"Point taken." Detective Shaffer looked equally ill at ease. "So what are you trying to say?"
Byrony bit her bottom lip. "I’m not sure. The killer stole Jessica’s clothes, shoes, and purse, then put a designer dress on her?" With a groan of frustration, she dropped her head into her hands. "Crazy, I know…"
"No, just sick," Tate countered with a low growl. Then he muttered, "No sign of sexual assault?"
The detective shook his head.
Eyes squeezed shut, Byrony sat like a pale statue. Tate touched her shoulder and she jerked as if burned and her golden eyes flew open. "I’m okay," she whispered.
"No, you’re not." Tate shoved all the photos back into their respective folders, safely out of sight. This was exactly what he had not wanted to happen. "We’ve seen enough for today." He pushed the files toward Shaffer with a meaningful lift of his brows.
Taking his cue, the detective cleared his throat. "Guess I’ve got plenty of work to do. First off, I’ll research for any similar crimes. It’s possible the sick bastard has done this before."
As Tate stood, he remembered his earlier promise to Byrony. "Another thing you probably want to check is the Grand Hotel manager, Mr. Prince. We talked to him yesterday, and call it a hunch, but I think the dude knows more than he’s saying."
Shaffer stared in slack-jawed surprise for a moment then stuttered, "I – I’ll, uh, give Mr. Prince a call."
Helping Byrony to her feet, Tate offered his hand to the detective. "Appreciate you cooperating with us." In truth, he’d found Shaffer pretty unimpressive thus far. Looked like pressuring Prince into telling what he knew would fall to Tate after all, and a small corner of his mind relished the idea. In the meantime, he needed to get Byrony out of here. "C’mon, Sunshine. Let’s grab some lunch."
They’d turned in their visitor badges and headed for the door before Byrony spoke again. She stopped suddenly, golden eyes wide. "We forgot to tell Detective Shaffer about the key."
Pressing his hand against the small of her back, Tate urged her out the front door. "I know, but let’s just wait until we have it in our hands."
Byrony opened her lips to protest, but suddenly changed her mind and snapped her mouth closed. When he tried to steer her to a nearby burger joint, she demurred, saying she wanted to check on her car and then go back to the island. Tate knew she was upset after seeing the crime scene pictures, but he also sensed major avoidance vibes. Was she also thinking about his stupidly impulsive move last night? But as he glanced at her profile and felt the tingling warmth of her thigh pressed against his in the taxi, he knew he would do it all over again.
"Do you not trust Detective Shaffer? Or do you just think he’s incompetent?" She asked after they’d climbed out of the taxi at the ferry terminal. Then at his startled look, she added. "Isn’t that why you didn’t bring up the key?"
Tate rubbed the back of his neck. "Incompetent seems a bit harsh, but the guy appears to be over his head with this case. I don’t think he’s had anything like this before."
"But you said you hadn’t either," Byrony insisted. "And you’re making more headway than him."
"I appreciate the vote of confidence. But you deserve some credit too." As she ducked her head in embarrassment, he added, "We just might turn you from a bean counter into an investigator."
She gave his arm a poke. "Maybe I don’t want to be an investigator."
He clutched his chest in mock pain while she rolled her eyes. "You wound me, Sunshine."
"Somehow, I think you’ll live." Shaking her head, Byrony walked away, and Tate found himself watching her very fine ass like some love-struck school boy.
Knock it off, Madison! He had to get this case solved before he slipped and made some other idiotic move on Byrony Long.
Tate bought their ferry tickets and while he waited for Byrony to return, he made some case notes and a call to one of his police buddies in Chicago. He’d asked Tommy Finlay to check for priors or anything else on Cody Henry, Justin Saunders, and Michael Prince. Now he told him about the latest wrinkle in the case and asked him to look for anything involving missing shoes, or perps changing vic’s clothes. As Byrony approached, he rang off.
"Sorry, but we have almost an hour to wait," he told her, handing her the ticket. "Want to sit inside?"
