Victoria's Destiny

by L. J. Garland

  With the phone to his ear, Dauscher stared down at the woman. “How bad?”

  He turned Mrs. Beckindale’s head to the side. “I’m no doctor, but I think she’ll be fine.”

  “What?”

  “She missed.” He pointed at the bloody furrow in her hair. “Grazed her scalp. You know how head wounds bleed. Looks worse than it is.”

  The big guy’s shoulders sagged. “Son of a bitch.”

  River kicked the sleek, nickel-plated .45mm lying near Mrs. Beckindale’s side, sending it skittering across the floor near his partner’s feet. They would bag and tag it after the ambulance arrived, but for the moment the weapon was out of her dangerous hands.

  As if on cue, the distinctive sound of sirens wailed in the distance.

  “That was quick.”

  “Yeah,” Dauscher said. “A little too quick.”

  “Maybe they were in the neighborhood.”

  “I’ll check it out.” As he stepped out onto the porch, the sirens grew louder. “They stopped next door.”

  “Go ask what’s up,” River suggested.

  Without waiting for further encouragement, Detective Dauscher holstered his gun and ambled down the steps. River remained with Mrs. Beckindale—he wasn’t about to leave her side until she was either strapped to a gurney in an ambulance or cuffed in the back of a squad car. A few minutes later, a heavy-footed jaunt sounded on the front steps.

  “You’re not going to believe this.” Dauscher strode through the doorway, glanced at the still unconscious Mrs. Beckindale then turned to River. “The ambulance next door? It was called because the neighbor saw a man stumble into her backyard and keel over. Three guesses who the guy was.”

  “Mr. Beckindale.”

  “Ab-so-freakin-lutely.” Dauscher pushed his sunglasses up on his head. “Seems the blissfully wedded pair had a tiff and hubby smacked her. The wife here grabbed a gun, shot him, and he ran out the back door. Made it as far as the neighbor’s house before passing out.”

  “Good thing he didn’t go the other way into your grandmother’s backyard,” River said. “That would’ve been bad.”

  “She wouldn’t have thought so. She would’ve loved it.” A sly smile pulled the corners of his mouth. “She would’ve been the topic of conversation at poker night for at least a month.”

  “We could get the paramedics to move him to her yard.”

  Dauscher chuckled then shook his head. “Too much paperwork.”

  Ninety minutes later, two ambulances departed, each with an injured Beckindale and a uniformed police officer. The paramedics had declared that with further medical attention they would both survive their injuries. A concerned Mam-maw had stood at a respectful distance, her keen eyes taking everything in. Afterward, she’d invited Theo and River inside to recount the events—the tone of her request leaving no choice but compliance.

  “Man, your grandmother is tough.” River followed his partner to the Taurus. “I feel like I’ve been grilled by Internal Affairs all over again. But she sure makes good focaccia bread and French onion soup.”

  “Yeah, Mam-maw can cook. But I doubt she’d have given us a crumb if we hadn’t found where the second bullet had landed.”

  “She told me she wouldn’t be able to sleep.” River remembered how she’d whispered the words to him while Dauscher had spoken with the paramedics. Her concerned expression had urged him across the street in search of the stray slug. “I’m glad no one was sitting in that car when the bullet went through the trunk.”

  “And speaking of bullets,” Dauscher said. “How did you know Mrs. Beckindale had a gun?”

  River shrugged. “Like I told your grandmother, I saw it through the window.”

  “No way.” Dauscher shook his head. “You were as surprised to hear a female voice come from the other side of that door as I was. So how’d you know?”

  He glanced at the neighboring house, the memory of the knot ripping at his gut making him queasy all over again. “Instinct, luck, training. Take your pick.”

  “Fine.” Dauscher gave him a skeptical look. “Luck, then.”

  River slid into the passenger seat, closing the door while his partner inserted the key into the ignition. But instead of starting the engine, the big guy sat and stared at his grandmother’s house. His gaze narrowed, the area around his eyes crinkling like a twisted sheet of paper. Danger had brushed against his family. River waited in silence, allowing him all the time he needed to absorb the fact his grandmother was safe. Damn, he hated domestics.

