Telling Tales

by Shiloh Walker

  “You’d like that,” Darci said. “Something else for you to give your lawyer to work on. I’m not saying another damn word to you.”

  Yep, he was trying not to laugh, she was sure of it, as the odd smothered cough came from Kellan again. Beth lifted her chin, trying to look arrogantly proud. “You think you’re going to get away with it,” she rasped. “It doesn’t matter what alibi you’ve come up with. You killed Carrie. You’re the only one who could have. You’re the only one who hates her.”

  Darci lifted her chin. “Bullshit. Not everybody in this town is blind. She had some people fooled, but there are other people who know exactly what she was.”

  Then she moved around Beth and headed on down the sidewalk.

  “How can you let her walk?” Beth demanded.

  “Because she’s got a damned good alibi. If it turns out she lied, I’ll pick her up. But that’s unlikely,” Kellan said, moving around her. “Now let me do my job, Ms. Morris.”

  “You’ve been fooled by that pretty face,” Beth snarled. “I’m not surprised. She’s got everybody wrapped around her finger.”

  Kellan compressed his lips together and continued on down the sidewalk, following in Darci’s footsteps.

  “See? See? You go following after her, right in front of me,” Beth shrieked.

  “No. I’m going to talk to Clive. He was her alibi. She spent the evening at his café,” Kellan said over his shoulder. “And I thought I’d follow this up with checking with damn near everybody in town, since three-fourths of the population seem to enjoy stopping by his shop for ice cream or coffee on a Friday night.”

  Kellan didn’t see when Beth whispered, “Clive?” or the way her lips tightened afterward.

  ***

  “Damn it,” Beth mumbled.

  “It had to have been her. It had to. Doesn’t make any sense. Nobody else would have wanted to do it,” she swore as she paced around and around her studio.

  Her gray hair was messy, oily from many restless passes of her hands. She had never allowed herself to look so unpresentable, but she hadn’t been prepared for the sudden knock on the door, and she had been too shaken by what had happened at the police station to go upstairs and try to make herself look as she felt she should.

  Her house, damn it. Her house. If she wanted to look a mess in her own home, that was her right.

  “It just doesn’t make any sense. I don’t rightly know why Clive would lie for her, but Darci is the only one who hated Carrie,” Beth said, turning and staring at her visitor, her eyes bright and burning with passion.

  “Well, I don’t exactly see that as being true.”

  Beth’s eyes widened as she saw the heavy glazed urn come crashing down, but she couldn’t move in time.

  ***

  “I guess I should thank him one more time,” Darci said quietly, casting a look across the street at Clive’s.

  “Not now. The Sheriff is about fifteen feet behind us and he needs to get his statement from Clive. Let’s let him get it. We can go across the street to the Ice Cream Shoppe. I want a cone-a double, I think-chocolate, with sprinkles. Then I want you to tell me about what happened yesterday when you went to see Carrie,” Britt said, hooking her arm through Darci’s and leading her across the narrow street.

  So, over cold, creamy vanilla-chocolate for Britt-Darci told her. “She pushed me. Too far. But I wouldn’t have done this,” Darci murmured, her eyes taking on a far-off look. “I might have decked her. But this…” she sighed and shook her head. Then she took a thoughtful lick of her ice cream. “Beth seemed pretty convinced.”

  “Beth is a woman who is so full of hatred, it’s easy for her to think that everybody around her hates as much as she does,” Britt said with a shrug.

  The bell chimed over the door and a woman with a group of kids came in. Two of them darted toward Darci and she smiled at them, stroking her hand over a towheaded boy, tugging on a red braid. Their mom came up, smiling hesitantly. “Hey, Darci. I heard about Ms. Forrest, glad to see you…well, you know.”

  Darci arched a brow. “Do I? Do I want to?”

  The mom-what was her name…Janna, Janna Harton-leaned over and murmured quietly, “Beth Morris was going around telling everybody you did it. She hadn’t even made it home before she was making calls and telling everybody.”

