Pieces of Ivy (33 page)

Even with the morning pushing toward noon, the midnight firestorm remained fresh in her mind. Vicki had left the hospital an hour ago with twenty-two stitches to her left breast and significant bruising but otherwise okay—physically.

Hank left with second-degree burns to his left arm, and was missing an eyebrow and a little hair. He couldn’t have looked more beautiful to her.

The sheriff’s office was warm, but Vicki was still shivering as Roscoe read Brianna McQueen’s report.

She had discovered a body in the van as she had walked home and waved down Agent Starr. A man jumped around the van and grabbed Agent Starr. Another grabbed Brianna from behind before she could scream. She woke up bound and blindfolded.

Although the storm was loud, she heard the voices of at least three men and what she thought might be one woman. She heard Agent Starr struggling, along with muffled crying. Brianna knew that, whatever they were doing to Agent Starr, she was next.

“Just as they were untying me, I heard a man yelling Agent Starr’s name from outside. They dropped me. By the time I got my blindfold off, I saw the man carrying Agent Starr out of the fire and followed.”

Vicki sat quietly, saying nothing. Hank forwarded the account to their field office.

“Roscoe,” she said. “I want you to bring in Jennifer Boss, Brenda McQueen, Angela Luther and Michelle Oliver.”

Roscoe looked at her. “Done.”

† †
†

The only one missing was the deceased Mr. Oliver. Otherwise, all eleven people showed—even the daughters—including Brianna McQueen, who had left the hospital bruised but unscathed only two hours ago.

Vicki continued to seethe, infuriated that both Hank and Roscoe had acquiesced to the powers-that-be. It was bad form and had weakened their position, but she couldn’t help but lash out at her colleagues when she had entered the burgeoning interview room. She had been prepared to sink sharp hooks into these women individually. Instead, the insistence—a precedence, to her knowledge, only ever set by her father, which made the situation even worse for Vicki—now had her facing the menacing brood together. The unfair advantages of the powerful always netted a special frustration in Vicki. The tension in the crowded room had only built up from there.

Jennifer Boss repeated her lawyer husband one last time. “Prove it.”

“Yes, by all means,” Roy Boss added. “If you have evidence of this heinous accusation against my family and dearest friends, let’s see it. Otherwise, I’ll be happy to add this to our current, and very lengthy, lawsuit.” He looked across the table, thumping his briefcase. “I have the paperwork right here.”

Frayed, Vicki leaped at the pack of women clustered to his left. “
Liars
!”

They didn’t flinch—Brenda McQueen smirked. The seven other women smiled at her, too—the only smiles in the room.

“Get me outta here,” she told Hank.

Hank led Vicki out the door, followed by the sheriff. Leon Luther grabbed Roscoe by the arm. “You’re finished here as sheriff, you know that, right?”

“What I know is, you can probably do your piss-ant job with one arm.” He leaned into his face. “Can’tcha?”

Luther let go but didn’t look away.

† †
†

Roscoe was actually apologizing for how things turned out. “They won’t get away with this.”

His empty platitude washed past her as she rolled her eyes. After facing the
Pieces of Shit
just now, she realized how futile her efforts were. The justice system had a killer for Ivy’s case. Brianna’s testimony about the male voices effectively shifted the focus. The dark man and the attacker in the gray hoodie both remained unaccounted for—and, once again, the crime scene was gutted.

She appreciated that both Hank and Roscoe had backed her suspicions, but it was apparent that, if she didn’t get something more solid, Roy Boss would ensure that those women would go on with their regal lives, while Vicki booked her first therapy session in years.

Vicki hadn’t known Ivy Turner, but the twin revelation weighed heavier than Vicki had expected—and sharing her place on the cutting table had fractured something emotionally.

† †
†

When Vicki insisted that she was staying on in New Brighton, Hank added his own assertion. He claimed her sofa for the duration of her stay—no arguments. She wasn’t going to be alone while the case, in their minds, remained unsolved.

At first she worried about his presence, if another grisly episode hit, but then decided that it was better if he saw it for himself.

Sitting on the sofa with a coffee, Hank played devil’s advocate as Vicki explained her theory. “They weren’t covering up for one of their friends—it was all of them, working together.”

“What’s the motive?”

“Envy.” She thought of her mirror episode. “Ivy was young, beautiful—she turned heads from every direction.”

“Don’t take this wrong, but so do they.”

“But she was also beloved. They’re not. And if they found the explicit pictures of Ivy her husband had—”

“Pretty brutal attack out of simple jealousy. She was tortured for a long time.”

“I know. That part bothers me the most. How could any woman do that to another? But look at the duration it took. If they had to cover for each other’s absences, take turns with Ivy … that would take time.”

It was Hank’s turn to shudder. “Why not just kill her?”

