by Brenda Novak
Rain began to plink against her windshield as she drove down Pine Road and hung a skidding left at the highway. It had been a wet spring, but she preferred it to the terrible humidity they were facing as June approached.
Staring intently at the shiny pavement ahead of her, she ignored the rapid swish, swish, swish of her windshield wipers, which were on high but beating only half as fast as her heart. “What’re you up to, Mr. Montgomery?” she muttered. She couldn’t imagine he was really trying to kill anyone. Other than an occasional fistfight in the bar, Stillwater had next to no violent crime. And Clay was a real loner. But, like everyone else in Stillwater, she felt a little nervous around him. The Reverend Barker’s disappearance—an incident she clearly remembered—was highly suspicious. She didn’t believe such a well-respected man, the community’s spiritual leader, would drive off without saying a word to anyone and without packing or withdrawing any money from his bank account. No one would do that without good reason. And what reason, good or otherwise, could Barker have had to abandon his farm?
If he was alive, someone would’ve heard from him by now. He still had plenty of family in town: a wife, a daughter, two stepdaughters, a stepson, a sister, a brother-in-law and two nephews.
His daughter Madeline—who, like Clay, was thirty-four, a year older than she was—was certain he’d met with foul play. But Madeline was equally certain that her stepmother, stepsisters and stepbrother had nothing to do with it.
It made for an interesting mystery. One Allie was determined to solve. For her own peace of mind. For Madeline, whom she’d known her whole life. For Barker’s nephew, Joe, who was pressing her to solve the case almost as hard as Madeline was. For the whole town.
Gravel spun as she arrived at the farm and whipped into the long driveway. She realized that the property looked far better than it had when Reverend Barker lived there. The junk he’d stacked all around—the rusty old appliances, flat tires, bits of scrap metal and other odds and ends—was gone. The house and buildings seemed to be in good repair. But she didn’t have time to look the place over very carefully. She was too busy flipping her siren on and off before coming to a halt.
Leaving her lights flashing, she jumped out of the car and hurried toward the front door, only to be intercepted by a woman wearing a pair of slacks unbuttoned at the waist and holding a shirt and purse to her bare chest. “There you are,” she cried, stumbling toward Allie from the direction of the carport.
The woman appeared to be alone, so Allie relaxed the hand she’d put on her gun and reached out to steady her. It was Beth Ann Cole, who worked in the bakery at the Piggly Wiggly. Allie had seen her several times. Beth Ann wasn’t someone she—or anyone else—was likely to forget. Mostly because she had the kind of face and body people admired. Tall, elegant and model pretty, she had healthy, glowing skin, long blond hair and slanted, cat-green eyes.
“Tell me what’s going on,” she said.
Suddenly, the other woman was crying so hard she couldn’t speak.
“Try to get hold of yourself, okay?” Allie used her “cop” voice, hoping to cut through Beth Ann’s near hysteria, and it seemed to work.
“I—I’m cold,” she managed to say, glancing toward the house as if she was afraid Clay might come charging out after her. “C-can we sit in your car?”
“Of course.” Allie didn’t hear or see anything that made her feel threatened, but until she knew exactly what had happened, she didn’t want to approach Clay. She’d never met a more difficult man to read. She’d gone to junior high and high school with him and had certainly noticed his swarthy good looks. But she’d never gotten close to him. No one had. Even back then, he’d made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t interested in making friends.
If she waited, maybe her backup would arrive.
She helped Beth Ann to the passenger side. Then, once again checking to make sure Clay wasn’t about to spring out of the azalea bushes near the house, she slid behind the wheel.
After locking the doors and turning off her flashers, she twisted in her seat and studied the other woman as well as she could in the dark. A floodlight attached to the barn had come on when she pulled in, revealing Beth Ann’s smudged mascara. But it had been activated by a motion sensor and chose that moment to go off, and Allie didn’t want to turn on the car’s interior light until Beth Ann was fully dressed.
