by Debra Webb
“Afraid not. There was a fire not a week after we bought the place. All the files were destroyed.”
Rowan’s hopes fell. Just their luck this would be the one and there were no personnel files available. “What about the previous owner?”
“He passed away, but my wife can tell you anything you want to know.” He tapped his temple. “Got a mind like a steel trap. She looked over all the files when we bought the place. She’ll remember everyone who worked here. If he did, she’ll know his name and whatever else was in the file about him.”
“Perhaps you could call her.” Rowan smiled. “Check on your daughter’s progress.”
Jones offered, “I’ll snap a pic of the sketch and text it to you. You can send it to your wife and have her look at it that way.”
He frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to do any of that. My wife is the one who has all the gadget smarts.”
“Lieutenant Jones can do it for you,” Rowan urged. “She’s our resident gadget guru.” That wasn’t entirely true, but of the three of them Jones would certainly be the guru.
He handed over his phone without hesitation. “Happy to help anyway I can.”
Thankfully, his cell was a smartphone. Jones snapped a pic and sent it in a text to Mrs. Kendrick’s contact number in under a minute. “Can you call her and explain what we need?”
Rowan looked from the lieutenant to the man, hoping he would continue to be agreeable.
“Sure. Can’t guarantee she’ll answer since cell phones aren’t allowed beyond a certain point. She could be in the delivery room this very minute, for all I know. But if she doesn’t, I can leave a message and the minute I hear from her I’ll call you.”
“We appreciate your cooperation,” Jones assured him as she returned his phone.
“All right.” Kendrick made the call and, as he’d predicted, he had to leave a message.
When he’d finished, Jones gave him a card. “When you hear from her, call me. I don’t care what time it is. Day or night. This is very important, Mr. Kendrick.”
Before they were back in the car the cell attached to the lieutenant’s waist sounded off. “Jones.”
Rowan listened, hoping to pick up on something the caller was saying. The voice sounded like Bennett but she couldn’t make out the words. As Jones listened, she started the car and rolled away from the final funeral home on their list. She grunted a couple of uh-huhs before ending the call.
“That was Bennett. He’s with Anna Stein.”
“Collette’s best friend according to Jenner.” Rowan’s pulse rate started to climb. “Does she know anything?”
“She won’t talk to Bennett.” Jones braked for a traffic signal that turned red. “She says she’s only talking to a female detective.”
“Maybe we’ll catch a break.”
Even as Rowan made the statement she doubted that would be the case. There had been no relationship issues with the other two victims, she doubted the killer would change his MO at this point. More often than not, when a woman refused to speak to a male detective it was generally related to sex and/or cheating. The woman counted on another woman being less likely to judge or to tell the man involved.
“Catch a break?” Jones grunted again. “I ain’t holding my breath.”
Rowan decided not to mention she’d had the same thought. The situation was dismal enough without echoing the idea over and over.
19th Avenue South, 6:00 p.m.
Anna Stein lived in a studio apartment two blocks from Music Row. She worked at the same accounting firm as Dharma Collette but she wasn’t a partner as Collette was. Also unlike Collette, Stein looked more like a party girl. She had the dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep, the empty overturned vodka bottle on the counter and an ashtray full of cigarette butts on the coffee table. Her nails were chewed down to nubs and the red polish she’d applied a week or so ago was chipped. Tight leggings left nothing to the imagination, while a midriff-length T showed off her flat belly. More telling, the woman couldn’t sit still for a minute.
“She was seeing someone,” Stein announced after beating around the bush for fifteen minutes. She chewed at a thumbnail, her right leg bouncing. “I don’t know his name or what he looks like, but he’s older. She said he was older and smart. Really smart.” She pulled her legs beneath her, probably to keep them still. “Maybe you noticed that Peter isn’t so bright.”
Rowan had pegged him as average intelligence. Perhaps Ms. Stein had confused a lower intelligence with his good old boy, laid-back mentality. Peter Jenner was a football fan. Tailgating was likely his favorite way to party. Rowan doubted he liked dancing, more likely he preferred throwing back the beers and watching others sway around the dance floor. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t plenty intelligent any more than her lifestyle meant she wasn’t a nice woman.
“So she and Peter were having trouble?” Jones nudged. “Have you witnessed them fighting or did Dharma tell you about the trouble they were having?”
Stein shook her head. “Are you kidding? Peter is far too laid-back to work up the energy to fight. He’s the kind of guy who just waits out the trouble. He lacks passion. He has a good thing with Dharma so he isn’t going to rock the boat.”
“Is that your assessment,” Rowan asked, “or Dharma’s?”
“That’s what Dharma said and she’s right. He’s just happy no matter what. I used to think he was on Prozac or something but I met his father at a Fourth of July barbecue and he’s exactly the same. I guess the men in that family are just light on testosterone and heavy on the serotonin.”
“You’re not aware of any trouble at home or at work that Dharma was having?” Jones prodded. “Except for the possible affair with this unknown older man.”
“She is having an affair,” Stein stated. “She told me this older guy was utterly intellectual and so sophisticated. He made her feel important.”