“Not hateful enough—they wanted to share the rage. I think they came to relish the carnage.”

“So why the husband?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Michelle Oliver wasn’t happy in her marriage. We were getting close, so she killed two birds by faking her husband’s suicide. You heard. She’s getting a seven-and-a-half-million-dollar payout for his death.”

“He was worth more alive.”

“Not if she was angry—it’s not a bad consolation prize.”

They strung together various scenarios based on the women’s alibis looking for gaps that would, over time, align with Ivy’s capture, torture sequence and murder. Timelines didn’t align by mother and daughter, but when Vicki varied the mothers and daughters across each other, it was plausible that, at any point in time, two of them could have been with Ivy while the others covered for them.

As scary accurate as the scenarios were, the eight women’s solid alibis made
proving
such a conspiracy especially challenging. And with much of the physical evidence destroyed in the fire, such a malicious crime over petty jealousy would be an unfathomable stretch for most, including a jury. It would be easier to implicate eight strangers—and that was without a dead killer in custody.

Hank scanned an incoming report. “I think you nailed it, Starr.”

“What is it?”

“What you said about Brianna McQueen’s involvement in her own abduction. Forensics found your clothes and Brianna’s burned in the fire. But they also found one pair of burned coveralls. She could have stripped hers off along with her clothes, when I showed up, just to maintain her captive story.”

“I knew I didn’t hear any male voices. That fucking bitch!”

“It’s gonna be hard to prove.”

Even harder would be their earlier suspicion that the semen evidence was a plant—a notion of a wildly clever deception that only the two Oliver women shared. Hank also explained his missing phone suspicions. How Alexis Luther had cornered him, quivering in drizzling rain. He had been distracted by young beauty. “And I almost lost my partner.”

She blushed. “You think they’ll let us be partners after this?”

“We’re partners, period.”

† †
†

The four families were furious at being confronted again—Roy Boss hollering legal threats. Then outrage exploded when Vicki suggested Brianna’s role in her own abduction.

“Finding spare coveralls next to a toolbox does not justify these appalling accusations against a devastated victim.”

Vicki looked at Brianna. “There were no male voices, were there?”

“Don’t answer,” Boss said. “Your allegations are a gross misconduct, tantamount to criminal harassment. These families have been through too much. I won’t stand for it. Their daughter kidnapped. They lost a husband and father—I lost a good friend.”

“What
their
family went through? What about what
I
went through!”

“Yes, yes. We’re all very sorry for your ordeal, Agent Starr.” He didn’t sound like it. “However, your inability to close a solved case is unconscionable, and the highest order in the FBI will be hearing about this.”

“I can’t wait,” Hank said.

“Why are we
really
here?” the lawyer asked. “You have your suspect. He’s dead, but he’s still guilty. Christ, even the semen on the victim was a perfect match.”

Vicki countered, “Something Mrs. Oliver had unfettered access too. You expect me to believe that after all the precautions taken, the killer would rub his
own
DNA into the victim?”

He yelled back, “He was insane!”

Michelle Oliver piped up. “I told you. She’s hell-bent on harassing us.”

Brenda McQueen followed suit. “How dare you? After what my daughter has gone through. How can you accuse her? It makes no sense.”

Angela Luther stood. “I can’t believe you still have your badge. You’re completely useless!”

Jennifer Boss added, “It’s cruel and unfair how the FBI is allowed to torment us like this.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not going to let them.” Boss was talking to Vicki and Hank rather than his wife.

Vicki fought to relax. “And what about Agent Dashel’s phone?”

Hank had been preparing to ask this himself. Alexis Luther’s face lacked yesterday’s frisky affection. “Yeah, what did you do with it?” Hank asked Alexis.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“My phone was in my jacket when I lent it to you.”

“I don’t remember seeing it,” she said, oozing innocence.

“What were you doing with his jacket?” her mother asked, her tone lacking surprise.

“Agent Dashel gave it to me while we talked.” Hank didn’t like her stare. “I don’t remember much.” She glanced away. “To be honest, I just wanted him to finish talking. I felt very uncomfortable—the way he was looking at me.”

The chair tried to tip Hank to the floor. “What?” he asked, blindsided. “You can’t be—”

The lawyer interrupted. “I see no relevance to the current matter.” Glancing from Hank to the girl, he whispered to her for all to hear. “If we need to look into Agent Dashel’s behavior, I’ll be happy to discuss it after the meeting.”

“Okay,” she whispered with a naive nod.

He couldn’t believe it. Hank moved to stand. “This is bull—”

Vicki put her hand on his arm to hold him down. She shook her head, not to fall for this
literal
jailbait.

Michelle Oliver interrupted. “You’ve found your killer. I’m not happy it was my husband, but, after everything he was doing behind our backs, even I expect you to do your jobs.”