  “Well, hell.” Dauscher’s abrupt growl jolted River. “First day on the job and you’ve already saved my life.”

  River looked at his partner, unable to gauge the scowl on his face. “Let’s not make a habit of it,” he replied in a similar ice-laden tone.

  “Sounds good.” Dauscher started the engine, shifted into reverse, and backed down the driveway.

  “So, I guess this officially moves me from backup to real detective status.”

  The big guy stopped the car. The angry bulldog expression on his face vanished, replaced with a good-natured grin. “Hell, yeah it does.”

  River smiled. “Good to know.”

  Chapter Seven

  Tybee Island, Georgia

  “This sunset is as gorgeous as the one we saw yesterday.” Vicki stood at the railing on the third-floor balcony of Becca’s home. The immense orange sun drifted below the horizon while a contrasting cool breeze caressed her skin. “And your house, right here on the ocean. It’s perfect.”

  “I know.” Becca stood next to her, sipping a glass of white wine. “I found this place three months ago, and I knew I had to have it. Fortunately, I’d sold enough paintings for the down payment.”

  Vicki peered over her shoulder at the huge window, behind which lay a well-stocked art studio. Her friend was right. It was as though the house had been built for her.

  “So, did you bring it?” Becca’s eyes glittered with anticipation.

  Vicki’s insides curdled. She’d managed to sidestep it the day before, but today there was no getting around it. “Yes.”

  Becca dropped onto the nearest overstuffed patio chair, tucked her long, sun-kissed legs beneath her, and smoothed her ankle-length gypsy skirt over her knees. Her myriad bracelets rang as she held out her hands and smiled. “Gimme.”

  Vicki flopped onto the chair next to her, the wine in her glass nearly sloshing over the rim. She’d dreaded this from the moment she’d spoken with Becca on the phone and explained why she wanted to stay with her for a while. “It’s not as glamorous as you think.”

  “Gimme.” Her imperious hand remained outstretched, the last vestiges of the molten sun sparking multi-colored lights in her rings and bangles.

  “It’s pretty awful.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake.” Becca sighed with mocked annoyance. “Gimme!”

  Vicki dug into her oversized tote and brought out the magazine. She flipped to the article Lenny Johnston had written about her and handed it over.

  “Oh, wow,” Becca murmured.

  “See what I mean?” She ran a hand through her hair. “I just can’t believe it.”

  “I know.”

  Something about her tone encouraged Vicki to glance over, but she found it difficult to decipher her friend’s wide-eyed expression. “What?”

  “You’re famous.”

  The simplistic declaration sent arrows of shock through her core. Famous? That was the last thing she’d expected her to say.

  “The guy is making me out to be some kind of monster. You make me sound like a celebrity.”

  Becca’s slender shoulders rose and fell. “You kinda are a celebrity. Your picture’s in a magazine.”

  “I’ve been trying my whole life to avoid this type of attention. I’m a freak of nature. I don’t need to see it in print.” She gestured toward the magazine with her glass, the wine splashing over the side and onto the deck. “Damn it.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Her fri
end dismissed the accidental spill with a wave of her hand. “It’s my fault. I’m sorry I upset you.”

  “This is why I left Charleston. Why I came here.”

  She’d packed up her belongings and scurried to Becca’s house. But had she chosen Tybee Island because it was where her friend lived, or because of its proximity to Savannah and the fact she’d had a vision about a girl who drove a carriage there? Or did my curse somehow manipulate my subconscious decision to come here? Her insides knotted.

  Not only had Vicki ensconced herself in Becca’s guest room, she’d also had a vision about her destiny that was somehow tied to the girl in Savannah. Fear gripped her chest. In two short weeks, everything would change. Less than two weeks now. Thirteen days.

