Nicole gathered up her purse and headed out to her car by the garage. She opened the driver’s-side door and a stench assaulted her. She backed away with her hand over her mouth and nose. Had a skunk invaded her vehicle? No, the smell was different. Nothing appeared wrong in the front seat. She peered through the window into the back. A garbage bag sat on the floor between the passenger seat and the rear of the driver’s seat.
How did that get in there? Hadn’t she locked her car door when she returned from the Elling home the night the garbage bag went missing? She searched her memory and came up blank. She’d been upset about finding those bones and the weirdness at the Elling place. Maybe she didn’t lock up, and whoever moved the garbage bag between the time Grandma put it out and Nicole came looking had stuffed it in her car. Then the next day when she drove to the shop and back with the police, the bag hadn’t been in there long enough to ferment whatever was inside. Nor had she looked into the back that morning. She hadn’t driven the car since.
Who had moved the garbage bag? And why?
Her grandmother seemed to have believed the garbage bag had been collected by the city truck. Obviously, someone else hadn’t wanted that to happen. Or was this just a prank? It would be less threatening to believe the bag got into her car as a product of idle meanness, but she couldn’t convince herself the incident was so simple. The bag had been placed in her car on purpose, and she was meant to find it. Her breaths came shallow and rapid. She should report this find to the police—to Rich—and let them handle the potential evidence. But she couldn’t. Not yet. She had to know what was inside before they did.
Nicole hustled into the house and returned with the garage key. Inside the garage, she donned a pair of gardening gloves then retrieved the garbage bag from her car, leaving the door open to air out the vehicle. She spread old newspapers over a bare spot on the cement floor. Poised to dump the contents of the bag onto the newspapers, she hesitated, heartsick.
Did this sack of refuse contain evidence that stunk worse than the rotten garbage?
Rich came wide awake around the 1:00 p.m. hour. How did the regular night-shift guys do it? Sleeping during the day was a hopeless proposition for him. He got up, shaved and showered, and called the office for an update on open cases, even though it was his day off.
Terry was in and reported on results from the MBCA office on fingerprints, though nothing had come in on DNA yet. That sort of thing took a lot longer than the TV shows made it look like. Prints on the bat came back primarily to Jan Keller. A few degraded ones were from her son, Nicole’s father, and some other old ones came from an unknown donor. Rich speculated out loud that they were from Frank, Nicole’s grandfather, and Terry grunted agreement. No other fresh prints were found, and the bat showed no signs of having been wiped down.
“Which means whoever attacked Jan Keller must have been wearing gloves,” Terry concluded.
“What about prints on the bag that contained the infant’s remains?” Rich asked.
Paper rustled in the background. “Now, here’s where it gets interesting. Two sets of prints on the bag. Judging by size, the smaller are likely from a female or possibly an adolescent.”
“No match to Jan?”
“Negative. But the larger set of prints, likely male, are a match to the unidentified prints on the bat.”
“Frank Keller.” Dread clutched Rich’s chest.
“Strong probability. Sorry, Chief. I know you were hoping none of the Kellers were involved.”
The guy sounded genuinely sympathetic, which was a surprise. But then, he seemed to have his eye on Nicole, too, and wouldn’t want to get on her bad side, either. Rich suppressed a rush of jealous protectiveness.
“We still have no one to question, much less arrest,” he clipped out.
Until and unless Jan woke up. He didn’t verbalize that thought. Even though there was no physical evidence connecting Jan to the buried infant, her behavior following the discovery suggested she knew something. Provided she retained her mental faculties, would she be more or less apt to come clean after the attack in the attic?
“Anything else on the fire or this morning’s incident?” Rich went on.
Terry made a game show buzzer sound. “Derek didn’t find any prints on the bottle used for the Molotov last night. It was clean, and the same type as the one from the sewing shop.”
“Sun Drop?” The brand of soft drink was manufactured by a local bottling company and regionally distributed, mostly in cans, but some folks paid extra for the nostalgic bottles. “That narrows our suspects to anyone in west central Minnesota.”
