Love Inspired Suspense January 2014 (31 page)

She couldn't prove it to a soul, but Melissa Eldon's killer had handled her phone. He now knew how to call her wherever she was whenever he wanted.

* * *

David gave up on sleep by two in the morning. He couldn't get a leash on questions that chased each other around his brain. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he scrubbed his fingers through his hair and then switched on the bedside light.

Chris hadn't called yet, but he'd told David to look into Melissa Eldon's background. David was no computer whiz, preferring his keyboard work to be on the piano, but he knew the basics of running a search engine. It couldn't hurt to check the internet regarding the tattooed teacher. At his mountain cabin he hadn't bothered to take his laptop out of his vehicle since there was no internet service, and now it sat neglected in the corner of his hotel room.

He unpacked it and fired it up, then logged in to the hotel's Wi-Fi system. His first stop was White Pages to see if he could find out where Melissa Eldon had lived. The address came up as an apartment complex. Unsurprising for a teacher new in town. The listing offered no associated family members, so she could well be a single woman living alone or with an unrelated roommate. Research into the place revealed it to be an upper-middle-class sort of rental located not far from his hotel. The lead warranted a stop tomorrow to see if any of Melissa's neighbors or the landlord could give him information about the woman's background.

He left White Pages and typed “Melissa Eldon” into the bar of a search engine. There was a Melissa Eldon on Facebook and LinkedIn, the former a more social listing, the latter primarily about business. He clicked through the links on each.
Bingo!
Both featured the smiling face of the deceased teacher, but precious little information was offered to someone without Friend or Connection status.

David studied the photo of Ms. Eldon when she'd been alive. The woman had been stunning in a pale and aloof sort of way. No glasses, and the thick blond hair was pulled away from the diamond-shaped face in an updo caught by an ornate hair clip. The smile was movie star quality, but lacked warmth. Either she'd been born with the gift of perfect teeth, or her orthodontic work had been excellent.

Something about the eyes arrested him. Nothing physical like the color, which was the pristine blue of a mountain lake, but an aura he knew too well. He'd glimpsed the look in Alicia's eyes in rare moments when giddy fun faded and reality intruded. And he'd seen that look in his own eyes when he was sober and gazed into the mirror during those bitter years after his parents' deaths and before he found comfort and acceptance in his relationship with Jesus Christ. Haunted emptiness engraved the look...framed by desperation to fill that emptiness by any means necessary.

Such a mindset created a taker, not a giver. Melissa Eldon might not have been the nicest person. Could she have made someone angry enough to kill her? She sure rubbed Caroline the wrong way. Or was this not a crime of passion? The disposition of the body spoke of cold calculation in implicating someone else for the crime— provided he continued to give Laurel and Caroline the benefit of the doubt.

The police were skeptical about the “alleged” phone call to Laurel, and David supposed that could have been staged. The home-wrecking could also have been staged, just like the detectives thought. Then why did Laurel's and Caroline's reactions ring so true? And what possible connection could they have to Alicia? Until he had proof positive of their guilt, he was going to operate on an assumption of their innocence. It was the least he could do when he was all too familiar with the onus of the assumption of guilt.

A yawn overtook him, and he stretched with both arms. Maybe he could actually sleep now.

One more pit stop on the Net before he crawled between the sheets. He had neglected to ask Laurel or Caroline the name of the school where Melissa Eldon taught. However, local newspapers sometimes featured articles on teachers new to town. The name of her school would be in that article, supplying him with one more avenue to research. Maybe Denver was too cosmopolitan for the newspapers to run such down-home articles, but the local paper in his rural Texas hometown had done it every year. It didn't hurt to check.

He brought up the website of the
Denver Post
and clicked on Archives, then entered “Melissa Eldon.” An item appeared dated earlier this month. It wasn't a feature article on teachers. Not hardly. And it wasn't so much the brief text of the piece that socked him like a punch between the eyes. It was the bold, living color photo.

Ms. Eldon had been very busy since her arrival in Denver, not in class preparation, but the dating game. She'd recently become engaged to be married—to a man that David knew.

