“How…?” His grip dented the paper cup.
“I wasn’t spying,” I said quickly. “I wanted to see if you were right about the disappearances every seven years. Her name was in the papers. I’m sorry. Losing my aunt…” I gazed at my saucer and its scattered flakes of sugar. I didn’t want to imagine one of my sisters disappearing without a trace. The not knowing. The sick dread.
His expression stilled. “So you saw the pattern.”
I let him change the subject. “Except for 1995. Nobody went missing that year.”
“Ely Milbourne.”
“But he made himself disappear,” I said. “He was up on a statutory rape charge.”
He leaned forward, his face taut. “What if he didn’t run? What if he went into the forest like the others and didn’t come out?”
“There’s no proof of that.”
“No, but that’s the point. There’s never any proof. None of these people have been found. They vanish without a trace. Don’t you think that’s weird? These woods aren’t that big. Someone should have found remains — a corpse, bones.”
“And you need closure.”
His laugh was harsh. “There’s no such thing. We don’t get closure. Either we learn to move on, or we don’t.”
And Nick hadn’t. My heart sank. Was there really a pattern to the disappearances, or had Nick’s loss twisted his perspective? “Is that what you were looking for in the woods?” I asked gently.
He looked out the paned, front window, and I followed his gaze. A white pickup drove past, gardening equipment rattling in its bed.
“I’m not sure anymore,” he said. “I thought if a human was responsible for the disappearances, that guy in the woods might make a good candidate.”
“He’s too young. Even under all that dirt, I can see he’s not more than forty. The disappearances go back at least a hundred years.”
“Maybe he learned his trade from someone else. It’s not unheard of, a serial killer finding an apprentice.”
“A serial killer? No.” Not here, not in Doyle.
A lightning smile flashed across his face. “Don’t worry. That’s just the logical explanation, and I’m beginning to wonder if logic even applies in this town.”
“What do you mean?”
He hesitated. “Never mind. I should go.” He brushed his lips across my cheek, teasing, and strode outside. The bell above the door tinkled.
Unsettled, I watched him walk down the sidewalk.
I made an exasperated noise. Experience told me there was something supernatural going on. I needed to get back to the census records and stop thinking about Nick.
I plodded on. After an hour, I packed up. I hadn’t found a Belle, and I was only three quarters of the way through the list of records. But I couldn’t justify leaving my aunt and sisters any longer.
I saved copies of the census records to my laptop. Maybe Lenore or Jayce could help tackle the rest of the names. But what if Belle wasn’t in the records? Did that mean the whole story was a fake? Or had names been changed to protect the not-so-innocent?
I slid my computer into my purse, paid the bill, and slipped through the cramped kitchen and out the alleyway entrance. A wave of late morning heat hit me, and I sneezed.
A piece of crumpled paper caught on a breeze, drifted past.
I stooped and picked it up, walked to the garbage can. Another piece scuttled across the macadam. I hurried to it, stepping on the paper before it could fly away. More rustled past, white, fallen leaves dancing down the alley. I chased after the pages, scooping them up, my purse bouncing at my hip.
One sheet was damp, sticky. Ignorance being bliss, I didn’t examine it too closely, sliding it into the middle of the growing stack of papers. When I’d finally collected them all, I wandered to the garbage can, reading the top page.
They were love notes written in a fat, teenage script. I winced, embarrassed by the youthful declarations of passion. Had my early romance novels ever been so over-the-top?
The ink had faded to lavender. I imagined the letters’ author finding them inside an old yearbook and tossing them, mortified by the purple prose.
Well, I wouldn’t add to her humiliation by reading on. I reached for the lid of the nearest garbage can beneath the stairs. Another sheet of paper fluttered from behind a cluster of metal bins.
Sighing, I leapt, stomping on the page.
And froze, my arm outstretched.
A man’s leg, in tattered, gray pants stuck out from behind the garbage cans.
