The Secrets We Bury

by Debra Webb

  “May I help you?” Rowan asked as if she had not recognized the woman.

  Anna crossed the few feet that separated them and didn’t stop until she stood very nearly in Rowan’s personal space. “You are every bit as beautiful as your mother was.”

  Rowan endured the way her gaze roamed her face and then the rest of her before she spoke again. “And you are...?”

  She had no desire for the woman to believe she had bothered to learn what she looked like. There was no reason to give her any ammunition. She was already way ahead in this complex and mysterious game.

  “Anna Prentice Addington.”

  Rowan would have dropped the Addington part decades ago. “How can I help you, Mrs. Addington?”

  She flinched as if it pained her to be referred to in that way. “I believe what we have to talk about would be best discussed with some measure of privacy.”

  “Of course.” Rowan opened the door and led the way into the lobby of the funeral home. She quickly gathered the trash from her and Audrey’s shared breakfast. “Would you like coffee or tea?”

  “Water would be lovely.”

  “Please, have a seat. I’ll get the water.”

  Freud followed Rowan to the lounge. She tossed the trash and grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge. She returned to the lobby, and Anna was seated and waiting. She passed a bottle to the woman and then took her own seat.

  “What is it you’ve come here to say, Mrs. Addington? I’ve already told your associate, Detective Barton, all I know—which is nothing—about your daughter. My deepest sympathies for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” She took a sip of her water.

  Rowan waited for the other shoe to drop.

  “He was in love with your mother first,” the lady announced before taking another sip of water. “His total obsession with her was very hurtful to me and to our daughter.”

  Rowan opted not to launch her rebuttal until she heard the rest of what her unexpected visitor had to say, assuming there was more.

  “When Norah was gone, he became obsessed with you. He watched you every chance he had. It was truly pathetic.”

  Rowan took a moment to gather her thoughts, then she began. “How did my mother and Julian meet?”

  One finely arched brow rose a notch higher than the other. “Why, she was his patient. I thought you knew. Your mother was seeing him for multiple personality disorder—they call it dissociative identity disorder these days.”

  Now there was a surprise. To Rowan’s knowledge, her mother had never been diagnosed with any sort of disorder. Though after reading a good many of her writings, Rowan felt confident there was something not quite as it should be.

  “DID is rare,” Rowan argued. “And generally misdiagnosed. There are no medical records to support your assertion. Besides, how would you have had access to your husband’s medical files?”

  Anna smiled. “Oh, I did my research, my dear. When Julian was away, I made myself at home in his office. I saw her files. I’m certain the FBI has found them by now. Perhaps they simply haven’t shared the information with you.”

  “If my mother was his patient as you suggest, and he pursued a personal relationship with her, then he took advantage of her. She was another of his victims.” If this was true, Rowan wondered if he was medicating her mother, and if so, perhaps the medication prompted her suicide. Anticipation had her heart beating faster.

  “Aren’t we all his victims?”

  The regret and sympathy in her eyes forced Rowan to look away for a moment.

  When she had steadied her composure, Rowan asked, “How would my mother have become his patient? She wasn’t the type to run to the doctor for every little ache.” In fact, she couldn’t recall a single instance of her mother being ill.

  “Perhaps your father felt the truth would be too painful for you,” the woman suggested. “He sent Norah to Nashville for treatment after a particularly intense episode. It was a private hospital. Obviously he didn’t want his wife’s health issues to become common knowledge in your quaint little town.”

  “What hospital?” Outrage simmered inside Rowan. None of this could be true.

  “Serenity,” she responded without missing a beat. “Unfortunately it closed many years ago, so there’s no way to find the records. I can only tell you what was in my husband’s files.”

  This was nonsense. Rowan’s father would never have kept that kind of secret from her. “Why did your daughter come here? None of us knew about her. Or you or Julian, for that matter—unless my mother did.”

  “She was curious about the woman he loved more than me, more than her.”

  Rowan shook her head. This entire scenario grew more ludicrous by the second. “How do you know all these things when you had no idea he was killing people?”

  She stared at Rowan for a long moment. “Did you?”

  “But I wasn’t married to him.”

  “You might as well have been. Think about the past ten or so years, Rowan. You were very much like an old married couple without the physical intimacy.”

  Rowan refused to view her and Julian’s relationship that way. They were friends and colleagues. Nothing more. “You’ve been divorced for more than two decades. How would you know anything about me or my relationship with Julian?”

  “I’ve had someone watching him, Rowan, and you for all these years.”

  Rowan nodded. She understood now. “Detective Barton.” At least she now knew why his aftershave had smelled familiar. She had likely been close to him on numerous occasions without realizing he wasn’t just another stranger in the crowd. “Once you were divorced, why would you care?”

  Rather than answer the question, Anna’s gaze drifted to the railing where Rowan’s mother had taken her life. “Is it true that you were the one to find her?”

  Rowan’s mouth parched. She moistened her lips. “I did not know your daughter. My mother and sister did not know your daughter. I understand you’re seeking answers, but you won’t find them here.”

