YOUNG MOTHER MURDERED IN HER HOME
Accompanying the story beneath the headline was a studio picture of a beautiful, smiling Anne taken only two months before her death by, of all people, Zachary Tavell. In the photo, Anne looked delicate and classic, a Grace Kelly look-alike. Only Brooke would have noticed that her mother’s eyes didn’t sparkle with true happiness the way they did in photos taken of her with Brooke’s father, Karl.
Brooke turned the page. The next article nearly screamed that Anne Yeager Tavell had been shot three times two hours after neighbors had heard her arguing violently with her husband, Zachary Tavell. Tavell, the article claimed, had been found standing over his wife’s body holding a chrome-plated .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver registered in his name.
Another article revealed that patrolmen had been the first to arrive on the scene, but within thirty minutes veteran homicide detective Samuel Lockhart had been called in and assigned the case. By this time, reporters and photographers had begun showing up. One photographer had managed to sneak past the police barricades, and the powerful lens of his camera had picked up an image of Anne’s mutilated body.
Brooke cringed when she saw the old photo of her mother lying twisted on the floor, half of her face nothing but a pulpy mass lying on a cluster of blood-covered roses. The reporter who’d written the accompanying article had labeled this “The Rose Murder,” and the name had stuck to the case. In the photo, near Anne had huddled a stunned eleven-year-old girl everyone had forgotten in the surrounding uproar—Brooke, rigid, with a stark white face and hands clutched to her ears. She looked small in her flannel pajamas—much smaller than an average eleven-year-old girl—and stunned, almost glaze-eyed. Brooke looked closely at the photo and tried to remember what she’d been thinking at the time, but nothing came to her. Maybe shock had simply closed down her mind just the way it had yesterday when Mia had been shot and lay across Brooke’s body, pouring blood onto her hair and into her eyes.
Brooke shut her own eyes for a moment, forcing herself to relax a bit, and turned the page.
This article stated that Zachary Tavell, who was supposed to be in Columbus the night of the murder, claimed he had come home because he was upset over the earlier argument with his wife. According to Tavell, when he walked into the house two men had already entered. One held Anne at gunpoint while another was apparently ready to burglarize the home. Tavell said he’d grappled with the man holding the revolver, which had gone off three times during the struggle before Tavell had been able to grab it away from the shooter. The two men had run out the back door just as eleven-year-old Brooke had come down the stairs to see Tavell standing over her mother. At that point, Tavell said, a neighbor had rushed in and, mistakenly believing Tavell had shot Anne, lunged at him. Tavell swore that in a combination of panic and desire to catch the man who had shot his wife, he’d run for the back door. By this time, another neighbor had arrived, and the two men caught up with Tavell, jumped on him, and brought him to the ground in the backyard.
Subsequent articles revealed that over the next two days, six officers visited the crime scene, looking for further evidence. They discovered the lock on the front door had not been jimmied. Either the door had been unlocked or someone had entered with a key. Also, rain the day earlier had left the ground soft and police found no footprints in the backyard that did not match those of Tavell and the two men who had wrestled him to the ground. Finally, only Tavell’s prints were found on the Smith & Wesson revolver and Tavell’s right hand bore gunshot residue.
The last article Brooke forced herself to peruse stated that when Tavell was twenty-one he had been arrested for assault on a girlfriend. The girl had suffered a broken arm and slight ligature marks on her throat, but she had dropped the charges against Tavell, saying she might have mixed him up with another one of her boyfriends.
“Sure you did,” Brooke said bitterly, closing the album. “You dropped the charges because you were afraid of Zach. He went free, so he could assault God knows how many other women who were afraid to press charges. And finally, because no one stopped him, he ended up murdering my mother.”
Her hands shaking, her stomach in a knot, Brooke laid the album down beside the chair, wishing she hadn’t looked at it yet somehow perversely glad she had refreshed her mind on all the details of that awful time. Her grandmother Greta had shielded her from most of the details of what had happened that night when Brooke’s mind had gone blank after she saw her mother’s mutilated face, the night she’d referred to herself only as “Cinnamon Girl” and really remembered only one person—Sam Lockhart, who had seemed capable and so protective. He had symbolized safety to her that night, and the symbolism had been so profound, her subconscious had driven her right back to him after Mia’s murder.