The small waiting area was empty, and after ten minutes of sitting on the hard plastic seats, Tate understood why. He paced over to the free pot of coffee and poured half a cup. "So when did you change your mind about your sister having a boyfriend?"
Byrony glanced up from messing with her phone. "Actually, it was what you said in St. Ignace. We all do dumb stuff when we’re young." A flash of pain shadowed her features, but she quickly hid it. "Plus, Jessica’s mother got involved with an older man – my father, and like mother, like daughter…"
Sorry he’d inadvertently brought up the subject, Tate took a sip of the free coffee and regretted it. Ditching what was left, he threw caution to the wind and asked, "Is that why you’ve never tied the knot?"
"One of the reasons," she confirmed, surprising him. Then she challenged, "So what’s your excuse? Why aren’t you married?"
That’s what he got for prying, and she’d answered him honestly so in fairness, he needed to do the same. "I was married once. One of those young and dumb things. She couldn’t handle being a cop’s wife, and truthfully, I did put the job ahead of her." He lost himself staring into her brilliant golden eyes. Shaking his head to free himself, Tate turned back to the window.
"What happened to her?"
He hadn’t thought about Valerie in years. It almost felt like she had been part of someone else’s life. "Last I heard, she married some three piece suit type and lived happily ever after."
"Lucky her," Byrony murmured, but she didn’t sound very convincing.
Uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Obviously he’d blown it by asking too many personal questions. Tate decided to keep quiet until the ferry arrived. Even when they boarded, he sat in the enclosed cabin reviewing his notes and making new ones while Byrony stayed up top on the open deck. Which was for the best, he told himself. He didn’t need any more distractions if he was going to solve this case.
***
Byrony knew getting involved with Tate Madison would be a disaster. But in spite of her determination, the attraction to him seemed to increase by the minute. So not good! She was here to find Jessica’s killer.
When they arrived back on Mackinac Island, they stopped and bought sandwiches at the deli a few doors from the ferry terminal. She could only finish half of hers so she wrapped up the rest and stuck it in her purse for later. Then over her protests, Tate insisted on walking her back to the B&B.
"I’ll be paying our friend Mr. Prince another call this afternoon," he said when they reached the front gate. "Sure you don’t wanna come along?"
Stifling a yawn, Byrony shook her head. "But I may talk to Mr. Saunders when his shift ends."
"Then we can rendezvous at the pizza joint for dinner and compare notes. See you at six?"
"Okay." She tore her eyes away from his sensual lips and hurried down the walkway, not daring to look back.
Back in her room, Byrony curled up on the window seat under a fisherman knit blanket and tried to make notes on her tablet. Tate always seemed to be scribbling in his funny little notebook, and she hoped if she did the same thing, maybe she could get her jumbled thoughts in order. Fighting to focus, she typed the incongruous bits of information, but rather than settling her mental turmoil, each thing seemed to agitate her more.
Since when had she become such a basket case?
She’d thought she could detach enough to look at the police photos, but she’d been wrong. Just like when she’d visited the crime scene, haunting images of Jessica had intruded into Byrony’s consciousness. After the nightmare of losing her mother, Jessica’s murder had loosed a whole new rip-tide of sorrow, guilt, and frustration. Try as she might, Byrony couldn’t control her ov
erwhelming emotions, and unless she discovered the killer’s identity, she didn’t think she ever would. Throwing an unexpected sexual attraction to Tate Madison into the mix and no wonder she felt off kilter to the point of exhaustion.
Putting away her tablet, she threw herself across the bed, intending to shut down her buzzing mind with a nap. But a knock on her door made her jerk upright. Smoothing her hair, she peeked out. "Mrs. Giroux? Is something wrong?"
"This just came for you." The innkeeper held out a stiff white envelope. "Since it was special delivery, I figured it must be important."
"Yes, thank you." Byrony plucked the envelope from the other woman’s hand and closed the door, leaning against it as she ripped the paper open.