“Take a deep breath,” she said.
Beth Ann sniffed and dashed a hand across her face, but more tears followed, so Allie started with a simple question, trying to relax her. “How’d you get out here?”
“I drove.” She pointed to a green Toyota Avalon not far from where Allie had parked. “That’s my car right there.”
“Do you have the keys?”
She nodded and sniffed again. “In my purse.”
Despite her desperation to escape, she’d been able to grab her purse? “What time was it when you got here?”
“About ten.”
“Are you the one who called in the complaint?”
“Yes, he’s an…animal,” Beth Ann responded. She broke into sobs again but spoke disjointedly through them. “He—he killed that reverend…guy everyone’s always talking about. The man…who’s been missing for…for so long.”
The hair rose on the back of Allie’s arms. Beth Ann had stated it so matter-of-factly, as though she had no doubt. And her words definitely supported the majority opinion. “How do you know?”
She rocked back and forth, still covering herself with her shirt but making no attempt to put it on. “He told me. He s-said if I d-didn’t shut up, he’d b-beat me to a bloody pulp, like he did his s-stepfather.”
Physically at least, Clay was capable of beating just about anyone. Nearly six-four, he had a well-defined body with shoulders broader than any Allie had ever seen. The long grueling hours he worked maintaining a farm that should have taken two or more people to run kept him in shape.
But he hadn’t been very big at sixteen. He’d been a tall, lanky kid with a shock of shiny black hair and cobalt-blue eyes. When he wasn’t aware of being watched, he occasionally looked lost, even weary, yet he consistently resisted any and all kindness. He hadn’t filled out until after she’d gone to college—presumably in his early twenties.
“Did he explain how he killed his stepfather?” she asked.
“I told you. He—he beat him.” Much to Allie’s relief, Beth Ann finally put on her shirt. Allie had seen a lot in her days working for the law—more dead bodies than she cared to count—but having the very busty Beth Ann sitting next to her half-naked, and knowing she’d probably just left Clay’s bed, was a little too up-close and personal. There was no cushion of anonymity in Stillwater.
“You’re telling me he killed Reverend Barker with his bare hands? At sixteen?” Now that Beth Ann was dressed, Allie snapped on the interior light so she could read the nuances of the other woman’s expressions. But storm clouds covered the pale, waning moon outside, and the cabin light was too dim to banish all the shadows.
“He’s strong. You have no idea how strong he is.”
Allie was familiar with Clay’s reputation. He’d broken a number of weight-lifting records in high school. But that was as a senior, when he’d had more meat on him, not as a skinny sophomore. “He might’ve weighed a hundred and sixty pounds at the time,” she pointed out.
Silence met the skepticism in her voice, then Beth Ann said, “Oh, I think he used a bat. Yeah, he used a bat.”
Something about this interview wasn’t right, but in an effort to avoid the kind of snap judgments that could sabotage a case, Allie tried to go with it a little longer. If Beth Ann was telling the truth—and by now, she thought that was a pretty big if—what could Reverend Barker have done to cause Clay to take a bat to him? Had he grown too strict? Was his discipline too severe?
That was possible. Allie remembered Barker as a particularly zealous preacher, and Clay had never been puritanical. He’d always liked women—there’d n
ever been any shortage of females eager and willing to do whatever he wanted—and he’d been involved in a few fights. But he was kind to his mother and sisters. And, as far as she knew, he had no problems with drugs or alcohol.
“The police never found a murder weapon,” she said, hoping to draw more information out of Beth Ann.
“He must’ve gotten rid of it.”
“Did he tell you he used a bat?”
She glanced outside at the house. “No, but he must have.”
He must have… Allie allowed herself a sigh. “When did Clay make this confession to you?”
“A…a few weeks ago.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“No.”
The rain began to fall harder, drumming against the hood of the car and making the air smell of wet vegetation. “What about your mother or father? A friend?”
