The Last Thing She Said

by Lauren Carr

  Chris and Helen were not surprised when he answered his phone after arriving in their guest suite at the Spencer Manor to get barraged with congratulations and questions about the upcoming nuptials.

  He was trying to sort out which question to answer first when Helen rushed out of the bathroom. “Did you see this whirlpool tub? You could fit a whole soccer team in there.” She hurried over to the window to check out the view.

  “Who’s gonna be your best man?” Nikki asked. “Sterling?”

  “It has to be Elliot,” Chris heard Doris say.

  “Sadie and Mocha have to be in the wedding, too,” Emma said. “And Thor will be the flower bunny and Chompers will be the ring puppy.”

  “Look at this view! Tulips. Lilacs. Rhododendrons.” Helen pressed her face to the window. “There’s a hot tub out in the lake! In the lake!” She gasped. “Sterling’s out there with Gnarly. Or is it Gnarly who’s out there with Sterling? There’s a big squirrel out there, too.”

  “That’s Otis,” Chris told her in a whisper. “Archie says he’s Gnarly’s best frenemy.”

  “He’s so fat I thought he was a raccoon at first.”

  “Maybe he’s got a thyroid condition,” he said.

  “Squirrels don’t have thyroids.”

  “Chris, is Helen there?” Elliott’s tone was more serious.

  “Yeah, she’s right here,” Chris said. “She’s body-shaming a squirrel.”

  “Put her on,” Elliott said. “I don’t think her ex took the news well.”

  Chris crossed the suite to where Helen was checking out the switches on the gas fireplace and held out the phone to her. “Elliott wants to talk to you about Thomas.”

  Helen spun around.

  “He heard the news and didn’t take it well.”

  Helen grabbed the phone from his hand and spoke briefly with Elliott. After agreeing with him and Doris to keep Sierra at the farm, she said she’d call Thomas to try to soothe things over.

  “Maybe you should give him time to cool off,” Chris said while she pressed the button to connect the call.

  “You convinced me to open up my home to him because he was Sierra’s father. How does he thank me? He throws a hissy fit and cusses Sierra out when she tells him about our engagement.”

  “He’s still Sierra’s father,” he said in a soft voice. “Us getting married won’t change that.”

  Helen ground her teeth while listening to Thomas’s phone go straight to voice mail. Chris pulled her down onto the bed and massaged her shoulders while she tried to call him a second and then third time. With each unanswered call, she grew more and more tense.

  “Is he the type of man who would trash your house to get back at you for ditching him?” Chris asked.

  “He’s the one who ditched me.”

  “I think you should send Elliott over to check on him. In the meantime …” He took her hand and led her to the bathroom. “There’s no point in letting a perfectly good whirlpool go to waste.”

  An hour later, the water was starting to cool along with Helen’s temper. Elliott called after arriving at Helen’s house to find Thomas gone along with his vehicle. They hoped that after failing to get Helen back, Thomas decided to move on.

  The Thomas that Helen had married was faithful, sympathetic, and compassionate. The man she divorced cheated on her and was indifferent to their daughter—until his mistress kicked him out—at which point he decided he wanted back into their lives.

  “It’s okay to be worried about him,” Chris told Helen while holding her in his arms in the tub. He kissed her damp hair. “Thomas probably feels like he’s lost everything.”

  With a moan of pleasure, she laid her head back against his shoulder. “Please don’t talk about my ex-husband while making love to me. It’s creepy.”

  “You mean creepy doesn’t turn you on.” He brushed her hair back to get access to her ear. “Wasn’t it you who got hot and bothered at the haunted fairgrounds back—”

  “Shut up and kiss me.” She turned around to wrap her arms around his neck.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chris blinked against the moonbeam poking at his eyelid. Finally, he gave in and woke up. Uncertain of where he was, he was disoriented at first. The tickle of Helen’s hair and her scent reminded him that they were spending the night in Deep Creek Lake.