  Britt’s eyes flared. “That’s slander.”

  Darci’s lips flattened out and she glanced at the kids. Shaking her head minutely, she told them with her eyes, not now. Then she brightly said, “I had the best night last night. Spent it over at Clive’s. Went over there around five or so, and did nothing but eat biscotti and drink mochas and cappuccinos until he chased me out when he closed.”

  Janna’s brows rose and she nodded in understanding. “He’s got the best chocolate mochas,” she murmured.

  Her six-year-old twins, Macy and Alan, poked out their lips accordingly. “We can’t have them,” they wailed in unison.

  Macy said, “Mama says we’re hyper enough.”

  “We have to drink steamers,” Alan chimed in, his eyes big and pitiful.

  “If I remember correctly, hyper doesn’t cover it. Maniacal, overactive, bouncing bundles of supercharged energy just might work,” Darci said, smiling widely. “I can see why Mama said no mochas.”

  Macy rested her chin on the table and said, “Mama promised me ice cream, too.”

  Alan grinned. “Yours looks really good. Can I try a taste while Mama gets mine?”

  Darci took another lick. “Hmmm. It is really good,” she said. Then she winked at Alan. “Nope. No sharing.”

  Kellan had Clive’s statement, as well as three other customers who had stopped in today for a cup of coffee. They had also been in the mood for some caffeine last night, and recalled seeing that pretty art teacher, as one had called her, perched in the window, just reading away.

  “She’s a talented thing-taking pictures and teaching kids,” Clive had said. “I can’t help myself. I keep buyin’ stuff from her, even when I tell myself I’ve bought enough.”

  Clive had a number of framed photographs decorating his café, most of which Kellan had recognized as Darci’s work the moment they had appeared.

  He was halfway back to the station when he stopped, blew out a breath and scowled.

  If he went over there, it just might save him from having to deal with her later. Head it off at the pass, so to speak.

  But damn it.

  He really didn’t feel up to handling Beth yet.

  He turned and headed down Court Street, going left onto Main, then right onto Primrose. Beth’s house was a work of art, and she took great pride in that. She preened every time somebody asked to list it on the Christmas Home Tours, but she never let a soul she didn’t know inside. And there were very few of those.

  He knocked on the door, his eyes studying the woodwork and the molding that was probably over a century old.

  While he waited, he studied the woodwork on the door, slapping his hand against his thigh. A minute passed and he knocked again, but still no answer.

  He scowled, and glanced at the driveway. That damned pink car was in the driveway, so he knew she was home. Unlike more than half of the population living within the city limits, if Beth was going somewhere, even if it was two doors down, she drove. High gas prices be damned.

  If it was in the driveway, she was home.

  He turned the knob, and when it opened under his hand, a dread suspicion grew in his gut. He pulled the sidearm out, telling himself he was going to feel awfully stupid when he scared Beth Morris in the shower.

  Stupid and scarred for life.

  He was turning the corner into her kitchen when he smelled it. Rich, coppery death.

  Yeah, scarred for life.

  Every death left a scar. But violent death was worse.

  And two within two days…in his town.

  Something very wrong was going on.

  Very wrong.

  Beth lay on the floor, her head cr
ushed in. The weapon was most likely the heavy glazed urn that was lying on the thick, pile carpet under his feet. Kneeling, he touched his fingers to her throat.

  Her body was just now starting to cool.

  Her murderer had gotten away no more than an hour ago.

  “What in the holy hell is going on?” he murmured.

  Then he stood and reached for the radio at his belt.

  Chapter Three

  Well, at least this victim didn’t have such a good reason for Darci to want her dead. While Darci didn’t like Beth, Beth hadn’t made it her life’s mission to make Darci’s life hell.

  Kellan worked through the interview gently, aware that Darci was more than a little shell-shocked.

  Britt said quietly, “You know she didn’t do it, Kellan,” after Darci just sighed when Kellan went through the round of questions one more time. She rubbed soothing circles on Darci’s back, feeling the tension mounting as Darci breathed in and out in harsh, shaking motions. “Her time is alibied, most of it with you.”

