The Secrets We Bury

by Debra Webb

  Rowan was grateful her father had a friend like Herman. Both loved playing cards about as much as they did breathing. Back home their weekly card games were legendary. Rowan remembered sneaking downstairs to watch her father and his friends drink whiskey, smoke cigars and play cards. It was the closest thing to a social life besides church on Sunday the man had. Many times she had wondered if her father had chosen to remain alone because of her. He’d poured his entire life into raising his only remaining child and running the funeral home.

  Then she’d deserted him.

  More of that guilt settled onto her chest, bearing down on her heart. He’d forgiven her, she knew this without doubt. Maybe it was time she forgave herself. Her gaze shifted from her father to Billy. Then again, perhaps her decision to leave her past behind had been a bigger misstep than she’d comprehended at the time.

  A lifetime ago. No point looking back now.

  With the dinner she’d had delivered warming in the microwave and filling the house with mouthwatering aromas, she and Billy set the table. He teased her about having a state-of-the-art kitchen she never used and she ribbed him about his longtime peanut butter sandwich fetish. When they’d gathered around the table, Billy caught her up on all the hometown gossip. Her dad put in his two cents’ worth now and then, making Rowan laugh more than she had in ages. The easy banter refreshed her soul. It had been a long time since so much laughter had filled her home. Most of her time at home was spent poring over transcripts or police reports and evidence photos from heinous crimes.

  Tonight there was no talk of murder. Rowan relaxed and enjoyed the company of her two favorite men.

  Tomorrow would be soon enough to dig back into the mind of the killer currently haunting her waking hours.

  Four

  Metropolitan Nashville Police Department

  Wednesday, March 13, 10:00 a.m.

  “I really don’t want to be any trouble, Ro.”

  Edward DuPont didn’t like being the center of attention any more than Rowan did. They both preferred to simply do their work without any bustle or fuss. Life was easier that way. It was a shame she hadn’t considered how the publication of a book would change things, perhaps for both of them. Frankly, she’d been certain a handful of copies would sell and that would be the end of it.

  “Now, Daddy, I explained everything last night. This will only be for a few days. Just until we figure out what’s going on with the man who showed up asking questions about me. You promised to be a good sport about it.”

  Her father had been happy to see her last evening, but this was another day and he was accustomed to getting on with his work in the privacy of his home. No matter that he had given a detailed description to the sketch artist, the man who’d shown up at his door remained an unknown subject. Jones and Keaton were sending the sketch to funeral homes all over Tennessee and to the tri-state area. Hopefully, if he was or had been employed by a funeral home nearby they would soon have a name. Beyond the fact that he’d called himself an undertaker, the conclusion that he was in the business was an easy one to make since he used all the right products—assuming he was their unsub in the homicide case.

  Still, he could simply be taking advantage of the moniker that had ended up splashed all over the headlines and in the news.

  “It’s you I’m worried about,” her father said, his face as well as his tone heavy with unease.

  Rowan braced her hip on the edge of her desk, grateful they were in her office rather than in the task force meeting room. The last thing she wanted was for any of the detectives to hear the uncertainty in her father’s voice. Worry and doubt had a way of igniting like a match to dry leaves.

  “Why would you be worried about me? I have an entire department of law enforcement officers looking out for my welfare.” She, of course, knew the answer. He had worried about her—far more than necessary—since the day her sister died. What parent wouldn’t? As much as she wanted to consider otherwise, her father had more reason than most. Those infernal scars on her wrists burned. Automatically, her fingers tugged at her cuffs to ensure the scars were covered.

  His gaze followed the subtle move. “I know you’re a strong woman, Ro. I’m not questioning that or your mental stability.”

  Here it comes. Struggling for patience, she reminded herself that she rarely spent time with her father, the least she could do was hear him out while they were together whether it was for a day or for a week.

  “But when a person has gone down that path,” he said, dropping his gaze to the floor, “sometimes it’s easier to find themselves back on that same road. When life gets difficult, I mean.”

  “It’s been twenty years, Dad.”

  He met her gaze once more and the hurt there tugged at her heart. Rowan understood his feelings. Losing a child was the greatest pain a parent could suffer. To have a child attempt suicide came with the added agony of knowing that child no longer wanted to live—that, as a parent, perhaps you had somehow failed. She had done that to her father when she made the choice not once but twice. There were no adequate words to explain or to defend her choice in a way that would make him fully understand or would lessen the pain he still felt at the memories. Or even to diminish the fear he suffered at the mere idea that it could happen again.

  “I know,” he said, his face clouded with the regret he felt at dredging up the subject he knew would cause her discomfort.

  “There have been numerous studies and most concur that the likelihood of a person attempting suicide again after such an extended period is minimal.” She doubted a more clinical response would make a difference, but she had to try. “And I have no reason to feel that level of defeat, disillusionment or pain. I’m happy, Daddy. Very happy. I love my work. My book is—” she turned up her hands “—more successful than I expected. You never have to worry about me going down that path again. I promise.”

