“No, please God, no,” whispered Megan. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand.
“Hang on,” Kate said. “Take a deep breath.”
A tear slipped down Megan’s cheek. “Keep going. I’m listening.”
“Holt is lying,” I said. “Sylvia would never have had the strength to drag James’s body and lift him. The force that it must have taken to kill your father pegs Holt as the killer. But he let Sylvia believe the first blow killed him. He used that lie to control her.”
“This can’t be the Holt I know,” said Travis, shaking his head. “He had an ego, sure, but he was my friend. And a smart guy. Why would he kill Megan’s father?”
“He was flat broke,” said Quinn. “Had a hundred grand in credit card debt. My guess is, he saw an opportunity to have Sylvia in his hip pocket forever and use her to get control of the company. All his money problems would go away.”
“And Graham?” Travis asked, sounding disgusted. “Did Holt kill him, too?”
Quinn said, “Holt admitted he was in the hotel room when Graham fell, but swears up and down it was an accident.” She looked at me. “We may never prove any different, you know.”
“But he had a huge motive to murder Graham,” I said. “Graham invited Laura Montgomery to make an appearance at the wedding. He knew everything about James’s relationship to her and figured that Sylvia would not want Megan to find out. Graham may have even decided Sylvia killed James and was hoping to cash in. But when Holt rather than Sylvia showed up, Graham lost out big time.
“Hold on,” Megan said. “So this Laura Montgomery had the affair with my father?” She faced Travis. “Did you know? Did you and Dad argue about her?”
His earlobes grew red, and if guilt had a name tonight, it was Travis Crane. “I am so sorry, Meg. I should have told you, but . . . I thought you already knew about her. I imagined all sorts of things when I should have just talked to you.”
“You didn’t trust me,” she said, her eyes on the floor. “But I didn’t trust you, either. I was sure you didn’t argue about money with my dad, even though that’s what you said. But I was too scared to confront you. I didn’t want to think that maybe Dad knew something about you that I didn’t. Some secret. Maybe an ex-wife or—”
“Megan,” Kate cut in. “The lies and the assumptions are over. Let Abby tell you what she found out.”
I looked at Quinn. “Where is she?”
“In the interrogation room.”
“Two-way glass?” I asked.
Quinn nodded.
“You coming with us, Kate?” I asked.
“Nope,” she answered. “You and Megan have taken this journey together. You should finish it the same way.”
So I was the one who took Megan’s cold, mottled hand in mine. Quinn led us to the observation room, let us in, and then left.
Through the smoky glass we saw Laura sitting at a small table, wearing a yellow jail jumpsuit. Her hand-cuffed hands were in front of her and she looked as tired as I felt.
“That’s the woman in the composite,” Megan said. “The woman you said was at the church. She’s Laura Montgomery?”
“Your birth mother made it to your wedding after all,” I said quietly.
“Oh my God,” whispered Megan.
She never took her eyes off her mother while I told her everything I’d learned when I went to Jamaica and after. After I finished, she pressed her nose against the glass and placed splayed palms on either side of her head.
She stared for a long moment, then turned back to me. “Can I talk to her?”
“I don’t know. I’ll see if the chief—”
The door opened and Quinn was there. She must have been listening the whole time. “I’ll take you to her,” she said to Megan.
After Quinn opened the door to the interrogation room, she left Megan with her mother and returned to me. We watched the scene unfold together.
Megan stood by the door and Laura rose slowly. Her cuffed hands hung loose in front of her and her shoulders slumped with the weight of regret and pain.
Megan’s chin quivered and tears fell down her pallid cheeks. Finally, she held out her arms.
They walked toward each other, and when they met, Laura lifted her tethered hands and held her daughter’s face. They stared into each other’s eyes, both of them crying and laughing at the same time. Then Megan put her arms around her mother and held fast.
It was like the best silent movie I’d ever seen.
Epilogue
It took several months for the powers that be to figure out what to do with Sylvia Beadford and Holt McNabb. When the DA finally decided, Jeff and I were in bed—naked, if you want the interesting details. He was asleep, as men tend to do after lovemaking, and I was watching the late news. According to the television reporter, neither McNabb nor Beadford would go to trial. They’d both plea-bargained for twenty to life, which meant they’d get out sooner than later.
Quinn had warned me that’s what would happen. Sylvia and Holt had been pointing the finger at each other since the moment they’d been caught. The he said-she said cases tended to end with less than enough jail time for both criminals. And they were criminals.
“Those two fell through a toilet hole and came out smelling like Chanel N°5,” I said, stabbing the remote to blacken the TV.
“Huh?” Jeff looked up at me through slitted eyes.
“Go back to sleep,” I said.
“Sure. Okay.” He turned on his side.
I switched off the bedside lamp and curled around Jeff’s warm body. I hoped Megan and Travis were cuddled up together, too. They’d bought a little house in Houston and seemed as happy as possums eating persimmons last time I saw them.
Laura Montgomery had fared better than Holt and Sylvia. She’d visited me last week with her brand-new electronic ankle bracelet, provided free of charge by the criminal justice system. She’d done only ninety days in jail, thanks to a compassionate judge who understood that Laura had already done about twenty years of hard time thinking that her child was dead.