“Maybe not. I hunted pretty hard for Ralph Reinert this morning, and he seems to have skipped the area. He didn’t show up for work this morning, and his car is gone. None of his usual cronies knows where he is.”
“He’s definitely a person of interest. Did you put out an APB on his vehicle?”
Terry snorted. “I didn’t enroll in the police academy last week.”
Rich chuckled. “I had to ask.”
“Right.”
“In your canvas of Reinert’s known associates, did you talk to Mason Elling?”
“Nope. The Elling kid seems to be laying low, too, not haunting his usual watering holes.”
“Maybe he’s got a reason to stay home and out of sight.”
“I could pay a visit to the mansion on the hill.”
“Leave it. You’ve got enough on your plate. I’ll track the kid down tomorrow when I’m back on duty.” While he was at it, he’d see if he could finally corner Fern for an interview. The woman hadn’t called him back since his last attempt to see her. Not that he was surprised.
Rich ended the call to the office and then wandered around his lonely house. There were household projects he could tackle, but he didn’t have the heart for them. His whole being was occupied with this tangled mess of cases that seemed to somehow be connected…and the tether led straight to the Kellers.
Nicole, the innocent party, had been stuck with enormous issues, not to mention a massive household cleanup project. That part was his fault. Rich checked his watch—2:00 p.m. Maybe she’d welcome a helping hand at straightening up the place. The Keller residence was a focal point of this cold case gone sizzling. It couldn’t hurt to spend more time there. He picked up his phone and punched in her cell number. That way, if she was out and about, he’d still catch her.
The phone rang and rang. Just when he thought the call would go to voice mail, she answered.
“H-Hello? Rich? Is that you?”
“Your caller ID is correct. Did I interrupt a well-deserved nap?” She sounded groggy. No, more like dazed and upset.
Nicole spluttered a laugh. “No, I wasn’t sleeping. Not with all I’ve got to do around here. I’m just…overwhelmed. Distracted. Whatever you want to call it.”
“How about I give you a hand? I’ve got the day off, and I’m bouncing around my empty house like a pinball.”
“I don’t know, Rich. You don’t have to feel like you should—”
“Are you telling me you couldn’t use another pair of willing hands?”
The connection went silent long enough for him to wonder if she’d closed the call.
“Okay. I guess I could use the help.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Whistling, Rich grabbed his keys and his wallet and climbed into his off-duty vehicle—a sports-model Ranger pickup. Nicole had sounded jittery, but she had plenty of reason to feel that way. And good cause to wonder if she should let him in that house, but he was glad she said yes. Too glad. His poor heart was running big risks, and a reckless part of him didn’t care one bit.
An unsmiling Nicole opened the front door to him. He followed her through the foyer into the living room. Most of the furniture remained out of place.
“I’ll put your muscle to work with that to start with.” She motioned toward the couch that stood kitty-corner in the middle of the room.
Rich moved tow
ard the piece of furniture. Nicole darted ahead of him and grabbed the far end. Together they put the couch back in its place then worked steadily to set the rest of the room to rights. She must really be skittish of him because she didn’t talk except to give directions and kept her distance.
“I’m done in Grandma’s bedroom and mine,” she said, “but not much else. How about you take the dining room, and I’ll tackle the kitchen.”
“Sounds like a plan.” What else could he do but let her be the boss?
Over the next few hours, they worked through the house, room by room. Nicole always made sure they weren’t in the same room. Accidentally or on purpose? Rich battled disappointment that she seemed determined to hold herself aloof. But wasn’t that a good thing? Hadn’t he determined a similar course of action where the attractive Nicole Mattson was concerned? Why couldn’t he convince his heart to chalk her up as a missed opportunity?
They finished the last rooms on the second floor and then met in the hallway. Nicole eyed the open doorway to the attic as if a monster might emerge from the stairwell at any time.
“We might as well get this over with.” She marched toward the attic.
