Even in her battered state, Emma appreciated her new environment. The enormous house was decorated to perfection. The furniture was Victorian-inspired in bold floral patterns. The ruby wallpaper gave the house an authentic feel without being fussy. Faded Oriental rugs in coordinating hues of navy and emerald were scattered over the polished oak floors, and a staircase with an ornate banister led to the second floor. Colorful light from a stained-glass transom window cast a pattern on the wall opposite the door.
Emma hesitated. “I hope you don’t mind. I know you weren’t expecting an extra guest.”
After everything that had happened that day, she’d never made it home. When Liam mentioned staying with Blanche, she’d jumped at the chance. Even the idea of returning to her cold, empty house had sent shivers down her spine. There were people at the bed-and-breakfast, and light and warmth and a police officer parked outside, along with a deputy down the hall. Tomorrow was soon enough to go home.
“I run a hotel for all intents and purposes.” Blanche leaned closer and pitched her voice to a loud whisper. “I’m always expecting guests.” She crossed the room in three quick strides, her bangle bracelets clinking merrily together on her thin wrists. “C’mon. Follow me, Emma. I’ll give you the nickel tour. This is the parlor, as you probably already guessed. Through those double doors is the library. The bookshelf on the west wall is the unofficial town lending library. Feel free to take a book or two before you leave. I need the shelf space. Every time someone has an estate sale around here, I manage to come home with a bag of books. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist. Your room is upstairs.”
She turned and grasped the banister, taking the stairs two at a time.
Exhaustion dragging her feet, Emma’s toe caught the edge of a throw rug and she stumbled. Liam caught her against his side and steadied her. Their gazes clashed, and she swayed forward. He lifted his free hand and threaded his fingers through the hair at her temple. Warmth curled through her stomach.
She tweaked what was left of his beard. “Long day.”
“Long day,” he said, sighing.
“Are you going to rest?”
“I need to look up that case number Bishop mentioned.” He stifled a yawn. “And maybe call in the ATF on the fire. Looks like arson. Probably attempted manslaughter, as well. Someone knew we were in that house.”
Blanche leaned over the banister. “You’re no good to anyone dead on your feet.”
They exchanged a glance, and Emma scrunched her nose. “She’s right, you know.”
Together they trudged up the stairs. Liam took a left, and Emma followed Blanche to the right. Her overnight bag was already sitting in the room Blanche had chosen for her, and she didn’t bother asking how it had gotten there. After a bracing shower, she collapsed facedown onto the quilted comforter where she spent the next eight hours in blissful oblivion.
By the time light filtered through the blinds once more, she was feeling almost human again. Another shower finally removed the sooty tar from her hair, and she descended the stairs, following the delightful aroma of fresh-brewed coffee.
As she passed the dining room, Emma did a double take. “I hardly recognize you.”
Liam had shaved his beard, revealing a strong, square jaw and high cheekbones. His hair was slicked back and neat. He was handsome before. Without the beard, he was devastating. She must have been staring because his expression grew confused.
“What’s the matter? Did I miss a spot?” he asked.
“No,” she said, her throat dry. “You look great.”
He absently scratched at a razor nick on his neck. “You sure it’s all right?”
“Fine,” she croaked.
“I was just checking on Duchess,” he said, leaning down. “Hang in there, little lady We’ll take good care of you.”
Catching a glimpse of a wagging tail, Emma quirked an eyebrow. “That’s the dog you think might belong to Artie?”
He straightened, and when he discovered Emma studying him, flushed and rubbed a hand down his smooth chin. For such a handsome man, he appeared unaccustomed to attention. His awkwardness was both endearing and charming.
“Yep,” he said. “My unofficial deputy. Mrs. Slattery has been watching her while I’m at work.” The tips of his ears darkened to a rosy hue. “Turns out Duchess is expecting any day now. With everything else happening, I failed to notice she was in a, uh, in the family way.”
“I’m sure she’s forgiven you.” Emma tiptoed past the room and whispered, “What are you going to do with the puppies?”
“That’s the thing. I don’t know. If we don’t hear from Artie soon...”
“Do you think he’s...”
“I don’t know what to think.” Liam rushed to reassure her. “We’re pulling everyone in on this one. If he’s out there, we’ll find him.”
“I hope he’s all right.”
“You and I have other things to worry about. Like breakfast. Mrs. Slattery was right. I’m famished.”
“Told you so,” a voice called from the kitchen.
Emma and Liam giggled like a couple of kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Taking an hour for breakfast wasn’t going to change anything. Right now, she was in a beautiful home with mouthwatering aromas wafting from the kitchen. The company was good, and the outside world was far away. She simply wanted to enjoy the here and now.
The pictures lining the hallway were a hodgepodge of frames depicting various eras in time in no particular order. The eclectic mishmash was charming, and Emma paused before the stoic face of a handsome marine.
Liam leaned down and spoke close to her ear. “That’s Mrs. Slattery’s son, Ben.” His breath whispered against her skin, sending gooseflesh pebbling down her arm. “He was killed in Afghanistan ten years ago.”