Slowly, I straightened, edged sideways. More of the man came into view. A hand, blackened by filth. A stained coat. And blood. Oh, God, so much blood. It spilled from the wound in his stomach, darkening his gray t-shirt, puddling on the macadam.
The homeless man stared, his startling blue eyes flat pieces of ocean glass. His jaw hung loose, his lips crusted white. A dragonfly, iridescent orange and red flew from his open mouth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I staggered backward, my hip striking a garbage bin. Its lid clanged to the macadam.
The homeless man, the man we’d been searching for, dead. I clutched the papers to my chest.
His mouth hinged open, as if frozen in a moment of shock or disappointment.
I dug into my purse for my phone. Where the hell was it? The letters in my hands got in my way, hampering my search. Frustrated, I stuffed the papers deep into my bag, beside a roll of bulky yarn. I scrabbled in my purse with both hands, finally finding my phone in the pocket where it belonged.
Hands shaking, I dialed the police.
“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”
“My name is…” Oh, hell, what was my name? “Karin, Karin Bonheim. I’m in the alley behind Ground on Main Street in Doyle, and I’ve found a body.”
“You’re on Main Street?”
“No, Ground’s address is on Main Street. I’m in the alleyway behind it. I think he’s been stabbed.”
“Who’s been stabbed?”
“I don’t know who he is. A homeless man, I think. I don’t know him.”
“Are you certain he’s dead?”
“Yes.” My voice quavered. “Yes, he is.”
“What’s your address?”
“Ground is at…” What was the address? Panic scattered my memory. “1520 Main. I’m in the alley behind the café.”
“All right. Stay on the line. Someone will be there shortly.”
I hung up.
Dazed, I stared at the man, at his oceanic eyes. Grime coated his hair, but his locks were thick, luxurious. He’d been handsome once, and something twinged inside me.
I stepped closer on shaky legs, careful to avoid the pool of darkening blood. He looked… familiar. Because I’d seen him in the alley before?
I frowned. No, it was more than that. I’d seen someone who looked like this man before. But who?
The truth clicked into place, and I swayed.
Numb, I walked to my Fusion. I unlocked the door, tossing my purse on the passenger’s seat. I sat sideways on the driver’s side, sucking in gulps of air. Half out of the car, I fumbled in my wallet for Nick’s business card, dialed.
“Nick Heathcoat.”
“Nick, it’s Karin. I’ve found Ely. He’s in the alley. He’s dead. I’ve called 9-1-1.”
“Wait, slow down. You’ve found who?”
“Ely Milbourne, the homeless man. You said they all disappeared without a trace, well I’ve got your trace.” I laughed, a high, thin sound, and knew I was on the edge of hysteria. I lowered my head between my knees, then remembered that was to prevent fainting, not a breakdown.
“Karin, where are you?”
“Behind Ground. In the alley.”
A siren sounded, grew louder.
“I’ll be right there.” He hung up.
A black and white, lights flashing, rolled to a halt in the alley. Two uniformed sheriff’s deputies emerged from the SUV, their uniforms crisp and khaki-colored.
On sa
fari, hunting bad guys. I hiccuped. I had to get a grip, stop thinking like a crazy woman. If this murder was connected to Alicia’s — and how could it not? — this had to clear Jayce. The police would have to see my sister couldn’t have committed this crime.
I rose, knees wobbling, and walked toward the cops. They were young, their faces grim, clean-shaven.
“I’m Karin Bonheim. I called 9-1-1.”
“Where is he?” a deputy asked.
I pointed toward the stairs. “Behind the garbage cans.”
One of the cops walked to the stairs, and the other turned to me and pointed to a device on his shoulder. “This conversation is being recorded,” he said. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I shivered. And anything I said could and would be used against me in a court of law.
The questioning began. What was I doing in the alley? What time did I discover the body? Was I acquainted with the man? My answers were short, succinct, but I hesitated over the last.
“No,” I said. “But I’ve seen him around this alley before, the morning we… This may be connected to Alicia Duarte’s murder. He was here, in the alley, when my sister and I discovered her body.”