Brooke took a deep breath, forcing the tightness from her chest, then stood up and reached for the ceiling. Every muscle in her body felt rigid. She closed her eyes, counted to ten, then decided to fix a cup of chamomile tea. She’d never had much faith in the claims made by herbal teas, such as weight loss for green and calming for chamomile, but she at least liked the taste.
As Brooke headed for the kitchen, the doorbell rang. She stopped, her gaze shooting to the closed, windowless door as if an army stood behind it. Sam was asleep. Vincent was out jogging, and although he’d locked all the doors before he left, he’d certainly taken a key with him. Of course, the Lockharts probably had neighbors, some of them friends.
The doorbell rang again. Brooke crept to the front window, parted the sheer draperies, and peeped out. A police surveillance car sat directly in front of the house. Behind was parked a van bearing the name Flowers for You. Someone had sent flowers?
Finally, a young deliveryman, certainly no more than a teenager, headed back to the van. Brooke opened the curtains a bit wider and caught the eye of one of the policemen. He nodded and smiled at her. He must have checked the delivery and seen nothing dangerous about it.
The van was pulling away from the curb when Brooke finally flipped the dead bolt, unlocked the door, and opened it. On the porch sat a glass bud vase holding a perfect white rosebud.
Her stomach clenching again, Brooke slowly bent and picked up the vase. Attached to the side with a delicate pink ribbon was a card bearing a message:
Say hello to your mother for me.
seven
1
“You’re here to protect her!” Vincent blustered at the patrolman. “How the hell could you let that flower be delivered to her?”
The young policeman, who didn’t look over twenty-one, climbed out of the patrol car, his dark eyes contrite. “I’m sorry, sir. So sorry. I stopped the delivery guy, saw that all he had was a rose, and I read the message. ‘Say hello to your mother for me.’ That didn’t sound threatening to me.”
“Even though you know the murderer of Miss Yeager’s mother is now trying to kill her?”
“All I knew was that my partner and I are trying to keep some nut from breaking into the house. I didn’t know anything about roses and messages with hidden meanings.” The young man’s indignant expression almost immediately dissolved into one of devastation. “Look, man, I messed up. I admit it. But there’s nothing I can do except apologize. That and ask if Miss Yeager is all right.”
The young cop looked so remorseful that Vincent couldn’t force himself to make the guy feel worse. “Yes, she’s all right. Remarkably calm, actually, considering the circumstances.”
And she was. Brooke had looked at the card, set down the vase without touching the message because the card was handwritten and there might be fingerprints, walked straight into the kitchen, and taken a can of beer out of the refrigerator. She was sitting on a chair taking long gulps when Vincent unlocked the door into the kitchen and walked in, dripping with perspiration from his run. He’d taken one look at her chalky face and asked in alarm, “What happened?”
“He sent me a rose,” Brooke said calmly. Then she burped from the beer. “Zach sent
me a rose and told me to say hello to my mother.”
“Good God!” Vincent exploded. “Where’s the rose?”
“In the living room on an end table. It’s in a glass vase that was delivered by a floral company named Flowers for You. Don’t touch the card. Fingerprints, you know.” She burped again.
Vincent dashed into the living room, stared balefully at the vase, rushed into the kitchen, and flung open drawers until he found a box of plastic bags, then returned to the living room. In a moment, he stood in front of Brooke holding up a Ziploc bag with the card, bow and all, inside. “I only touched the top edge of the vase with a tissue,” he announced. “We’ll give this to the police.”
“We’ll give what to the police?”
Vincent and Brooke looked up to see Sam standing in the doorway, his thick gray hair askew, his eyes heavy-lidded after his nap.
“Tavell sent Brooke a rose,” Vincent told him. “It arrived with a note reading, ‘Say hello to your mother for me.’ The note is in here.” Vincent held up the plastic bag. “I didn’t touch it. Did you, Brooke?”
