by Debra Webb
Deidre looked from one to the other. “All right,” she conceded. “Come on in.”
When they had taken seats in the parlor and the lady of the house had offered the expected refreshments, Troy allowed Bobbie to take the lead.
“Mrs. Wilson, you and your husband stated that you hadn’t spoken with Mr. or Mrs. Cortland recently. When you attended Mrs. Cortland’s funeral, it was the first time you’d seen Mr. Cortland in several weeks. Is that correct?”
Deidre seemed to assess the question. “Yes. We’re so busy, you know. I’m involved in so much charity work. I started an advocacy center for the mothers of missing children twenty years ago. So often there are no proper support services for those left behind. After I lost my little boy, it was very important to me to help others cope with the same sort of nightmare.”
“The work you do is above and beyond,” Troy commented. “It’s a great service to the community.”
Deidre smiled, her face flush with pride. “It’s not nearly as important as what the police do,” she offered. “Finding justice for the children who are taken and...and oftentimes harmed, is far more vital. Are you any closer to determining why Bill would have done such an awful thing?” Her voice quivered on the last.
“We don’t believe he worked alone,” Troy admitted, “but we still have a long way to go sorting out what happened.”
Deidre put a hand to her chest. “When I first learned that my Heath was dead—I mean, I should have known after all these years, but I always hoped.” She drew in a deep breath. “When you told us what really happened, I fell apart. I couldn’t believe anyone I knew would do such a horrible, horrible thing. Once I pulled myself together, I realized that, at this point, all that mattered was justice. What else is left?”
Bobbie watched the determination and something like hatred harden in the other woman’s eyes. “I’m certain your department will do all within their power to solve this puzzle and find justice for the children.”
Deidre blinked away the emotions and squared her shoulders. “Do you think Hoyt and I are in danger from that serial killer? What’s his name? Randolph Weller? Is he really running around Savannah killing people?” She put her hand to her chest again. “I’ve been hearing all these awful things on the news.”
The media had latched on to the Weller story and turned it into a true Halloween boogieman horror story. In truth, they weren’t far off the mark. So far Bobbie had managed to duck the reporters whenever they descended on Troy. The last thing they needed was the media dragging her life story into the circus they were quickly creating.
“I’m concerned about that, too,” Troy said.
Bobbie resisted the urge to give him the thumbs-up. The man had just found the perfect opportunity to push the idea of a security detail.
“Oh my.” Deidre looked from him to Bobbie and back. “Should I be concerned that he’s coming for us next?”
“At this time all I can say is that I would urge you to reconsider the security detail I offered.”
Deidre hesitated, then sighed. “I think you’re right. We do need a security detail. Thank you, Troy. You’re a good man. The world needs more like you.”
Outside, as they loaded into Troy’s SUV, Bobbie shot him a grin. “Good job.”
He grinned back at her, the first genuine one she’d seen since they met. “Let’s see if we get so lucky next time.”
As they left, Deidre Wilson waved from the front door. For a woman who was frightened for her safety, she hadn’t been in any hurry to close the door and lock it behind her. Instead, she remained on the porch, watching until they had driven away.
Myrtlewood Drive
4:50 p.m.
Shelia Cotton didn’t appear the slightest bit surprised at their visit. Bobbie suspected Deidre Wilson had given her a call. After all, what were friends for?
A couple of years younger than Deidre, Shelia was a fashionable dresser. Her elegant slacks were navy and her cashmere sweater was the same dark blue. Shelia was tall with brown eyes and dark hair that she wore draped around her shoulders. The lush mane lacked even the slightest hint of gray. She carried herself like a dancer. Unlike Deidre who helped her husband with his grocery store chain, Shelia had been a stay-at-home mother to their two older children.
“Wayne will be sorry he missed you,” Shelia said to Troy. “He’s off discussing a new mall project with his architectural team.”
Troy nodded. “I would have thought he’d be on the golf course on a Sunday afternoon.”
Shelia waved off the idea. “Please, he never golfs when it’s this cold.”
“Deidre Wilson,” Bobbie spoke up, “mentioned that the two of you spoke with Allison Cortland shortly before her death.” It was a lie but Shelia didn’t know that at the moment. Bobbie decided not to look at Troy just in case shock had descended on his face.
Shelia appeared taken aback for a moment. “Well,” she made a breathy sound, “we’ve had tea together every week for forty years. Of course we spoke to her. We had tea on the Friday before...before her death on Tuesday.”
“Did she appear particularly upset about anything?” Bobbie asked now that the lid was off the box.
“Of course she was upset.” Shelia appeared more than a little peeved. “She’d only just found out a week or week and a half beforehand that her husband was dying.” She glanced at Troy. “I’m certain you can imagine how devastating that news was.”
“I surely can,” Bobbie assured her. “I should have framed my question more clearly. Was she upset about anything other than the news about her husband? Deidre seemed to think she was struggling with something else.”
That “deer caught in the headlights” look took hold of Shelia for a moment. “No.” She shook her head, banishing the expression. “Allison didn’t mention being upset about anything other than Edward. Not to me anyway.”