  A quick glance at his phone on the nightstand revealed that it was three o’clock in the morning. Underneath the phone was a pile of Shannon’s letters to Robin Spencer—reminding him that they had fallen asleep while reading them.

  After they had emerged from the bath, they’d found his and hers lounging pajamas draped across the bed. Since they hadn’t planned for their trip to be an overnighter, they had failed to pack a change of clothes. Archie had offered to launder their clothes and pack overnight bags for them to take on to Chester the next day.

  Along with the night clothes, Archie had also set a wooden box filled with four bundles of letters, encased in their envelopes, in the middle of the king-sized bed. She had stacked them in chronological order based on the post marks.

  Chris and Helen started at the beginning—a post card sent to Deep Creek Lake on Shannon and Billy’s wedding day. It read:

  Dearest Robin,

  A lovely day for a wedding!

  Love,

  Shannon and Billy Blakeley

  The Ocean City, Maryland, postal mark indicated that it had been mailed the day after the ransom drop in Sharpsburg, Pennsylvania.

  The next communication was a lengthy letter mailed a few days later. The return address was Shepherdstown. Chris recognized the street address as in the heart of the historic district where many of the older homes had been renovated into apartments for students and young professors.

  The letter started out with a glowing account of her and Billy’s elopement. Then, she moved on to discovering the news about the Livingston kidnapping. Her tone frantic, Shannon begged her friend to tell her what she could uncover.

  “I expected the news to assume that I had been kidnapped. What is this about George? The kidnappers demanded that Father pay ransom for US! I don’t understand. Robin, how did this happen? I’d call you, but I’m afraid that if anyone finds out that I ran away that they’d think I was in on it. I don’t know what to do.”

  Chris wondered what Robin Spencer did find out. Whatever it was, it had to be limited because she was not part of George Livingston’s world.

  Patricia Baker had most certainly been in on it. She had been sitting with Sue Richardson when they’d overheard Mercedes, Billy, and Robin plan their elopement. Patricia was also allegedly the last person to see George alive, whether that last time had been in George’s suite or at the Bavarian Inn main entrance.

  Patricia’s ex-husband had ample opportunity to steal Mercedes’s rental car and return to Shepherdstown for George’s stand-in to announce in front of Patricia and the banquet manager that he was going to dinner with his wife.

  When the car was found in the river and a ransom demand was made, investigators easily assumed the couple had been abducted together.

  It was a clever plan.

  The realization that Patricia Baker could indeed be a suspect, not a witness, made Chris wonder if the FBI’s crime scene investigators had uncovered anything helpful while searching George’s suite.

  That, Chris suspected, was the real crime scene.

  Careful not to wake Helen, he eased out from under the comforter and made his way to his laptop charging on the dresser. He was glad he had thought to at least take that along with him for the trip—just in case he needed to double-check the case file.

  A pair of headlight beams caught his attention as he crossed in front of the bay window looking out on the estate’s front gardens. He paused to watch as the headlights passed betwee
n the stone columns marking the entrance. Aware of his nude state, Chris moved away from in front of the window.

  The vehicle was black with gold trim. The lettering across the side panel read, “Spencer Police.”

  The cruiser pulled up to the mansion’s front door and stopped. The interior lights turned on to reveal a man clad in a law enforcement uniform speaking into his radio.

  Chris narrowed his eyes. A movement inside the front of the cruiser drew his attention to the passenger seat. It was brown and furry. A dog. In the front passenger seat? Police canines usually rode in the rear compartment.

  Where’s Sterling?

  Chris spun around. Sterling slept at the foot of the bed or on the floor next to his side of the bed on the few occasions when he and Helen slept together.

  Sterling was gone.

  Grabbing the lounging pajamas from the chair, Chris pulled the pants on as quickly as possible. He peered out the window while shrugging into the shirt and buttoning it.

  The man in the uniform was walking up to the front door. When he passed under the porch light, Chris recognized him from when he had met Mac the year before.

  David O’Callaghan, Spencer’s chief of police.