  “I need you to understand.” The guilt of the secret she kept softened her tone. “The guy who wrote those lies—Lenny Johnston—he literally stalked me. Followed me around, for who knows how long, until something happened. And he got a story for that piece of crap magazine.”

  “I’m really sorry.” Becca stared at her, regret clear on her face.

  “It’s okay. You saved me.” She reached over, squeezed her friend’s hand. “I needed a place to hide, and you didn’t hesitate.”

  “You stay as long as you need.”

  “Thank you.” The truth she harbored produced an intense ache in her heart, a knife twisting in her chest. “If I didn’t have you, I don’t know what I would do.”

  “Well.” Becca dabbed the corner of her eye with the back of her hand. “Your refuge comes with a price.”

  “Anything.” Vicki prayed it might ease the guilt. “Name it.”

  “You have to be up and ready to go by four.”

  “You mean a.m.? As in, four in the morning?”

  “Yes.” Becca’s natural effervescent personality reemerged with Vicki’s squawking inquiry.

  “Okay.” She gulped the last bit of wine in her glass. “I’ll be ready. Can I ask what we’ll be doing instead of sleeping like normal people?”

  “Sure.” She gestured toward the large window behind them. “We’ll be delivering some paintings to a gallery in Savannah. I have a show tomorrow night and was supposed to deliver them earlier today. You’ve been busy moving in, and I didn’t want to run off and leave you.”

  Vicki nodded. That was just like Becca—always putting others before herself.

  “I hope jeans and a T-shirt are acceptable delivery wear.”

  Chapter Eight

  Savannah, Georgia

  Five a.m. was early for anyone. But for Detective River Chastain and his partner, it was damn early. A quick fifteen-minute drug raid at ten the night before had led to six arrests, several more leads, and four hours of processing and paperwork. Then he’d fallen into bed for two and a half hours of sleep before his cell had rung, news of a murder victim dragging him from slumber and out into the predawn.

  River eased his smoke-colored Malibu into the alley behind a local theater, bits of debris crunching beneath the tires as it rolled to a stop. Just ahead, a parked police car’s lights sliced through the predawn darkness with flashes of blue and red.

  He stifled a yawn, his jaw popping.

  “Why do you think they called us in on this?” Dauscher rubbed a hand over his stubble-coated cheeks.

  “Don’t know.” River set the car in park. “But it must be a pretty big deal since we just took down a meth house a few hours ago.”

  “A few hours ago I was asleep in bed,” Dauscher grumbled. “Wendy wasn’t too happy about my cell ringing.”

  The car keys jangled as River switched the engine off. “A detective’s work is never done.”

  He looked through the windshield at the alley beyond, giving the outskirts of the scene a quick once-over. A dozen or so spectators had lined up for the show. No one appeared twitchy or nervous, but that didn’t hold much weight. They all needed questioning. If they were out on the street before five, they might have seen something.

  “She was going to make me pancakes,” his partner lamented. He balanced a cardboard carrier with two cups of coffee on his knees while he juggled condiments for his drink. A commercial creamer yielded a soft pop just before he dumped the contents into one of the cups. A familiar and invigorating aroma filled the car. “Hot off the griddle, man. With butter melting on top, and syrup running down the sides of ten golden disks stacked in fluffy perfection.”

  “Is Wendy a late sleeper?”

  The big guy snorted. “Aren’t all women?” Pouring a second creamer into the cup, he stirred, the skinny wooden stick scratching against the cup’s sides.

  River didn’t know about the mass population of women, but his ex-wife had always been up before the sun peeked over the horizon. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been the pancake-making type. More the packing-her-crap-and-leaving type.

  “We get this done,” River said and pushed open the car door, “maybe you can get home in time for those hot cakes.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Closing the door, he paused to let the crisp morning air wash over his face, hoping it would take his sluggishness with it. But instead, it brought tightness to his jaw and the beginnings of a twist in his gut. Not a good sign.

  “You want?” Dauscher held an oversized coffee out to him.