A bit beefy and a little balding, the man standing next to Melissa Eldon in the engagement photo stood shoulders back and head high, though the top of his head barely reached his lady love's nose. The last time David saw this man—the only time they'd met, actually—the guy wasn't happy. He was blubbering into his champagne cocktail. Literally. David's memory of the incident played a haunting chorus on his emotions—embarrassment, discomfortand sympathy.

Melissa Eldon had apparently made a happy man of Gilbert Montel, the richest man in Colorado. David could about imagine what losing her to a murderer might have done to this melancholy millionaire. As much as he hated to intrude on grief—or subject himself to a repeat of their original encounter nearly four years ago—Gil Montel was exactly the person he needed to see. If anyone in Denver was likely to know details of Ms. Eldon's background, it would be her bereaved fiancé.

EIGHT

L
aurel awoke with a headache throbbing behind her eyes. Little wonder when she hadn't slept well for several days. But this was not a day she could afford to sleep in. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. At least she'd slept past her normal rising time of six. It was nearing eight o'clock. She forced her legs to swing out of bed and sat up.

Shower first, and then coffee. Lots of it—hot, black and strong. The insurance adjuster would be at her house in one hour. She showered and dressed, then went for that coffee. By the coffeemaker sat a note from Janice. She'd gone for an appointment, but thought she'd be back before lunchtime.

There was no sign of Caroline. At least one of them was catching up on
z
's. Last night before turning in, Laurel had made her daughter aware of the appointment with the insurance adjuster today, so when Caroline finally shook off her beauty sleep, she'd know where to find her mother.

Sipping at her brew and nibbling on a slice of toast, Laurel sat at her friend's bedroom vanity and applied her makeup, then used a blow drier and a round brush on her shoulder-length bob. Good thing the thick mane didn't require much effort to be presentable.

At five minutes to nine, she threw on her jacket and stepped out of Janice's house into the sunshine of another brisk day. Stepping off the porch, she stopped and eyed a black van parked across the street. The rear door opened and a linebacker-size man hopped onto the pavement, pulling a stocking cap over his ears.

He sauntered across the street, small grin on his beefy face. “Mack Simmons, ma'am. All quiet last night.”

He held out his hand, and she shook it. The scarred knuckles suggesting a brawling background—probably a good thing in a bodyguard.

“Laurel Adams. Thank you for keeping watch. Were you warm enough out here all night?”

“Toasty. There's a heater in the back where I hang out. Refrigerator, port-a-biff, all the comforts of home.” His grin broadened, and she couldn't help but warm to this character. “I'll be back tonight. Have a good day.”

He trotted to the van, started the vehicle and drove off.

This was a good arrangement. During the day, she didn't have to feel watched, and at night...well, maybe she'd let herself sleep better tonight. She'd been crabby with David on the phone about the bodyguard thing. Maybe she should lighten up and be grateful—though she still intended to find a way to repay him for his expenses.

Laurel crossed the frozen lawn and inhaled a deep breath as she unlocked the door.
Please God, no unpleasant surprises here today.
What she walked into was no surprise, but it still brought a groan to her lips. The frightful mess hadn't grown less shocking with the passage of a day.

A deep bong echoed in Laurel's ears, and she jumped half a foot. What a goose! It was only the doorbell. Swallowing her heart back into place, she opened the door. A portly man of medium height, dressed in a suit and holding a clipboard and a camera, stood on her porch. At the intensity of his frown, her heart sank.

“Associated Insurance Representative Leonard Stern here,” he said, though the name sounded more like “Ledderd Sterd,” as if his nose were stuffed up solid.

The effect sent the creepy-crawlies up Laurel's spine. The man who called to threaten them last night had sounded as if he had a cold. Though his voice had been lower and raspy, the coincidence was enough to put her on edge. Maybe she should have asked David to come over an hour earlier so he could be here for the inspection. Straightening her spine, she mentally scolded herself for absurdity.

“Hello, Mr. Stern.” Laurel extended her palm.

The man shook it with a flabby hand and a flabbier grip. “I trust we can expedite this matter. My family is supposed to be on the road to my wife's parents' for Thanksgiving weekend. If we get started after ten o'clock, we'll never make it by dusk. I despise driving after dark.”

“Come in.”