“I didn’t talk about it. I—I was too afraid of him.”
“I see,” Allie said. But she didn’t see at all. Beth Ann had shown no fear of Clay when Allie had seen them together at church last Sunday. On the contrary, Beth Ann had touched him at every opportunity, clung to him like lint, even though he’d continually brushed her off. “And you came out here tonight, although you’re afraid of him, because…” She let the sentence dangle.
“I’m in love with him.”
“But…”
“He attacked me!”
“What precipitated the attack?”
“We…had an argument.”
Allie said nothing, merely waited for Beth Ann to continue. Generally, people kept talking when the silence in a conversation stretched, often revealing more than they intended to. Sometimes it was the best way to reach the truth.
“I—I told him I was pregnant.” She wiped at a tear. “He…insisted I get an abortion. When I refused, he started slapping me around.”
It was difficult to tell in the eerie glow of the interior light, but Allie couldn’t see anything more than smeared makeup on Beth Ann’s face. There was certainly no blood. And she was calmer relating this part of the story, which should have evoked more emotion, not less. “Where?”
“In the house.”
“No, I mean, where did he hit you?”
Beth Ann made a vague motion with her hands. “Everywhere. He wanted to kill me!”
Allie cleared her throat. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Clay Montgomery, but he’d been pretty tight-lipped over the past two decades. She doubted he’d suddenly divulge his culpability in a capital crime to someone like Beth Ann, and then let her run straight to the police. Besides, if he’d really wanted to hurt her, she wouldn’t be sitting here safe and sound—in his driveway, no less. By her own admission, Beth Ann had her car and her keys. Yet she’d chosen to wait for Allie instead of speeding away from danger. “How did you manage to escape him?”
“I—I don’t know,” she said. “It’s all a blur.”
Allie pursed her lips. Apparently only Clay’s confession was crystal clear.
Grabbing the notepad she kept in her car, she scribbled down Beth Ann’s exact words. Then she peered thoughtfully outside. “Stay here. I’d like to hear what Mr. Montgomery has to say. Afterward, you can follow me downtown and give me a sworn statement. Unless you feel you need to go to the hospital first,” she added, her hand on the door latch.
Beth Ann ignored the hospital suggestion. “A sworn statement?”
“Attempted murder is no small crime, Ms. Cole. You want the D.A. to press charges, don’t you?”
Beth Ann tucked her hair behind her ears. “I—I think so.”
“You told me he assaulted you. That he tried to kill you.”
“He did. See this?” Beth Ann shoved out her arm.
Allie saw a superficial wound that resembled claw marks. Hardly the type of damage she would’ve expected Clay to inflict. In a fight, a man typically aimed for the face or midsection. But it was her job to document the injury, just in case. “We’ll get pictures of that. Do you have any other scrapes, cuts or bruises?”
“No.”
“And yet he hit you how many times?”
“I guess he didn’t hit me that hard,” she replied, retracting what she’d said earlier. “He grazed me with his nails when I was trying to get away. It frightened me more than it hurt me.”
An accidental scratch was a far cry from attempted murder. “What about his confession? Did you remember that correctly?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Allie had her doubts there, too. “You’ll swear to it?”
Beth Ann stared at the house. “Will he go to jail if I do?”
“Would it make you happy if he did?”
“Me and almost everyone else in this town.”
Allie hesitated before answering. “If what you say is true, prison is a possibility. But your story would require corroboration. Can you offer any supporting evidence?”
“Like what?”
“The location of Reverend Barker’s body? The location of Reverend Barker’s car? The murder weapon? A taped or signed confession?”
“No, but Clay told me he killed him. I heard it with my own ears.”
Allie didn’t believe a word of it. She didn’t even believe Beth Ann had been attacked. But, because it was still smart to be cautious, she radioed dispatch to see if her backup was en route.
