flowers were planted beneath the tree now.

  Dread curled in Ryker’s belly.

  Deborah and Candace had been found, but not their baby sister. Polly had been closest to the mother. What if Darling had killed her and his wife discovered her death?

  Pulse pounding, Ryker strode from the room, and walked past Darling. He was still sitting in his chair, his hands cradling his head as if he knew his day of reckoning had come.

  Chapter Eighteen

  She clenched her cell phone with a white-knuckled grip, nerves pinging in her stomach as she paced her kitchen. That blasted reporter and the cops were asking questions all over the island.

  Her threats to Marilyn Ellis hadn’t made a difference. Damn the bitch, she’d survived the incident in the parking lot like she was a cat with nine lives.

  She poured herself a shot of vodka then opened her special hidey-hole where she kept the photographs.

  Pictures of each of the Darling girls. First school pictures she’d cut out of the high school yearbook. Then candids she’d snapped the month of December.

  Sluts.

  She should have asked him to paint that on their foreheads when he left their bodies in the ground.

  She took a red lipstick and drew S’s in red on their foreheads in the pictures. S’s for sluts. Double S’s for justice just like the Keepers had.

  Then the picture of Marilyn Ellis. She’d been sympathetic to the other Keepers, Cat Landon and Carrie Ann Jensen.

  Would she be sympathetic to her?

  It didn’t matter. Some secrets weren’t meant to be exposed.

  She tacked Marilyn’s photograph on the wall with the others. A red lipsticked S came next. The bitch was screwing that cop. She was a slut, too.

  She added a set of double S’s next for what was to come.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Marilyn needed to talk to Preston Richway. Although Jeremy appeared regretful over the way he’d treated the Darling sisters, his physical injuries would have prevented him from committing murder.

  But it was possible he hired or conspired with someone else to do the job . . .

  “Do you still keep in touch with Preston?” Marilyn asked.

  A faraway look settled in Jeremy’s eyes. “We haven’t talked in years. He and his mother moved away after graduation.”

  Mellie Thacker and Aretha Franton had left town, too.

  They were all running from something. Maybe from what happened that night at the party?

  “Do you know how to reach him?”

  Jeremy shook his head. “All I know is that they moved to Florida.”

  Florida was a place to start.

  “Are we done here?”

  Marilyn folded her hands together. She couldn’t be certain of the timing, but she’d seen Deborah and the baby about nine months after Deborah disappeared. “There’s one more thing, Jeremy. It’s possible Deborah Darling was pregnant when she disappeared. Did you know anything about that?”

  Jeremy’s face blanched. “What? No. God. She was only fourteen.”

  Marilyn nodded. “I know. Do you have any idea who she might have slept with?”

  He looked down at his hands and knotted them into fists. “It wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  A sick knot tightened Marilyn’s stomach. Eaton again. If the girls ran away, he could have picked them up then raped them and fathered the baby.

  Or . . . if Darling had abused his daughters, he might have sexually molested them.

  Then he might be the baby’s father—another motive for murder.

  Ryker found Caroline searching the girls’ closet when he entered the bedroom.

  “Any luck?”

  She lifted an empty bottle of rum. “Found this in the closet. But no diaries or anything to indicate that the girls planned to run away or that there were problems in the home.” She sighed. “Of course, Mr. Darling had ample time to dispose of evidence before he reported the girls as missing.”

  Ryker gestured toward the window. “I found a photograph of the family in Mr. Darling’s room. In the picture, the youngest daughter is standing close to the mother, but Deborah and Candace are distant. The picture was taken by the tree in the back. Flowers are planted there now.”

  Caroline stepped from the closet, her eyes widening as she followed his train of thought. “You think Mr. Darling killed Polly and buried her in his yard?”

  Ryker shrugged. “I think we should consider that possibility.”

  “That would explain why the other two girls ran away.” She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “Did you find any guns in the house?”

  Deborah and Candace hadn’t been shot. But he understood her concern. If Darling knew he’d been caught and was armed, he might attempt suicide. “No. You?”

  She released a breath. “No.”

  Darling was pacing in front of the window, staring out.

  “I’ll stay here while you search outside,” Caroline offered.

  Ryker nodded, then left the room. He walked the perimeter of the house in search of a crawl space but didn’t find one. Pulse hammering, he crossed the yard to the tree, then stooped and raked his hand over the ground.

  If Darling had buried someone here, the ground had settled over the decades. But the flowers, set in two patches, were what drew his attention. He retrieved a shovel from his SUV and strode back to the tree. He rammed the shovel into the dirt beside the flowers and began to dig.

  Thunder rumbled again, and the sky darkened. He dug faster, hoping to finish before another rainstorm hit. In spite of the chill in the air, perspiration beaded on the back of his neck as he tossed dirt aside.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Ryker glanced over his shoulder to see Mr. Darling barreling across the back yard toward him. He was shaking his fists in anger. Caroline was on his tail, her hand on her weapon in case things went south.

  “Get away from there!” Mr. Darling shouted.

