All the Beautiful Brides (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Mona searched the crowd at the memorial service for a familiar face just as she’d searched shopping malls, grocery stores, and parks, almost everywhere she went these days, for someone who might resemble her.

Could one of the women at the service be her birth mother?

If not, where was she? And what had she been doing the past thirty years? Did she ever think about her? Miss her? Wonder what she looked like or what she’d done with her life?

A stiff wind whistled through the hemlocks and swirled dead leaves across the tombstones, nearly drowning out the pastor’s words. Sniffles echoed through the crowd, the women and men hunched together against the cold and the horror that still shrouded this town from the teenage deaths that had left everyone in shock.

No one had wanted to believe high school girls were in danger. Not in a small town where everyone knew everyone else. Where neighbors watched your back and people left their cars and doors unlocked.

Or that the resident popular football player Johnny Pike would take anyone’s life.

After all, why would he push the teenagers to their deaths? All the girls liked him . . .

According to the articles she’d read, gossip and paranoia led to different theories. Some said he was a closet narcissist. A psychopath.

But his parents had denied the allegations.

“Today we’re here to honor three girls who will forever stand in a special place in all our hearts,” the pastor began. “Tiffany Levinson. Candy Yonkers. And Brittany Burgess.”

As he named each girl, a representative of her family stepped forward to light a candle in her honor. Sara, Tiffany’s mother, Mona heard someone say. Candy’s brother, Doyle Yonkers. And Brittany’s father.

Mona’s heart squeezed for the families. She’d lost her baby in utero. She couldn’t imagine holding that child, watching it grow to be a young man or woman, then losing him or her so violently.

The service ended, and Mona strolled through the crowd and introduced herself to a few locals, but she felt like an outsider, as if she was intruding on their grief.

Now probably wasn’t the best time to ask them if they remembered a pregnant classmate. Still, she was here and she barely knew anyone in town, so she joined a group of women huddled by the photographs, candles, and flowers arranged in memoriam to the girls. One of them was Sara Levinson.

She introduced herself. “My name is Mona Monroe. I just moved here and wanted to offer my condolences.”

Sara gestured toward a woman working the crowd. “This day is hard enough without reporters like that Carol Little poking their noses in our past,” Sara said. “We’ve been through enough.”

Mona dug her hands in her pockets. She hated that the press invaded people’s grief just to get a story.

“I heard Johnny Pike might be paroled,” another woman said.

“Oh, God,” Sara said. “They can’t let that maniac back on the streets.”

“I’ve already written a letter to the Board of Pardons and Parole voicing my opinion,” a woman with dark, thinning hair said.

Mona noticed Candy Yonkers’s brother, Doyle, watching them with a frown. He must have been, what? Ten or so when his sister was murdered?

Sara cleared her throat. “Sheriff Buckley said he’ll go to the hearing and make sure the judge knows how dangerous that boy was.”

“I thought Ned retired,” another woman said.

“He did, but that doesn’t mean he can’t testify.”

Mona spotted the man they were talking about standing close by with the preacher—Sheriff Ned Buckley. He appeared to be in his late sixties with a craggy face and wore khaki pants and a hat.

He was talking to a woman wearing a big black hat and long skirt. The two of them looked serious, deep in conversation, then the woman wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Don’t worry, Felicity, Pike will never get released,” Sheriff Buckley said.

The woman looked worried, her eyes darting about, then she suddenly dashed away through the tombstones.

She must have known the victims and obviously didn’t want Pike paroled.

“Sheriff Buckley made the arrest, didn’t he?” Mona asked.

Sara nodded. “If it hadn’t been for him, there would have been more murders.”

“His daughter, Anna, dated Johnny,” the woman with the thinning hair whispered. “Some of us thought she knew what he was up to. I heard her daddy covered up for her. That’s why she left town.”

The reporter Carol Little approached the sheriff. “Sheriff, can I get a statement from you about the Thorn Ripper?”

