Poisoned Ground (11 page)

Chapter Twenty

When Tom found Jake Hollinger’s truck parked in Tavia Richardson’s driveway Sunday morning, he almost turned around and drove off. He wanted to talk to both, but separately. After sitting on the road in his cruiser thinking about it for a couple of minutes, though, he parked and got out. Seeing these two together might tell him something about their relationship and how far they would go to be together.

Tavia answered the door in bare feet, wearing a blue robe that hung open over a lacy nightgown. Through the sheer fabric of the gown, one nipple and the dark triangle of her pubic hair were clearly visible. Startled, Tom averted his eyes.

Tavia laughed softly, mocking him, as she drew her robe closed and tied it. “Look who’s here again. What can I do for you this time?”

“I have a few more questions.” Glancing beyond her into the living room, Tom saw Jake buttoning his plaid shirt. He met Tom’s gaze for a second before turning away and disappearing into another room. “Is this a bad time?”

Tavia shrugged. “Is there ever a good time to be questioned by the police? Come right in, Sheriff, but we’ll have to talk in the kitchen. I haven’t had enough coffee yet.”

The living room they passed through looked as neglected as the outside of the house, with magazines in a sliding stack on an end table, several whitish moisture rings on the coffee table, the green upholstery worn thin on the couch and chairs. In the dining room, dust lay so thick on the table that Tom assumed the space hadn’t been used in months, perhaps years. He wondered what family dinners had been like when Tavia and her abusive husband, Ron, and their four terrified children had gathered around the table. Not much happy chatter, he supposed.

Jake was in the kitchen, his shirt now buttoned and tucked into his jeans. He didn’t meet Tom’s eyes as he took a mug from a cabinet, set it in an empty spot on the round wooden table and filled it with coffee from a glass pot. Their breakfast, scrambled eggs on one plate and fried eggs and bacon on another, sat half-finished.

As he pulled out a chair, Tom noticed an enormous orange tabby curled in a cat bed in a corner, fast asleep and oblivious to his arrival. Its food dish, next to the bed, contained only traces of its breakfast. Before Tom left home that morning, he’d asked Rachel what she thought of Tavia, and her only comment was, “She overfeeds her cat.” Tom had taken that as a condemnation.

Tavia sat in the chair closest to the cat, drained her coffee mug, then used her fingers as a comb to neaten her short dark curls, so she looked a little less like someone who’d just rolled out of bed. “Were you looking for Jake too, or is it just me you want to talk to?”

Tom glanced across the table at Jake, who now seemed intent on polishing off his eggs and bacon in record time. “Both of you.”

“Honey,” Tavia said to Jake, “you’re going to give yourself indigestion, shoveling your food in like that.”

A flush mottled Jake’s neck and cheeks. He laid his fork on his plate and gulped coffee. His words, directed at Tom, came out loud and angry. “What do you want now?”

In its bed, the cat stirred in reaction to Jake’s raised voice, made a low grumbling sound, and clamped a paw over its eyes.

“I’ve been hearing some things that don’t match what the two of you told me,” Tom said.

Tavia pushed her plate aside with her thumb and sat forward, arms folded on the table. “And of course you believe the gossip instead of us.”

“I don’t know what to believe yet. I’m just asking questions and hoping somebody will give me honest answers.”

“Exactly what are you talking about?” Jake sat with his back rigid, his jaw tight. “What are you accusing us of?”

Tom turned his full attention to Jake. “You claimed you were at the lumber mill when the Kellys were shot, but now it looks like that’s not true.”

“What the hell? Did my son tell you that? Is he claiming I wasn’t at the mill?”

“Does he have any reason to lie about it?”

“No, damn it, he—”

“So whatever he told me would be the truth.”

“He—” Jake broke off and made a visible effort to calm down. “Look, I was at the mill most of the morning, and if my son says otherwise he’s just got the time confused. I didn’t see him before I left, but I saw a couple of other people, talked to them. I came home, saw the fence down and started working on getting it back up. The first I knew about the shooting was when you showed up asking questions.”

A loud snort erupted from the orange cat. Tavia extended a leg, poked him with her toe. “Tater, turn over. You’re snoring. I swear, you’re worse than a man.” Without opening his eyes, the animal stretched his hind legs and rolled onto his other side. Tavia turned back to Tom. “And what am I supposed to be lying about?”