“I couldn’t reach Hendricks,” the dispatcher told her. “Are you sure you don’t want me to wake your father?”
Allie flipped off the interior light and considered the quiet farm. Getting soaked seemed to be the only threat she faced. “No, I’ll take care of it. If you don’t hear from me in fifteen minutes or so, go ahead and rouse someone.”
“You got it.”
Adjusting the gun on her belt, Allie hung up and stepped out of the car. “Sit tight and lock the doors.”
“What will you tell Clay?” Beth Ann asked.
“Exactly what you told me.”
Beth Ann stopped her from closing the door. “Why? He’ll just deny it. And you can’t trust someone with his reputation.”
Allie didn’t respond. She knew there’d be plenty of people willing and eager to put Clay away based on such flimsy testimony. But she wasn’t one of them. She wanted the truth. And she was going to use everything she’d ever learned about solving cold cases to find it.
2
Clay took his time answering her knock. Allie knew he must have heard the siren when she pulled up, must have known that she and Beth Ann had been sitting in his driveway. And yet the only clue that he’d paid them any mind at all was the subtle movement of a curtain in the bedroom overlooking the front yard as she’d approached the house.
When he finally opened the door, he was dressed in a clean T-shirt, a pair of faded jeans that molded comfortably to his long legs, and work boots. If he was concerned or upset, he didn’t give himself away. But then, Clay Montgomery rarely revealed his emotions. He came across as brooding and uncommunicative, just like always.
Or maybe not always. According to the files, which included statements from everyone even remotely connected to Reverend Barker, Clay had once been a popular and fun-loving kid. Although Allie hadn’t become fully aware of his existence until the scandal broke, there were plenty of folks who remembered him from when he’d first come to town, right after the widowed reverend married Irene and moved her little family from neighboring Booneville to the farm. Those statements also said that Clay hadn’t changed into the very guarded person he was now until after his stepfather disappeared.
Which definitely left room for conjecture.
“What do you want?” he asked without preamble.
Allie had seen Clay around town once or twice since she’d been back, but he’d acted as if she didn’t exist. Not that she’d expected him to take special notice of her. Only five foot three and barely a hundred and five pounds, she had a small, compact body—a tomboy’s body—with dark hair that she’d recently cut into a very short style and brown eyes.
Being athletic was a plus. But she had rather small breasts and wore a badge. She couldn’t imagine that was a lot to recommend her to a man like Clay Montgomery, who socialized with bombshells like Beth Ann and hated the police with a passion. Even minus the uniform, she doubted she’d ever turn his head. Despite his dubious past, he could have almost any woman he wanted. He possessed more sex appeal than a man had a right to. And he had a reputation for remaining just a hairbreadth out of reach.
For many, the challenge proved irresistible. But Allie knew better than to let anything about him appeal to her. Maybe other women liked moody men, but she’d already made the mistake of getting involved with one.
Still, she couldn’t help admiring the thick black hair that fell across Clay’s forehead, the nose that was, perhaps, a touch too wide, the prominent jaw. Every feature was intensely masculine, except his eyes. Fringed with the longest lashes she’d ever seen, they held a world of secrets. And, possibly, pain.
“I have a woman in the car who claims you assaulted her,” she said.
His gaze slid to the cruiser but he said nothing.
“You don’t have a response to that?”
The forbidding expression on his face made Allie realize why most people chose to leave him alone. Beyond his impressive height and massive shoulders, he could shrivel a person with one glance. “Does she look like I assaulted her?”
“Tough to tell in the dark.”
“Then let me help you out—she’s lying.”
“So what are you saying? You didn’t touch her?”
Although she knew he wasn’t doing it on purpose, his muscles bulged conspicuously as he folded his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “Is that a trick question, Officer?”
“Excuse me?”
He lifted one shoulder in a careless motion. “Sure, I touched her—in all the places she wanted me to touch her. We weren’t playing checkers. But I didn’t hurt her.”
