by Stacy Green
“Right.” For now. If he managed to connect Rebecca Newton’s murder to Lana’s, his stay would be extended.
“I’m Annabelle.”
Nick took her hand. “You restored this place?”
“My husband and I did. He passed a few years ago, but I’m still going. Love this old house too much not to be.”
Nick looked around the foyer. To the left was a parlor decorated with antique furniture, including a grand piano and settee upholstered in lush, crimson silk. Nick was no expert, but the pieces looked authentic.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.” Annabelle puffed out with pride. “It was a labor of love. I’ve lived in Roselea all my life. Owning this house was my dream.”
After she checked him in, he followed her up a sweeping staircase. The old lady wheezed with every step.
“I can find my way.” Last thing he needed was a heart attack victim.
“Nonsense.” She paused and sucked in a heavy gasp, hand over her heart. “Damned diabetes. Makes everything a challenge.”
Annabelle finally made it to the top. Nick lingered behind, afraid she’d topple backward. “Your room’s the last on the right,” she said. “The one beside it’s empty right now, so you should have plenty of privacy.”
Nick didn’t care about the solitude as long as he had a bed and Internet access. When she opened the door and stood aside for him to enter, he saw the room was large enough for a queen-sized bed, a comfy-looking couch, and a small desk. A vase of fresh cut gardenias sat on the nightstand, their heady scent filling the room. Better than the aroma hovering around his apartment.
“Window air conditioner, and we’ve just installed cable Internet.” Annabelle gestured to the desk. “Your private bathroom is to the left. You’ve got fresh towels, and you can change those daily.”
Nick hefted his suitcase onto the bed. “This looks perfect, thank you.”
He crossed the scuffed floor and turned up the air conditioner. His room looked out over Pearl Avenue, providing a full view of the bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River. The tops of Roselea’s finest pre-Civil War homes peeked out from the throng of trees like sentinels watching over the old town. Union soldiers had been so taken with the homes’ fine architecture that instead of burning them during the war, they set up camp and made Roselea a base of operations for several months. Grateful not to lose everything, the citizens had welcomed the enemy army, and Roselea survived the Civil War mostly unscathed.
In another life, Nick could see himself setting up at Annabelle’s, writing the great American novel, and watching the summer days pass by over the town. Now, the love story he’d always planned would be a tragedy: dark and twisted, the once valiant hero a washed up workaholic complete with a sour chip on his shoulder. No chance of happiness in sight.
“You’re from Jackson?” Annabelle leaned against the oak armoire, still catching her breath. Moisture darkened the roots of her gray hair, and she fanned herself with a plump hand.
“Born and raised.”
“Then you probably know Roselea’s claim to fame. Our very own Reverend Wilcher’s pastor of New Life Baptist Church, right in downtown Jackson. Even has his own television show, Hope for a New Life. I’m sure you’ve heard of it?”
Nick pinched his lips into what he hoped was a pleasant smile. “I have. Very popular show.”
“We’re proud. The Rev was our pastor for years before movin’ to the city.” Annabelle toed her orthopedic shoe on the old floor. “You’re in town researchin’ for a book?” Her smile was friendly, but a keen expression lit her milky-blue eyes. Old lady probably knew everything that went on in Roselea.
“That’s right. Haunted antebellum homes of Mississippi.”
“We got lots of those.” She exhaled a breathless, labored laugh. “Oak Lynn, the big place on the hill? That was a Civil War hospital. Plenty of stories from there. Then there’s Magnolia House just down the road from Oak Lynn. General Dupont—he built the place, back in 1820—he’s been seen hanging around his study by a bunch of people. One of his daughters died from typhoid in the house, too. Lots of people have seen her, too.”
“They’re on my list.” Nick sat down on the bed and stretched his legs. The mattress sank with his weight. “What about Evaline Hall?” He kept his tone casual. “Isn’t it Roselea’s oldest antebellum home?”
Annabelle’s hand fluttered to her heart again. “Yes, but there’s more things to worry about at Evaline than ghosts.”