“You told me you hadn’t put any pressure on the Kellys to sell their land, but I hear you were over there quite a bit, trying to talk Marie into it. Badgering her.”

Tavia dismissed the complaint with an airy wave of a hand. “Oh, that. Yes, I spoke to her. Tried to persuade her. I wouldn’t say I
badgered
her.”

“Who told you that?” Anger coloring his face again, Jake scraped his chair back and rose. “We’ve got a right to know who’s accusing us.”

“As if he’s going to tell us.” Tavia refilled her coffee mug.

“You’re right.” Tom nodded to Tavia, “I’m not going to tell you. What matters is that I believe what that person says.”

Jake leaned toward Tom, his rough hands splayed on the tabletop. “There’s no way
that person
could know what was said between us and the Kellys without being there. And I didn’t notice anybody else hanging around. If there’s somebody claiming the Kellys told them that, well, good luck proving it.”

“Isn’t that called hearsay?” Tavia asked between sips of coffee.

They had a point, one that Tom wasn’t interested in arguing. He shifted gears. “Does either of you own a thirty-aught-six deer rifle?”

Tavia’s gaze met Jake’s, and for a second Tom saw a tiny crease of worry between her eyes.

“Hell,” Jake said, “who doesn’t own one? If that’s the kind of gun that killed the Kellys—”

“Ballistics will tell us whether or not a particular rifle fired the shots. If there’s no match, you won’t have a problem.” Tom asked Tavia, “Do you own one?”

“I’ve got a bunch of Ron’s old guns, but I couldn’t tell you if one of them’s a thirty-aught-whatever. I don’t know a thing about guns.” Tavia shrugged, but her casual response wasn’t convincing. She reached for her coffee but changed her mind. Her hand, Tom noticed, was trembling. “They’re still right where he left them. I haven’t even opened the cabinet in years.”

“Can I take a look?”

“You need a warrant for that,” Jake said.

“Not if I have the owner’s okay.” Tom repeated his request to Tavia.

She hesitated, frowning at Jake as if he were sending her a silent message and she couldn’t quite make it out. Finally, she pushed back her chair and stood. “Why not? I don’t have anything to hide.”

Jake remained silent, and he didn’t accompany them when they left the kitchen.

In her bare feet, Tavia led Tom to the back hallway off the kitchen and opened the door into the basement. As she reached for the light switch, she looked back as if wondering why Jake wasn’t with them.

Tom followed her down the stairs. The basement, finished for use as a rec room, looked dusty and unused, like the dining room. Over the shabby couch, the mounted heads of three bucks with impressive antlers stared with blind glass eyes.

Tavia walked to a tall, wide steel cabinet in a corner. “Ron got most of these guns from the Jones sisters after their dad died. They didn’t want them around—they’re scared of firearms. I think Ron took advantage of them, paid them next to nothing and got them to throw in the cabinet too.” Standing on tiptoes, she felt around atop the cabinet and retrieved a key. She gave Tom a wry smile. “Some security system, huh?”

She opened the cabinet door and stood aside. “Look all you want.”

Before he touched anything, Tom pulled latex gloves from his back pocket. As he put them on, he heard footsteps overhead, then what he thought was the sound of a door slamming.

“Jake’s making his escape,” Tavia said with a grin. “Don’t you want to go chasing after him?”

“I’ll catch up with him later.” Tom heard a vehicle starting outside. Even if Jake had nothing to do with the murders, he might rush home and conceal a rifle of the same type as the weapon used on Lincoln and Marie Kelly. That didn’t matter much at the moment, since Tom had no basis for a warrant to search Jake’s house or land.

He counted eleven guns racked upright in the cabinet, eight of them rifles and the rest shotguns. Why in God’s name, he wondered, did anybody need that many hunting guns? He checked each of the rifles and found one, an old Winchester, that could have fired the bullets that killed the Kellys. “Will you give me permission to take this rifle for testing? I’ll need you to sign some paperwork.”

“Sure, if it’s going to clear me.” Tavia’s defensive mask fell away and her expression softened into genuine sadness. “I didn’t kill those people, Tom. First of all, I wouldn’t know how to use that gun if I had to. And Linc and Marie were always good to me. I didn’t like them holding out on the land sale, but I never would have done anything to hurt them.”