  Her father pushed out of the chair in front of her desk. He shoved his hands into his pockets as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “You’re all I’ve got in this world, Ro. I don’t want to lose you. It’s not right for a child to die before a parent. I can’t go through that again.”

  She went to her daddy and put her arms around him, laid her cheek against his chest. “I will never hurt you that way again, Daddy. You have my word.”

  As a teenager, she hadn’t stopped to think how her actions would hurt her father—her only family. She’d only been thinking of herself and how badly she wanted to escape the pain and emptiness.

  “So.” He gave her a final squeeze and drew back. “That Billy sure seemed happy to see you.”

  Rowan laughed. She reached up and patted her father’s too-thin cheek. “Don’t you go trying to play matchmaker, Daddy. Billy and I are both happy just being friends.”

  His frail frame shook with his laughter. “I’ve been trying for close to twenty-five years. How can you expect me to stop cold turkey now?”

  This was true. “Just don’t be disappointed if all your efforts are for naught.”

  “A man can dream, little girl.”

  He kissed her forehead, and Rowan studied her father closely for the first time in a very long time. He looked so old. An ache pierced her. How could so much time have passed without her paying attention? His gray hair was thinning. He’d lost weight since the last time she saw him. She doubted he weighed more than one forty-five or one fifty. At six feet tall that was razor thin. His color was good, that was something. He’d always had that olive skin from his French ancestors. Rowan and her sister, on the other hand, had inherited their mother’s Scottish coloring, blond hair, blue eyes and fair skin. Attempts at suntans had always resulted in sunburns.

  “I think you’re the one who needs a girlfriend.” She patted his flat belly. “Preferably one who can cook.”

  Another of those deep laughs echoed from him. “I want you to know I work very hard
to keep this lean physique.”

  A rap on the door drew Rowan’s attention there as it opened and Lieutenant Jones stepped in. “I apologize for the interruption, Dr. DuPont, but we need to take a ride.”

  The look in the other woman’s eyes told Rowan all she needed to know. “Daddy, have a seat. We’ll be back in no time.” She hurried around her desk and grabbed her purse. “If you need anything at all you let the officer in the hall know.” She gestured to the television hanging on the wall. “Feel free to make yourself at home.”

  “I’ll be right here waiting for you,” he assured her as he reached for the remote on her desk.

  When she and Jones were in the corridor outside her office Rowan asked, “We have another victim?”

  Jones nodded. “Her boyfriend claims he hasn’t talked to her in two days. He was out of town on business until this morning. They last spoke late Monday night. She hasn’t been answering her cell since then. When he arrived at her apartment this morning she wasn’t home. Her phone and purse were there, but not her. He called her office, she hasn’t been to work at the accounting firm where she’s a partner since Monday, either.”

  Rowan’s heart sank. “Does she fit the profile?”

  Jones nodded. “She could be your twin sister.”

  Except her twin sister was dead.

  Rowan prayed they would find this woman before she ended up dead, too.

  South 5th Street, 11:50 a.m.

  “Mr. Jenner, let’s review the timeline once more.”

  While Jones and Bennett questioned the distraught boyfriend of Dharma Collette, Rowan wandered through the missing woman’s apartment. The apartment was nestled into a nice complex only steps from Frederick Douglass Park and mere minutes from downtown. Though she and her boyfriend, Peter Jenner, had dated for three years, they had not decided to move in together as of yet. Collette had never been married and had no children—exactly like the other two vics.

  Exactly like Rowan.

  Jenner was sincerely worried about his girlfriend. Rowan had watched him carefully during the first portion of the interview. She didn’t spot a single tell to suggest he was being less than truthful. He traveled frequently for his work so his absence this week was not unusual. The home screen on his phone was a Titans football logo and he held a sweating can of beer in his right hand as they talked. It was the third one he’d had since they arrived. Collette apparently kept a good stock of his favorite brew.

  The apartment was tidy and well kept. Nothing to suggest forced entry or that there had been a struggle. Keaton was reviewing security footage to see if Collette had been visited by anyone in the week prior to her disappearance. Her cell phone records had already been ordered to ensure there were no deleted calls or texts. The missing woman had walked out of the building at nine on Monday night to go for her usual run—which was why she hadn’t taken her purse. According to Jenner she generally took her cell phone with her on runs. He admitted that he had known her to forget it from time to time.

  No numbers had called her cell that weren’t in her contacts list. No strangers entered the building and went to her floor. To her boyfriend’s knowledge she was not having trouble with her family or her work. Her sister, two brothers and parents had been contacted. No one had seen or heard from her. Collette had no history of mental illness or other issues that might send her into hiding or prompt her to run away.

  Detective Wells was running down any financial transactions on her credit or debit cards. Rowan was confident they would find nothing useful. Dharma Collette hadn’t run away or gone into hiding. She had been taken by a man who knew how to pluck her from her life without leaving the first clue.