  The man’s reaction raised Ryker’s suspicions, and he jammed the shovel deeper into the dirt. He was a good three feet down now, still shallow, but he didn’t intend to stop.

  A second later, the shovel hit bone.

  “Please go now,” Jeremy said. “I have work to do.”

  Marilyn sensed he’d revealed all he would. But the fact that Deborah Darling had been pregnant disturbed him. Because he was lying and he could have been the biological daddy? Or . . . perhaps his friend Preston fathered the child?

  Even if Deborah had consented to sex, she’d been underage. Whoever slept with her could have been charged with statutory rape.

  “All right, just one more question. Did you ever hear of a man called the Punisher?”

  A puzzled expression creased Jeremy’s brows. “No. Who’s that?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” she answered matter of factly. “I heard he took care of people’s problems.”

  “You mean he was a hit man?”

  Marilyn chewed over that possibility. Or he could have been a Keeper long before the Keepers organized themselves. “Like I said, I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t help you.” He angled his wheelchair toward the door. “Now, I really do have to work.”

  “Thank you for your time.” Marilyn removed a business card from her pocket. “If you think of anything else that might be helpful, please call me. And if you talk to Preston Richway, tell him I’d like to speak to him.”

  She dropped the card on the end table by the sofa, then walked to the door.
As soon as she made it back to her car, she drove to the nearest coffee shop. She snagged her laptop, hurried inside to a table in a back corner, ordered a coffee, then began searching on-line for Preston Richway.

  Ryker laid the shovel on the ground, dropped to his knees and raked dirt away from the bone. If this was a body, he didn’t want to disturb it or any forensics left behind.

  “You have no right,” Mr. Darling growled.

  Ryker gritted his teeth. This was a skeleton. A small skeleton.

  Anger churned through him as he raised his head and stared at Darling. Caroline stood beside the man, her face ashen.

  “Call the ME and a forensic team to excavate this grave,” Ryker told her.

  She jerked her eyes away from the bones, pulled her phone from her jacket pocket and made the call.

  Ryker stood and faced Mr. Darling. “Who did you bury here? Your daughter Polly? Your wife?”

  His face crumpling with emotions, Darling fell to his knees and began to sob.

  Unmoved, Ryker removed his handcuffs and yanked the man’s arms behind his back.

  Marilyn found two Preston Richways. The first had just celebrated his hundredth birthday surrounded by his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. Pictures on social media documented the party.

  The second Preston Richway took a little longer to research. No personal Facebook, Twitter or Instagram accounts. However, she finally found his name associated with a rehab center in Delray Beach, Florida. The center focused on drug and alcohol addiction and residential programs and counseling.

  She clicked on the site, found a list of employees, and scrolled to Preston Richway’s bio. He was from South Georgia, Seahawk Island.

  It was him.

  Dammit, Delray Beach was a five-six hour drive, although it would only be a short flight. She’d rather interview him in person, but calling him would be faster.

  She sipped her coffee, then dialed the number for the rehab center. When the receptionist answered, she asked for Richway.

  “Who may I ask is calling?” the receptionist asked.

  If she revealed she was a reporter, she’d get nowhere. “I’m an old friend from his hometown. We’re having a reunion and want to make sure he has all the details.”

  “He’s with a group therapy session right now. Leave me your name and number and I’ll have him return your call.”

  Marilyn hedged. “Actually I’d prefer to call him directly if you’ll just give me his cell number.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss, but we can’t release that information.”

  She clenched the phone tighter, struggling to refrain from losing her temper. “Oh, right, I understand.” She gave the woman her cell. Odds were that if Preston was hiding something, he wouldn’t call back.

  If he didn’t, she’d hop a plane to Florida and confront him in person.

  The waitress stopped at the table, and she ended the call and ordered a chocolate chip muffin.

  While she nibbled on the muffin and sipped coffee, she searched for Mellie Thacker and Aretha Franton. Nothing on Mellie Thacker, no social media accounts, address or phone number. No driver’s license issued or renewed for Mellie since she was sixteen.

  That was odd.

  She perused death records, but found nothing on Mellie. But she did locate a death certificate for a Theresa Thacker.

  A few minutes of searching birth records, and she connected Theresa Thacker with Mellie. Theresa was Mellie’s mother. More research revealed that the mother died in a car accident three weeks after she’d moved from Seahawk Island. There was no mention of any surviving family or of Mellie.

  The timing seemed coincidentally soon after the Darling girls disappeared. Her mind began to shift the puzzle pieces to create a picture.

  Mellie had been with the Darling girls the night of that party at Preston’s. Mellie also hadn’t been heard from since, and there was no record of her anywhere.

  A chill swept through Marilyn. Two bodies had been identified from the three skeletal remains found at Seaside Cemetery. The third hadn’t yet been identified.

  Was the third victim Mellie Thacker?

  Ryker scrutinized Howard Darling’s reaction as the team excavated the bodies buried in the man’s yard.