The heavy rifle in one hand, Tom started to close the cabinet. Tavia grabbed the door to stop him. “Wait a minute. This doesn’t look right.”

“What do you mean?”

Tapping the air with her index finger, she counted the rifles and shotguns. “And that’s eleven.” She pointed to the one Tom held. “There’s supposed to be twelve in here.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. I counted them right after Ron died, when I was looking for stuff I might be able to sell if I needed money. There were twelve. One of them’s missing.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Sheila Kelly rose from the bench in the lobby at headquarters when Tom walked in. “What is that?” She pointed to the plastic-wrapped rifle he held.

Phil, the retired deputy who manned the reception desk, glanced up from his copy of the Roanoke newspaper, saluted Tom with a little wave, then returned to his reading and his coffee.

“I’m sending it to the lab for testing.” Sheila’s lip, Tom noticed, was swollen and bruised, but the blow from her brother the night before hadn’t done any major damage. She wore no makeup, so she wasn’t hiding anything. She looked exhausted, though, and he doubted she’d slept much. “Thanks for coming in. I’ll need a few minutes to do some paperwork, then—”

“Do you think that’s the gun that killed my parents?” Sheila stared at it with pure revulsion. “Who does it belong to? Where did you get it?”

“Whoa, whoa.” Tom raised his free hand. “I doubt it has any connection. I just want to rule it out.”

“You mean you want to rule out the owner. Who is it?”

“Wait for me here while I take care of this. Then we can talk about it.”

Tom took the rifle to the evidence room and logged it in. On Monday morning he would assign a deputy to drive it to the crime lab in Roanoke. A waste of time, almost certainly, but he didn’t want to make assumptions.

Sheila wasn’t waiting in the lobby when Tom went to collect her. “Restroom,” Phil said without looking up from his paper. Tom found her pacing the hallway outside his office.

“I want to get my brother out of jail,” Sheila said. “I’m not going to press charges, so you can let him go.”

What the heck had brought this on? “Sheila, I witnessed the assault, remember? It’s not your word against his. Why would I drop the charges?”

“Okay, if you insist, then I’ll bail him out. It’s a misdemeanor, right? He’s entitled to bail. Can I do that before we talk?”

“Why do you want to help him? Let him call a lawyer and make arrangements with a bondsman.”

Sheila shook her head. “He doesn’t have any money for a lawyer or a bondsman. And nobody else is going to help him.”

“What about his wife? She ought to be told he’s in jail, in any case.”

Sheila sighed and leaned her back against the wall, knocking a big framed photo askew with her shoulder. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she muttered, grabbing the frame to straighten it. “I’m so damned clumsy.”

The photo, a shot of the squat cinderblock building that housed the Sheriff’s Department on the day it opened decades before, still looked crooked after she repositioned it. “Forget the picture, it doesn’t matter. What about Ronan’s wife?”

With both hands Sheila pushed her thick black hair off her cheeks and anchored it behind her ears. “His wife is in Boston. With the kids. She walked out on Ronan two months ago.”

“Hunh.” That was one bit of intelligence Dennis hadn’t picked up on the Internet. “Did she leave because of his money problems?”

“That’s what Mom thought. She told me about it. Ronan would never confide in me. I’m sure he’s mortified by it.”

“Sheila…” Tom took her arm and nudged her toward the open door of his office. “Let’s talk about this before you do anything.”

She went with him willingly, but as he closed the door she said, “You can’t change my mind. I’m the only one Ronan has left. I’m not going to let him sit in jail.”

Tom sat on a corner of his desk and folded his arms. “Even though you’re the one he assaulted? He’s mad as hell at you. What makes you think he won’t come after you again?”

“He knows he’ll get in trouble if he does it again. I’ll be fine.”

To Tom she sounded like all the abused wives and girlfriends he’d ever dealt with after the men in their lives used them as punching bags. But Ronan was her brother, not her husband or boyfriend. “Has he done this before? Hit you during an argument?”

Sheila wrapped her arms around her waist and hunched her shoulders, defensive body language Tom recognized. “A time or two, back when we were younger. He’s always had a terrible temper. But Dad knew how to deal with him.”

“You don’t have anybody to act as a buffer now. Ronan’s desperate. He needs money. He was counting on getting half of your parents’ estate. And he blames you for him losing out.”

