by Debra Webb
“Did the witness who saw her go into the house recall the time?” Billy had to consider any potential opportunity for Raven to have left the party. His instincts were buzzing. He had a feeling she had left that party and it hadn’t been via the water.
There was certainly the chance he was too close to this case and was seeing what he wanted to see versus what was really there, but he’d always trusted his instincts and he’d made it this far. Something was off with the events that occurred that long-ago July day. Granted, it was a hell of a lot easier to see the problem now with the other girl’s bones found and plenty of time to consider different scenarios. He wasn’t blaming Holcomb or anyone else for making the call they had made twenty-seven years ago. Billy just wanted to get this one solved and behind Rowan and the department once and for all.
“Let’s go over the coroner’s report again,” Billy suggested.
Technically, there should have been an autopsy but everyone, including Burt, who had been the coroner back then as well, and Holcomb, the chief until Billy took over, hadn’t wanted to put the child or the family through that trauma when her death looked so cut-and-dried. Billy would likely have made the same call.
“She had bruises and scratches,” Lincoln said. “All were consistent with being caught in those limbs and bumping against the bank with the flow of the lake.”
“What about her throat?” The other girl had been strangled. Maybe if the two had struggled there would have been indications.
Lincoln nodded. “A small amount of bruising.” He frowned. “Look at this photo.”
Billy accepted the eight-by-ten that had been taken of the body. He peered at the face identical to Rowan’s. Only Raven’s face had been bruised and bloated with death.
“See that thin line around her neck?”
Billy looked closer. “I see it.”
“I’ve seen that before.” Lincoln tapped his own neck. “My five-year-old jerked the chain with my St. Christopher medal right off my neck. Left a red mark for days.”
“She was wearing a necklace earlier that day—the same or a similar necklace that was found with Alisha Addington’s remains. The photo Ro gave me was taken while Raven was getting ready for the party.”
“Let’s look at the path of evidence,” Lincoln said. “Raven was wearing the necklace. Then it was ripped from her throat. And now, all these years later, it’s found with the remains of another young girl not a dozen yards away from where Raven was found.”
Billy shook his head. “This was no accidental drowning.” Adrenaline roared through him. “Alisha Addington was five years older. She was here on a mission. To get back at the woman who lured her daddy away.” Billy was theorizing but he had a feeling he was on track. “Alisha killed Raven DuPont.”
“But who killed Alisha?”
“I don’t know.” Billy grabbed his hat. “But I’m damned sure going to find out. Go over this report with Burt. See if he remembers anything else or if he had any conclusions that he decided not to include in the report. A hunch or what have you that he couldn’t prove so he didn’t annotate it. Everyone wanted to put that tragedy behind them.”
Lincoln gathered the photos and the reports. “You going to see Holcomb?”
Billy nodded. “He should be back home by now. I recall that he took this case pretty hard. Maybe he’ll remember the part that didn’t fit with all the other pieces.”
Lincoln hesitated. “All the evidence and witness statements line up to a point.”
He was right, they damned sure did.
“And then,” Billy said, “it all goes off in a dozen different directions and none of them feel exactly right.”
“What we need,” Lincoln offered, “is to show she left the Vining property alive.”
Billy laughed, a dry sound filled with doubt. “Sounds easy enough.” He exhaled a big breath. “Let’s talk to the water rescue guys who found her, get their take on whether the swiftness of the current matched up with the time and distance we can’t account for.” Math had never been one of the former chief’s strong points. “I’m thinking the current and the time were irrelevant. Raven DuPont wasn’t even in the water until Alisha Addington pushed her under.”
* * *
Luther Holcomb had been a good chief of police for more than three decades. From all reports he’d been a good husband and father, too. And then he’d decided to retire, and his first order of business had been to relieve himself of his wife. He’d run her off. She’d moved in with their grown daughter who was a registered nurse up in Manchester. Some said Luther was having a midlife crisis a little late and likely had a sweet young thing tucked away somewhere.
But that was not the truth.
Luther just wanted to be left alone. Billy decided all the cases over the years had gotten to him. Winchester was a small town but they still saw their share of unspeakable crimes. On top of that, Luther’s wife was one ornery lady. She was spiteful and hurtful and flat-out didn’t care about anyone but herself. She did what she wanted and Luther put up with it for years and then he put her on the road.
Or, actually, he’d hit the road. Many years back he’d built a fishing cabin off the grid and that was where he lived today. Like a mountain man living off the land and not caring if he saw another human being again.
Billy parked in front of the former chief’s cabin and climbed out. Before he reached the steps Luther was at the door, rifle resting on his shoulder. A second later he recognized Billy. “Well, well, if it ain’t the chief of police.” He pushed the screen door outward and stepped onto the porch. Set his rifle butt down on the floor and propped the barrel against the wall. “What brings you up this way, Wild Bill?”
Luther Holcomb was the only person in the world who had ever gotten away with calling Billy “Wild Bill.”
