All the Beautiful Brides

by Rita Herron

  May Willis had died in a car accident ten years ago, but apparently her daughter owned a bakery in town. So May had kept her baby.

  Felicity Hacker lived outside town and owned a plant nursery. There was no mention of her daughter.

  A possibility.

  Kay Marlin was more interesting. She had an arrest record for prostitution.

  Mona gulped. Was her father one of Kay’s johns?

  She twisted the charm at her neck. No, surely not. Except . . . it would make sense. A hooker wouldn’t have been able to care for a baby.

  Needing to know the truth, she searched for an address.

  A few minutes later, she discovered that Kay lived in the county’s low-income housing.

  She’d talk to Felicity first. Maybe she’d have some answers. And if she didn’t, Mona would track down Kay.

  Anxiety needled her as she drove through town, squinting as the sun glinted off the snow. By the time she reached the nursery, her hands were strained from gripping the steering wheel to stay on the road.

  The sign for Felicity’s Flowers and Garden stood tall against an oak and was painted bright yellow and orange. Mona parked and slogged through the snow to the rustic building.

  Heat assaulted her when she entered the greenhouse, where a woman in her late forties wearing a big straw hat was tending a cluster of rosebushes. Although they hadn’t talked, Mona recognized her from the memorial service.

  “Excuse me,” Mona said. “I’m looking for Felicity.”

  The woman spun around, her hand flying up in surprise. “Yes, that’s me. But we don’t get many customers in this kind of weather.”

  “Actually, I’m not here for flowers or plants,” Mona said. “I just want some information.”

  The woman instantly looked suspicious. “What kind of information?”

  Mona touched the charm. Maybe she should have invented a cover story, but she believed in honesty and wanted to see the woman’s gut reaction. “A few months ago I discovered I was adopted. The only clue I have is this charm.” She lifted the baby bootie to show her. “I think I was born in this town, or at least that my mother lived here. And I know you had a child thirty years ago. A little girl.”

  Felicity’s face paled, and she pricked her finger on a thorn. She instantly brought her finger to her lips, but a drop of blood seeped from the prick.

  “I did have a little girl . . . but she died.”

  Mona sucked in a sharp breath, then opened her mouth to apologize.

  But Felicity took her arm and ushered her toward the door. “Please go. Now.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mona said. “I—”

  “Just leave me alone and stop asking questions,” Felicity said in a raw whisper.

  Mona stumbled outside, hating that she’d upset the woman. But when she turned to go back and apologize, Felicity had disappeared. She glanced at the attached house and saw the curtains being drawn.

  Shaken, she slid in her car and started down the drive. She paused at the highway and pulled over to check the address for the low-income housing development.

  Suddenly Felicity’s dark-green Tahoe careened past her and swung onto the highway as if she was running from something.

  Cal followed Rosalyn to her den and leaned against the big club chair by the window, giving the young lady time to calm down.

  “Why do you say it’s your fault?” he asked quietly.

  Rosalyn wiped her eyes with a tissue, then tossed it on the coffee table and snatched another one from the box. “Because I talked her into going out with me the other night, then I left her at the bar alone.”

  Now he understood the guilt.

  Cal chewed the inside of his cheek, waiting for her to elaborate. Instead, she began to shred the tissue into pieces, her fingers working nervously.

  “What bar was this?”

  Rosalyn sniffled. “Blues and Brews. Gwyn was so sweet, but she didn’t get out much, so I convinced her to go with me.”

  “She wasn’t dating anyone?”

  “Gosh, no,” Rosalyn said. “She was too busy taking care of her mother. Frankly, I thought she used her mother as an excuse not to date, because she was so shy, so I encouraged her to go out. To even meet people online.”

  “Did you meet some friends at the bar?”

  Rosalyn bit down on her lip. “Two friends from my programming class came, but their boyfriends were with them.”

  Cal sensed this conversation could go on forever. “Did Gwyneth hook up with anyone?”

  Rosalyn grabbed another tissue and began to mutilate it. “A couple of men asked her to dance, but she turned them down. Then Eddie showed up.”

  “Who is Eddie?”

  “A guy I dated for a couple of years. We broke up last year, but he wanted to talk and said he’d made a mistake and . . .” Her voice cracked. “And I left with him.” She released a pain-filled sigh. “I didn’t think I’d be gone long. Eddie and I just stepped outside to talk, but then . . . things got hot . . .”

  “And you two argued?”

  Rosalyn shook her head, her cheeks flushing.

  “You had sex?”

  She nodded. “It had been a long time, and we were always good that way, so we ducked into the car—”

  “You don’t have to justify it to me,” Cal said, trying to steer her back on track. “Then what happened?”

  “By the time we went back inside, Gwyn was gone. I thought she was in the ladies’ room, but she wasn’t, then I called her cell but it went to voice mail, so I figured she caught a cab.” Rosalyn brushed at more tears. “I tried again the next morning and she still didn’t answer, then she didn’t show up in class and I got worried.” Rosalyn choked on another sob. “Then this morning I read in the news that she was dead.”

  So she’d only been gone one night. Not enough time for anyone to realize she was missing and file a report.

