by Blake Pierce
Riley and Bill went inside. The interior had an old-fashioned look with wooden counters and walls. There were lots of flowers sitting around, with posters advertising various arrangements. There were also a couple of framed photographs of the shop from many years ago—one of the exterior and the other taken in this same room.
Riley could see that the owner had gone to some pains to keep the shop looking much as it always had. Little had changed, except that the arrangements on the counters were all artificial flowers. The live blooms were now stored in a glass-door cooler that took up most of one wall.
A smiling young woman approached Bill and Riley. She told them her name was Loretta and asked if she could help them.
Bill and Riley took out their badges and introduced themselves.
Riley said, “We’re investigating three murders that took place in this area twenty-five years ago.”
Loretta looked puzzled.
“I’m afraid that was before my time,” she said.
A kindly looking elderly woman stepped out of a back room.
“Why, does this have something to do with what happened to Tilda Steen?” she asked.
When Riley said yes, the woman introduced herself.
“I’m Gloria Corley, and this store has been in my family for years. I remember that awful murder like it was yesterday. Poor Tilda, she was so trusting of everyone. Of course, growing up in a town like this, why wouldn’t she be? And there were two other victims too, weren’t there? One over in Brinkley, and another in Denison. So terrible.”
A worried look crossed Gloria’s face.
“But has there been another murder? After all this time, I can’t imagine.”
“No,” Riley said. “We’re reopening it as a cold case.”
Gloria looked a bit puzzled. Riley could understand why. After twenty-five years, reopening the case must seem to her like a strange thing to do. And the truth was, Riley knew that it was rather strange. Nothing about the case itself had actually changed, after all. No new evidence had come to light.
So how could Riley explain why the case was being reopened—to this woman or to anybody else?
Because I had a nightmare?
That would sound absurd.
Riley found it strange to realize that she couldn’t think of a rational reason. That made her feel all the more grateful to Meredith for allowing her to proceed with it.
Bill took the flower arrangement out of the bag and showed it to both women.
“We’re wondering if this bouquet might have come from your store,” he said.
Gloria put on a pair of glasses that she had hanging around her neck and peered closely at the flowers.
“It’s a pretty ordinary arrangement,” she said. “Wasn’t there a sticker or a card on it?”
“No,” Bill said.
“Where did you find it?” Gloria asked.
“On Tilda’s grave,” Riley said.
The woman’s eyes widened. Riley could see that she understood that whoever had left flowers at the grave was possibly the killer.
Loretta, too, examined the flowers.
“We’ve only sold one that was anything like this in the past week or two,” she said.
Riley pulled up the aged composite sketch on her tablet and showed it to Loretta.
“The buyer might have looked like this,” she said.
Loretta shrugged.
“I’m afraid I’m not very observant,” she said. “And I didn’t think it was important to really look—not at the time.”
She squinted, trying to remember.
“I do remember him wearing a nice overcoat,” she said. “And a hat. A fedora, maybe.”
Riley’s attention quickened as she remembered—the cemetery guard had said the man wore a broad-rimmed hat.
“Did anything else strike you about him?” Bill asked.
“He was tall, I think. Yes, I remember looking up at him.”
Riley and Bill glanced at each other.
“How did he pay for the flowers?” Bill asked.
“With a credit card, I think,” Loretta said. “I’ll go check.”
Riley and Bill followed Loretta over to the front counter. She clicked through her computer records.
She nodded when she found what she was looking for.
“Yes, I think this was him,” she said. “He was here the day before yesterday. His name is Lemuel Cort.”
“Do you have an address for him?” Bill asked.
“Sorry, I don’t.”
Riley and Bill thanked both women and left the store.
“We’ve got a name!” Riley said.
“And Lemuel Cort’s a pretty distinctive name,” Bill added. “If it’s his real name, it shouldn’t be too hard to track him down.”
Riley agreed. She took out her cell phone and called Sam Flores at the BAU.
“Sam, we might have a suspect,” she told the technician. “His name is Lemuel Cort, and we’re hoping he lives in the area where the Matchbook Killings took place.”
“I’ll check,” Sam said.
Riley could hear Sam’s fingers dancing on his keyboard.
“He sure does,” Sam said. “He lives in Glidden.”
Riley remembered seeing signs on the road pointing to Glidden. She felt pretty sure it was close by.
“Can you check and see if he’s got any kind of criminal record?” she asked.
“Already done,” Flores said. “Yeah, he did some jail time for domestic violence. That was ten years ago.”
Riley felt a tingle of excitement.
“Thanks, Sam,” she said. “Send me whatever you can find on him, OK?”
“I’ll do that.”
Riley ended the call just as she and Bill got back to the car.
Bill said, “Sounds like we might have a suspect.”
“Could be,” Riley said. “Let’s go.”
Bill started the car, and Riley started giving him directions to Glidden.
She felt a tingle of anticipation. Maybe they were actually getting somewhere with this old case.
CHAPTER TEN
During the drive to Glidden, Riley pored over her tablet looking at materials that Sam Flores sent along. Many of them were articles from the local newspaper.