“I need to talk to you about an old case.” Billy pushed his hat up his forehead. “You have a few minutes?”
“Sure do, and I got a new batch of shine.”
Billy laughed. “Well, I guess a taste won’t kill me.”
Inside, the cabin was nothing more than two rooms. A living room–kitchen combination and a bedroom with a bath tucked into a corner. Not completely rustic, more like tiny living, cowboy-style.
Luther shuffled around in the kitchen and then came back with two pint jars half-full of moonshine. He set one on the table next to Billy. The other he cradled as he took his seat, the recliner he’d kept in his office.
“How was the fishing?”
“Not bad. It was better this time last year.”
Luther took a sip of shine and Billy did the same. It burned like fire all the way to his gut. He shook himself. “That is powerful stuff.” Whew!
“Keeps me warm on cool nights,” Luther said with a knowing nod.
Billy imagined it did. “Let’s talk about the day Raven DuPont drowned,” he nudged. “What do you remember about that day?”
“Chaos.” Luther shook his head. “Utter chaos. Kids were crying and arguing about who saw her last and which way she went in the water. It was like the fallout after a natural disaster but the only damage was one missing little girl—which was damned sure bad enough.”
“A lot of panic and hysteria,” Billy suggested.
“From the kids and grown-ups alike. The Vinings were torn all to pieces. Making that call to Edward to tell him Raven was missing and that we were starting a search was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”
“Did anyone mention seeing a stranger at the party? Maybe a teenager who didn’t belong or anyone they didn’t recognize?” It wasn’t in the reports, but if no one mentioned a stranger it couldn’t have been there.
“No one mentioned seeing a stranger and I asked. Could have been some bastard casing the neighborhood or working in the area that took her. I looked at all avenues.”
“Your reports d
idn’t go into a lot of detail.”
The older man’s brows reared up his forehead. “If anything was left out of my reports, it was an oversight. Trust me, Billy, I did my job.”
Billy held up a hand. “I’m not questioning whether you did your job or not. I’m just going over the details.”
The former chief relaxed again. “I heard you found some remains in the same general area Raven’s body was found. ID’d her already, too, I hear.”
Billy nodded. “A teenager from California, Alisha Addington.”
“The daughter of the serial killer,” he said as he took another swallow of shine. “The one who followed Rowan DuPont from Nashville.”
“That’s the one.” Billy figured he’d better not take a second sip. The stuff had to be 200 proof. He needed to be able to walk out of here when the time came and to drive without the risk of harm to himself or anyone else.
“Like I said, no one saw anyone who wasn’t supposed to be there,” Luther said, restating the facts Billy had read in the reports. “But then, there were several blonde girls at the party, including Raven. If the Addington girl was there, she would have blended in well, don’t you think? Hell, you know how teenagers are. Wishy-washy. Airheaded. You could ask them the same question a dozen times and get a dozen answers.”
Billy hadn’t considered the blonde scenario. He brought his former boss up to speed on what he’d learned about Alisha Addington from her mother. “If she crashed the party, mingled without really getting too close to anyone, she could have latched onto Raven and lured her into the woods and eventually to her death.”
“Now that’s a reasonable theory, Wild Bill. There used to be all sorts of paths in those woods. Not so much anymore. Are you thinking this was a murder rather than an accidental drowning? You have a motive in mind? Why would that girl come all the way from California to kill Raven?”
Billy nodded and gave him a condensed version of what he knew so far. “I think it’s a strong possibility.”
“Wouldn’t have taken them long to get through the woods,” Luther said, his forehead lined in thought. “Her body was found maybe a mile and a half or two as the crow flies from the Vining home. The distance was not so far but those woods were thick with underbrush and the water widened out and went in more than one direction. The two of ’em may have taken a path and then veered off into the less traveled area.” He shook his head. “But Raven was no fool. She wouldn’t have been lured away without the promise of something exciting—unless she had no choice.”
Billy had considered as much. “Was there anything else about that day or about anyone who was there that stands out in your mind?”
“I will never forget—if I live a hundred years—the look on Edward DuPont’s face when he and his wife arrived at the lake. I’ve never witnessed such anguish.” Luther fell silent for a moment. “It was the most awful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re certain they arrived together? In the same vehicle?”
Luther nodded. “He was right beside me during the search. I’m the one who tried to hold Edward back from going to his daughter before they could get her out of the water.”
Billy grimaced. Though he hadn’t taken his life the way his wife had, Edward had never recovered from that tragedy. Would anyone?
“Thank you, Luther. It was good to spend some time with you.” Billy stood. “You should come into town a little more regularly. I miss our morning chats over coffee.”
“I think the world of you, Billy, but I don’t miss one damn thing from town.”
“Be sure to call me if you think of anything else.” It wasn’t necessary for Billy to remind him, but he did anyway.