Tom paused, but she didn’t respond. Staring at the floor, she traced the swirling pattern in the vinyl tiles with the toe of her shoe.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Tom said.

She jerked her head up, her expression angry, defiant, confused. “He couldn’t have killed them. He wasn’t here. He was in Richmond, at work.”

“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t respons—”

“They were his mother and father! I can’t believe—” Sheila broke off, blinking back tears.

Tom waited while she pulled herself together. But he didn’t soften his voice. “If you think there’s any chance he killed your parents, you can’t protect him. But you need to protect yourself. You could be next.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, she pulled in a deep breath and let it out. “He has a right to be angry at me. I
did
push them to cut him off. They planned to leave him half, but I kept after them until they changed the terms of the trust.”

“But he didn’t know that. He still believed he was going to inherit half interest in a valuable piece of property. That’s motive for murder. And it’s not your fault.”

She chewed on a thumbnail, her face screwed up by conflicting emotions. At last she squared her shoulders and spoke with no doubt in her voice. “My brother isn’t the greatest guy in the world, and believe me, I don’t like being hit in the face, but I’ve thought about it and thought about it, and I just can’t believe he killed our parents. I want him released now.”

***

Simon was awfully quiet in the back seat of the Range Rover. Rachel wanted to hear his usual mile-a-minute commentary on everything they passed. She wanted him to be himself. He wasn’t a child who sulked, but he’d been unable to hide his disappointment that morning when she told him they couldn’t go riding at Joanna’s place, and he’d hardly spoken as they ate an early lunch. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw the sad, lost expression that settled over his face when he didn’t realize anyone was watching.

He kept one hand on the carrier that contained the two rabbits, holding it steady so it wouldn’t slide around when the vehicle hit a pothole or rounded a curve. Simon wanted the rabbits the Kellys had left behind. He’d begged Rachel not to give them to the Jones sisters. But she couldn’t predict what his grandmother’s health would be like in the coming months, and she couldn’t place another burden, however small, on Darla. She wanted to promise Simon he could have a rabbit of his own, or maybe a dog, when life got back to normal, but she had no right to promise him anything. He wasn’t her child. She didn’t control his future. And she knew the odds were high that life in his grandparents’ household would never be normal again.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t go riding,” she said, not for the first time that day. “There are things going on—well, I told you that already. It’s just not a good time.”

“That’s okay.” Simon spoke so softly she barely heard him.

If they were on horseback, climbing the hilly trails on Joanna’s property, he would be distracted, he would be pointing out hawks and ravens in the treetops and squirrels foraging in the leaf litter. He would be happy, for at least a few hours.

“Hey, I was thinking we could go out to the river and see the ducks and geese,” Rachel said. “We’ll stop by the house first and pick up Billy Bob. How does that sound?”

In the mirror she saw Simon’s eyes light up. That big grin Rachel loved spread over his face. “That’d be fun.”

“Okay then. Let’s go see the Jones ladies, then we’ll have the whole afternoon to ourselves.”

A few minutes later, as she approached the Jones sisters’ house, a vague anxiety tugged at Rachel’s mind. She didn’t know what to expect. Just how eccentric were they? Was it wise to bring Simon along instead of leaving him with Tom’s aunt and uncle?

She knew the Joneses and their cats—one for each sister—from their visits to the animal hospital, but she’d never been to their house before. The thought of the never-married sisters still living together in the family home, conjured up images of room after room overflowing with junk they’d hoarded for decades. Tom had assured her they were ordinary older women whose greatest vice was a love of gossip, but she would wait and make her own assessment. If she detected anything troubling about the household, she would hustle Simon away and she wouldn’t hand over the orphaned rabbits to the sisters.

As soon as she turned into the driveway, most of her fears evaporated. The Colonial house and its yard practically shone from loving attention and made a pretty picture that could have graced a magazine cover.

The oldest sister, Winter, waved from the front steps. This white-haired woman might be an old maid, a senior citizen, whatever society chose to call her, but her body looked strong and fit in dark slacks and a sweater, and in her movements Rachel saw the physical assurance of a woman who was still active and intended to stay that way.

“The poor little things,” Winter crooned as Rachel approached with the carrier containing the rabbits. “They must be so confused and frightened by all this moving around.” She smiled at Simon, who carried a bag containing the rabbits’ dry kibble and their dishes. “Hello there, Simon. I’m sure you don’t remember meeting me when you were a baby, but I taught both of your parents—and your uncle Tom—in high school.”