“Like what?” Nick played dumb.
“I really shouldn’t talk about it. But since you’re researching, you should probably know before you go walking into a hornet’s nest.” She leaned forward and spoke in a nervous whisper. “Two days ago, Mrs. Newton, the owner, was found dead in her bed. Murdered. Terrible scene.”
“Jesus.”
“That’s not the worst of it.” Annabelle had a full head of steam now. “Her husband’s the prime suspect. Rumor was she was having an affair. Guess that’s what Royce Newton gets for marrying a woman almost twenty years younger. Course he’s not been arrested, being a big-shot attorney. Police don’t have enough evidence, they say. Pretty obvious if you ask me.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Things like that don’t happen here,” Annabelle said. “I hope Royce Newton is brought to justice.”
“So do I.” Nick caught the woman’s curious glance and knew he’d have to be careful around her. He didn’t need his cover blown just yet.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Annabelle hobbled out of the room. The staircase creaked with her descent.
Nick stayed motionless on the bed. Heavy quiet, the kind cultivated by bone-numbing guilt and weariness, loomed over him. He hadn’t been back to Roselea since the funeral. Shameful, he knew. Lana’s family deserved better. He just couldn’t face them, even her brother, whom he’d always liked. Burrowing into work came easy, a trait Lana had dually admired and loathed. She’d told him so the day she died. Same day Nick accused her of having an affair. He’d had no proof, no reason. Just his own shortcomings.
He still remembered the hurt simmering in Lana’s eyes. She’d said nothing. Simply stood up, gathered her briefcase and keys, and walked out. He knew then he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, but he’d been too proud to take the words back. Besides, he had a story to chase down, and begging for forgiveness would have to wait until later.
Later never came.
Nick gazed out over the town Lana had grown up in. Somewhere amid the picturesque history, a killer hid. Rebecca Newton’s body was still being autopsied, but after Nick’s frantic phone call, his brother-in-law had gone to the coroner’s office to see Rebecca first hand.
“Was like looking at my sister all over again,” Cage had said last night. “Even the purple bruise pattern on her neck looked the same. I hauled ass into the john and threw up.”
I killed your wife again last night.
The letter waited in his laptop case, still carefully sealed in the plastic bag. He should’ve known better than to try to fool himself when he first heard of Rebecca Newton’s murder. There were no coincidences.
* * *
Nick’s fingers thumped unevenly on the steering wheel as he drove down the residential street. Lana’s parents lived on the outskirts of Roselea’s prestigious antebellum district. Nestled between the hulking mansions with the colonnades and pristine white columns was a beautifully kept Craftsman Bungalow with white paint and burgundy shutters. A blooming red maple dominated the yard, and rosebushes surrounded the front porch. Nick slowed to a stop.
Nerves throttled him. He’d lingered at Annabelle’s into the early evening, convincing himself he was doing research for the case rather than stalling. But time had run out. Lana’s family had invited him for supper, and he was already late.
He didn’t want to see them again. Their pain was too palpable. He needed to be objective. Approach Rebecca Newton’s murder like another lead, a chance to mo
ve up the food chain.
A curtain fluttered in the bay window. Too late to turn back.
Nick stepped out of the Taurus and was greeted by the racket of cicadas welcoming the evening. His footsteps synced with the noise as he trudged up the sidewalk.
His pace stalled as Lorelai Foster stepped out onto the porch. Tall and willowy, her fair skin still boasting a peaches-and-cream complexion and her once-blond hair now a regal white, Lorelai had aged beautifully. This is what Lana would have looked like in another thirty years. The ache in Nick’s heart was paralyzing.
“Nick.” She held out her arms. “It’s good to see you.” Even her voice reminded him of Lana: distinctly feminine, full of warmth and compassion.
“You, too.” He climbed the steps and hugged Lorelai. She smelled like vanilla and apples. She’d been baking.