Laurel stepped back, and he sailed past her.
Pleasant day to you, too!
She kept the sarcasm to herself. It didn't pay to antagonize the man in charge of her claim, however much she might like to vent on someone.

“My, my! Someone did a number on this place.” The man continued tut-tutting as he began picking his way through the house making check marks and notes on forms, as well as snapping pictures.

Laurel followed him from room to room...at a safe distance. They reached the kitchen, and she bit her lip, eyes and nose stinging as the odor of spilled milk ripening on the floor reached her nostrils. Though the door to the refrigerator was closed, the entirety of its contents had been flung around the room. Eggs and jelly and other types of food decorated the walls and floor.

“Your vandal certainly was thorough,” said Stern. “Anything missing, ma'am?”

Had a smidgeon of sympathy leaked into his attitude?

Laurel cleared her throat. “We haven't had a chance to sort through anything yet. We couldn't touch the mess until after the police had finished their investigation. That didn't happen until late yesterday afternoon, and we—my daughter and I—were too tired to face it.”

Stern pursed his lips. “I understand. Perhaps you will have the opportunity today. Here's my card. You can fax, email or phone a list of damaged and missing items to my office. I won't be there, of course, until Monday, but by then we should have the police report and can finalize a benefit figure.”

“Police report?” Pulse accelerating, Laurel studied the business card.

“Of course. We must have a reasonable determination from them that the damage occurred as a result of the actions of a third party, not the insured themselves.” The man actually smiled in a semisympathetic way. “You'd be surprised how many fraudulent claims we get.”

“No...um, I probably wouldn't be surprised.”

Did she look as pale as she felt? Given Detective Berg's opinion of her and Caroline, as well as the forensic determination that the broken sliding door was an inside job, what were the chances of being cleared of suspicion by the authorities? Probably about the same as a snowball surviving July.

“I thought I'd hire people to come in and clean up the mess,” she said. “Do I have to wait until after the insurance company makes its determination?”

“No, I've got what we need.” He lifted his clipboard and camera. “But the work will have to be on your dime until we authorize a check.”

“Of course.” Laurel's heart fell. As if she'd ever see that check. She'd either have to say goodbye to more of her savings or else take on the cleanup task herself.

“Very good, then.” She squared her shoulders.

“I'll let myself out,” he said with a wave. “The turkey awaits.” His round face creased in a grin at the prospect of getting on with his holiday plans.

With the adjuster's disappearance, Laurel slumped against the counter. What holiday plans did she have? Neither Janice nor she possessed any culinary skills, so it would probably be overdone turkey and lumpy mashed potatoes served with an unhealthy helping of dread.

What could she possibly do to protect her daughter, much less herself, from this juggernaut of events arranged by some malicious mastermind?
God help us!

The tears that had stung her eyes at the sight of the kitchen spilled onto her cheeks, tracing twin rivulets to her chin. She didn't bother wiping her face as a sob shook her shoulders. Might as well lose it right here and right now, while she had a few precious minutes alone, before—

A footfall crunched glass somewhere behind her, and a scream squeaked between her lips. She whirled to find David standing in the kitchen doorway, hands raised.

“It's just me. I called out when I stepped inside, but I guess you didn't hear me.”

His gentle words warmed her ears and her heart, but her head rebelled against such a siren song. She turned away, squashing sobs that swarmed in her throat.

“If anyone deserves a good cry, it's you, Laurel.”

Unexpected understanding and acceptance broke her resolve, and she melted to the floor, where she hugged her legs tight to her chest and wept into her knees. A hand fell on her shoulder and stayed there as the storm swept through. At last the bitter sobs began to fade into soft hiccups. She lifted her head and scrubbed fiercely at wet cheeks. David was sitting next to her on the floor, head down, lips moving soundlessly.

When was the last time someone prayed for her? Sure, the staff prayed together regularly at the office during morning devotions, but those prayers were usually for the ministry and for those they served. Of course, she hoped that Janice and other friends included her in their prayers, but she didn't
know
it. Not like this. Not with someone plopped on the floor alongside her in the middle of her mess.

“Thanks.” The word croaked between her lips, but it had been a while since the simple statement of gratitude had been so heartfelt toward another human being. Or toward God, if she were honest with herself. She needed to fix that.