“She told you nothing about him other than how he made her feel?” Jones stayed after her about the description. “Not even a first name or a nickname?”
They needed something, anything.
Stein shook her head. “Handsome. Distinguished. That’s all she told me.”
“Where did she meet this handsome, distinguished man?” Rowan asked. “At work? On a run? Maybe at the gym?”
Stein sat back, her hands stilled as if she’d just remembered something. Rowan’s anticipation sent her heart beating a little faster.
“She met him in the park where she runs.”
“Frederick Douglass Park?” Jones confirmed.
“Yeah. She runs there, like, every night.” Stein shook her head. “I don’t see the appeal but I guess you have to love running to bother. She even runs when it’s raining or snowing.”
“Peter doesn’t run?” Rowan asked. He’d said he didn’t but there was always the chance he’d lied. Though she hadn’t picked up on any tells, considering his overly laid-back way, he might be one of the few who could lie without the first tic. Still, he had been out of town. His alibi checked out.
“No way. The only running he does is to the store for another six-pack.”
Jones passed the woman a card. “Call me if you think of anything else. This is very important, Ms. Stein. Every minute counts.”
The woman’s face fell. “She’s going to die, isn’t she? Just like the others.”
Jones stood, Rowan followed suit.
“Not if we can help it,” the lieutenant assured Stein. “But we can’t do this alone. Talk to her other trusted friends. See if you can learn anything about this new man in her life or anything else that’s new or out of the ordinary.”
Collette was the first victim to have a new man in her life. The other victims had nothing new going on—at least not as far as any of their friends and family were aware. Unfortunately, the vague description of older and
distinguished did not match the man who had visited Rowan’s father.
One step forward, two steps back.
“I will.” Stein nodded adamantly. “I’ll talk to everyone I can think of.” She frowned. “Is that why the cops were in her office today?” She glanced at Rowan. “You were there, too.”
“Sometimes people leave notes or emails that might help,” Rowan offered.
Stein shook her head. “Not Dharma. When she’s at work, it’s all about work. Her personal life never enters the building. She doesn’t even talk personal stuff until we’re at lunch. She’s tenacious like that.”
Something else Rowan had in common with the victims...they were all workaholics.
Six
North Avenue, 8:50 p.m.
“You didn’t have to go to all that trouble, Daddy.” Rowan pushed her plate away and slumped in her chair. She was stuffed. More often than not she came home from work and went straight back to work. Dinner rarely entered the equation. Now all she wanted to do was curl up in bed and watch mindless TV—something she never took the time to do.
She almost smiled. Having her father around had her regressing to her childhood days when there was always someone taking care of her. Images of her father preparing her hot chocolate on a cold night or fresh lemonade on a hot summer day flashed through her mind. How had she not realized how lucky she was even after losing her sister and her mother? She had always had her dad.
“It’s not often I get to cook my favorite girl a meal.” He stood and gathered their plates.
“Let me do that.” She pushed her chair back and got to her feet. “You did the cooking.”
He drew the plates out of her reach. “You worked a twelve-hour day. You’ve done enough.”
He headed to the kitchen. Rowan grabbed their water glasses and trailed after him. When Raven died, her daddy had done all the cooking. Norah—her mother—had been too depressed and withdrawn. Sometimes Rowan thought her mother had purposely tuned out so she could put emotional distance between her and the people she loved. Rowan was convinced that deep down Norah had planned her escape from the moment Raven’s body was pulled from that wretched lake. She could not—would not—continue living and risk that kind of pain again. It was easier for Rowan to believe that was the case than to believe her mother loved Raven more than her. In truth, she would never know.
Those very thoughts were another of the many, many things Rowan had felt guilty about after Raven died.
That’s the past, Ro. This is now.
When she and her father finally made it home an hour ago, she had gone straight to her room to shower. She’d needed the hot water to relax her tense muscles. She’d stayed under the spray of water longer than she’d intended. By the time she’d dragged on lounge pants and a T her father had pulled together a dinner of tuna mac and cheese and a salad. It was a miracle the salad fixings were still edible. Rowan usually ate out or had something delivered the way she had last night. If she’d been thinking clearly she would have ordered something before she hit the shower. Ignoring her own body’s needs was typical behavior, but she should have realized her father would need to eat.
“I’m sorry I didn’t think to stop at a drive-through or to order delivery, Daddy. I’m a terrible hostess.”
He turned off the faucet and settled his hands on the counter. She’d never noticed all the age spots before. Her heart squeezed. How had she allowed so much time to slip away without spending more of it with him? He looked so frail. He looked so old.
“I have a feeling food isn’t one of your priorities, little girl.” He bent his head to one side and studied her. “I worry about you.”
Rowan set the glasses aside and hugged her arms around his thin waist. “You do not have to worry about me. I promise.” She set her chin against his chest and stared up at him. “I worry about you.”
A frown furrowed its way across his craggy face. “Now why in the world would you worry about me?”
“You’ve been alone for a very long time.”