“How sad.”
Emma noted several more pictures of Ben throughout his short life. He was a handsome, serious young man with kind eyes that reminded her of his mother’s. A man she assumed was Ben’s father was featured in a few of the earlier pictures, but the latter were only of Ben and Blanche.
“How long have you been staying here?” she asked, hoping to turn the subject to something lighter.
“About six months.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “Having problems finding a place of your own?”
“Something like that.” He scratched his temple. “It’s a long story.”
“I’m a good listener.”
Her curiosity was an asset to an investigative journalist but a liability in personal relationships, as Jordan often chastised her.
“I imagine I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he said. “Even as a paying customer.”
Was his “unfinished business” the reason he was reluctant to put down roots? If so, what was he waiting for? Why didn’t he leave immediately? As her interest took flight, she stifled a groan. The slices of her personality that made her good at investigative journalism didn’t help much in social situations.
Her books and articles had been described as in-depth character studies. She wanted to understand what drove people to behave as they did. She always read the last page of a mystery first, because the “what” was just as important as the “why.” Human beings were naturally creatures of habit, and serial killers were often caught when behavioral profilers unraveled their patterns and pieced together the clues.
The Lonestar State Killer had been different. He often favored the same gun, but the shootings were almost an afterthought. He hunted in different neighborhoods, and they’d yet to discover a link between the victims. More than once there’d been reports of a Peeping Tom in the neighborhood before he struck, but just as often, the murders had been shockingly random.
The arbitrary use of the gun had always troubled her. Why bother to link himself to his victims in such a clumsy manner? There must be a reason,
and the “what” was as important as the “why.”
If the Lonestar Killer was the person stalking her, and if he thought she’d discovered a clue to his identity, why hadn’t he killed her already? He’d obviously been watching her. She’d been alone when she left the house that night. Why hadn’t he silenced her when he had the opportunity?
If he’d set fire to the house, had he been watching their escape?
As they entered the kitchen, Blanche turned, her tiny hands dwarfed by enormous floral-patterned oven mitts. She wore another diaphanous purple shirt with flowing sleeves.
“Liam.” She gestured with her mitts. “Can you finish setting the table?”
“Sure thing.”
Through the clatter of silverware and dishes, the two worked well together. Blanche treated Liam with the affection of a favored child, and he deferred to her with the same caring respect. They laughed and joked, although Liam appeared to be holding a part of himself in check. There was a guarded quality to his answers and a hesitancy in his speech. Emma doubted he was even aware of his actions. If Blanche noticed, she didn’t let on.
One thing was certain—if Liam thought he was overstaying his welcome, he was sorely mistaken. Blanche clearly doted on him.
When the table settings were finally in place, the three of them took their chairs around the square table. Blanche realized she had forgotten the butter and started to rise. Liam waved her back to her seat and retrieved the dish himself. If Emma wasn’t already starting to fall for him, the considerate gesture would have pushed her over the edge.
Much to her relief, the older woman dominated the conversation throughout the meal, chatting about local gossip and the weather.
They avoided the topic as long as they could before Blanche finally brought up the subject. “I was sorry to hear about Artie’s place. He’s going to be devastated. That house belonged to his parents and his grandparents before that. I don’t know him well, mind you, but in a small town, everyone knows everyone else to some degree. We’re both members of the Redbird Historical Society. It’s not really a society so much as an excuse to gossip. But there you have it.”
Liam topped off his coffee from the carafe on the table. “We heard he was digitizing the Redbird Gazette. Did he talk about that much?”
“Ad nauseum,” Blanche muttered with a sardonic grin. “Artie loves to spin a tale and reading through the past twenty years of Redbird news was absolute nirvana.”
“Then he liked to keep up with the local rumor mill,” Liam said thoughtfully.
“Considered himself the keeper of town lore. Not that there was much lore to keep. There isn’t much crime around here.”
“There was a murder, though.” Emma said. “That must have been memorable.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Blanche declared in a conspiratorial whisper. “Really shook up this town.’
Emma leaned forward. “Then you knew Missy Johnson.”
There was no better source than a local to know all the details that failed to make the front page.
“Odd that you should mention both Missy and Artie in the same conversation,” Blanche replied. “I hadn’t thought about her in years until Artie asked me about the murder just the other day.”
Emma and Liam exchanged a look, and her heart pounded against her ribs. There was no way Artie’s curiosity was a coincidence.
TEN
Mrs. Slattery’s declaration snagged Liam’s attention.
He’d initially been skeptical that a twenty-year-old murder case with a cut and dried conviction had anything to do with Emma’s stalker. As the coincidences added up, his conviction was faltering.
“Artie said he might have some information about the case,” Liam said casually. “You don’t happen to know if he discovered anything new?”
“No. Mostly he wanted to pick my brain about what I remembered from that time. I figured he wanted to write a book or something. I could see Artie wanting to write about Redbird. We were going to talk more but haven’t found a time to get together yet.”
“What did you tell him?” Liam asked, curious about the same thing.