  Kellan gave Brittany a narrow look. That didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had a murderer in his town, and he had to find the bastard.

  But yeah, he knew she didn’t do it.

  Didn’t change what he had to do, though. He sighed as he studied the river outside Darci’s window. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to hang around tonight,” he said to Brittany.

  He was planning on driving by a few times himself.

  Britt arched a brow and said, “Already taken care of, my friend. Why else would I be here this late?”

  Darci mumbled from the circle of her arms, “Would you two stop talking as though I’m not here? And I don’t need a babysitter.”

  The words sounded loud in the silence of the brightly lit kitchen. What was it about the midnight hour? When words were spoken at such a late time, it just made everything seem so much more vivid, so much louder.

  By the time he had finished at the crime scene, it had been after eleven. After taking care of notifying the family and dealing with the paperwork, he had started home.

  But then he’d turned, driving past Darci’s house and he had seen lights blazing, and Britt’s car. So he had stopped.

  Maybe it had been more to unravel this knot of worry in his gut, though. Not police business. Technically, he should have done this interview at the station, not in her house. She had given him permission to do it, as well as record it-although he suspected she really wasn’t too connected right now. She was in shock, plain and simple. The pupils of her eyes were dilated and she kept rocking back and forth, holding herself.

  He had been scared, coming here, worried he might find something he wasn’t ready to handle. He knew, deep in his gut, that these killings had something to do with Darci.

  Somehow.

  Once Darci had opened the door, and he had seen her weary, shell-shocked face, he had felt…better.

  Still battered, still enraged, but better.

  “Do you have any idea who would have done this?” he finally asked, pulling his glasses off and tucking them inside his jacket.

  Darci looked up at him, resting her cheek on her arm. “I don’t understand hatred, Sheriff. You’re probably asking the wrong person. Whoever did this had a lot of hatred. I think we kind of discussed that about Carrie. This takes more hatred than I’d give anybody.” She lifted a shoulder in a weak shrug. “I’m lazy. I don’t want to give anybody that kind of energy. I get angry fast, I’ve got a short fuse, but it burns itself out pretty quickly. Just don’t like to waste my time with it for too long. I just don’t understand hatred. It’s too…violent. Too dark.”

  “You don’t strike me as being somebody who’d be afraid of violence,” Kellan said, quirking a brow as he lifted a cup and sipped at his steaming coffee. He was remembering how she’d batted Beth’s hand away, that angry threat in her eyes, in her voice.

  “Just because I’ll use force to defend myself doesn’t mean I like violence,” Darci said, resting her chin on her hands, staring straight ahead. “And understanding hatred and not being afraid of violence are too different things.”

  “Point taken,” he said, inclining his head. “So you’ve never hated anybody? An old boyfriend? Ex-husband? The cheerleader in school who stole everybody’s guy?”

  A tiny smile tugged at her lips. “No. I don’t think I’ve ever expended the energy to hate. I might hold grudges, and I hold them well. But old boyfriends weren’t worth the time, otherwise, they’d not be old boyfriends. They’d still be in the present. And there are no ex-husbands. As to the cheerleaders, well, I was one, but I didn’t need to steal boyfriends.”

  He grinned. “I bet they probably flocked to your door,” he said, a grin cocking up the corners of his mouth.

  She shook her head. “No. I was the tomboy cheerleader. Boys weren’t worth my time back then,” she said. “So there was no reason to hate the cheerleaders who did steal the boys.”

  “Okay. So you don’t have a clue who might have done this,” Kellan said, blowing out a sigh. “Maybe there’s a lady who believes some of the rumors that she’s heard about you. Thinks you might have been sleeping with a man she’s involved with.”

  “So she kills two women just to try to get me in trouble? It would make more sense if she just came after me.”

  “Murderers don’t always understand logic,” Kellan said, shrugging. “I’m just trying to understand why I have two women dead-and one of them is somebody who has a history of causing you a lot of grief.”