The two inch metal key fell into her palm. Her step-mother hadn’t included any kind of note, only the key, which looked exactly as she’d described it – a flat door key with the word "kwikset" engraved on one side. Someone had threaded a loop of red satin ribbon through the hole on top. Byrony fingered the slick fabric, thinking it seemed like a silly little thing Jessica would do.
She quashed the hot tears forming in her throat, shoved the key into the front pocket of her jeans, and went into the bathroom to wash her face and comb her hair. Feeling more in control, she glanced at her wrist watch. Still plenty of time to do something useful, like seek out Justin Saunders.
Her mind made up, Byrony found his phone number and address listed in the slender local telephone directory, and used the GPS on her cell to get directions. Sticking the phone in the same pocket as the key, she pulled on her sweatshirt and went in search of Mrs. Giroux.
The innkeeper hesitated at Byrony’s request to borrow a bicycle. But she relented with an annoyed sigh when Byrony pointed out that bikes were included on the list of the B&B’s amenities.
"After your accident yesterday, I’d think you would try to be more careful," the woman scolded.
"Considering my accident involved a horse, I think you can understand why I’d rather use a bicycle," Byrony countered, hoping that old saw about never forgetting how to ride a bike was true. She hadn’t ridden since college more than a dozen years ago.
With another theatrical sigh, Mrs. Giroux led the way out the back door to the garden shed. "Take your pick." She motioned toward three heavy coaster bikes. "But none of them have lights, so be sure you’re back before dusk."
"Not a problem." Her GPS indicated Saunders lived about two miles away on the outskirts of town.
Byrony guided the closest bike, a bright yellow one, out of the shed and down the path to the gate. When she reached the sidewalk, she took the white plastic helmet off the handle bars and put it on. Pulling the zipper on her sweatshirt all the way up, she mounted the bike. Thank goodness the old saying really was true. She stopped wobbling after the second block. At the end of the third block, she stopped to zip her hoodie halfway way down. Soon, pedaling and feeling the rush of air on her face actually invigorated her.
Far better than those big, clomping horses… At least until she turned off the main street and had to negotiate a rough road going uphill. Since the bike was a single speed, pedaling got progressively harder and soon perspiration started to gather in her hair under the helmet. Finally, Byrony gave up, took off the helmet, and walked the bike.
The houses were farther apart than back in town, and she had to look at each mailbox to follow the addresses. Justin Saunders’ place had two boxes on a single post but only one driveway. Squinting, Byrony saw what looked like a small cabin beyond the garage of the front house. Smoothing her hair behind her ears and steeling her resolve, she pushed the bike past the garage right up to the cabin’s door.
Leaning the bike against one of the porch columns, she raised her hand to knock when something caught her eye. On the center of the shiny brass deadbolt, she saw the word ‘kwikset.’ The same word engraved on the key? She dug in her pocket to be sure. Impulsively, she stuck the key into the lock. It glided in smoothly, and the bolt clicked over, the sound echoing like a gun shot in the still air.
Chapter 7
"Excuse me! Can I help you?" A voice called out, causing Byrony to jump in surprise.
She snatched the key out of the lock and jerked around to see Justin Saunders jogging toward her.
"Miss Long?" Saunders’ T-shirt had sweat rings under his arms and around his neck, and his headband dipped into one eyebrow. However, the band didn’t affect his vision for he quickly demanded, "Why do you have a key to my house?"
Shoving the key into her pocket, she countered with her own demand. "Were you having an affair with my sister?"
"Wh—what?" He looked taken aback. "No!"
"Then why else would she have a key to your house?" Byrony pressed, trying to use his surprise to her advantage by putting him on the defensive. She took up a belligerent stance, hands on hips. "Where were you on the night Jessica died?"
"I had to work a double shift." Saunders defended himself loudly, red staining his neck and inching up his cheeks. Then, he flexed his fingers, which had been clenched, and he lowered his voice. "Ask the police. I’ve already told them."
Her ploy had worked. Byrony narrowed her eyes. "You didn’t tell the police Jessica had a key to your house."