“Leave us the hell alone.” Sheriff Buckley started to walk away, but Carol followed on his heels and caught his arm.

“But isn’t it true that you’re going to attend Johnny Pike’s parole hearing?”

Sheriff Buckley jerked around and glared at her. “Yes, it is. As long as I’m alive, that boy won’t see the light of day.”

“But it’s been thirty years,” Carol said. “Don’t you think he’s redeemed himself?”

The sheriff’s nostrils flared. “How can you redeem yourself for stealing the lives of three young women?”

But Carol didn’t back down. “Mr. Pike claims that he was framed,” she said. “With new technology, shouldn’t the evidence be reviewed? Now they could run DNA tests—”

“Listen to me, lady,” Sheriff Buckley said with a dark scowl. “Don’t stir up trouble. We make it through this ceremony every year, then we try to forget it for a while.”

Buckley glanced over the reporter’s shoulder at Mona, and for just a moment, his gaze latched with hers. His eyes darkened, his scowl growing more intense.

Then he pushed past the reporter. “Now, leave the past buried where it belongs and get out of town.”

Mona shivered. His cutting look chilled her to the bone. He’d been talking to the reporter, but he was looking at her as he said it.

The rain and sleet slashing the sharp mountain ridges looked like a river spilling over the ledge as he drove around the switchbacks.

Just as the locals claimed, he’d heard the cries of the dead girls echoing through the hills. Especially the one he’d just left behind at Graveyard Falls.

He’d honored her by staying with her last night. Because she had been so beautiful and he’d wanted her.

But she hadn’t returned his love.

He could still see her begging him to stop. To save her.

She’d promised to do anything if he let her go.

But she hadn’t been worth saving.

Not to worry, though.

He would find another.

CHAPTER THREE

Cal introduced himself to the deputy, a tall, broad-shouldered man named
Ian
Kimball, then knelt to examine the victim’s body.

He estimated her age to be early twenties. Damn. She’d had her whole life in front of her.

Judging from the wedding gown, marriage had been part of her plans.

He glanced up at the mountain and around the woods. Questions assailed him. Was the killer trying to draw attention to the old case and Pike’s upcoming parole hearing? Did he have some kind of hero worship for Pike and want the same kind of attention he’d received?

Or had the killer simply dumped the victim here thinking no one would find her? That the elements would destroy DNA or forensics? That the animals in the wilderness would ravage her body, making identification more difficult?

He touched her arm. Her skin was as cold as ice. Her brown hair was choppy, wet, and tangled, the long white wedding dress splattered with mud. Her oval face was devoid of makeup except for the stark red lipstick on her mouth.

Her green eyes stared at him as if in shock that someone would do this to her.

Crystals of frozen water had settled on her lashes, sand and limestone particles mingling with leaves and twigs from the falls on her hands and clothing.

He surveyed the deserted clearing, a sick knot in the pit of his stomach. Was she on the way to her wedding when she was attacked? Had she just gotten married?

He examined her hand. No engagement or wedding ring. Had the killer taken it?

The garter was wound so tightly around her neck that purple marks darkened her pale skin. Scratches marred her neck where she’d fought to keep from choking.

Hopefully she’d scratched her attacker, and they’d find DNA beneath her fingernails.

But the thorns in her mouth made his stomach clench.

The fact that she was dressed in a wedding gown suggested she probably knew her killer. Her fiancé? Husband? Lover? Someone who didn’t want her to get married? A jealous woman?

And if she was engaged, where was her fiancé?

Confusion clouded Mona’s mind as she left the memorial service. She understood how painful it was for victims and their families to discuss crimes against them.

After all, her parents had died during a break-in at their house.

Apparently the robbers, who’d been casing the neighborhood for weeks, had thought her parents were out of town for the holidays. But her mother had had a migraine that day and they’d postponed their vacation.

At least the police had caught the men, but that hadn’t brought her parents back.