“Wait here.”
He moved off and spoke into the radio clipped to his shoulder.
Another sheriff’s car wedged into the alley. Sheriff McCourt stepped out and ruffled her curling blond hair. Setting her hat on her head, she strode toward us.
“Miss Bonheim.” She nodded and turned to the deputy. “What do we have here?”
“Male victim,” the cop said, “appears to be in his late thirties, early forties. Stabbed. Miss Bonheim found him beneath the stairwell, behind those garbage cans. She says he may be related to the Duarte murder.”
“Really,” the sheriff said, her voice dry. “You think? Two bodies at one café, and both found by the owner’s sister.”
Oh, crap. I licked my lips. “I do think he’s connected to Alicia, but if you’re suggesting—”
“We’ll finish this discussion at the station,” Sheriff McCourt said. She nodded to the deputy. “Take her to the station for an interview.”
“An interview?” I yelped.
“An interview,” the sheriff said, “not an arrest. Better that we talk there, in private, than here in the alley. He’ll drive you.”
“Karin!” Nick wove around the fire truck and ambulance now blocking the narrow alley. Red and blue lights colored his white shirt, made weird shadows on his chiseled face.
A policeman held up a hand, stopping him. They spoke, too far away for me to make out the words. The cop nodded and let Nick pass.
“What happened?” Nick rested his hands on my shoulders. His touch calmed me, steadying.
“Are you this sister’s lawyer too?” the sheriff asked.
“I work for the family,” Nick said.
She gave him a hard stare. “Miss Bonheim has agreed to come to the station for an interview.”
“Not without a lawyer, she’s not.” His hands slipped to his sides. “Karin, I’ll meet you at the station. Don’t say anything.”
“But—”
“Don’t say anything.”
I sat in the back of the police car, purse on my lap, hands gripping the handles.
My phone rang, one of my clients. I turned it off.
The car smelled antiseptic, as if it had recently been through a good, hospital cleaning. I sat forward, unwilling to rest against the seat.
The police officer was silent on the drive. Silent as he walked up the steps of the three-story building, through the atrium. Silent as he turned left, into a long corridor lined with metal doors.
The cop stopped and opened a door marked 2B. “Wait in here please.”
“To be, or not to be,” I murmured.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Sorry.” Shoulders tight, I stepped inside. A metal table and three chairs. A black-tiled floor. Barren, sand-colored walls. A one-way mirror set in the opposite wall. A video camera perched high in a corner.
I sat facing the mirror, purse in my lap like a frightened librarian.
Not for a minute did I believe this was a casual interview. But if I was right, and the homeless man was Ely Milbourne… I stared at my hands. It was more likely that this man was Ely, than the woman I’d found in the woods was the Dante Cunningham who’d disappeared in the 1920s.
The door opened, and Nick walked into the cramped room.
My shoulders slumped. “Thank God. Nick, that man, it was Ely Milbourne. I’d swear it.”
He sat down beside me, taking my hand. God help me, in spite of everything, his touch made me shiver.
“That’s not possible,” he said. “Whoever the man was, he’s too young to be Ely.”
“He looked exactly like the photo from the paper, even if he was a mess.”
Nick angled his head. “It’s been over twenty years since Ely disappeared,” he said slowly. “He would have aged since that photograph.”
I thought of Dante Cunningham. If she was the Dante from the 1920s, she’d certainly aged. But she’d been alive.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I’m thinking you’re right. There’s something strange going on.”
He met my gaze, his expression probing. “Or the man could be a relative of Ely’s. That could explain the resemblance.”
“Maybe.” But even under all that filth, I’d recognized Ely. Still, sons could resemble their parents. If the homeless man was Ely’s son, who was the mother? Alicia? “No. He’d be only twenty-two if he were Alicia’s child. This man looked older, late thirties, early forties.”
“Who said anything about him being Alicia’s child?”