Luther followed him onto the porch. “You should talk to the Cardwell girl. She was closer to Raven than any of the others. She runs that bakery on the square. You’re practically neighbors.”
“Thanks, Luther.” He didn’t bother telling him he already had and he’d learned basically nothing—the same thing he’d learned from the other two girls who had been on Raven’s friends list. “See you next time.”
Billy climbed into his truck and started the engine.
With both Raven and Alisha dead, it was unlikely that anyone would ever know what transpired between the two in those woods on that hot, humid day.
The meeting between Edward and Addington was much the same. The only person who knew Edward DuPont well enough to possibly have heard he met with Julian Addington back in January was Herman Carter.
Unless Edward told Herman, he hadn’t told anyone.
One thing was certain: whatever the two talked about, it was not the weather.
Nineteen
Geneva Phillips’s daughter Patty waited in the lobby when Rowan returned from Charlie Hall’s funeral service at the Baptist church. Mr. Hall was now buried in the family plot next door to the church and his family had said their final goodbyes.
“I received a call that my mom’s body will be released on Monday. Can we go ahead and schedule visitation on Monday evening and the funeral in the chapel on Tuesday?”
Rowan smiled. “Sure. Let’s go to my office and take care of that right now. Would you like a soft drink or coffee? Water?”
The other woman shook her head. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
Since her mother had died—was murdered—only four days ago, Patty had every right to still be sad and upset, particularly considering the necessity of the autopsy. Still, she seemed even more troubled today than she had day before yesterday when she and Rowan last spoke. Maybe the reality was only now setting in. Delayed reactions weren’t uncommon.
During the next few minutes they went over the schedule, and Rowan emailed the newspaper and the local radio station with the update, ensuring the wording was just as the sisters wanted. The obit had already been published. When all the details had been covered, Rowan moved around her desk and sat down next to her.
“Patty, I feel like there’s something bothering you and I want you to know I’m happy to help any way I can.” Often a funeral director had to provide a sympathetic ear. Maybe that was the underlying reason Rowan had decided to go into psychiatry. She had been watching her father do this her whole life before she met Julian Addington.
The other woman stared at Rowan in an odd sort of disbelief. “I didn’t even want to come here but Jenn insisted. She said this was where momma and daddy made their predeath arrangements and we’d started here and people would expect her to be here and...and this is where we would finish.”
Now Rowan was really confused. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand. Is there some reason you didn’t want to come back to DuPont?”
With any business there were issues from time to time, but her father always seemed to make them right when the occasional problem arose. Most often it was a misunderstanding with one or more family members—typically amid the family, but the funeral home was rarely left out of the equation. People in emotional distress often looked for someone else to blame—a tangible, safe place to lay their frustrations.
The tears were flowing when Patty met her gaze again. Rowan reached for the box of tissues on her desk and passed them to her. When she had dabbed at her eyes and collected herself, she took a deep breath and said, “Why would you refuse my mother’s calls after my father’s death? I understand your daddy had just died and you were going through the same thing.” Her face pinched as if she might start crying again. “But momma only wanted to talk to you.”
Rowan could not have been more shocked by the question. “I knew your mother when I was a young girl, and your father, as well. I have no idea what you mean, but I can tell you that if your mother had called me or dropped by whether I knew her or not, I would have gladly spoken to her. I have never received a call or a visit from your mother.” She smiled as a memory surfaced. “I ran into her at the Piggly Wiggly one Thursday afternoon and she told
me how sorry she was to hear about my daddy.”
Patty looked away as if it hurt to hear the words.
Where was this coming from? Neither of the daughters had mentioned a problem between their mother and the funeral home in the other visits. It made no sense.
She stared at Rowan again. “I...I don’t know.” She scrubbed at her eyes with her hands. “Even after Jenn went back home—after we buried my father—I noticed momma seemed awfully upset. I thought it was just because she’d lost the love of her life.” She smiled sadly. “That’s what they always said. Daddy would insist Momma was the love of his life and she did exactly the same thing.”
“Two very lucky people,” Rowan acknowledged. Not everyone was so fortunate.
“But now I know that wasn’t the only reason she was so upset.”
Rowan frowned, waiting for her to go on.
Patty picked up her purse from the floor and fished around inside. It looked exactly like Rowan’s own handbag. Cluttered and full of things she might need—like a rubber band and a paper clip. She pulled out an envelope with her name on it and thrust it at Rowan.
“She wrote us both letters. She said something happened to daddy here—at the funeral home. She was waiting for it to be made right but that hadn’t happened so far. She said she had called the funeral home a bunch of times and you were always busy and couldn’t talk or you were out and then never called her back. She said she never wanted to have to tell us about it but she was worried that after Mr. DuPont died it might never be made right. She didn’t want to worry us with it. She thought she could handle it and we’d never have to know but she wrote these letters just in case she died without it being resolved.” Tears brimmed in her eyes once more and she shook her head. “I don’t know what happened but I can’t understand why you refused to talk to her.”