Fortunately, she’d met Brent during the investigation. He’d tracked down the culprits and put them away.

After that, she’d decided to add criminology studies to her counseling degree and had spent a year learning about the minds of criminals.

Then she’d accepted a job with the courts as a victim’s advocate. She’d counseled victims, sat with them during court trials and hearings, and mediated between them and the attorneys. She’d even assisted the prosecutor and detectives a few times. She had a knack for understanding criminal behavior, and helping others had aided her in working through her own grief.

But when she’d moved here, she’d decided to take a break to research her past so she’d set up a part-time private counseling office. Shortly after she opened her practice, a man named Chance Dyer had approached her and asked her to do a radio talk show, and she’d agreed.

She parked in front of the radio station, forcing herself to move forward. One day at a time. Her boots sank into the snow and ice, the freezing wind ripping at her, nearly knocking her over. The wind banged the shutters against the wood frame of the older colonial house where the station was located. She battled against the force of it and ran through the slush until she reached the door.

Chance, the producer of the radio station, a hippie-looking guy in his thirties, greeted her with a smile. He was handsome in a throwback kind of way, and an interesting DJ with a charismatic, honey-slick voice.

He’d asked her out for coffee once, but she’d gently turned him down. She wasn’t interested in hooking up or opening her heart to a man and getting hurt again.

She settled into the chair, while Chance went to the sound room connected to the studio by a glass partition, where he would screen calls and cue up intro and outro music, then motioned for her to begin.

So far, the show had gotten off to a good start. People called in to discuss anything from work-related issues to marital and family problems. Today she expected callers who wanted to discuss the memorial service.

Mona slipped on her headphones. “This is Mona Monroe coming to you live with
Ask Mona
. The lines are open.”

Chance pointed to the board as it began to light up with calls.

“Hello, this is Mona. And you are?”

“Josie.”

“What’s on your mind tonight, Josie?”

“It’s my mother. She grew up in Graveyard Falls but moved away. Last week we came back to town to take care of my grandfather, who has health issues, only she acts like she hates him. They had a big falling out before I was born, and have hardly spoken since.”

“Did she tell you what went wrong between them?”

“No. But it all happened the same year those girls died.”

The hair on the back of Mona’s neck prickled. “She lived here then?”

“Yes. But she won’t talk about the past. I think she might have known some of those girls. I guess it was hard to see her classmates murdered.”

“Yes. That obviously was a difficult time for everyone,” Mona said. “People are still grieving.”

“I get that. But she especially won’t talk about my father. She told me he died. But I don’t think that’s true.”

Mona could certainly relate to being lied to. Her adoptive parents had done that all her life. “Have you tried talking to her?”

“Yes, but she clams up.” Josie paused. “I found a diary she kept in high school. I think my father’s name might be in it. But she became livid when I tried to look at it.”

Mona took a deep breath. She didn’t want to encourage the young woman to violate her mother’s privacy, but she understood her need to know the truth. “I suggest you have a heart-to-heart and explain how you feel.”

A voice sounded in the background, and Josie muttered she had to go. Mona hoped she’d call back.

Another call was waiting, so Chance connected it. The caller immediately launched into her suspicions that her husband was cheating on her.

Mona suggested she confront her husband and then encouraged her to ask him to attend counseling.

To her, trust was the most important thing in a marriage.

At least Brent had been faithful.

No one could take that away from her now.

Cal catalogued the details of the MO—wedding dress, red lipstick, the rose, the thorns that had bloodied the woman’s mouth and throat . . .

The location and the rose stems were similar to the Thorn Ripper case.

But there were also differences.

The wedding dress, the garter, the lipstick, the stun gun markings.

The wind whipped the trees into a frenzy, sending icy pellets from their branches and twigs falling to the ground. Cal stepped sideways to avoid getting pummeled by the deluge.

Identifying the victim was the first step in uncovering what had brought her to this point—and who had left her here dead.