Lorelai held him at arm’s length. “You look well. Bit too thin, though. We’ll be fattening you up while you’re here.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
She ushered him into the house. The scent of apple pie wafted around him along with the onslaught of emotion he’d been dreading. Lana’s presence still hung over the home she’d grown up in. Her pictures displayed on the walls, stages of a life cut far too short. Her wedding picture held a place of prominence on the mantel.
Her mother touched his arm, drawing his gaze away from the picture. “How have you been?”
“Fairly well. Better than last year.”
She smiled, and he noticed the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes had deepened. “Us, too. Time seems to make the loss a bit more tolerable.”
“Is that Nick?” A deep voice boomed from the kitchen—Lana’s father. A Vietnam veteran, Oren’s gruff demeanor had put the fear of God into Nick on their very first meeting.
“Yes,” Lorelai answered.
“Tell him to get in here and have some pie.”
Nick followed Lorelai into the kitchen. It looked just as he remembered, decorated with chickens and roosters. The family table sat in a nook near the back door. Lana’s father had taken up residence there, an enormous slice of apple pie sitting in front of him. He’d added an extra chin to his already stout neck since Nick last saw him. “Oren.”
He shook Nick’s hand with a meaty paw. “Lorie, get the boy some pie.”
Nick sat down across from Oren. “Afternoon snack?”
“Nothing like Lori’s fresh apple pie. Eat up.”
Nick couldn’t stop the moan of appreciation at the first bite.
“I told ya.”
Lorelai set a fresh glass of lemonade in front of Nick. “Cage’ll be here soon. He called to say he was on his way.”
“I’ll be glad to see him.”
Oren polished off the slice of pie and leaned back in his chair, hands on his belly. His graying eyebrows knitted together. “I ain’t pussyfootin’ around. You really think the same person who killed our baby girl is here in Roselea?”
“Cage tell you about the letter?”
“He did.”
Nick finished chewing, set his fork down, and held his father–in–law’s gaze. “I do. And I’m not leaving until I prove it.”
Oren nodded, and Lorelai busied herself at the sink. Nick knew she wouldn’t join in the conversation. Cage had told him she didn’t talk about Lana’s death. Her way of coping was to push everything aside and trod forward.
The back door squeaked, and a tall man entered, crossing the room in two long steps. Cage still wore his uniform, his deputy badge glinting in the sunlight. He took off his gun belt and set it on the counter. “Nick.”
“Cage.” Nick extended his hand. “Busy day?”
Cage gulped the glass of lemonade his mother offered. Unlike his older sister, Cage had dark hair. Tall and muscular, with keen brown eyes and a perpetually stern expression, he made an imposing deputy.
“Long day. Drunk driving accident early this morning. No fatalities but a lot of paperwork.” He tapped his uniform pocket, eyes focused on his lemonade.
“What you got in there?” Nick asked.
Cage dipped his hand in the pocket and then paused with a nervous eye on his mother. “You okay if we talk about Rebecca Newton, Ma?”
Lorelei’s knuckles turned white as she crushed a dishtowel. “I thought I would be, but I can’t.” She dropped the towel onto the counter and left the kitchen.
Oren watched her leave. His ruddy complexion had paled, his excess chin sagging. “She’d met Rebecca a couple of times but could hardly stand to be near her. Said she looked too much like Lana.”
“I saw her picture in the paper,” Nick said. “Thought it was Lana for a second.”
“Yeah.” Cage’s voice was strained. Oren looked out the window. Moisture glistened in his eyes.
“No coincidences.” Nick exhaled.
“Not in this case,” Cage said.
“Superficial wounds?”
Cage nodded. “Knife slashes in damn near the same spots: chest; above and below the breasts; forearms, probably defensive; upper thighs; one on the left cheek.”
“Lana’s was on the right.” Nick’s lips were numb from mashing them together. He ran his tongue along the tender skin and tried to breathe.
“Almost two inches in length,” Cage said. “Rebecca’s were, too.” He took a long swallow of lemonade, ice rattling in his empty glass. “What do you think, Dad?”