“What have we got?” Bill said as he drove.
“It looks like Lemuel Cort is a pretty prominent citizen,” Riley said. “He owns the local lumberyard, belongs to the local Rotary Club, and is very active in public service. He’s got a couple of grown children, but he’s been divorced for years. Soon after his stint in jail, his wife Janet left him.”
Bill looked intrigued.
“Sounds like maybe we should try talking to his ex-wife,” he said.
Riley kept perusing the information on her tablet.
“I wish we could,” she said. “But she left town, and Flores can’t seem to find any record of where she wound up.”
Some of the articles had pictures of Lemuel Cort. He was always presented as smiling, handsome, and elegant.
Riley tried to determine whether he resembled the composite sketch. She couldn’t be sure one way or the other. In any case, he didn’t look unlike the drawing.
Riley finished reading the materials and looked up to see that they were driving past upscale farms and horse properties. When they entered Glidden, Riley saw that the town was definitely higher class than Greybull. It was a suburban neighborhood with large lots and impressive homes. Checking it out on her tablet, she could see that many of the homes included elaborate gardens and swimming pools.
They arrived at the address and parked in the driveway. It was a good-sized brick house that overlooked a golf course. They walked among exquisitely groomed hedges to the front door and rang the doorbell.
They were quickly greeted by a tall, smiling, stylishly dressed man.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“Are you Lemuel Cort?” Riley asked.
“I am,” he replied in a voice that sou
nded almost too smooth to be pleasant.
Riley and Bill got out their badges and introduced themselves.
Bill showed him the flower arrangement and said, “We’d like to know if you’re the person who bought these.”
Lemuel Cort tilted his head curiously.
“No,” he said. “But this is odd … where did they come from?”
“Possibly from Corley Flowers in Greybull, Mr. Cort,” Riley said. “Two days ago.”
He smiled with mild surprise.
“Good Lord,” he said quietly. “This is very odd.”
Riley studied his face carefully. Was this the man portrayed in the composite sketch? Riley still couldn’t be sure either way.
“But where are my manners?” the man said. “Do come in. And please—call me Lemuel.”
He led them through the entry hallway into a light and airy dining area with a chandelier hanging above a well-polished table. Sitting on the table was a bouquet of flowers that looked very much like the ones Bill was holding, except that it also had a bit of greenery.
Lemuel gestured toward the flowers.
“As a matter of fact, I did buy these in Greybull the day before yesterday. Do sit down. I’d love to know why you’ve come here asking about them.”
Riley wasn’t sure what to think. Did the flowers prove that he wasn’t their suspect? There remained a possibility that he’d bought the extra bouquet as a ruse for just this sort of situation.
Riley and Bill sat down at the table. From the moment she’d set eyes on him, Cort had somehow rubbed her the wrong way. Now she was starting to understand why.
He’s a regular Southern gentleman, she realized.
Everything about his bearing and demeanor was perfectly studied and rehearsed. His accent was as flawlessly tailored as his suit, which was obviously expensive but also slightly out of date. His bow tie gave him an air of calculated but likeable eccentricity.
He was charm personified. But his charm didn’t work on Riley. She knew his type too well—not so much from DC and Fredericksburg, but from her younger days in less populated parts of Virginia. Every well-to-do town had at least one gentleman like him. All her life, Riley had found their pretensions to be quite annoying—as well as their obsession with small talk. Riley knew that Lemuel would want to chat aimlessly before getting down to serious business.
He opened up a cabinet and took out a bottle of whiskey.
“Would you care for a sip of bourbon?” he said. “Blanton Single Barrel—my personal favorite these days.” He winked slyly. “But I can still be tempted by a spot of Kentucky Tavern now and again.”
“No, thank you,” Riley said.
He poured himself a glass and said, “But of course not. You’re on duty after all. Some coffee or tea, perhaps?”
“We’re good,” Bill said.
Lemuel sat down and swished the whiskey around in his glass and sniffed it.
“You’re from the FBI, you say? What division?”
“The BAU,” Riley said.
Lemuel’s eyebrows lifted.
“My goodness! Aren’t you the folks who specialize in profiling? That must be fascinating work.”
He leaned forward with an air of mock drama.
“But tell me. Are you here to investigate a murder?”
“As a matter of fact, we are,” Bill said.
Lemuel drew back a little in a posture of slight surprise. Riley wondered—was the surprise feigned or real? She couldn’t see through his veneer of refinement.
Before he could speak, Riley heard approaching footsteps.
A voice called out, “Darling, do we have company?”
A woman stepped into the dining room. She was well dressed and not much younger than Lemuel Cort. Like him, she projected an air of elegance and Southern gentility.
Lemuel rose from his chair, and so did Bill. Riley was silently amused. She understood that Bill was hastily adapting his manners to the present circumstances. After all, according to the anachronistic customs of the household, a gentleman must always stand when a lady entered the room.
“May I introduce you to my lovely wife, Thea?”