  Darci shot Britt a look. Britt shrugged, her lips pursed.

  Spreading her hands wide, Darci said, “I just don’t know… I just don’t know,” she repeated, closing her eyes and burying her face in her hands.

  She was so tired.

  Achingly tired.

  But she couldn’t sleep.

  Rolling onto her side, she stared through the floor to ceiling windows just inches away from her bed. The river was no more than a hundred yards away-usually watching it roll by made her feel a little more peaceful than she felt now.

  There was no peace inside her tonight.

  What was going on?

  Darci closed her burning eyes.

  There were no answers in the river. No answers inside her throbbing head either.

  Two women dead.

  And her last words spoken to both of them had been in anger.

  It was with a heavy heart that she finally fell asleep, hours later.

  ***

  Restlessness plagued the small town of Vevey, Indiana over the following weeks.

  Carrie was laid to rest, and then Beth, two days later. Carrie’s house was sitting empty, but already people from the State Registry were in town making noises about trying to get Beth’s house.

  Darci couldn’t quite believe it. The lady hadn’t even been resting a week when the first call came, from what she could tell.

  Now they had people in town, all but ambushing anybody who so much as walked by. But Kellan had finally put a stop to it when he strode up to the small group of people who had practically camped in front of it. Britt had gone into great detail about it, her eyes sparkling with laughter.

  “Well, sir, you see, we’re from the Historical Society and this house is of great interest to us-”

  Kellan had cut off the pompous, florid-faced geek of a man who’d spoken with a thick Southern drawl. Darci had dealt with that man when he had come into the gallery and she had wondered if maybe some people took historical reenactments just a little too much to heart.

  From what Britt had repeated, Kellan had interrupted him by saying, “It’s of more importance to me. A lady was murdered there and until I’ve decided I’m done with it, nobody can do a thing with it anyway. Now stop badgering everybody who lives here before I get annoyed. Do any of you have homes? Jobs? You’ve been here nearly two weeks, almost around the clock and the house isn’t even for sale.”

  “Now see here-”

  Kellan had lifted
a straight auburn brow, and Britt’s imitation of him had Darci giggling. Britt said, “The guy shut the hell up. They cleared off the street although they passed out their cards and some of them offered money to the neighbors to contact them if so much as a For Sale sign went up.”

  Darci scowled. “Hell, I’m tempted to buy the house to keep those idiots from getting it,” she said. “He came into the gallery. I don’t think I’ve ever met a bigger idiot in my life.”

  “Well, I have,” Britt murmured, her eyes rolling. “He’s on his way in here.” She ducked behind the counter and slid into the back room as the door opened. Bryce Bishop came in, his dark eyes roaming over Darci’s face as he handed over a handful of mail.

  “This came to Dark Destinies instead of here,” Bryce said, dumping the pile on the counter, missing Darci’s outstretched hand like he hadn’t even seen it. “You all getting back in the swing of things?”

  Darci lifted a brow. “We never got out.” Raising her voice, she called out, “Becka!”

  Bryce looked toward the beaded curtain that hung over the door to the private part of the gallery, a small smirk on his mouth. “Oh, yeah. Guess y’all didn’t see much point taking time off to mourn some old friends.”

  Darci coolly said, “If they had been friends, that would have been different. Lives violently lost will always be mourned. But prostrating myself on the sidewalk doesn’t change anything.”

  One of the more vocal ladies who had art displayed at Dark Destinies had done just that-dropped to the ground wailing, tears running down her face as she screamed and lamented as Carrie’s casket was carried out. Her miniskirt had revealed her lace thong to everybody around.

  And she’d repeated the performance the next day.

  Bryce snickered. “No. That’s true. Although I wouldn’t mind seeing you flash some skin,” he said, his eyes dropping and lingering on her neckline.

  Becka came through the curtain, followed by Brittney, and when she saw Bryce, her mouth twisted down in a frown. Ignoring him, she looked at Darci, impatience in her eyes. “What?”