Burying Daisy Doe
Page 26
I barely heard his hoarse response. “Ellis.”
“Right. There’s no Jessica Carter at Bryce.” I pulled a mug shot out of my purse. “Is this her?”
Mike took the picture as if it might be poisonous. He stared at it, then nodded once.
“That’s Jessica Carson. She’s been arrested a half dozen times for this same scam, although it’s usually for blackmail for money, not blackmail for leverage.”
He put his hands flat on the table, fingers spread. “I saw her. She was bruised. Bloody. Brutalized.”
“And she wouldn’t let you near her. She was terrified of you.”
The facts began to sink in. “But the blood test …”
“Oh, I’m fairly sure she was drunk. And some of the injuries were probably real. They had to make it look good for you and the doctors, and makeup only goes so far. But it was a setup between her and Ellis Patton. Some women will do anything for money. Shortly after the incident, Jessica Carson deposited fifteen thousand dollars into her savings account. My friend got a warrant for a trace on the cash, as a part of the ongoing investigation into Ellis Patton. They traced the money to an account in Dandridge’s name.”
Mike leaned back against his chair, and one hand scrubbed across his mouth. “So I don’t have to—”
“You don’t have to feel guilty that you ruined a young girl’s life just by being here, by being caught in Ellis Patton’s web. The story won’t follow you anywhere. The feds don’t need any additional charges against Ellis or they’d tack on this fraud. You can leave Pineville anytime you want to.”
“If I want to.” He glanced over my shoulder. I took a quick look, and a woman approached us with a slow saunter that could have come directly from a New York catwalk. Her tailored suit and designer bag had probably once been there as well. Her dark hair was secured in a French braid, and her makeup looked professionally applied.
“New girlfriend?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Hardly. Someone I want you to meet.” He stood up and greeted the woman with a handshake. I did the same as he introduced her. “Star, this is Jill Turney.”
Ms. Turney may have earned her looks in the big city, but her voice was straight out of north Alabama—and all business. “Ms. Cavanaugh. I understand you handle cold cases. Well, I’ve got a doozy for you.”
I shot a sour look at Mike. “Interesting. And this cold case would be located …”
“Right here in Pine County. Been tormenting my family for more than twenty years. Time for it to stop. Can we talk?”
From the corner of my eye, I could see that the grin on Mike Luinetti’s face was positively wicked.
Slow indeed.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Pine Grove Baptist Church, Alabama, Present Day
THE NEXT DAY, Mike and I returned to the Pine Grove Baptist Church in his Jaguar, garnering almost as much attention as we had the first time. Miss Doris and her girls smothered me in hugs, and it was as if I’d been gone for years instead of a few weeks. Betsy and Claudia Hall filled me in on Ratliff’s latest exploits, and everyone wanted to know the latest on Belle and the beastie. Of course, everyone had already heard about their recovery.
There was definitely an ego boost to being a big fish in a small pond.
As we left, Imajean Carver Thompson waited by the Jaguar, and she and Mike exchanged a look that told me he’d been expecting her.
She reached and took my hand. “Star, can we take a walk? I need to talk to you.”
“Sure.”
She slipped her hand inside my elbow, and I went where she guided me. But as we headed into the graveyard, I had a feeling I knew where we were going. We stepped slowly across the uneven ground and around graves, Imajean speaking as we went.
“I wish you’d known my daddy better. He was a remarkable man. He didn’t leave much behind. The store was sold after his first stroke, and his medical bills ate all of his savings. I have his Bible. All those letters.”
“That’s an incredible legacy in itself.”
She nodded. “Charles calls it ‘a legacy of honesty, bravery, and faith.’”
“He’s right.”
“In the letter he left for me with those plates, he laid out how it had all happened. Who killed who and when. Told me I could give the letter to the police, but after all you had dug up, I didn’t see the need. Those are his last words to me, and I didn’t want to give them up.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“But he also asked me to do something for you. Told me where I could find the money to make it happen.”
I stopped and looked at her. “Imajean, you don’t owe me anything.”