“I picked up the vase from the porch where the delivery boy left it and I touched the card,” she said, taking another gulp of beer. “Yes, indeed I did. So sorry, sir. I prob’ly screwed up all kinds of evidence.”
Vincent frowned. “How many cans of beer have you had?”
“Three in about the last ten minutes,” she slurred. “I think I’ll have another.”
“I think three is enough.” She glared at him. “At least give that third one a chance to settle. You don’t want to get a headache.”
“My head is fine,” Brooke announced, then hiccupped.
“Let me see that card,” Sam said suddenly, as if he’d just snapped out of a stupor, his eyes alert, his voice strong. Vincent handed over the bag. Sam read the card through the plastic, then looked up, his expression ferocious. “How did Tavell manage to get this to Brooke when we have surveillance on the house?”
Vincent absently rubbed a paper towel over his black hair, now curly rather than wavy because it was wet. “I already talked to the guys outside, Dad. They’re very young and inexperienced and knew practically nothing about the case. They checked the delivery and saw only a white rosebud with what to them seemed like a harmless message. I guess it’s not fair to get angry with them.”
“It’s fair to get angry with their lieutenant for not filling them in on the particulars of the case,” Sam announced loudly. “Does he think they’re mind readers? Or does he just not rate the stalking of a young woman by an escaped murderer high on his list of priorities? In my day—”
“Things were a lot different,” Vincent interrupted, his voice weary, his expressive eyes revealing even through Brooke’s slightly beer-blur-induced gaze that he was trying to stem a mantra he’d heard a hundred times. “Should I give this bag to the guys outside?”
“No,” Sam said firmly. “I’ll call Hal Myers. They’ve assigned him to this case, thank God, because he knows what the hell he’s doing. I’ll ask him to pick it up and see that the evidence is logged in properly. I’ll also tell him to have a talk with the lieutenant, set him straight about a few things!”
Sam strode toward the phone in the other room and Vincent muttered, “I’m sure the lieutenant would appreciate being reprimanded by one of his men.”
“This Myers person won’t actually do what your father tells him to, will he?” Brooke managed. “You know, piss him off so bad he won’t do anything?”
In spite of the circumstances, Vincent had a hard time not smiling at Brooke’s suddenly earthy language. “Will Myers be stupid enough to tell off the lieutenant? No. But he’ll hear chapter and verse from Dad about what he should say and do. Hal Myers is a good guy, though. He’s also an excellent cop. I’m glad he’s on this case. He’s one of Dad’s oldest and best friends. He’s incredibly patient with Dad. A lot more patient than I am, I’m afraid.” Vincent sighed, then stooped down in front of her. He was still wet with perspiration, but the smell was merely strong, not in the least foul. His cheeks were reddened by the sun, but the slight lines around his beautiful eyes looked deeper as he frowned up at her. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I am perfectly fine, as you can see.”
“Yes, you’ve only slid halfway out of your chair. I shouldn’t have left you here alone.”
“I wasn’t alone. Your father was here.”
“Asleep.”
“And two policemen.”
“Who didn’t know what they were doing.”
Maybe it was a loosening of inhibitions by the three beers she’d drunk with record speed, but Brooke, who rarely touched people except to lightly shake hands with customers, reached out and stroked the side of Vincent’s worried face, running her cool fingers from his flushed temple to his chin. “It was a rose, Vincent, not a snake. Nothing bit me. The rose didn’t let out a puff of anthrax. I didn’t touch a card dipped in poison. Let’s see, what kind of insecticide is it that’s so deadly upon touch? Par’fion.”
“Parathion, and that’s good, because I’m the one who put the card in the plastic bag,” Vincent said.
“And you got no signs of twitching, nausea, or ca’vulsions. In fact, you look like you’re just blooming with healf.”
“You know, I’ve never dreamed of women finding me handsome or sexy. I’ve always wanted them to think I look blooming with health.”
Brooke smiled. “I meant it as a comp’ment. I’m all right, Vincent. The note just shook me up for a minute. I haf myself under control again.”