Oren gripped the table and used the heavy oak to propel himself to his feet. His gut had grown so large Nick wondered how the man’s scrawny legs supported him. “I think the bastard that took our Lana from us is right here at home. He’s been hanging around all this time while the Jackson police chased their dicks in a circle.” Oren shoved his chair out of the way and duck-walked out of the room.
“He’s right.”
Cage rubbed his temples, wrinkles creasing his brow. “I know.”
Nick had to stand. He moved around the kitchen on rubbery legs. “He knew them, Cage. Knew both of them.”
“Probably.”
“Who’s the investigator on the Newton case?”
“Jack Charles, a veteran cop. Good cop. Decent guy.”
“You know him?”
“Yeah. Adams’s County Sheriff works with Roselea P.D. a lot. Dealt with him several times.”
“Talk to him yet?”
“No,” Cage said. “You’re coming with me, and you’re bringing that letter. You got it, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You should have taken it to the Jackson police.”
“Why?” Nick said. “They haven’t been able to do shit for four years.”
Footsteps echoed off the hardwoods, and Lorelei appeared. Her eyes were puffy and red, her perfect make-up smudged. “No more talk of unpleasant things tonight. I want to make a good meal for Nick and get caught up on his life.”
“Not much to get caught up on, but I’m always ready for a home-cooked meal.” Nick smiled, even though his gaze lingered on Cage. The younger man nodded in understanding. Tomorrow, their investigation would begin.
6
The lunch rush had left a mess. Mrs. Danders had brought her young twins, and the two spawns of Satan had a French fry flinging contest. Mushy fries and half-dried ketchup were now streaked across the back window.
“Unbelievable.” Jaymee crawled into the old booth, sprayed window cleaner, and started scrubbing. “We’d have never gotten away with something like this as kids. We would have been dragged outside and had our butts whipped.”
Tourists armed with maps of Roselea’s historic district traipsed past the picture window. At this hour, most of them would tour antebellum homes all afternoon to escape the heat. Too bad the quality of the town’s residents didn’t match the majestic homes.
An enormous glob of ketchup held fast to the window. Jaymee fisted the cloth and rubbed as hard as she could.
The door dinged opened. Over her shoulder, she called, “Sorry, we’re closed until four.”
“Not
here to eat.”
Jaymee’s hand stilled. Sickness rolled through her stomach. She didn’t want to see him.
“You hear me, girl?”
“Paul, please.”
The second voice had Jaymee spinning on her heels. “Reverend Gereau. I suppose I have you to thank for Paul’s visit?”
“Don’t disrespect me,” Paul said. “I won’t have it.”
“Oh, right. Dad.” The title almost made her laugh. Dad was a term of endearment, an affectionate term used for a man who protected his kids and loved them unconditionally. Paul Ballard didn’t deserve the honor of being called Dad.
“I’d like to speak with you.”
Jaymee turned away from the men and sprayed more cleaning solution on the red goop sticking to the table. “And Reverend Gereau is just tagging along?”
“Here to keep the peace.”
“Lovely.”
“Put that rag down and look at me,” Paul said.
Disgust rose within her. After all this time, he still thought he could boss her around. Clutching the rag, she turned to face her father. His steel-gray eyes glared back at her with disdain. New wrinkles had popped up around his surly mouth since Jaymee last saw him, and his potbelly was rapidly approaching the spare tire stage. Maybe he should use some of his precious prayer time asking God to slow down the aging process.
“Why are you here?”
“You came to work in a police car. What kind of trouble are you in now?” Paul brushed the booth off and then sat down, being careful not to let his pressed, gray dress shirt touch the edge of the table.
“I’m sure she’s not in trouble,” Gereau said. “Right, Jaymee?” His kind tone made her want to shove the dirty rag down his throat. How dare he speak to her as though he cared?
“It’s something to do with the Newton woman,” Paul said. “You do more than find her body, girl?”
Jaymee went back to scrubbing the table. Her fingernails dug into the Formica. “Detective Charles had more questions for me. He offered a ride, I took it.”