Rich hurried after her. So that’s what had been bugging her. Of course! She’d have to face the spot her grandmother had lain bleeding. The stain would still be on the floorboards.
“Just a minute,” he called.
Oblivious, Nicole charged ahead and started up the stairs just as Rich reached the bottom. On the third step, she let out a sound like a half sigh, half sob and went limp. Her body collapsed backward. Exclaiming, Rich lifted his arms and caught her. The impact of her slight frame drove him a step backward.
Cradling her limp form, he lowered her to the floor. Nicole was out cold. Did she faint? Was she ill? Her skin was bleached white, not hot or flushed with fever. A rank smell wafted from her hair. Rich sniffed the sleeve of her shirt. Clean. But her skin smelled faintly of the same decay as her hair, like a Dumpster diver who’d had time to change clothes but not enough time to take a shower.
Was this telltale odor the real reason Nicole had put space between them? What had she been doing? Going through neighborhood garbage bins looking for that missing bag? Or maybe she found it and what she’d discovered inside had scared her silly. Rich’s pulse stalled. Would she really keep something like that from him? With a sick feeling, he knew the answer. Anyone in her situation might decide to protect the living over seeking justice for the dead.
What should he do with his suspicion? Confront her? No, that move would be counterproductive—not only to his case, but to their relationship. Maybe if he gave her some space to process whatever had so shocked her, she would come to him of her own free will. He’d wait. Not indefinitely, but for a little while.
Right now, he needed to see if he could wake Nicole from her faint. He patted her pale cheek.
“Wake up, honey.” The endearment slipped from his lips, and he didn’t want to call it back.
A slight groan met his efforts. Her eyelids fluttered and then popped open. “Wh-what happened?”
“I think you passed out.”
“Me? Pass out? I’ve never done such a thing in my life.” Nicole sat up under her own power, and a noise rumbled from her stomach. She put a hand to her middle.
“When was the last time you had something to eat?”
Nicole’s forehead puckered. “Um, I ate a tuna fish sandwich yesterday evening. I was going to go to the grocery store this morning, but—” Her gaze fell away from his. “Well, you know how crazy things have been.”
With an effort, Rich kept himself from erupting with a barrage of questions. She must have run into a big distraction—like the missing garbage bag. Then he called and insisted on coming over, and the rest was history.
Rich helped Nicole to her feet. “We’re going downstairs and order a pizza. Then you’re going to relax with your feet up and a cool beverage while I clean up that bad spot in the attic.”
“Oh, would you?”
He’d walk across the Sahara in a snowsuit to receive the adoration of those big brown eyes. If his chest expanded any more, he’d need a bigger shirt. He’d just better remember that if she was hiding something from him, they would be working on opposite sides of the law.
TWELVE
After they consumed the pizza and Rich left, Nicole meandered from room to room in the big old house. Now that the mess was tidied up, she was left with nothing on her plate but to stew over what she’d discovered in that garbage bag. And the fact that she hadn’t turned her find over to Rich.
That guy was amazing! So kind and thoughtful, funny and gentle. But a good cop, tough when he needed to be.
What was the matter with her? She couldn’t keep the information—sketchy as it was—away from the law. But she needed time to think about the cryptic remains of a torn letter she’d pieced together from the debris. Most of the flowery script had been soaked completely away in the meat grease contained in the garbage bag. What remained decipherable contained no “To” or “From” information. Maybe “sweet baby S” on one scrap wasn’t even talking about Samuel Elling. Maybe the letter had nothing to do with the kidnapping. Maybe the bones she’d found belonged to some other child.
Nicole plopped down at the kitchen table and rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers. Why bother playing these games of denial with herself? Of course the letter she found was connected to the remains under the rose garden. Why else would her grandmother be so bent on destroying it, and who else would “baby S” be than Samuel Elling? But accepting those deductions raised a crop of new questions.