  Chris threw open the door and ran into the hallway in time to see Mac, tying the belt to his bathrobe, step out of the master suite at the other end of the hall.

  “I guess we have visitors,” Mac said.

  “Is it an official visit?”

  “We’ll find out.” In contrast to Chris’s dismay about what Sterling could possibly have done, Mac was casual as he led the way downstairs to the foyer and opened the front door.

  David O’Callaghan was a younger version of his half-brother by their father. After introducing Chris with a reminder of their previous meeting, Mac asked, “Where did you find them?”

  Them? Chris realized there was another absence. Gnarly was also nowhere to be seen.

  “At my house.” David swept his arm toward the cruiser. “Storm wanted out before I went to bed. I let her out and she took off. I was out looking for her for well over an hour when emergency services received a call from some campers freaking out down by the lake.”

  “Sterling wouldn’t have attacked them without cause.” Chris saw Sterling’s nose pressed against the back window.

  Like a guilty child caught in the middle of juvenile high-jinks, the German shepherd gazed at him with his most innocent puppy expression. The Belgian shepherd in the front seat looked equally pathetic.

  David shook his head. “The kids reported seeing a ‘pack of ghosts.’”

  “I’ve never heard of a pack of ghosts,” Mac said.

  David responded by opening the rear door of the cruiser to release Sterling and Gnarly—both of whom had strips of toilet paper stuck to their paws and hanging from their collars. Gnarly had a patch of toilet paper attached to his nose.

  Tail between his legs, Sterling rushed to Chris and sought protection by hiding behind him. He stuck his nose between Chris’s knees.

  Leaving bits of toilet paper behind him, Gnarly marched past Mac and up the porch steps.

  “You’re just going to leave this mess for me to clean up?” Mac asked.

  As if to answer him, Gnarly scratched the welcome mat with his back paws and went into the house.

  The police chief continued. “We got a call of a break-in at the grocery store in town. Their security system called it in. By the time the unit got there, the perpetrators were gone. The only thing the owner reported missing was their entire inventory of toilet paper. Even the restrooms got hit.”

  “No missing dog treats?” Mac asked.

  David shook his head.

  “Well, that clears Gnarly,” Mac said with a grin. “We know his MO. He steals dog treats and toys, not toilet paper.”

  “Mac, I caught him white pawed.” David picked up a piece of toilet paper from the ground. “The evidence is right there on their paws.”

  “Why do you just assume Gnarly was the ringleader?” Mac asked.

  David and Chris cocked their heads at him. Sterling stuck his head out from between Chris’s legs to peer up at him.

  “Okay, that was a stupid question,” Mac confessed.

  In the front seat of the cruiser, the Belgian shepherd whimpered.

  “At least these two have the decency to be ashamed,” David said.

  “David, Sterling has never done anything like this,” Chris said. “I mean, he’s not perfect, but he’s really a good dog. He gambles a little. Okay, he gambles a lot. And he cheats—but only a little. Well, maybe more than that. You’ll find that he’s been banned from a couple of casinos—but not for being unruly. He’s a law enforcement canine. He knows better.”

  “What’s on the store’s security video?” Mac asked.

  “The cameras got disabled,” David said.

  “Cameras as in plural?” Chris asked.

  David nodded his head. “The last image they got before it went out is of a fat squirrel chewing on the wires.” He cocked his head at Mac. “We have a BOLO out on Otis. When was the last time you saw him?”

  “He’s been here all evening.” Mac’s tone dripped with sincerity. “I’ll swear to it.”

  David’s eyebrow arched.

  “What kind of town is this?” Chris asked. “Squirrels breaking and entering? Dogs going out on the town and coming home with toilet paper stuck to their paws? Nonagenarian birdwatchers with artificial hips getting murdered by ruthless power-hungry retirees?”

  “We’ve never been able to prove that death was anything more than a tragic birdwatching accident,” David said.

  “If Gnarly and his friends did break into that store to steal toilet paper,” Mac said, “and I’m saying ‘if’ they did it, there’d have to be a reason for it.”