Thea lowered her head shyly. Riley suspected that there was a blush behind her layers of makeup.
She said, “I’m still getting used to him calling me that.”
Lemuel chuckled a little. He sat back down, and so did Bill.
“We’re newlyweds, you see. Just coming up on our one-month anniversary. Thea, these are Agents Jeffreys and Paige from the FBI—the BAU, to be exact.”
Thea sat close to Riley and said, “Oh, my! This sounds quite serious! But would you care for some tea or coffee?”
“I’ve already offered, dearest,” Lemuel said. “They courteously declined.”
“Well, then,” Thea said, folding her hands in her lap and smiling.
Riley sensed right away that Thea’s pretensions didn’t come as easily as they did to Lemuel. Even her accent was not as perfectly honed. She was new to this lifestyle and its affectations.
Lemuel took a small sip of whiskey and said, “My dearest, our guests seem to be here on rather unpleasant business. They say there’s been a murder.”
Thea gasped aloud.
Riley said, “Actually, there hasn’t been a murder, at least not recently. We’re reopening an old case. Are either of you familiar with the so-called Matchbook Killings?”
“I’m afraid not,” Thea said.
“My wife is new to the vicinity, you see,” Lemuel said. “She arrived in town to start teaching in the elementary school just this year.”
Lemuel pursed his lips thoughtfully.
“The Matchbook Killings, you said? It does ring a bell. Yes, I think I do remember. Three young women were murdered in these parts, weren’t they? Such a pity. But wasn’t that an awfully long time ago? Why are you investigating now, after all these years? I would think that the case would be cold indeed.”
Neither Riley nor Bill said anything for a moment.
Riley’s instincts were telling her that something was very wrong here.
Perhaps Lemuel really was the murderer.
Riley looked carefully at the flowers.
Finally she said, “Tell me, Lemuel. Why did you go all the way to Greybull to buy these?”
Lemuel let out an abrupt, single-syllable chuckle.
“Well, it’s not so far, after all,” he said.
“But surely there are florists right here in Glidden. Besides, these flowers are perfectly ordinary—the kind you might find in a grocery store. Why drive out of your way to get them? It seems like a lot of trouble.”
He nodded toward Thea, still smiling.
“No trouble at all for my lovely wife.”
Riley sensed that something was about to become clear. She looked at Thea until something caught her eye.
“That’s a lovely ring, Thea,” Riley said. “May I see it?”
“Why, certainly.”
With a proud smile, the woman lifted her hand toward Riley. The engagement ring was simple but attractive, with a single tasteful diamond. But that wasn’t what Riley wanted to see.
Thea’s sleeve pulled back from her wrist, revealing something that had been only partly visible—a large, red bruise.
“How did this happen?” Riley asked.
The woman drew her hand back, looking more offended than alarmed.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Thea said.
“Nor do I,” Lemuel said.
Now Riley understood. Lemuel had physically abused her. Her clothing might well cover other bruises.
Riley knew that Lemuel had apologized, of course. Abusive husbands usually did—and he had more charm at his disposal than most. He’d also bought her these flowers as penance. But as concerned as he was about appearances, he’d bought the flowers in another town. It was easier than answering questions from some nosy local.
Her suspicions were now growing.
The so-call
ed gentleman who could do this to his wife was capable of anything.
Riley briefly wondered what to do next.
She decided to confront the situation directly.
“Tell me, Thea,” Riley said in a disarmingly pleasant tone. “Did you know that your husband did jail time for domestic violence some years back?”
“Now see here!” Lemuel said.
Thea’s eyes widened.
No, she doesn’t know, Riley realized.
After all, she’d only moved here recently. And in a town like this, dark secrets were jealously guarded—especially when they pertained to a fine, reputable gentleman like Lemuel Cort.
“I don’t know what you mean,” the woman said, her lips trembling. “And I don’t want to know.”
Lemuel rose from his chair.
“I’m afraid I must ask you both to leave,” he said.
Bill stood up also. Riley knew that they had no choice but to go. But she didn’t budge for a moment. She reached into her shirt pocket and took out a card with her BAU contact information.
“Contact me,” she said to Thea. “Whenever you’re ready.”
It was something Riley sometimes did when faced with abuse victims. She’d offered her help to several such women in the past—ranging from a prostitute brutalized by her pimp husband to the trophy wife of a heartless millionaire. Some had taken her up on her offer. Others hadn’t, at least not yet.
But Thea wouldn’t take the card.
And it wasn’t fear that Riley saw in her eyes.
It was simple indignation.
“Keep it,” the woman said in a tight, angry voice.
Riley was stunned. The woman’s righteous sense of propriety outweighed any fear she had of her husband. What could Riley do?
She felt Bill’s hand on her shoulder.
“Come on, we’ve got to go,” Bill said.
*
Bill could feel Riley’s anger as they walked down the hallway on the way out of the house. He knew from experience how strongly she reacted to this kind of situation.
When they stepped out the front door, Bill heard Lemuel’s voice behind him.
“You, sir …”