“I know your husband didn’t do it,” Vicki said.

“Then you’re a fool. Anyone looking at the evidence against my husband can see he was guilty. Maybe you’re just not very good at your job, Agent Starr.”

Vicki appreciated the latitude Hank gave her as he sat doing his paperwork at her breakfast nook. She had only broken down twice this morning.

The terror of what had happened to her had spilled over into irate frustration as she rubbed at the symbol Sky had etched into her forearm—it wouldn’t come off. Suddenly
she
was knocking at Vicki’s door with a pouch of tea.

Vicki greeted the witch with a terrified anger that she knew was unfair, but she didn’t care.

“Protection my ass! This is all bullshit!” Vicki knew most of this pent-up rage came from the sense of unjust helplessness regarding the self-proclaimed new
Pieces of Eight
, but she needed to lash out at someone, and Sky was present.

“It did protect you. You’re still here aren’t you?”

Vicki couldn’t stop herself. “Are you fucking kidding me?
Hank
saved me!”

Eavesdropping, Hank hid his reaction, fighting a smile.

“Not you. Not this. Not your bullshit,” she yelled, pushing her arm closer to Sky’s face, but she didn’t waver. “I was nearly killed!”

“Were you hurt?” Her question lacked concern.

“Of course I was hurt!”

Sky looked at Vicki with suspicious concern, lacking the remorse Vicki craved. “But nothing you can’t soon heal from.”

“No. You’re a liar and a bullshit artist … a fucking fraud!”

“I’m sorry you feel—”

“Don’t!” Vicki threw her hand in the witch’s face, voice cracking and divulging tears. “Don’t. Just leave.”

† †
†

Hank remained silent as he drove his
latest
rental. Vicki assumed her blow up at Sky had embarrassed him, but he had never shown any respect for that witch. No, it was something else.

“What is it?” she finally asked.

He appeared conflicted. She could tell he was weighing his words carefully.

“
Hank
?” She was sharper than she had intended.

He kept his eyes on the road. “I don’t know why I looked at that building.”

She didn’t understand.

“Of all the buildings along Founder’s Square, why that one? Why did I search that one before the others? And if not for the cat—I would’ve been at the barn.”

Confused by the question, Vicki felt unsettled by the genuine bemusement in his tone. “What are you talking about?”

“The buildings, in the rain, they were so dark. Washed out. Nothing hinted at where to start. Why did I choose
that one
?” Deep lines of perplexity carved his face. “Now that I think about it, at any other time I would never have chosen that building first—goes against my training, my instincts. I started out methodically, but then I rushed toward the wrong building—and you were there.”

Vicki didn’t like where this was going, especially with the harsh words she had spoken. “That’s just it, Hank,” she tried to reassure them both. “You followed your instincts, your gut.”

“I don’t think that was it.” His breathing was labored.

Vicki sensed Hank’s inferences, reading between the words he spoke to what he dared not verbalize. It couldn’t have been the witch or this mark on her arm made by the witch. Could it? She studied Hank’s face, digging for the fallacy in his thinking, in her thoughts.

There was none. Already sitting heavy in her seat, she managed to sink lower, not speaking another word, holding her right hand gently over her left forearm bearing the witch’s mark.

† †
†

Vicki raised her phone to her ear, the only noise that had filled Hank’s car for the last ten minutes.

“Vicki, it’s Charles. I found a second sample of female blood on Ivy Turner’s body.”

Vicki’s eyes filled with excitement—the evidence she needed.

“I found a mitochondrial DNA match to you and Ivy Turner.”

Sickness punched her belly. “I have no idea what that means.” Dreading the answer, Vicki fiercely waved off Hank’s curiosity.

“It means, it’s a match to your mother.”

The blood drained from her face. “How the hell can that be? My mother’s dead!”

Did her father orchestrate this madness? Thunder struck her soul. His insistence on removing her from this case—was this why? Her voice buckled. “Mom wasn’t my mother?”

Hank couldn’t reconcile her inexplicable side of the conversation.

Vicki’s hate for her father suddenly made
him
being the one having the affair, rather than her mother, easy—except, for all his treachery, Lionel Starr had loved his wife.

Then the scenario imploded on top of her as a film of Vicki’s rewritten history pummeled her. The prospect that one of the four bitches could be her mother—a privileged, young seductress to the great Lionel Starr—mortified Vicki. Though the idea of multiple lovers was more plausible now that Vicki’s beloved mother, Dianna Starr, was no longer painted as the sinner.

Vicki’s mind churned in terrible torment. The ages worked if one of these vile mothers had birthed her twins too young; forced—or paid—to give them up to the powerful, philandering father. Then him, choosing his favorite—for whatever his selfish reasons—casting aside the unlucky sister as an orphan.