As she watched, Saunders pulled on a façade of calm, but at his sides, his hands curled back into fists. "I had no idea she had a key. I certainly didn’t give it to her."
"I think you’re lying, Mr. Saunders. Where else would she get it? And why would she want it unless you were lovers?"
Saunders rolled his eyes and a nasty smirk spread over his face. "I don’t know where she got it, but believe me, Jessica was not my type. Not only was she too young, she wasn’t even the right gender."
Now Byrony was the one with her mouth hanging open in surprise at his sudden admission.
"That’s right, Miss Long, I bat for the other team," he taunted. "And I have a boyfriend who lives in Dearborn." While Byrony squirmed with discomfiture, Saunders held out his hand. "So can I have my door key, please?"
"No, it’s evidence." She stepped around him and plunked the helmet on her head. "You can lie to me, Mr. Saunders, but the police will find out the truth."
She grabbed the bike, jumped on, and started pedaling for all she was worth. Fully expecting him to come after her, Byrony was surprised when she reached the end of the driveway and turned to see Saunders still standing at his front door, staring after her. But she didn’t slow, even though the unpaved road proved jarring. She continued to pedal hard until she realized the downhill slope was making her pick up speed.
A lot of speed!
The air whipping across her face made her eyes tear and blurred her vision. The bike’s only brakes were on the pedals, which she had to push backwards. The bike careened from one side of the road to the other, while Byrony hung on with a white-knuckled death grip and kept pushing on the brakes.
Oh please, oh please, don’t let there be any cross traffic, she prayed, clenching her teeth to stop them from banging together.
Even though she managed to decrease her speed, the bike skidded sideways when it hit the paved road. Byrony fought to stay upright, and brought the bike to a screeching halt with the back wheel hanging over the edge of the ditch on the far side of the road. She stuck her feet on the ground just in time to keep from completely going over. Breathing heavily, she glanced backward then up and down the empty road. Good, no collision danger and no witnesses to her really stupid close call.
After a couple of deep breaths to steady her badly rattled nerves, Byrony hauled the bike completely onto the asphalt and started to pedal again. Her legs felt rubbery and within a couple of hundred yards, she stopped and slumped her head against her arms on the handlebars. She stayed in that position several long moments before she heard the distant sound of hooves.
Raising her head, Byrony glanced over her shoulder and saw a single horse approaching. A black horse. Squinting, she could make out the rider – dressed in yellow?
> No, it can’t be!
But as she sucked in a horrified breath, the horse drew closer, picking up speed.
Panicking, Byrony pedaled like a crazy woman while the sound of hooves grew louder. She knew she couldn’t outrun the horse and rider, but if she could reach the next cross street, maybe she could turn out of the way.
Byrony’s aching legs pumped as hard and fast as she could force them to move. Her breath wheezed in and out of her open mouth like a raspy bellows. Eyes riveted to the intersecting street, it drew closer by the second, but so did the sound of pounding hooves behind her. She swore she could feel the horse’s snort on the back of her neck.
She wasn’t going to make it…
A scream tore from her throat as she felt something strike the back wheel. At the same time, she jerked the handle bars and sent the bike flying off the pavement over the edge of the ditch. She threw her arms in front of her face as she fell, and a second later, felt the impact as she crashed into the hard ground. Then blackness claimed her.
"Miss? Miss, can you hear me?" asked a man’s voice that seemed to be coming from a long distance.
Through a red haze of pain, Byrony forced one eye open enough to see a bald middle-aged man bending over her. In the distance she heard the faint sound of a siren.
"Don’t try to move," the man urged her, his voice quaking. "The ambulance is coming. My wife and I saw the whole thing and she called 9-1-1."
The siren grew louder by the second. Head spinning, Byrony squeezed her eye closed again. "Th-the horse…" She couldn’t force out any more words.
"Didn’t stop. Can you believe that?" The man’s tone squeaked with incredulity.
So the whole thing hadn’t been a nightmare? The persistent dizziness had left her doubting the reality of what had just happened.
Dead Girl in a Green Dress Page 7