  The older woman nodded. “I’m aware. You see, he wants you to find the answers. No one else. You are the one thing in this world that matters to him. He will show you everything, and then he will destroy you as he has everything else in his life.”

  “He doesn’t appear to have destroyed you.” In fact, she appeared to be doing particularly well, and if Rowan was right, she and her longtime friend Detective Barton were far more than mere friends.

  Anna stood then. “I pity you, Rowan DuPont. He won’t stop until he has what he wants. I am so very grateful that he stopped wanting me years ago—after he’d destroyed me by causing my daughter’s death.”

  Rowan studied her another moment. “You believe his alleged affair with my mother destroyed your daughter?”

  Anna gathered her purse and her bottle of water. “You’ll see. I’ll be here, in Winchester, waiting.”

  She was at the door before Rowan stopped mulling over her statement and caught up with her. “Waiting for what?”

  “For the truth about who murdered my daughter. One of you DuPonts did it and I intend to know which one it was.”

  With that ominous announcement, she left.

  Rowan went to the window and watched her drive away.

  Was it possible her mother or her sister had killed Alisha Addington?

  Impossible. They were her family—granted, a little eccentric, but not murderers.

  Rowan thought of the necklace. She had the sudden urgent feeling that she needed to find the answer before Anna Addington.

  After all, Rowan hadn’t suspected for a moment that Julian Addington was a murderer.

  Who knew what his ex-wife might be capable of...

  Sixteen

  Billy climbed out of his truck and glanced around the parking lot of the Antebellum Inn. The place was built in
1890 and only had five guest rooms. But it was the only place he suspected a woman like Anna Prentice Addington would care to stay in their small town.

  The black sedan that had been chauffeuring her around town was parked in the lot. Billy climbed the steps, removed his hat and crossed the porch. Inside was cool and dimly lit. The lights in these old houses left something to be desired. A gentleman in a dark suit sat in one of the parlor chairs. Billy nodded to him and approached the desk.

  “Good afternoon, Chief. What can I do for you today?” Donna England smiled and propped her arms on the counter. She had gone to school with his mother, though she was several years younger. He had yet to encounter Donna without her inquiring after his mother. She was a nice lady.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. England. I’m here to visit one of your guests, Anna Addington.”

  “She’s in room three, second door on the right up the stairs, Chief.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He gave her a nod.

  “How’s your momma? I hear she’s pining for some grandbabies. I think you better find yourself a wife, Chief.”

  Billy chuckled. “How can I find a wife when the girl who stole my heart is already married?” He gave her a wink and headed for the stairs.

  Her giggles followed him, as did the man in the dark suit. When Billy reached room number three he turned to the man. “Is there something I can do for you, friend?”

  Hands hanging loosely at his sides as if he might be prepared to draw, the man studied Billy a moment. “I highly doubt it, cowboy.”

  Billy smiled and then leaned forward, close enough to whisper in the man’s ear. “Then I suggest you get the hell out of my face before I lose my patience.”

  The man withdrew a step when Billy pulled back just far enough to stare him straight in the eyes.

  The door behind him opened and a female voice said, “It’s all right, Garrett. I’ve been expecting Chief Brannigan.”

  Without taking his eyes from Billy’s, Garrett said, “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

  He executed a military-style about-face and walked away. Billy watched until he had descended the stairs. Then he turned to the lady.

  “Afternoon, ma’am. I’m Chief William Brannigan. I’d like a few minutes of your time.” The lady had evidently known he would come calling after her visit to the funeral home.

  “Come in, Chief.”

  Billy followed her inside and took one of the two seats she offered on either side of the table near the bay windows.

  When they were both seated, he started the conversation with, “I apologize for the unannounced visit, but as you can imagine, I’m deeply involved in several homicides I believe were committed by your former husband. I would greatly appreciate any insights you might be willing to share.”

  She stared at him a moment and then she laughed. “I’m certain your friend Rowan has warned you that no one has true insights into Julian. He is a complete enigma. The FBI’s illustrious task force will never find him, of that you can rest assured.”

  “Then perhaps you can share with me your conclusions about his fascination with Dr. DuPont.”

  She shrugged. “That one is easy. She is a clone of her mother. Julian was obsessed, madly in love with Norah. He would have done anything for her. With her and Raven’s deaths, that only leaves Rowan. He will go to his grave attempting to resurrect what he had with Norah.”

  “This is why you separated and eventually divorced?”

  She shrugged, her bejeweled earrings dangling with the move. “We lived separate lives for many years before the divorce. I had what I wanted from him—a daughter. If I had never seen him again it would have been too soon. My ex-husband was an arrogant man, Chief. He loved making me feel as if I were nothing. He turned our daughter into the same sort of uncaring soul he is. I tried to salvage her but I fear my efforts were too little too late. The damage was done. She turned out just like him.”

  Billy braced for an explosion. She was not going to like his next question. “Was she also a killer like him?”

  The woman sighed, stared a moment at the many rings on her fingers before she met his gaze once more. “I suspect she would have been had she not been murdered herself.”