“If he’s not Ely, he’s got to be related. And if he was Alicia’s child, that might give him a motive for murder. Maybe he’s younger than he looks. A life on the streets can age you.” It was the answer I wanted, one that would let my sister off the hook. But it didn’t quite fit.
I hugged my purse tight against my midsection. The letters inside crackled. “Oh, damn.” The letters.
“What’s wrong?”
I opened my purse and drew out the letters, spreading them on the table. “I was picking up garbage in the alley, some old letters, that’s how I found him. Ely. And then I called the police, and I couldn’t put the letters down, so I shoved them into my purse and forgot. Have I removed evidence from a crime scene?” Stupid, stupid, stupid!
“It was an accident, and you’re turning the letters over now.” His brow creased. “This letter’s signed, Alicia.”
The sheriff strode into the room.
“Let’s get started,” she said. “This interview is being recorded, okay?”
“First, my client accidentally carried some evidence from the crime scene.” Nick pushed the crumpled letters across the table. “She found these in the alley. When she went to throw them away, she found Ely and got distracted.”
The sheriff quirked a brow. “And put them in her purse?”
“I was looking for my phone and holding the letters, and it was easier to put them inside, and then the police came, and I forgot about them. I’m sorry.” I laid my purse on the table. “That’s all of them. You can check my purse if you want.”
“Thanks.” The sheriff drew the purse toward her. “I will.”
Nick shot me a look of exasperation.
The sheriff pulled a pair of gloves from her pocket and snapped them on. She laid the contents of the purse on the table. A skein of lavender yarn, speared by two, fat, bamboo needles. My wallet. A packet of tissues. Lip gloss. A notebook. Pens. My slim computer. A tampon.
My cheeks heated.
McCourt tipped the purse upside-down, shaking it. A bit of lint drifted to the table.
“The letters look to be from Alicia Duarte,” Nick said. “And at least one is stained with what appears to be blood.”
“And of course both your fingerprints are all over them,” the sheriff sna
rled.
“The letters must have belonged to Ely,” I said, “and were scattered in the attack.”
“Ely?” The sheriff looked up, her blue eyes glinting.
I glanced at Nick. I’d taken a course or two in criminal law, and knew I shouldn’t be saying anything, innocent or no. But if this cleared my sister, telling would be worth it.
He nodded.
“The man looks… looked, a lot like Ely Milbourne, the man who—”
“I know who he was,” the sheriff said. “And the guy you found is too young.”
“A relative?” Nick asked, as if it had been his idea. “There must be some connection to Ely, or he wouldn’t have had those letters from Alicia.”
“If the letters even belonged to the man we discovered. Just because you found them in the alley, doesn’t mean they were his.”
“But if they did, they’ll have his fingerprints, won’t they?” I asked. “And they’re signed, Alicia.”
The sheriff examined the letters. “Huh.” She discarded the letters on the table. “Doesn’t mean anything. There are lots of Alicias. We don’t know the author was Alicia Duarte.”
“The writing is high schoolish,” I said. “And the paper looks old…” I trailed off. The paper was wrinkled, but it didn’t look aged. The creases were fresh, unworn. I’d assumed the ink had faded, but perhaps that had been its original color, more lilac than purple.
“The man Karin found could be a relative of Ely’s,” Nick said. “We’ll want DNA samples of both him and Alicia.”
“Of Alicia?” The sheriff snorted. “That affair was twenty-some years ago. He’s too old to be her son, unless you’re suggesting those two started carrying on when she was in grammar school.”
“Affair?” Nick asked. “That implies it was mutual.”
“It was,” the sheriff snapped, face reddening. “I’m not saying it was right, or that he didn’t take advantage. But Alicia was hot on his trail.”
“Giving Ely, or one of his relatives, a possible motive to kill Alicia,” Nick said. “Revenge.”
“Does he have any relatives?” I asked.
“None in town,” the sheriff said. “And who killed our mystery man?” She pinioned me with a stare. “Got any theories on that?”
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