  “They’re a bunch of animals,” David said. “They decided to dress up like ghosts and go scare a bunch of drunk kids down on the beach—and they succeeded. It gives a whole new meaning to getting ‘scared straight.’”

  Mac shook his head. “There’s a method to Gnarly’s madness. He had an end goal in mind.”

  “And he roped Sterling into it,” Chris said. “David, are you going to charge him?”

  “We can’t place him at the scene of the burglary,” David said. “I’m not going into the expense of having the toilet paper analyzed by the state’s forensics lab to see if it’s the same as what was stolen from the store.” He patted Chris on the back and went around to the driver’s side of the cruiser. “I’m taking Storm home. I’ve got to get up and go on duty in a few hours.”

  Chris said, “If you find out any more about what Gnarly’s end game is—”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” David said before climbing into the driver’s seat and speeding away.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The next morning, Jacqui and Francine took advantage of the hotel’s free breakfast buffet before hitting the road to continue north to meet Tamara Dawson, Lacey Woodhouse’s cousin, in State College.

  After a night of multiple chocolate martinis and girl talk, they were in dire need of food. In the many years the two women had known each other, Francine and Jacqui had never embarked on a road trip like this one. While they had worked together, they had never had the opportunity to relax and drop the walls that came with their respective professional positions.

  Francine was the loud, tenacious investigative journalist with a boisterous family who she often spoke of—many times in reference to her house being overly crowded.

  Jacqui was the medical professional who lived alone in a luxurious home on top of “the mountain,” as it was called in the valley. Francine had assumed Jacqui had no family—at least she never spoke of any—until she had mentioned her sister at their last meeting.

  Over the years, the two women had grown to admire
each other’s differences. Francine was not afraid to push beyond the boundaries of politeness. Yet, Jacqui had the gift of diplomacy when it was needed to convince witnesses to willingly supply information.

  They didn’t know which it was that prompted Sue Richardson to wheel over to their table while they were eating breakfast. It wasn’t like there weren’t plenty of tables filled with eager writers dying for the agent to eat with them. Instead, she filled her mug with black coffee and aimed her wheelchair straight toward them.

  The elderly woman came to a stop about a foot from their table. She clutched the coffee mug in both hands. Instead of looking at the two women, her beady eyes were focused on the table before her.

  “I’ve been thinking since we talked last night. You were asking if anything unusual had happened that weekend. If there was anyone I could think of who would want to hurt Mercedes—maybe by killing her husband? Well, this may not be anything. I had forgotten all about it until last night. There was one thing that happened that weekend.”

  “That weekend?” Francine asked. “The weekend that Mercedes disappeared?”

  Sue nodded her head. “There was a man. He threatened to sue Mercedes and me and everyone for defamation of character over The Last Thing She Said.”

  “Was he the man who everyone accused of killing Mercedes’s roommate Lacey Woodhouse?” Francine asked. “Rick Hudson.”

  Sue lifted her eyes. “No. If you read the book, you’d see that the killer was not the victim’s ex-boyfriend. It ended up being her current boyfriend—”

  “Who wasn’t really her boyfriend at all,” Jacqui said. “He’d convinced everyone that they’d been a couple when really they weren’t. It was a set up to remove suspicion from himself. He planned to kill her all along because she had accidentally happened onto his florist shop being a front for his real profession. He was really a high-priced mafia hit man.”

  “Was his name Sal Loughlin?” Francine asked.

  “That’s the guy,” Sue said. “Complete twerp. I guess Mercedes’s book struck too close to home for this guy. The book had been released eighteen months at that point. We were on the sixth edition. He showed up at the conference and demanded punitive damages. I told him to get a lawyer. The book was fiction and Mercedes had said numerous times that while the core of the murder was based on Lacey’s murder, everything in the book, including the characters, was fiction. Besides, back then, it was very hard to win a lawsuit claiming defamation on a work of fiction.”