“Here we go again.” Her father unwrapped her arms from his waist and shooed her aside so he could access the sink. He turned the faucet back on and resumed rinsing their plates and then he placed each in the dishwasher. “I don’t need a wife, I have Herman.”
Rowan laughed, couldn’t help herself. Her father had always said Herman was like an old woman, always hovering over him, feeding him and urging him to go to the doctor for every ache and pain.
“Forgive me,” she teased, “I forget you have Herman.”
When the plates, silverware and glasses were in the dishwasher, he dried his hands. “I am not lonely, Rowan. Beyond the fact that I miss you every day, I’m fine. I have the families and I have Herman.”
“How is Estelle?” The last her father had mentioned, Herman’s wife was battling cancer. Rowan hoped it was a good sign that she hadn’t heard more.
“She’s doing great.” He nodded slowly. “It was touch and go at first, but Herman found her one of those new experimental treatments and she’s doing great.”
Rowan smiled. “I’m so glad to hear she’s responding well.” Not all experimental treatments worked for the approved participants.
Though her father had never been very outgoing—like her—when it came to social events, he gave himself completely over to the families whose loved ones were brought to his funeral home. He became their friend, their confidant, their therapist and often their minister. Rowan suspected it was his utter dedication that set the mold for her career-oriented mind-set. God knew Norah could never focus on anything for too long. If Rowan had a dollar for every book her mother had started and never finished, she would be rich. More of that Southern girl guilt heaped onto her shoulders. It wasn’t her mother’s fault no publisher was ever interested enough in her work to want to publish it. Determination—that had been her mother’s strongest asset. She’d researched and written her stories—at least the beginnings—for as long as Rowan could remember. Images of late nights and empty wine bottles filtered through her head. Frequent weekends away...all in the name of research.
Norah DuPont had been so different from Edward. How had the two ever ended up together? And why would a woman so determined and seemingly devoted to her family suddenly give up and end her life?
It still made no sense to Rowan...and yet, she had acted out in a similar manner. She had no right to judge her mother when she had attempted the same.
Don’t even go there.
“You know...” Rowan hesitated. Julian had told her that if she ever made this confession to her father it would only give him false hope. She searched her father’s face. Did she dare say the words? Now or never, Ro. “I have...often regretted not going back home...to you and to the funeral home.”
There, she’d said it. The world hadn’t ended but the surprise in her father’s expression tugged at her emotions, making her eyes burn with the need to cry. The surprise shifted to something else, something unreadable and unsettling.
It felt like forever before he spoke. “You made the right choice.”
Her breath caught with her own surprise. “But I thought—”
He nodded. “I know. I always hoped you would take over for me. DuPonts have operated that funeral home for more than a 150 years. But many of them, like us, paid a heavy price. All I want is for you to be happy, Ro. If this—” he glanced around her home “—is what makes you happy, that’s all that matters to me. The business will be yours to do with as you please when I’m gone.”
Reeling from the exchange, Rowan grappled for balance. Of course she knew her father wanted her to be happy, but she hadn’t realized how at peace he was with her decision. Julian was wrong. They should have had this conversation years ago.
“Would you like a glass of wine, Daddy?” She didn’t have anything stronger to offer. She hoped he said yes because she very badly need
ed a glass after their respective revelations.
He gave a nod. “A glass of wine would be nice.”
Relieved, she said, “You go on and have a seat. I’ll be right there with the wine.”
He hesitated.
“Go on. I’ll be right there.”
Her father drifted over to the sofa and settled in. She searched for a bottle of her favorite blush and opened it. As she snagged two stemmed glasses all she could think was how she couldn’t wait to tell Julian.
She’d made the right decision. She wished she had been honest with her father years ago. Then again, perhaps Julian had been right about not rushing into such a conversation. Timing was everything. Maybe last year or even five years ago would have been too soon.
When she’d settled on the sofa next to her father, she poured the wine. She handed him a glass and forged ahead with the questions she had wanted to ask since she was a teenager. Now that she’d opened the door to that part of their past, there was so much more she wanted to know. “Did Mother ever talk about ending her life...before? Had she tried before?”
Edward drank from the glass until he’d emptied it. Rowan poured him another. They both needed a little bracing for this particular conversation.
“She never mentioned anything of the sort, ever. If she had ever tried before I never knew. I really don’t think she had.” He moved his shoulders up and down. “I can only assume she was so devastated by Raven’s death that she couldn’t go on.”
Rowan sipped her wine, considered the kindest way to frame her next question. There really was no way to do so. “Did she ever love me the way she loved Raven?”
Her father set his glass aside and turned to her, his knees bumping hers. “Your mother loved you just as much as she loved Raven.” His forehead creased in thought. “I believe she would have done exactly the same thing if it had been you who drowned. Her inability to go on was about losing a child—not which child.”
Rowan understood this, for the most part. She was a psychiatrist for God’s sake. And she had told herself the same thing repeatedly. But to a twelve-year-old who had just lost the other half of herself, her mother’s withdrawal and subsequent suicide had been devastating. The idea that she’d tried to do the same thing to her father twisted like barbed wire deep inside her.