  Billy held her gaze, the tension rising between them faster than the swampy muck of the lowlands drawing a calf into its dangerous depths. “Did she come here to hurt Norah DuPont and her family?”

  For a single second Billy thought she was going to answer, but then the raw emotion in her eyes vanished and her expression closed. “I have no idea, Chief. She was seventeen years old. I think she was merely curious about the whore who stole her father away.”

  “Or maybe what you really want,” he countered, “is to learn whether your ex-husband murdered your daughter.”

  “Actually,” she protested, “what I really want to know is when can I claim my daughter’s remains so that I may put this tragedy and this tragic place behind me once and for all.”

  The conversation went downhill from there.

  Billy waved to Donna and exchanged a look with Garrett as he passed through the lobby on his way out. No matter that Anna Addington had shut down on him, he’d gotten what he wanted.

  Her daughter had come to Winchester with an agenda. She was hurting because of her father’s betrayal and, like most teenagers, she wanted to hurt someone back. And Alisha hadn’t been just any teenager—she had been the daughter of a serial killer. A daughter whose own mother feared she had tendencies similar to her father’s.

  From the inn, Billy drove to Decherd to the Night Owl. En route he received the news he’d been expecting: the blood on Juanita Wilburn’s wall was the same type as her brother’s. DNA would confirm it was his but Billy didn’t need an in-depth analysis to know that Addington or his underling had used the man’s blood to warn his sister that she was next.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Billy parked at the Night Owl. It was too early for the place to be open but he knew the owner, Gus Cagle. He was always there by lunch to prep for the evening.

  “Hey, Billy,” Cagle shouted as he strode through the front entrance. He laughed. “I’d offer you a beer but I’ll bet you’re on duty.”

  “That I am.” Billy slid onto a stool and watched as Gus put away freshly washed glasses.

  “What can I do you for?” Cagle asked as he dried another glass.

  “Do you recall Edward DuPont ever coming in for a beer or a drink with a friend?”

  Cagle made a face. “The undertaker?” He shook his head, then stopped midshake. “Wait a minute. I take that back. He was in here back in January.” He frowned in concentration. “Right after New Year’s. Early January. I can’t recall the exact date.”

  Billy nodded. “That’s okay. I don’t need the exact date. Was he with someone?” Edward’s visit to the Night Owl could have been nothing more than a man having a drink with friends, but it was unusual for Edward DuPont. In Billy’s opinion, anything out of the ordinary was worth investigating.

  “I don’t think so.” Cagle shrugged. “I mean, he was sitting at the bar and there were other people filling the rest of the stools, like always. But I think he came in alone.”

  “Was he a fairly regular customer?”

  Cagle laughed. “No way. I’d never seen him anywhere outside the funeral home. I’m pretty sure he didn’t get out much.”

  Billy considered his next move for a bit, then he asked, “Who else was sitting at the bar that night? Maybe someone he spoke to, even briefly.” He realized his desperation was showing, but he needed to know what had brought Edward to this place when he’d didn’t generally solicit the local bars and taverns.

  Cagle crossed one arm over his chest and propped the other there so he could stroke his beard while he concentrated.

  It would be damned nice to tie up this loose end. He hadn’t learned one thing rele
vant from Raven’s friends. All three had been more than happy to talk but nothing a single one of them said helped. Tessa claimed that she and Raven hadn’t been speaking due to an argument over some boy. Adolescent kids. He shook his head. That was one part of his youth he had no desire to ever relive.

  “Yeah.” Cagle nodded, his hands falling back to their work of drying glasses. “He did talk to one guy. I didn’t know the dude. Gray hair—maybe it was white. Older. Kind of distinguished looking. He and DuPont chatted for a few minutes. If I remember right, he bought the drinks.” He nodded again. “Yeah, that’s right. He paid the tab with a hundred-dollar bill and left his change. I remember that tip.” He grinned. “The waitstaff like big tippers.”

  Adrenaline firing through his veins, Billy reached for his cell phone and pulled up a photo. “Was the older, distinguished guy this man?”

  Cagle studied the photo for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, yeah, that’s him. Definitely.” His eyes suddenly rounded like saucers. “Oh hell, that’s the serial killer guy. The one from Nashville.”

  Julian Addington.

  Oh hell was right.

  Seventeen

  Rowan watched from her living room window as Billy climbed out of his truck. She’d given him keys so he could let himself in. She had a few minutes before setting up the viewing parlor for Mr. Hall’s visitation. Herman was coming by to help. He had agreed to fill in until she found a new assistant director. He even had a few suggestions.

  Rowan would be glad to have someone else trained. This was not a one-person operation. More important, she was relieved that Billy was finally here. She’d been waiting for hours to hear how his interview with the former Mrs. Addington had gone.

  She opened the door when she heard Billy’s footfalls in the hall heading her way. “What took you so long?”

  He reached up to remove his hat, his face lined with far too much concern. Her heart surged into her throat. “Now I’m not sure I want to know,” she confessed.