Simon’s face brightened with eager curiosity. “You were my mom and dad’s teacher?”

“I was. They were excellent students, I’m happy to tell you. The kind that every teacher loves to have in her classroom.”

Simon beamed, and he looked up at Rachel to share his pleasure with her.

She squeezed his shoulder, but restrained herself from a caress that might embarrass him. “Simon’s pretty sharp himself. We’re all proud of him, and I’m sure his parents would be, too.”

“They certainly would be. Now let’s get the bunnies inside out of this chilly breeze.” Winter clucked her tongue as she shepherded them into a pleasant, neat living room. “What a shame Lincoln and Marie’s son and daughter can’t be bothered to care for their parents’ pets. Too much trouble, I suppose? It would interfere with their schedules?”

That was a clear invitation to discuss Ronan and Sheila, and Rachel was surprised Winter had brought it up in front of Simon. “They both live some distance away, and they’d rather not put the rabbits through the stress of traveling. Or the dog. Bonnie’s happy with Joanna and her dogs.” Before Winter could comment, Rachel added, “I appreciate your willingness to do this, and I’m sure the Kellys would be grateful.”

Winter pursed her lips and shook her head but said no more about the dead couple’s disappointing offspring.

Three cats—black, gray tabby, and seal point Siamese—marched into the living room single file, forming an advance guard for the other sisters, Spring and Summer. Simon laughed as the cats circled his legs, and he dropped to his knees to pet them.

All three sisters fussed over him, remarking on his way with animals, telling him how much he looked like his father, explaining their personal connections to his family—Spring had also taught Simon’s parents, and Summer had worked with his grandmother, Anne Bridger, at the hospital. Rachel wanted to gather them in a hug for putting a real smile on Simon’s face.

“The sunroom is all set up for the rabbits,” Summer said. “Simon, do you want to see where they’re going to live?” When Rachel had last seen the youngest Jones sister, she’d been in tears over the Kelly murders, but today she was calm and smiling. Her pink blouse and cardigan complemented the rosy glow of her complexion and made her look younger than her age.

Summer and Simon led the way, but the three cats hustled to get in front of them, single file again, and seemed to know exactly where they were headed. The procession of humans and animals crossed through the dining room and kitchen on their way to the sunroom at the rear of the house.

The house was spotless, Rachel noted. No clutter, no dust on anything. In the kitchen, pots and pans with gleaming copper bottoms hung from a ceiling rack, and the white appliances shone as if they’d been waxed. If anything, these women went overboard on tidiness. She could imagine them spending most of their time perfecting a house that few people besides themselves would ever see. That was the kind of household Rachel had grown up in, and she pushed the unwelcome memory aside with an inward shudder.

“Summer’s been making some of her specialties,” Spring said as they walked through the kitchen. She gestured at a plate piled with delicate pastries, all drizzled with chocolate, under a glass cover. “You and Simon will have to stay long enough for a snack.”

“Yeah!” Simon said over his shoulder, making all of them laugh.

The sunroom was a cozy space filled with hanging plants and potted plants on tables. More than a dozen orchids of various sizes and colors sat on long tables. Needlepoint throw pillows had been arranged invitingly on a white wicker settee and matching chairs. “We’ve moved all the plants out of reach,” Summer said, “so the bunnies can be free and we won’t have to worry about them eating something harmful.”

“Wow,” Rachel said. “You’ve gone to so much trouble. I can’t thank you enough.”

When she set down the carrier, all three cats pressed close to see what was inside. The black one, Maggie, jumped back in surprise, hissing and growling. Belle, the gray tabby, took a look, quickly lost interest, and sauntered away. Tootles, the Siamese who belonged to Spring, hooked claws over the grille that formed the carrier’s door and tried to pull it open. Failing in that, she stuck her nose through the grille. The male rabbit moved closer and touched his nose to the cat’s, and the female rabbit followed.

“See there?” Winter said. “They’ll be just fine. Don’t mind Maggie. She’s set in her ways and always resists change, but she’ll come around. Tootles is the boss in this little trio. If she likes our new residents, Maggie and Belle will follow her lead.” Barely pausing between subjects and no change in tone, Winter went on, “Is Tom making any progress on finding the person who killed Lincoln and Marie?”