“Thanks to your own strength and three cans of Budweiser beer.” Vincent grinned. “You know, you’re an awfully ladylike-looking young woman to let out such resounding burps. Were you on a burping team in college?”
Brooke’s face went pink, but she laughed. “Oh, I forgot the burps.”
“Good old carbon dioxide rushing out.”
“I’m sorry,” Brooke said, smiling shamefacedly. “They were pretty loud?”
“Well, yes, they were. I thought that second one was going to crack one of the windows.”
Brooke bent over laughing. “Oh, lord, my grandmother and mother wanted me to act like a lady. If they ever heard me burp like that, much less knew I’d done it in front of a young man . . .” She shook her head.
“Oh, I don’t think they’d be too horrified under the circumstances.” He hesitated, then told her the truth. “Besides, you’re usually such a lady, almost prim, I thought seeing you burping to beat the band was kind of cute.”
“Oh yeah, just darling. I think I’ll start burping around clients at the office. Aaron will fire me in a heartbeat.” She stood up, weaving slightly but still smiling. “You’re right. I don’t need another beer.” She headed for the bedroom. “But I do think I’ll lie down for a little while.”
“Okay. Some rest would probably do you good and make your head stop spinning, which I know it is by now. Meanwhile, I desperately need a shower. How about if I order in a giant greasy pizza for dinner?”
“Oh, lord, that sounds absolutely heavenly!” she yelled in a slightly slurred voice.
Vincent couldn’t help but break into a grin. For the first time, she didn’t seem like a vulnerable little creature or a nuisance. She seemed like the strong kind of sassy chick with a sense of humor and a less-than-perfect demeanor Vincent had always liked.
Plus, she looked great. Brooke’s back was turned to him, but she raised her hand in a little wave. Her jeans were cut low and tight on her firm body, she wore a metallic belt with a semitransparent gauzy blouse, her blond hair was slightly tousled and hung halfway down her back, reminding him of old pictures of Brigitte Bardot, and Brooke was barefoot, her toenails painted a bright, saucy red.
Maybe having her around wasn’t so bad after all.
2
After the rose incident, the young surveillance team nearly frisked and shone bright lights in the eyes of the pizza delivery boy who arrived three hours la
ter. Brooke caught a glimpse of them at the front door when Vincent paid him. The guy couldn’t have been more than eighteen and looked terrified. I’ll bet he never delivers pizza to this address again, she thought in amusement.
Brooke and Vincent dived into the pizza while Sam slowly ate his chicken hoagie. “Chicken,” he said, giving the sandwich a baleful look. “Used to be I never had to give cholesterol a thought. Now mine stays high no matter what I eat.”
“Just a little above normal,” Vincent corrected. “It would go through the roof if you started eating all the wrong foods.”
“But I’d feel satisfied at the end of a meal.”
“And you’d end up in the hospital having spear-tipped tubes run through your arteries to unclog them.” Brooke and Sam both winced at the exaggerated image. “Besides, Dad, you loved chicken until you were told you should eat it instead of beef.” Vincent turned to Brooke. “Ready for another piece of pizza?”
“One more.”
“How about a beer?” Vincent teased. “I got a whole twelve-pack for you.”
She grinned. “That was terribly considerate, and I do usually drink at least twelve beers with my pizza, but tonight I think I’ll stick with Coke.”
Half an hour after they’d straightened the kitchen and Sam retired to the living room to watch his favorite television show, Vincent passed by the guest room and looked in to see Brooke packing her tote bag. “What’s going on?”
“I’m going home.”
“Going home!” Vincent’s eyes widened. “Why?”
“Because I need to be in my own place. I’m a disturbance here.”
“A disturbance? What gave you that idea?”
“Seeing how upset your father was after the flower arrived. He hasn’t stopped talking about it and he barely touched his dinner.”
“When he gets excited, he says the same thing over and over. It drives me nuts, but it doesn’t mean he’s upset. And he was just carping at dinner because he couldn’t have pizza.”
Last Whisper Page 9