“I know it sounds like a cliché.” Mrs. Slattery stared into space. “But I remember it like it was yesterday. My son, Ben, was still at home, and my husband traveled quite a bit at the time. We were fixing up this house, and I’d hear every little creak and groan when he was gone. Used to get myself all kinds of worked up.” She gave a nervous chuckle. “Still do, sometimes. Ben’s dad died in a car accident outside Colleyville some years back. Although, since Liam’s been here, I’m not nearly as jumpy. There’s nothing like having a big, strong deputy in the house to make an old lady feel safe.”
Liam frowned. “You’re not an old lady.”
“And you’re a terrible liar. Anyway, about Missy Johnson. She was dating Deputy Bishop’s younger brother. Everyone was expecting an engagement. She’d been missing a few days when some folks on vacation found the body on the shore of the lake. I didn’t know Missy well, mind you. She ran with a younger crowd, and I was a married lady with a child to raise by then. I knew her mother a little better. Went to church together, though the Johnsons mostly kept to themselves. The family moved away after Missy died.”
The fine hairs on the nape of Liam’s neck stirred. “Deputy Bishop knew the murder victim?”
“Everyone knew Missy. The town was even smaller back then.”
Gossip in a small town spread like wildfire. If someone was asking questions, how long before that information got back to a person who had a stake in the outcome? Especially if a bestselling writer from Dallas was asking the questions.
“Did Artie talk about the man who murdered Missy?” Emma asked.
“A drifter confessed.” The corners of Mrs. Slattery’s mouth turned down. “Of course, he died in prison proclaiming his innocence. Said they coerced him into the confession. But killers never take responsibility, do they? I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but it felt like the murder changed the whole town. As though we all lost our innocence.”
“How do you mean?”
“Murder and crime were problems for big city folks. But that simply isn’t so, is it? We were naive, and Missy paid the price. We had a different sheriff back then. What was his name...” She snapped her fingers. “Phillips. That was his name. Sheriff Phillips. He was a nice man, mind you, but he was in a rush to solve the case before the tourist season started. Wouldn’t want all those folks from Dallas to stop spending their money in town because there was a murderer on the loose.”
Liam hadn’t heard the name before. “Does Phillips still live around here?”
“No. He died some years back. That was when Sheriff Garner ran for office. He’d recently retired from the Fort Worth Police Department and was doing some contract work with the county. Delivering court summons when the department was backed up. That sort of thing.”
A familiar swell of emotion spiked through Liam. All cases were, at their heart, a riddle waiting to be solved. No one stayed invisible in a small town, which meant that relationships were often intertwined and complicated. Cold cases were even more challenging, especially when the witnesses were deceased. Speaking with the source was always better than reading old case notes.
“Funny how things work out,” Mrs. Slattery said. “Bishop was interim sheriff after the car accident, and he figured he was a sure thing to win the special election. He hadn’t counted on Garner running. I think it stuck in his craw. That’s why he throws his name into the election every four years. He’ll never win, though. Not in this county. People know who they like.”
“I didn’t realize the sheriff was from Redbird,” Liam said, reaching for another slice of toast out of the basket. “I thought he was from Fort Worth.”
The realization left him oddly unsettled. He’d assumed they were both transplants, considering the sherif
f’s job history, though the topic hadn’t exactly come up in conversation.
“Born and raised here.” Mrs. Slattery settled back in her chair and spread her arms, her sheer lavender sleeves draping like delicate bird wings. “Poor Sheriff Garner. Now there’s a man who’s had more than his fair share of tragedy. His first wife ran off on him. I think that’s why he moved to Fort Worth in the first place. Too many painful memories.”
“His first wife?” Emma raised her voice at the end of the sentence in question.
“Yes. After his wife deserted him, he remarried. But he’s been widowed now. Although I heard he’s been seen out and about with one of the tellers from the bank. He’s a good catch. Surprised someone hasn’t snatched him up by now.”
Liam grinned. “Ever thought about casting a line for him yourself?”
“Not me.” Blanche’s look of horror was comical. “I like my freedom.”
At least the sheriff’s history with his first wife explained why he’d never mentioned his connection to the town. No one wanted that kind of gossip stirred up.
Understanding how the town worked was key to solving local investigations. Many of the people who lived in Redbird around the time of Missy’s death might still be living here. Emma’s memories around the previous week were fuzzy, leaving them handicapped. Who else had she talked with concerning the murder?
He circled back to how the conversation had started. “But Artie didn’t mention anything specific? He didn’t have any suspicions about the case?”
“Not that I know of.” Blanche considered the question. “Must get boring scanning page after page after page. That’s probably what got him talking about Missy. That case dominated the headlines around here for weeks. Artie is nearly sixty, and he’s not a bit intimidated by those computers. I can hardly use a phone these days. If you want to know something about the history of Redbird, Artie is the one you’d ask.”
Liam had been in law enforcement long enough to know that a conviction didn’t always end a case. What if Emma had stumbled onto a local mystery someone wanted to keep buried? How close had she come to exposing the truth?
Killer Amnesia Page 13