  It also meant that the killer hadn’t kept her very long.

  Cal gave her a sympathetic look. “Was there anyone in the bar who stuck out to you? A man who asked Gwyneth to dance and got angry with her?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. Both the men she turned down wound up with other girls.”

  “Do you know if she’d talked to these men before? Had she met them online?”

  Rosalyn bit her lower lip. “She didn’t say.”

  “Was anyone watching her that night? Maybe a guy who looked creepy or kept staring at the two of you?”

  Rosalyn rubbed her forehead. “I didn’t notice anyone.”

  “Would Gwyneth have left with a man if she’d met up with someone she liked?”

  Rosalyn shook her head vigorously. “No. She didn’t do one-night stands.”

  So if she had left with a man, it was possible he’d coerced her or drugged her.

  He stood, jamming his hands in his pockets. “I’m going to talk to the bartender. Maybe he saw something.”

  Hopefully they had security cameras and he could get a glimpse of the person she’d left with.

  Mona drove to the county housing project, still disturbed about Felicity’s reaction. Even thirty years later, it was obviously difficult for her to talk about the baby she’d lost.

  Although Mona hadn’t carried her baby to term, she understood the grief of losing a child.

  Dark-gray clouds hung heavy over the sky, threatening another storm as she parked at the development. Brent had told her about this complex, that the town had built it ten years ago to help residents who couldn’t afford housing. The brick units were sturdy against the stiff winds and close enough to town for the tenants to work in Graveyard Falls or the neighboring clothing factory.

  She parked in front of the unit where Kay lived, cut the engine, and hurried through the sludge up to the door. The curtains were drawn, making it seem no one was
home, or they wanted to be left alone. But she knocked anyway.

  A young woman carrying a baby exited a unit and paused to stare at her. For a moment, Mona sensed the woman was upset, and she wanted to go to her, but suddenly the woman rushed back inside her apartment.

  She knocked on Kay’s door again. Footsteps sounded inside, shuffling, then the door opened a crack. A dishwater-blonde woman in a terrycloth robe stood on the other side, her hair disheveled, her eyes glassy with alcohol or drugs.

  “I ain’t buying nothing,” the woman snarled.

  Mona offered her a friendly smile. “I’m not selling anything, ma’am. Are you Kay Marlin?”

  The woman lifted a coffee mug and took a sip, although it smelled like it held whiskey. “Yeah. Who wants to know?”

  Mona introduced herself and explained the reason for her visit. “I’m looking for my birth mother. She left me this.” She showed her the baby bootie charm.

  Kay’s eyes flashed cold. “Well, you come to the wrong place. I don’t have a daughter.”

  “But you gave birth to a little girl, didn’t you?” Mona persisted.

  Kay’s pale face twisted into a grimace. “Yeah, but I got rid of that kid. I don’t have any idea what happened to her, and I don’t wanna know.”

  Mona sucked in a breath at the woman’s harsh tone. She started to say something, but Kay slammed the door in her face.

  Disappointment flared inside her. If Kay was her birth mother, she obviously didn’t want to reconcile with her.

  She blinked back tears and ran to her car, a well of emotions balling inside her. She’d been foolish to indulge in this fantasy that her mother might have missed her, that she might be looking for her, too.

  Cal took Gwyneth’s computer to the lab to have the IT department analyze it and asked a crime unit to process her apartment.

  When he made it to Blues and Brews, he had to wait for the night bartender to arrive, so he listened to a guy sing the blues, and found himself contemplating what he would say to Mona when he saw her.

  I’m sorry for the lies Brent told you. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you.

  I wish I’d asked you out before Brent had. But then he did, and I owed him, and . . . Brent always got what he wanted.

  A seed of resentment wormed its way to the surface. He hadn’t realized until now that Brent was just calculating enough to use Cal’s debt to him to his advantage. A little reminder here and there—subtle, but it had worked.

  Brent had risked his life and the wrath of their foster father to keep Cal from being beaten and tossed in the place the man called the “thinking hole.”

  The singer finished his set, and a young woman with white-blonde hair and black eyeliner took the stage. She jumped into a dark tune about death and resurrection that made the hairs on the back of Cal’s neck bristle.

  Finally the bartender arrived. Cal flashed his badge and explained why he was there, then showed him Gwyneth’s and Rosalyn’s pictures. “Do you remember either of these women being in here two nights ago?”

  “Yeah, that Rosalyn chick is in here a lot. Hooks up with this guy named Eddie.”

  “How about her friend, Gwyneth?”

  “There were a lot of people in here. I’m afraid she doesn’t stick out.”

  “Can I view the security tapes from that night?”

  The young man looked sheepish. “There’s only one camera that works right now. It’s by the back door.”

  “Let me take a look.”

  The bartender escorted him to a back room and introduced him to a bouncer, who apparently didn’t remember Gwyneth either.

  Minutes later, Cal was scrutinizing the tape. Mostly routine stuff. A couple of guys snuck out to make a drug deal, and the bouncer shoved some guy who’d started a fight out the door.

  Then . . . back in the corner, he spotted a figure that looked like Gwyneth. Yes, it was her. A man approached her as she left the restroom, took her arm, and ushered her through the back exit.