If Vicki had despised Lionel Starr before, this went beyond the pale. These women unwittingly slaughtered their own—a big sister to one, daughter to another. Gutting a stranger out of pure jealousy, not realizing the pieces they cut were from their own coveted flesh and blood.

Even more than before, Vicki was determined to tear down her father. Only her deep-rooted drive for vengeance fought her burning need for answers. He was not one to be confronted head-on, as Vicki had always done. She knew now that this dangerous goliath had to be taken with an attack from his blindside.

An angry call—a vicious confrontation. It’s what he would expect. For Vicki to respond like a firecracker, react to him without thinking—and, as always, he would triumph, leaving her diminished.
Not this time.

From the moment of her Ivy revelations, she knew staying her hand was her best move. She realized that, for all the truths unearthed, this ran deeper; and her best course was to keep all her cards close—keep her father in the dark, guessing. When she confronted her father, she would be armed with everything she needed to tear him down. The only way she would get the truth from him was with her heel pressed against his throat. The fire in her belly had to be fought back; New Brighton had been a game changer—she had to play the long game, the smart game, on this one. Her life depended on it.

Revenge burned down to sudden anguish. Vicki couldn’t handle the idea of her beloved mother not being of her flesh; instead, traded for a mother of the most heinous sort of human beings she had ever encountered. She threw open her passenger side door to Hank’s car and spilled her guts onto the speeding pavement.

† †
†

Hank had tried to dissuade Vicki from jumping to conclusions, though he understood her horror. After dropping her off, Hank swung by the market to pick up a few things for dinner. He promised to make Vicki his famous lasagna—hoping he could remember how—if she took a bath and relaxed.

From the bank, to the grocer, to the butcher and baker—even his stop by the coffeehouse had garnered the same reactions. Everyone thought what had happened to Agent Starr was an unforgivable evil—minus any sympathy offered for the McQueen girl. Hank’s and Vicki’s suspicions were not their own.

“It ain’t right—burns me to fuckin’ Jesus. They best not get away with it.” He handed Hank the coffees, refusing his money. “They won’t be eatin’ in my place, I’ll tell you that right now. Not that they were overly welcome before. Fucking assholes, the lot of ’em. Lousy tippers too.”

Hank hoped the resounding town sentiment would lift Vicki’s spirits. Then his phone rang and that prospect evaporated.

He called Roscoe right away. “Did you speak to Kempt? Does Vicki know?”

“Just got off the phone with her. I don’t need to tell you that she didn’t sound too happy.”

“I’ll bet,” Hank said, as he hung up, infuriated.

He paused, and an overwhelming, unsettling tingle washed through his body as something dreadful occurred to him. “Oh, shit!”

† †
†

His car stopped halfway up the lawn, narrowly missing, but blocking, the Corvette. He launched himself out of his car as her front door blew open. Vicki rushed down the steps, running toward her car as she snapped the clip into her weapon.

“Vicki, stop!”

He tackled her to the ground.

Her face filled with rage, Vicki’s wild eyes terrified him.

“You’re on the right side of the law, Vicki. You can’t do this!”

“The law?” she screamed. “Being an agent means shit—just means there’s no justice. You, of anyone, should know that!”

“I was wrong.”

“You were not wrong. They can’t get away with it. What they did to Ivy. What they did to me!” She pounded on his arms and chest. “Goddamn it—they can’t. What they did to me—they can’t.”

She deftly put the much larger agent to the ground three times before he managed to lay his full weight down on her, wrestling the gun from her fist and sliding it along the grass.

He coiled his arms around her as she wailed. Then he brought them both to a seated position so he could rock her gently back and forth, giving her nowhere else to go. He held her, and he let her scream it out. He ignored the concerns from the growing crowd and soon heard Roscoe’s distinctive siren approaching.

† †
†

Dashel, Roscoe and Rose all attempted to convey their understanding, but Vicki remained stony and resentful. Even as she tried to keep her rage lit, it slowly burned to a smolder as the aroma of the warm blueberry pie and strong, fresh coffee penetrated her senses.

The FBI’s order—that all involved close the file, posthumously convicting Jason Oliver, and drop their harassment of the four families in question—burned through Vicki worse than any gasoline. The decision reeked of external pressure—and the bad guys had won.

Ivy’s life was horrifically shattered, and Vicki was left with night terrors that would never let her sleep. Official or not, Vicki dreaded the coming physical torments of Ivy’s unresolved massacre.

Rose took her hand. “Bad as any situation might be, Vicki, things tend to work themselves out.”

Vicki went to question Rose’s unhelpful new-age platitude when, from the harsh squelch of Roscoe’s radio, Deputy Ouellette screamed through the speaker.

“Dispatch! They’re dead! They’re all dead!”