  He’d sobbed at first, but soon lapsed into a bewildered, stunned silence. As if what—he hadn’t known they were buried there? Could he have repressed the memory?

  Or perhaps he’d never imagined after twenty-five years his crimes being revealed?

  The ME lifted his glasses onto the top of his head. “There are two skeletons here. One appears to be a child, well, maybe a teenager. The other, a female. Adult.”

  Polly and her mother? So Mrs. Darling hadn’t run off and abandoned Howard Darling as he’d claimed.

  “We’ll transport the bones to the morgue for analysis,” Dr. Patton said.

  Caroline and a uniformed officer were waiting beside Mr. Darling at the police car. Ryker relayed his conversation with the ME, but he couldn’t quite read Caroline’s expression.

  A pale-faced Darling glanced up from the back seat with tears in his eyes. Ryker braced himself. A man who’d killed his family didn’t deserve sympathy.

  “I’m having him transported to the station for booking and interrogation,” he told Caroline.

  “I’ll follow you. I definitely need to document this interview.”

  Ryker spoke to the head of the ERT, then left them in charge of collecting evidence.

  Twenty minutes later, he and Caroline were seated at a metal table that had been bolted to the floor in an interrogation room at the police station. Darling sat slumped across the table from them, looking shaken and confused, but resigned.

  Ryker had Mirandized him, but Darling hadn’t yet asked for an attorney.

  “Mr. Darling, you know we found the remains of two females in your back yard,” Ryker began. “They belong to your wife and daughter Polly, don’t they?”

  The man rubbed a hand over his eyes, then gave a weak nod.

  Disgust clawed at Ryker. “When we notified you that we found Deborah and Candace, you already knew Polly wasn’t with them, didn’t you?”

  The man released a weary breath. “I . . . I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Caroline leaned forward with both hands on the table and glared at Darling. “You had to lie to cover up what you’d done,” she hissed. “First you abused your daughters, maybe even your wife, then you killed Polly and your wife?”

  He shook his head no.

  “Don’t deny it, teachers and neighbors stated that the girls were abused. What happened? Did things get out of hand after the party? Maybe you hit Polly and your wife stepped in to defend her?”

  “That’s not the way it happened,” Mr. Darling said in a low, pained voice.

  “We just dug up their bodies in your back yard,” Ryker cut in. “You put them there.”

  “I did,” Mr. Darling said. “But . . . you’ve got it all wrong.”

  Caroline scoffed. “How do we have it wrong, Mr. Darling? We know you abused the girls—”

  He shot up from his seat, eyes fuming. “I didn’t abuse them,” he snarled. “It wasn’t me.”

  Ryker stood, ready to tackle the man if he became physical. “Sure it was. You have a temper. The girls did something to make you mad and you snapped.”

  “No, that’s not true,” Mr. Darling insisted, his voice shaking with fury. “My wife was the one who hit them, not me. She drank too much, and when she got drunk, she flew into a rage. She jumped all over the girls and . . . I couldn’t stop her.”

  Tension vibrated through the room. Caroline went still. Ryker stared at the older man, contemplating his accusation.

  “It’s easy to blame your wife when she isn’t here to defend herself,” Ryker said in a low, lethal voice.
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br />   Darling raked his handcuffed hands over his head. “It’s true though. She hurt the girls. She was always sorry the next day, but then she got drunk again and the same thing happened.”

  Ryker scrutinized Darling’s reaction. The man had twenty-five years to practice his story. Was Darling a killer, or was his emotional reaction a ploy to convince Ryker he was innocent?

  Chapter Twenty

  “You’ve lived with this guilt for a long time,” Ryker said to Mr. Darling. “You’ll feel better once you get it out. We have your wife’s body and all three of your daughters’ remains. It’s only a matter of time before we prove everything you did.”

  The fight seemed to drain out of the man. He laid his cuffed hands on the table, looked at his fists as if he was remembering strangling Deborah and Candace. They didn’t have COD on Polly or the wife yet.

  “I buried Polly, and then my wife, but I didn’t kill them,” he said in a voice filled with such calm that Ryker and Caroline exchanged a look. “I swear I didn’t.”

  Either the man was in serious denial, and he thought they couldn’t prove what he’d done or . . . he was telling the truth.

  Caroline cleared her throat. “Then what did happen?” she asked in a quiet tone.

  Mr. Darling heaved a shaky breath. “The night of the party when we got home . . . it was . . . awful. The girls . . . they’d had a big fight.”

  Ryker narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”

  Darling cut his gaze toward him. “It was a bad one. They were mad and were pushing and shoving, and . . . Polly was . . . dead.”

  Caroline slapped her hand on the table. “You expect us to believe Candace and Deborah killed their little sister.”

  “They said it was an accident. That she fell and hit her head.” Tears trickled down the man’s ruddy cheeks. “My wife was drunk and went at the girls.”

  He’d heard of children from abused families abusing their younger siblings. Was that what had happened here?

  “What was the fight about?” Agent Manson asked.