Bobbie asked, “Were you surprised that she would take her life when her husband needed her most?” Next to her, Troy shifted in his seat.
Shelia stared at Bobbie for a long moment, then something in her demeanor changed. Gone was any sign of uncertainty or discomfort. “Allison was a good wife to Edward. She did what she thought she needed to do. Edward had the means to take care of himself.”
Troy asked, “Has your husband mentioned anyone who might have wanted to hurt Mr. Cortland?”
“Edward made his share of enemies,” Shelia said. “But you’d be better served speaking to Wayne about that.”
“What about your husband?” Bobbie ventured. “Does he have any enemies?”
Shelia stared at her for another of those long moments. “I suppose everyone has a few.”
Before Bobbie could ask anything else, Shelia said, “Should Wayne and I be worried about this awful serial killer we saw on the news? Will he try to hurt us next?”
While Troy assured her that the department was doing everything possible to stop the person or persons responsible for the murders, Bobbie watched the lady. She wasn’t afraid or concerned. The idea that her question about Weller was so similar to Deidre’s niggled at Bobbie.
These two women knew things they had no intention of sharing. She could feel it.
The good news was that Troy persuaded Shelia Cotton to accept a security detail, as well.
Maybe they should go at the husbands the same way, one by one and separately from their wives.
Sometimes the pieces of a puzzle had to be pulled apart before they could be properly put together.
Twenty-Six
Hull Street
9:30 p.m.
Bobbie climbed the final set of stairs to her room. Wayne Cotton and Hoyt Wilson had stuck by their stories. Neither made the first misstep in repeating their claims. Both maintained that they had never received ransom demands or threatening contact of any sort aft
er the abduction of their children. Both also insisted they’d had little or no life insurance on their children.
No matter how many ways she asked the same questions, the answers were consistently the same. Some would say such flawless consistency was a good indicator the two were telling the truth. Bobbie wasn’t so sure. Sounded more like well-rehearsed responses to her. And why not? Cortland, Wilson and Cotton had been telling the same story for thirty-two years. Durham, on the other hand, had stayed oddly quiet. He’d given his statement in the beginning and, according to Troy, had refused to speak of the case again.
What had those men done to incur the wrath of someone—presumably Bill Sanders—ruthless enough to snatch and murder their small children? Heather Durham had noted a taking of sides, so to speak, among the men involved.
Maybe there was some tie between the Sanderses and the Foster family. Or the Bonners. But what would that have to do with the children whose remains were found in those statues? If not for money or sexual perversion, what motive would anyone have for taking those children?
The only good news she had learned today was that Troy’s mother and father weren’t likely involved beyond being the parents of one of the missing. Any noted tension had been about the affair and the strain put on Luke’s relationship with the other fathers during the course of the investigation. She’d thought Troy would break down into tears when she recounted the conversation she’d had with his mother—leaving out the details of the affair. Instead of breaking down, Troy had hugged her for the longest time. This case was a tough one for him, but she didn’t blame him for wanting to stay on top of it.
As she reached the landing on the third floor, Bobbie stalled. Amelia Potter stood in front of her door. Clutched to her chest was a paper shopping bag, the kind with handles that boutiques and higher end department stores used.
“Hey.” Bobbie walked toward her—the closer she came, the more fear she recognized in the other woman’s eyes. “Has something happened since we spoke this afternoon?”
She and Troy had stopped by The Gentle Palm and briefly questioned Amelia. Like the others, she was unable to provide any additional useful information. Unlike the others, Bobbie believed she was telling the truth for the most part. She still felt Amelia was leaving something out. Maybe it was nothing significant, but it was there.
“I need to speak with you privately.” Laughter coming from a room down the hall snapped her gaze in that direction.
Definitely jumpy. “Of course. I hope you didn’t wait too long. You could have called.”
Amelia shrugged. “I don’t like to talk on phones.”
Bobbie dug for the key in her shoulder bag. “They can be a pain.” She unlocked the door, stepped into the room and then turned on the light. “I’m sorry I don’t have tea to offer you. I could call room service.”
Amelia looked around as she entered the room. Bobbie wondered if the idea of ghosts concerned a woman supposedly gifted in seeing things others didn’t.
“I’m fine, thank you.” She glanced at the duffel bag on the floor at the end of the bed. “I brought you some things.” She thrust the bag she carried at Bobbie. “I thought you might need them.”
Bobbie accepted the bag. Inside were two sweaters, a fur-lined jacket and a pair of faded jeans. Thick, warm socks and even a couple of pairs of underwear and a nightshirt. Bobbie wasn’t sure what to say. “Thank you. This was very kind of you.”
“I rewashed them just to be sure they were fresh and clean.” She shrugged. “We’re about the same size. I thought these could tide you over until you’re back home again.”
Bobbie had intended to pick up a few things but she hadn’t found the time. She’d ended up washing her panties in the shower last night. She checked the size of the jeans. Should fit. She remembered the first time she went to The Gentle Palm thinking that she needed to pick up some necessities, but she was fairly confident she hadn’t mentioned as much to Amelia.