“Don't worry about it,” he said. “I'm not too great at dealing with tears...not the way folks like you make a life out of comforting others.”

A watery chuckle left her lips. “You did perfect.”

Their gazes met and held. Laurel's mouth went dry, and her breath came in small spurts. When had this particular shade of gray—warm and smooth and enveloping— become her favorite color? Their faces drifted toward each other...closer...closer...

“Mo-o-om!”

Caroline's call rang through Laurel's head. She jerked back and gasped. David's head turned toward the doorway, and Laurel's gaze followed his. Caroline trooped into the kitchen dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, hair in a ponytail.

“What are you doing on the floor?” She blinked at them.

“Um...oh...I don't—”

“We were inspecting the damage,” David interrupted Laurel's stammer. “These eggs are dried onto the walls and floor. It'll take a lot of scrubbing to get them off.”

Laurel grabbed the edge of the counter and pulled herself to her feet. David rose beside her.

“I'm afraid with dried eggs scrubbing won't be sufficient,” she said. “We'll have to paint and may have to retile the floor.”

“Oh, man, what a bother!” Caroline frowned. “What smells so bad?”

“Sour milk,” Laurel answered, gesturing toward the empty jug in the middle of curdled glops on the floor.

“Milk?” David drew his brows together. “I thought Janice told the police she took your milk home.”

Laurel opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Janice
had
said that she'd come into the house to get the milk. Had she been lying to protect Caroline and her? It wasn't like her friend to stray from the truth, but perhaps in her mind, the cause had been sufficient.

“I'll ask her about it. In the meantime, we might as well do what we can to get this place livable again.”

Caroline's shoulders slumped. “I thought you were going to hire some cleaners.”

“I may have to rethink that.” She shook her head as she decided to keep her answer vague. Explaining that they may not receive any insurance reimbursement would stress Caroline and might prompt an unwanted offer of financial assistance from David.

“Besides,” she went on, “it might be good therapy for us to roll up our sleeves and put a little sweat equity into our own place. We have to catalog missing items anyway, so we might as well pick up as we go.”

“I'm in.” Caroline stood to attention.

“Me, too,” David said. “The cleaning part anyway. And don't tell me I don't have to do this.”

“Well, you don't.” A smile formed on Laurel's face. “But I'm not going to turn you down.” David grinned, and Laurel's heart performed cartwheels. She looked away quickly. “The cleaning supplies are in the pantry, but who knows what mayhem we'll find in there.”

So much for defining boundaries with him as she'd intended to do today. How could she resist his sympathetic willingness to help?

David opened the pantry door. “What do you know? The vandal missed this area.”

Caroline clapped her hands, while Laurel thanked the Lord under her breath. In short order, she had handed out cleaning implements and supplies and assigned duties. She gave herself the chore of the kitchen and sent her daughter and David to the living room and dining room. Caroline could catalog any missing items while the male muscle set furniture to rights. Meanwhile, the tough scrubbing jobs would give Laurel time to think.

On her hands and knees with scrub bucket by her side, she attacked the smelly milk puddles and dried eggs on the floor. What was up with Janice's fabrication about coming in to get the milk and forgetting to reset the alarm system? Had she been here at all? If not, how did the security system get deactivated? There must be some other explanation than an outright lie.

Laurel would have been willing to swear that she'd armed the system when they left for her speaking engagement. Yet, the more she strained to recall every detail of their departure, the less she was sure of anything. Recent events blurred with dozens of other trips. But even if she
had
been the one to leave the security system unarmed, how would a prospective burglar become aware of her oversight, and how would they get into the house in the first place without damaging doors, locks or windows?

The spare set of keys on top of the refrigerator! Laurel hissed in a breath.

Of course, the burglar would have needed to be inside before he could access those. Or maybe, just maybe, he'd found a way to get them prior to the break-in. If that was the case, then their burglar and, theoretically, Melissa Eldon's killer, could be someone she knew—someone she'd invited into her home. A coworker? A friend? A friend of a friend? There'd been that Labor Day barbecue she'd hosted for the SPC staff and their families. Lots of people had been in and out of the house, and she didn't know everyone personally.