Who sent the letter? A woman, judging by the handwriting, but there were no addresses on the ripped-up remains of the envelope—which meant it hadn’t passed through the mail—just the words Urgent! Please read right away! in the same ornate script as the letter. At least, Nicole could rule out her grandmother as the author. Grandma Jan’s handwriting was a sturdy block print. But was she the recipient of the letter? If not, then how did she get it and from whom? Grandpa Frank? If so, did he give it to his wife or did she find the haunting missive among his effects after his death? Nicole couldn’t imagine her steady, rather stodgy, grandfather receiving a clandestine note from another woman.
A disbelieving laugh started in Nicole’s throat then lodged there and became a lump. Impossible to imagine Grandpa burying an infant under his roses, but someone had. And Rich had noted that it was likely someone who cared about the child. Grandpa Frank loved children. She slammed fisted hands onto the table then pressed them against her eyes.
This whole situation was too much to handle by herself. If only she could unload on Rich. He’d understand. He’d say the right thing. He always did. But then he’d have to, to be a cop.
She lifted her head. Hadn’t she noticed that smug investigator look on his face when he returned from the attic? Nicole went rigid. Did he snoop in her room and find the letter? She charged up the stairs two at a time and strong-armed her mattress several inches up from the box spring. Breath gusted between her teeth. The greasy, taped together scraps remained in the plastic bag right where she’d left it.
Nicole let the mattress drop back into place. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t found the letter and read it. She sank onto the edge of the bed. No, if Rich had found this evidence, his duty as an officer would have compelled him to confiscate it.
Then why had he looked like a bloodhound on a scent when he came downstairs? She knew that look from her dad and her husband. Rich had found a new lead. In the attic? But what?
Nicole trotted up the steps and gazed around. Not only had Rich scrubbed away the stain on the floorboards, but he’d righted stacks of boxes and set the clutter into neat rows. The contents of the attic still needed a good sorting and weeding, but at least there were aisles to walk through the area. Her grandfather’s school memorabilia had also been put away in his old trunk. Grandma had taken Nicole through all those items shortly after Grandpa
died—a painful, precious celebration of a life well lived. Could there possibly have been something in there that pointed suspicion at Frank Keller?
Kneeling by the trunk, she opened the lid. A letter jacket lay folded neatly on top of the contents. Nicole removed it and began digging through the keepsakes. Grandpa’s parents had documented his life extensively. Some school papers from kindergarten were in here, yellowed and brittle. A set of three volumes caught her eye—Grandpa’s yearbooks. She dug them out. In the first one she looked at, Frank Keller’s picture was under the sophomore class. In the next one, she found him under the freshman class. The third volume was from his junior year.
Nicole rocked back on her heels. Where was Grandpa’s senior yearbook? There’s no way he collected one from every year of his high school life and neglected the most significant year of all. Did Rich take the book? Nicole shook her head. No, he’d come down the stairs with nothing in his hands but the cleaning bucket and supplies. He couldn’t have hidden a find any bigger than something he could tuck in his pocket.
Or maybe Rich had noticed the same thing she did—the senior yearbook was missing. That meant someone had taken it. Someone like the person who attacked her grandmother only a few feet from this trunk.
Prickles swarmed across Nicole’s skin. That book must contain information the attacker didn’t want known. Rich would have come to the same conclusion, and he’d be on the trail of a copy first thing tomorrow. Nicole needed to beat him to it. Whatever was hidden in that book, she wanted to know it first, if only to steel herself for whatever was to come regarding her grandparents’ involvement in that long-ago kidnapping. Maybe then she could make herself turn that letter over to Rich.
The next morning, Nicole met the excavation crew downtown at the remains of the shop. Holding reopening plans in the forefront of her mind, the heavy sense of loss began to give place to anticipation. Now, if only she could convince her grandmother to feel the same way. Please, God, let me have the opportunity to present the new business plan to an awake and aware woman. Even if they clashed over the idea, that alternative was far better than dealing with the possibility of brain damage or even death.
Jill Elizabeth Nelson Page 12