She and I had talked for a long time, and she was able to finally answer a few questions that had been bugging me for months.
“When I, uh, visited your house,” I’d said as we shared coffee at my kitchen table, “I noticed you had a hefty bank account that seemed to disappear. If that was the embezzlement money, where did it go?”
“I gave it back to James. Once he found out I was pregnant with his child and that if I was convicted—as I surely would have been—I’d be having the baby in prison, we made a deal. He got me out of the country with a new identity, and when I was safely established, I gave him back his money.”
I rested my chin on my hands. “So that’s how his lawyer found you and got the midwife to steal Megan?”
“Yeah. James forgot to mention that part of his grand plan. That’s what you get for trusting the devil. Twenty years in hell.”
“Okay. Here’s another question,” I said. “How did you end up at the Beadford place the night Holt nearly made me walk the plank?”
“I had still been following Megan. It gave me such a thrill every glimpse I got of her, even though I knew it would have to end soon. Once I returned to Jamaica, I was certain I’d never see her again.”
“But Megan didn’t get home until well after the trouble went down, so you certainly didn’t follow her there.”
“You didn’t let me finish. I was out in the funeral home parking lot, waiting for the visitation to end so I could see my daughter. You left with Sylvia. And then not a second later Holt McNabb came out. Call it intuition, but he had this look on his face that was downright evil. I knew in my heart he meant you harm. And after meeting you, I could tell how much you cared for Megan. I had to help if I could.”
“And so you did.” I smiled.
“Not much. Anyway, the reason I came here was to thank you for all you did for Megan, for bringing us together. I don’t have much money, but since my sentence w
on’t allow me to return home to Jamaica, I was hoping you’d accept the profit from the sale of my house as a bonus to whatever Megan has paid you.”
“Absolutely not,” I said firmly. “But there is something you could do.”
“You name it.” She’d flashed a great smile, so very much like Megan’s. And since Laura knew I was no devil, she’d made another deal that morning.
I lifted my arm and pressed the light button on my watch. In about seven hours someone else would be smiling—a wide white smile complemented by shiny brown eyes.
Jug would be opening the overnight mail envelope I’d sent today, the one containing the legal documents and keys to his new house in Kingston.
And he knew exactly where to find the place.
Read on for a preview of
Leann Sweeney’s next Yellow Rose Mystery
Where There’s a Will
Coming from Signet in November 2005
If Daddy were alive and standing beside me tonight, he’d say we’ve got a “skunk down the well.” A situation. I leaned against the driver’s side door of my Camry to wait. Seems I wouldn’t be getting near the espresso bar to meet a witness in the case I was working. At least not now. Not with crime scene tape strung in front of the building and red, white, and blue police cruiser lights electrifying the night sky like a patriotic carnival.
Folks from the sports bar farther down in the strip mall had wandered out to see what was going on, too. Then a TV station news van pulled into the parking lot just as the faint mist dampening my hair and bare shoulders turned into a warm June drizzle.
Patches of fluorescent oil from departed cars slicked the blacktop separating me from Verna Mae Olsen, my witness. That’s assuming she was inside the coffee place and trapped by whatever event brought the police here. Someone on a caffeine high went postal, maybe? Those five dollar coffees are strong enough to float a wrench, so it wouldn’t surprise me. I sure hoped it wasn’t anything more serious than that.
I’d interviewed Verna Mae several days ago in Bottlebrush—a town about an hour from here and as different from Houston as a toy poodle is from a wolf. My newest client, Will Knight, hired me to do what the police couldn’t accomplish nineteen years ago—learn who had abandoned him on Verna Mae’s doorstep. He and his adoptive parents wanted information about his birth family, and since I’m a PI who specializes in adoption issues, I took Will’s case.
Verna Mae Olsen seemed the logical starting point and I thought I’d heard all she had to tell the other day, but she surprised me by calling tonight. So I invited her to my house in the West University section of the city, but she insisted we meet here. Why, I don’t know, but I agreed.
Hey, I thought, I could call her. If she was inside the coffee place or sitting in her car watching like I was, I’d feel a whole lot better if I heard her voice. So I opened the car door, reached across the seat for my phone, and dug in my shorts pocket for her number. When I punched in the digits, it only rang once.
“Why are you calling this phone?” said a familiar male voice.
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. It was Jeff. Sergeant Jeff Kline of Houston PD Homicide. My Jeff. The guy I love. He must have read my caller ID.
“Talk to me, Abby,” he said.
“You have her phone,” I said. “Th-that’s not good.”
“Whose phone?”
“Verna Mae Olsen. A witness I was supposed to meet. From what I’m seeing in this parking lot, I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Not far. If you’re inside the coffee shop, look out the window and you’ll see me.”
“I’ll do better than that.”
The line went dead and a second later he pushed open the glass door, ducked under the crime scene tape and strode in my direction. He held something in one latex-gloved hand and the badge clipped to his belt glinted in the halogen lights that had been set up to better illuminate the lot and storefront.