  She was staggering slightly as if she was intoxicated.

  Bastard had probably slipped something in her drink.

  But all he could see was the back of the man. He wore all black and had pulled a hoodie up over his head, shielding his face.

  Dammit. He’d have the lab analyze the tape to see if they could get a better look at the man.

  He told the manager he was taking the tape, then left the bouncer and bartender each his card. “If you remember anything or hear anything about the girl, give me a call.”

  They agreed, and he left, anxious to get the tape to the lab.

  Felicity drove around for what seemed like hours.

  First she visited the grave.

  She plowed through the woods to find the spot she’d dug so many years ago, her heart pounding so hard she thought she was going to pass out. The trees seemed thicker than they had back then, and for a moment, panic hit her that she might not find it. Those first few years she’d visited often, but then she’d stopped coming because seeing the small clump of dirt with weeds growing on it only dredged up the pain.

  She veered to the left, stopped, and scanned the clearing, then recognized the cluster of rocks near the creek. Shivering with the cold, she moved forward.

  She had to make sure the grave was still there.

  That no one had found it and dug up the body.

  That no one knew her secret.

  Only Sheriff Buckley . . .

  She halted at the sight of the grave. She’d nestled her baby’s body beneath a tree where the branches curled inward as if they were a mother’s arms. She dropped to her knees and laid one hand on top of the mound, the memory of that night flashing back in nightmarish clarity.

  Her premature labor. The pain. How alone she’d felt. How terrified.

  And then the baby coming . . . all the blood . . . she wasn’t breathing . . .

  A sob choked her as she remembered, and she allowed herself to mourn as the wind cried out its own soulful sound through the trees. But the cold finally got to her, and her tears were freezing on her cheeks, so she buried her face in her scarf and tried to collect herself.

  Leaves and snow whirled around her as she finally pushed herself up and ran back to her car. The grave was intact.

  No one knew.

  But why had that woman Mona Monroe come knocking on her door asking questions today?

  She said she was looking for her birth mother.

  Yes, Felicity had been pregnant back then. But she hadn’t been the only high schooler who’d gotten knocked up that year.

  Only she was the one who’d told Sheriff Buckley that story about Johnny.

  Then she’d accepted Sheriff Buckley’s help and done everything he’d said.

  If she hadn’t, she might have gone to jail just like Johnny Pike.

  She had to warn Sheriff Buckley about Mona Monroe. Maybe he could stop her from making trouble.

  Cal dropped the tape off with the deputy and had him courier it over to the lab.

  His phone buzzed as he was leaving. Peyton from the lab. “It’s Cal.”

  “I looked into those two Facebook friends. One was a man named Aaron Brinkley. He lives in Atlanta but was traveling to Knoxville when he posted that invitation. That was three weeks ago. This past week he’s been in North Carolina on business.”

  “So he’s not our unsub.” He paused. “What about the second?”

  “That one is more interesting. Whoever it was posted his name as Bill Williams. Profile says he’s thirty, lives in Tennessee, that he’s a craftsman and hunter, and that he’s not married. His posts indicate he’s looking for a serious relationship. That he wants a wife.”

  “Did he meet up with Gwyneth?”

  “She was supposed to meet him at that bar the night she disappeared.”

  Cal
’s pulse kicked up. “Send me his address.”

  “That’s the problem. The IP address is a coffee shop not too far from Graveyard Falls. And there are dozens of people named Bill Williams in Tennessee. I’m trying to narrow the list down now.”

  “OK. Send me the address for the coffee shop, and let me know what else you find.”

  “I’m on it. I’ll also text you the photo the guy posted on his site, although I have a feeling it’s a fake.”

  Cal ended the call, checked the address, and drove through another light snowstorm.

  Thirty minutes later, he entered Moose’s Coffee, a rustic-looking structure topped with a giant moose head. Inside, plain wooden tables, fireplaces, and support beams made from tree trunks gave the feel of being in the woods.

  He glanced around the interior, irrationally hoping to see the man in the Facebook photo, but didn’t spot him. A group of women had gathered around one table, chatting and looking at magazines. Another table held students with computers and study guides.

  Most everyone had their own laptop, although a bar to the side held three computers, which could be used by guests for a fee. On a shelf above the computers, a stuffed falcon sat, its talons bared, eyes beady as if watching for prey.

  A geeky-looking college-aged student with square glasses was using one computer, an Asian girl the second. The third was empty.

  Cal crossed the room to the counter, ordered a plain coffee, and asked to speak to the manager. The young kid behind the counter disappeared through a swinging door and returned a second later with a middle-aged, burly man with thick beard stubble. He reminded Cal of a grizzly bear.

  “Eric Brothers.” The man wiped his hands on a kitchen towel, and Cal noted the scars on his fingers and palms. “What can I do for you?”

  Cal introduced himself. “I’m investigating the murder of a young woman from Graveyard Falls. She communicated online with a man who posted from this IP address. She was supposed to meet him the night she disappeared.” He flipped his phone around to show him the photo on the Facebook page. “Do you recognize him?”