Cal turned to the deputy. “Have you received any missing-persons reports in the past week?”

The deputy shook his head, a dark glint in his eyes. Adrenaline, excitement, he was wired to work this case.

“First murder, Deputy Kimball?” Cal asked.

The deputy nodded. “Yeah, things have been calm since I took over for Sheriff Buckley. Sometimes I wonder if we even need the two assistant deputies in town. Although now they’re coming in handy.”

“What’s going on with Sheriff Buckley?”

“He has a brain tumor, inoperable,” Deputy Kimball said. “Although he’s adamant about attending Pike’s parole hearing.” Kimball cleared his throat. “I called a forensic unit from the county. They oughta be here soon.”

“Good. Do you know this woman?”

“No. But I just moved here a couple of months ago. And I didn’t find a purse or wallet.”

The hiker looked up at Cal, his color pasty gray. In spite of the cold, a fine coat of sweat beaded his skin. “Can I go now?”

The deputy glanced at Cal. “His name is Joey Lamb. I got his statement and contact information.”

Cal crossed his arms. “Do you mind running through what happened again?”

Joey jiggled his leg up and down. “I was hiking and found her like that.” He pointed to the poor woman. “What kind of sick creep does such a thing?”

“That’s what we intend to find out,” Cal said. “Did you touch her?”

“Hell, no. I mean, I could tell she was dead, so I called nine-one-one.”

“You come hiking in weather like this a lot?”

Joey’s shaggy, dark hair brushed the collar of his insulated jacket as he shook his head. “I’m taking a photography class, and the teacher’s running a contest. I came to take some pictures of the falls and the woods—you know, the ice and snow on the mountains.” He dug his boot into the sludge at his feet. “Thought maybe I’d capture the image of the dead girls’ faces they say you can see on the side of the ridge, but I didn’t see ’em.” He coughed into his gloves as if he realized the implications as he looked at the victim. “I never expected to find an actual dead girl.”

“You camped here last night?”

Joey pointed to the hills. “Up the mountain a few miles. Brought a night lens hoping to see the water turn red like some of the locals claim. They say it’s the girls’ tears turning to blood. That’s why they nicknamed this mountain ‘Teardrop Mountain.’ It’s supposed to show up at dawn and sunset. Figured I could win the contest with a shot like that. Winner gets a thousand bucks.”

Cal picked up the travel backpack. “Mind if I look in here?”

Joey muttered something under his breath but shrugged, and Cal unzipped the bag. He rummaged through it but found nothing suspicious. An extra camera lens and memory card. Snack bars, a water bottle, tarp, sleeping bag. There was a pocketknife, but it had no blood on it.

Cal shoved the backpack toward the kid. “Did you see or hear anyone else around?”

“No. Spotted a few deer and thought I saw a coyote. But no people.”

The deputy’s phone buzzed, and he answered the call. “Yeah, come on up.” He pocketed the phone and looked at Cal. “Crime team and medical examiner are here.”

“Good, maybe the ME can establish time of death.” Cal turned back to the boy. “One more thing, Joey. Did you take pictures of the woman?”

A guilty look flashed across the young man’s face. “I . . . just a couple. For my class.”

Damn Internet-crazed generation. Probably took a selfie posed beside her. “Let me see your camera and phone.”

Joey handed over the camera, then his cell phone.

“You text or email the pics to anyone?” Cal asked.

“No, not yet.”

“And you aren’t going to. These might be evidence.” Cal texted the pictures from the guy’s phone to his, then deleted them. Next, he removed the memory card from the camera.

“I need those other pictures on the card, man,” Joey said.

“I’ll get them back to you as soon as CSI processes them.”

Joey didn’t look happy, but he gave a resigned nod.

“And don’t leave town. We might need to talk to you again.”

That comment brought alarm to the young man’s face, and he snatched his camera. “Can I go now?”

Cal nodded, and the boy headed down the trail just as the medical examiner and crime team appeared.