“One question.” Bobbie placed the borrowed clothes on the bed, along with the bag. “How did you know I needed extra clothes?”
“Both times I saw you, you were wearing that same sweater.”
Well, there was a logical answer that had nothing to do with woo-woo. “Maybe I just like this sweater.”
“When you were in my shop the first time,” Potter said, “I sensed you were concerned about picking up a few things.”
Maybe that something else she’d been holding back wouldn’t be contained any longer. Bobbie indicated the chair next to the desk before dropping onto the foot of the bed. “Have a seat.” She was too damned tired to stand and finish this conversation. “Is there something else you’ve sensed? Is that why you’re here?”
Amelia smiled but she didn’t sit. Instead she pulled her sweater tighter around her. Like the shawl, it was crocheted. Bobbie imagined she’d made it herself. The one sewing project Bobbie had tried in high school when all her friends were making cute short shorts and skimpy tops had turned out badly. She hadn’t attempted anything along those lines since.
“I told you that I knew you were coming before you came to my shop.”
Bobbie nodded. “You did.”
“I didn’t tell you everything.” Amelia sank into the chair next to the desk.
“I’m listening,” Bobbie prompted.
“I keep having this same dream over and over. We—you and I—are in the woods.” Her voice grew soft and distant. “We’re running. The danger is right behind us. So very close.”
“Can you see what or who it is?” Bobbie didn’t really believe in fortune-telling or seeing into the future. But what she strongly believed in was some people’s ability to sense things others could not. Not really a psychic ability but a heightened awareness of the world around them.
Amelia shook her head. “I only know it’s close and that we’re in grave danger.”
“Are there any other details you can share?”
Her gaze lifted to Bobbie’s. “The water. We’re in the water together and we’re struggling.” She shook her head and looked away. “Struggling so desperately. I can see the blood. It leaks into the water and turns it a bright red.”
The next second turned into five, then ten before Amelia spoke again, her attention once more settling on Bobbie. “I think one of us is going to die.”
10:30 p.m.
Bobbie hurried along the alley, following the same route Nick had taken the night before last. Before leaving the inn she’d sent him a text letting him know she was headed to his place. If this was the way he wanted their interaction, then so be it. She couldn’t make him see what she wanted him to see. She could only hope time would.
The moon seemed so close tonight. Her feet slowed as she peered up at it. Almost full. Tomorrow would bring a rare harvest moon for trick or treating. Halloween. Last year she and James had taken Jamie from door to door in their neighborhood. They’d pulled him around in the red wagon Newt had bought him for his birthday the year before.
A smile tugged at her lips as the memory came flooding back.
“That’s a big wagon for such a little baby,” Bobbie teased her partner.
Newt shrugged. “The boy’ll grow into it. Wait and see.”
And he had. Jamie had grown into the cutest, sweetest toddler. He had pulled that wagon around the backyard just like Newt said he would.
I’m so sorry I let you down, baby.
Bobbie brushed at her eyes with the back of her hand. She wished she’d brought her good running shoes. Four or five miles would definitely burn off some of this pent-up frustration. She walked faster, needing the brisk pace and cold night air to release the tension. She appreciated the clothes Amelia Potter had brought to her. For now she would reserve judgment on the other. Bobbie had never been one to believe in all that woo-woo stuff. Ghosts and psychics had been more New
t’s thing. He’d had a healthy respect for those who professed to dabble in the supernatural.
As she reached the same stoop where Nick had hidden before, he stepped into her path.
She rolled her eyes. “I know the way.”
His dark eyes assessed her as if he needed to ensure she was in one piece. “I was in the neighborhood.”
Bobbie kept walking.
“What have you learned in the past twenty-four hours, Detective?”
So this was how it was going to be. Business. Straight to the point. Bobbie kept her attention forward and her step quick. “I’m sure you already know the cause and manner of Edward Cortland’s death.”
“I do.”
“We’ve reinterviewed the other players in the case, the Wilsons, Cottons and Durhams. Nothing’s changed about their statements. In fact, the statements are so eerily similar they feel rehearsed.”
That was it. It was as if the parents of the children in the case had gotten together and prepared responses to any potential questions that might be thrown at them. The one time their responses had faltered was when Deidre Wilson said her husband was playing golf with Wayne Cotton. She hadn’t expected the visit or the question so she’d stumbled.
“None have legal or financial problems,” Nick said as they reached the alley next to his building. “Then or now.”
“There were no ransom payoffs or substantial insurance payouts after the abductions as far as we can tell,” she added as they climbed the stairs.
They didn’t discuss the case further until they were in Nick’s room. Bobbie walked straight to the case map. He’d added more photos and reports. The sheer number of details he knew about all the players amazed her.
“Who’s your source in the department?” She turned to him, knowing full well he wouldn’t tell her.
He hesitated for a moment, then said, “He isn’t a cop, but he’s been in the department longer than most of them, including your lieutenant.”
Will wonders never cease? “Thank you.”