She released my arm. “Star, it’s not just for you. It’s for him. For us. For Pineville. We need this to happen.” She pointed at the Daisy Doe gravesite.
Even from a distance I could see that the headstone had been replaced. My breath caught in my throat, and Imajean nudged me gently toward it. In the place of the small granite stone stood a black obelisk with a Star of David carved prominently near the top. As I closed in on it, the letters became readable, and my steps grew shaky. Next to the grave, my knees gave out, and my trembling fingers traced the inscription.
ESTHER RENEE SPIRE
JUNE 21, 1922–MAY 8, 1954
BELOVED MOTHER
“OUR SHINING STAR”
A row of daisies circled the base of the obelisk. I lightly touched the blossoms, then my eyes stung as the tears filled them and flowed down my face. I covered my face with my hands and sobbed, leaning against the stone.
Imajean put a hand on my shoulder. “They buried an unknown Daisy Doe. It was time we gave Esther Spire the burial and respect she deserved. Unknown no longer.” She paused, then began to pray.
“Our Father God, you are filled with mercy. Please bring proper rest to our sister and mother Esther. May you who are the source of all mercy shelter her beneath your wings eternally, and bind her soul and sweet memory among the living, that she may rest in peace. Amen.”
The tears slowed, and Imajean’s prayer settled a soft solace in my soul. “Thank you,” I whispered.
After a few moments, she stepped away, and I pushed myself up, using the obelisk for balance. I turned to find Mike standing close behind me. Beyond him, Miss Doris and her girls. Then the Hall sisters … and about half the congregation of the Pine Grove Baptist Church stood between me and the church, watching.
I hugged Imajean, then stepped toward Mike, still a little uncertain on my feet.
He took my arm. “Ready to go?”
“Maybe.” I glanced back at the obelisk. “Yes.”
He put his arm around my waist to steady me. We walked in silence, and everyone drifted back toward their cars. Mike opened the passenger door of the Jaguar for me, then slipped in behind the wheel. “Where to?”
My stomach chose that moment to snarl rather audibly.
“So … lunch?” Mike asked.
I cleared my throat, still somewhat clogged with tears. “Did you know that it’s a pretty universal fact that grief can make you really hungry?”
“At least according to Mrs. Patmore on Downton Abbey.”
I stared at him. “You watch Downton Abbey?”
“I had a girlfriend who did. Before I came to Pineville.”
“Really? What happened to said girlfriend?”
“She didn’t want to move to a small town.”
“Man, you can really pick ’em. You may never get married if you keep this up.”
“Ya never know when the tide will change. Top O’ the River? I hear they have good fried dill pickles.”
“I heard Yankees don’t eat fried pickles.”
“They are an acquired taste. But I’ve learned to like a lot of other things about the South.” He brushed my arm with the back of his hand.
“Michael.”
“What?”
“Drive.”
“Yes ma’am. Wherever you want to go.”
ACKNOW
LEDGMENTS
WHEN I FIRST conceived of Daisy Doe and Star Cavanaugh in 2006, I had no idea how long and how many people it would take to bring this story to completion and put it in the hands of readers. From the contest judges, who praised the concept and compared me to famous authors, to my beta readers, who gave me tips and advice, an entire legion of people lifted me up and encouraged me to continue. They are precious because it is far too easy to give up on a story when it doesn’t sell and the trends don’t match up. I told my agent more than once to abandon it. I could have moved on; she didn’t.
I have been blessed by these people. Here are a few of the standouts:
Bonnie S. Calhoun, author, friend, and veteran, who helped me with Roscoe’s history and point of view;
Julie Gwinn, my agent and friend, who would not give up on this story;
The Moody (Alabama) Police Department, who introduced me to small-town and county policing;
The entire team—and I do mean team—at Kregel, especially the editors who pushed me to the next level, caught numerous gaffs, and made me laugh more than once at my mistakes. I thank God for each and every one of them;
And Jack, who reminded me that you’re never too old for sparks to fly.
Any mistakes or missteps left behind are my own.