  Rowan wandered through Dharma’s bedroom once more, careful not to get in the way of the two forensic techs searching for any sort of evidence that might give their investigation some sense of direction. Unless the unknown subject made his first misstep, that wasn’t likely. The apartment only had one bedroom, but the living area was quite large. Collette’s car was still in her designated parking spot. The boyfriend had confirmed that her running shoes weren’t in her closet. The security footage showed her leaving the building on Monday night wearing those running shoes and a lime-green running suit.

  If the same man who took the other two women in the Undertaker case had taken Collette, they would find her body within the next twenty-four to thirty hours.

  And another woman would be dead for no other apparent reason than to get Rowan’s attention.

  Five

  5:00 p.m.

  “Number twenty,” Jones said as they parked at the curb in front of the final funeral home on their list.

  Rowan surveyed the one-story 1960s-era building. She and Lieutenant Jones had been to nineteen others so far, many of which were very much like this one. The facade of some were more upscale than others but none had any real character. “You know, these places just don’t look and feel like funeral homes.”

  Jones turned to her, her hand on the door. “I guess you would know better than most.”

  Rowan allowed her thoughts to wander back to her childhood—something she rarely did. “Winchester was a small town. Still is. As a kid I went to funerals at the only other funeral home in town but it was very similar to ours—a big old historic house that served as both business and home to the owner. Picking a funeral home in a small town was sort of a big deal in those days. Ours or Gardner’s. Some folks only took their loved ones to Gardner’s, some only came to us. It was generally based on the one their parents and grandparents had chosen.”

  “I know what you mean,” Jones said. “I grew up in a little hole in the wall all the way over near Knoxville. If you were black, there was only one funeral home you used—the one for the black people.” She shrugged, her hand still resting on the door handle. “It wasn’t that folks couldn’t choose wherever they wanted to go, especially in recent decades, it just became a habit. Black folks operate the place, black folks give them their business.”

  “If we ever had one like that,” Rowan said, “it was before my time and no one talked about it.”

  Jones laughed. “Of course not. The world’s too PC to talk about the truth.”

  Rowan wondered if it was really the concept of political correctness or if more folks had simply become blind to color. She didn’t see black when she looked at April Jones. She saw detective, female, wife, mother, friend—pretty much in that order. But then, her father had been a strong influence about color and differences in general. He had raised his children to love and respect all people. Maybe she was naive to believe more people felt that way these days, but she could always hope.

  “Just another reason to turn off the news.” Rowan rarely watched television, the news in particular.

  “You got that right,” Jones agreed. They emerged from the car and across the roof of the car she said, “We get a firsthand look at the news every day without some fool on the air twisting it around to suit his or her own agenda.”

  Rowan smiled. “Human nature can get ugly sometimes.”

  The lieutenant’s phone buzzed as they walked up the sidewalk. Jones checked the screen to read the text she’d received. “Collette’s phone records and credit cards gave us nothing.” Visibly disgusted, she shoved the phone back onto her belt.

  Rowan hadn’t really expected anything useful. Their unsub had proved too clever for a mistake that elementary. But, in time, they all made mistakes. No matter the intelligence level or the years of experience, a killer was still only human. The trouble was they didn’t have the luxury of time.

  Collette would be dead by morning, if she wasn’t already.

  A media blitz about the missing woman—Dharma Collette—was running on the news and all other social venues. Traffic cops were distributing posters of Collette’s photo everywhere. The department was doing everything within its power to find the missing woman. God
only knew if it would be enough. Although, sketches of the possible funeral home employee who had visited her father had been sent wide, the response, especially locally, had been minimal. After dropping by the search at Collette’s office, she and Jones had decided to knock on doors, starting with the local funeral homes.

  Inside Kendrick Funeral Services Jones made the introductions, as was par for the course. Rowan showed her credentials when the director looked from Jones’s badge to her. They went through the steps, showed him the sketch of the man who had visited her father. When he studied the sketch for longer than expected, Rowan and Jones exchanged a cautiously hopeful look.

  “Do you recognize him?” Jones asked.

  “Well—” Kendrick bit his lips together for a moment “—he dang sure looks like one of the assistants who worked here before I took over. But I can’t be positive.” He handed the sketch back to Jones.

  “We’ll need his name and address—any info you have,” Jones said.

  As a rule, Rowan allowed the detectives to do the talking so she could watch the responses. Later they would compare notes. In her opinion, this man was telling the truth.

  “I wish I could help you but my wife is out of town. She won’t be back until tomorrow. Our daughter is having our first grandchild. I’d be there, too, but my deputy director is out sick and I had two passings arrive.”

  “Congratulations,” Rowan offered, “about the grandchild, I mean.” This was another understood step between Rowan and the detectives. She always played the “good” cop part. “Boy or girl?”

  Kendrick grinned, his face beaming. “Boy. Gonna be named William Albert after his granddaddy.”

  “You can’t pull his file?” Jones asked as she dragged her cell free of her waist, her patience thinning. She always checked her phone repeatedly when she was running out of patience. The time on the screen reminding her that more precious minutes were slipping away.