My heart was hammering now. Jeff’s presence plus his possession of that phone equaled more than skunk trouble. By the time he reached me, my mouth was so dry I wasn’t sure I had enough spit to talk.
Jeff wore his cop face—tired and all business. He held up a small black cell phone enclosed in a baggie. “Who is this Olsen woman?”
“I . . . I interviewed her for a case a couple days ago and she asked me to meet her here.”
“You can ID her?” he said.
“ID her? You mean . . .”
“I need you to look at a body,” he said, his voice tinged with genuine regret.
“Oh no. What happened, Jeff?”
“I’m guessing a robbery that got out of hand. Guessing. That could change.” He gestured for me to follow and led me toward the coffee bar—a place called The Last Drop. As we walked, he put the cell phone in his pants pocket, removed his gloves, and balled them up. Those went in his other pocket.
The rain had picked up by the time we passed the crew of cops on the sidewalk outside the shop. Several nodded at me in greeting. I’d met them when Jeff and I visited one of Houston PD’s favorite watering holes together. Latrell, his new partner, was talking to a tall young woman with spiked hair, low riding capris, and a nose ring. Latrell looked my way and said, “Hey, Abby. What’s up?” like it was no big deal I’d show up at a crime scene.
We did not enter The Last Drop as I expected. Instead, Jeff led me around the building to a wide back alley that ran behind the shopping center for delivery truck access. More halogens had been set up and jump-suited crime scene workers were canvassing the area around the back door of the coffee house. On the other side of the alley a huge grassy ditch for flood water collection was illuminated, too. Down in that ditch I saw a heavyset figure kneeling beside a dark mound I assumed was the body.
Telling me to follow exactly behind him so as not to disturb any uncollected evidence, Jeff walked carefully down the bank taking a path where the grass had already been flattened by footsteps.
“How could you find anyone back here?” I asked.
“Pure luck. Guy tied up his dog outside the coffee joint while he went inside. Black lab with a helluva nose. Dog got loose and here we are.”
The crouching woman wore a blue oxford shirt, the fabric on her shoulders darkened by rain. As we drew closer, all I could see were the victim’s feet. The once white Tommy Hilfiger sneakers were stained brown. Those feet looked to be a size five or six, certainly small enough to belong to Verna Mae, who couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. The day we met, it struck me how diminutive she seemed in contrast to my client. The guy checks in at six-foot-ten. Will’s a college basketball player and he went with me to Bottlebrush to meet with Verna Mae.
The stocky woman stood and turned with a fluidity that belied her size. She had a chubby face, stringy gray hair and held her gloved hands up like she was ready to do surgery. “What do you want, Sergeant?” she asked, not acknowledging my presence.
Her gruff manner made my neck muscles tighten.
“Dr. Post, this is Abby Rose. She can possibly ID the victim,” said Jeff.
The woman smiled at me. Her teeth were yellowed and her eyes were sharp with interest. She refocused on Jeff. “You found family without having any ID? You have skills I didn’t know you possessed, Sergeant.”
“She’s not family,” he answered.
“Oh.” The detached, cold expression returned. “Well then, have a gander. I’ve cleaned off her face.” She waved a hand at the body.
The dead woman had what looked like fire ant mounds all over her, but the smell told the truth. They were coffee grounds. Gheesh.
I recognized Verna Mae, mostly because of her distinctive gray eyes. They were glassy and wide now, and her face looked like she’d been hammered with a meat mallet. Her broken nose lay against one bruised and swollen cheek and her bottom lip was split. Blood covered her teeth and chin.
I stepped back. Tried to swallow the hot, sour Diet Co
ke that rocketed into my mouth.
Jeff grabbed my elbow and pulled me back from the body. Good thing, because I bent over and vomited everything but my toenails.
He rested a hand on my back as I rid myself of the last ounce of bile, then he put his mouth to my ear and whispered, “You okay?”
I nodded, wiped my lips with the back of my hand.
When I was upright again, Jeff said, “If you’re not able to continue, Ms. Rose, we understand.” This formal attitude was apparently for the benefit of the doctor, who was again kneeling by the body.
I made myself take another good look, willing my stomach to behave. “That’s her. Verna Mae Olsen.”
Dr. Post looked over her shoulder at me. From her expression, puking identifiers were obviously a pain in the ass. She dug into the pile of coffee grounds and lifted one of the dead woman’s bruised arms. The wet coffee clung to Verna Mae’s skin like dirt. “No rigor or lividity. This corpse is fresher than the grounds the killer or killers dumped on top of her. Why do you think they did that, Sergeant?”
“I can’t speculate,” Jeff said.
“Made a helluva mess,” she muttered. “Murderer probably has the stuff all over his shoes.”
“That’s been noted,” Jeff said.
“Glad you’re on your toes, Sergeant, but could you take your witness somewhere else now? I’ve called the van to remove the body and she’ll be in the way. And get one of your police friends to clean up her vomit. I don’t want me or my people to step in it.”
“I’m really sorry about getting sick,” I told Jeff as he guided me back up the incline and across the alley.
His response was to use the walkie talkie feature on his phone. “Hey Rick. Jeff here. There’s vomit by the body.”
A Wedding to Die For Page 25