  “Yeah.” Taking the cup, he took a swallow of the hot, bitter liquid as much to settle his nerves as for the caffeine jolt. This was his third day with the Savannah-Chatham Police Department, and already his gut was tangled tight. Not a good sign at all.

  After Dauscher grabbed a couple sets of gloves and booties from the car, they ambled toward the crime scene. River noticed the location of the police tape along with the lone officer handling the spectators—several who held up cell phones, taking pictures or videos they probably planned to post on the Internet. “Don’t these guys know how to rope off a crime scene?”

  Dauscher wagged his head. “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “You push back the line. I’ll take the mess.” River shoved through the group of spectators, flashed his badge at the attending cop, and ducked under the yellow police tape. Dauscher followed, pausing to tell the officer the yellow line and people behind it needed to move farther back.

  “Don’t know why we bothered.” Dauscher joined him. “Any evidence left has already been trashed.”

  “We might get lucky.” River bent to put on his forensic booties then scanned the back wall of the movie theater. Brick and mortar. Savannah was all about preserving the past, which meant the wall was probably original. As he straightened, he glanced to his right. A row of businesses lined the opposite side of the alley. The construction displayed similar brick and doubtless laid by the same hands.

  “Shortens the list of potential witnesses.” Dauscher followed River’s gaze to the second story. “But unless someone worked most of the night and just happened to look out one of those windows, we probably won’t get much.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Still.” Dauscher took out his notebook, flipping it open to make a note. He held the pad and coffee cup in one hand while he wrote with the other, his casual manner suggesting he’d done it a few times. “I’ll get a couple guys to ask around. You never know.”

  “Might get lucky.” River checked to see if the officer had moved the gawkers back, but it seemed the guy was struggling against the growing crowd.

  Grimacing, Dauscher turned to two uniforms who stood chatting near the theater’s rear entrance. “Why don’t you two go help with the mob?”

  The dark-haired guy shrugged. “Owens has it under control.”

  “Yeah. He doesn’t need us,” the older one chimed in, not bothering to hide the smirk on his round face.

  “Seems I recall reviews coming up again.” Dauscher’s eyes narrowed. “Wonder how many asses the captain’ll kick when he gets wind of how a bunch of spectators trampled the evidence at a crime scene?”

  His well-aimed words seemed to do the trick. Without further comment, t
he two hustled to handle the situation.

  Dauscher stepped back, a devious gleam lighting his face. “Owens told me it was his first week on the job. No need making it a complete living hell.”

  River grinned. Give ’em hell, Theo. Easy going most of the time, but mean as hell when necessary. The big guy did what needed to be done and did it by the book. Within less than a week as partners, Theodore Dauscher had earned his respect as a law officer and fellow human being.

  “We should talk to the witness who discovered the body.” Dauscher gestured toward the guy sitting on the theater’s rear entrance steps.

  River crossed the alley. “Detectives Chastain and Dauscher. What’s your name?”

  “Pete.” The young man raised his head. His shadowed eyes indicated the indelible memories of something he should never have seen. “Peter Kensington.”

  “You talk to anyone yet, Pete?” Dauscher said.

  The young man nodded. “One of them.” A shaky hand peeked from beneath the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and pointed toward the officers near the dumpsters. “Don’t remember which. Sorry.”

  “No problem,” Dauscher assured him.

  “Why not just tell us what you saw,” River suggested.

  Pete shrugged in a motion of hopelessness. “Came in early. To clean. Organize. Went to take out the garbage, and there she was.” Lifting his chin, he peered up at River, his eyes glassy with memory. “She just lay there, you know? Not moving. Not doing anything. I ran back inside. Called 911. Been here since.”

  “So, you knew her?” Dauscher flipped open his notebook and performed his balancing act with his coffee. “What was her name?”

  “Penny Newhouse. She drives….” His face filled with an abrupt mixture of horror and surprise. “I mean she drove a horse and carriage. Did tours. History. Ghosts.”

  “Lived here all my life,” Dauscher said, “and still haven’t done one of those tours.”