Something Wicked (28 page)

He sounded rattled, and Hale exhaled his breath, looked at the clock and said, “It might be better if I saw you in person, anyway. I'll be there soon. . . .”

 

 

Savannah was standing in her hospital room, wondering if she could leave today, rather than tomorrow, but she'd tied herself to the baby with the breast-feeding. She realized belatedly that she hadn't thought that through, unusual for her, but then what was usual about the events of the past twenty-four hours?

She'd learned that Hale had left the hospital, and it had left her feeling slightly untethered. She wanted a shower—her own shower—and her own clothes, and something other than hospital food. She could go down to the cafeteria and pick something of her own choosing; she had her wallet. She knew she was running on empty sleep-wise, but she did not feel tired.

“Hey,” a voice said behind her. She turned to find Lang standing in the doorway with a brown grocery bag. “Claire helped me, but we didn't see a bag, so . . .” He placed the grocery bag on her bed a bit apologetically. “Claire headed to work. They're short-staffed because of the weather, but she's chained up.”

Savvy smiled at him, then was horrified to feel her smile start to tremble on her lips. She was a hormonal mess! She wanted to throw herself into Lang's arms like he was the long-lost big brother she sometimes thought of him as. It was with an effort that she held her composure.

“The phone charger's there,” he added, pointing to the bag.

“Thank you,” Savvy said with feeling.

He eyed her pink blouse. “That doesn't look hospital issue.”

“Yeah . . .” Savvy quickly brought him up to date about the harrowing events of the past hours, finishing with the fact that Hale had brought her Kristina's overnight bag, which had been in his car.

Lang just stared at her when she finished. “I don't want to be a bastard, but what the hell were you doing driving back in the worst storm we've had in years?”

“Kristina.” Savvy said her sister's name and nothing else. She couldn't.

“I know, but . . .”

“You don't know, Lang. You don't.”

“I know a little bit about losing a sister,” he said.

Savvy drew herself up short. Lang's sister, Melody, had been killed by her psychotic boyfriend a number of years earlier. “I'm sorry,” she said, heartfelt, her eyes burning.

“I shouldn't have brought it up. Never mind. You're here. Safe. The baby's safe.”

She nodded, unable to find her voice immediately. Buying time, she turned to the grocery bag, pulled out her charger, and plugged her cell phone into it.

“Maybe I should leave,” he said.

“No, wait. Please. I'm okay. I just want to talk about something else, think about something else.”

“Okay.”

Savvy inhaled and quietly exhaled, then asked, “Anything new on the Donatella homicides? I know we just met with Hillary Enders on Friday.”

“This snowstorm's kinda decimated any momentum we had going, but Kyle Furstenberg did finally call me back. Apparently Hillary got through to him.”

“Anything there?”

“Doesn't look like it. Furstenberg denied everything, even started waffling on whether Hillary was really involved with Marcus Donatella. Maybe that Bancroft employee who told us about Hillary Enders . . . Ella . . . something . . .”

“Blessert.”

“Yeah, her. It's starting to seem like she might be one of those women who want to involve themselves in their friends' affairs. Live vicariously, or whatever. She said she thought Hillary was having an affair with Marcus Donatella, and she thought Furstenberg could be the killer, but it's starting to seem like a lot of hot air. 'Course, Furstenberg got on the news and made it all a big story, and he's pretty sorry about that now.”

“You think this angle's a dead end.”

“Kinda do,” he admitted. “We all just wanted to kick-start the investigation again.”

“I know.” Savvy had felt that way, too. Eager for closure.

“Toonie called from the shelter. Your friend Mickey showed up once the snow started falling. He's asking for you.”

“Great.”

Lang smiled.

“Before the storm hit, I interviewed all the Bancroft employees again,” Savvy told him. “Starting with the Seaside office, and then everyone I could reach at the Portland office, and some ex-employees, too.”

“How'd that go?”

“Kind of as you'd expect.” She told him briefly about meeting Sean Ingles, the architect, at the main offices; connecting with Clark Russo and Neil Vledich at the Lake Chinook home construction site, then with Henry Woodworth at the RiverEast apartment building; talking by phone to Nadine Gretz, who was apparently Henry's girlfriend; and finally meeting up with Owen DeWitt at the Rib-I steak house and bar. Her mind tripped on her conversations with Nadine Gretz and Owen DeWitt, both of whom had accused Kristina of having an affair, but she didn't say anything to Lang about their comments. Not yet. Not until she had a little more time to think about it.

But she did say, “I'd like to see the physical evidence from the Donatella crime scene again.”

Lang's brows lifted. “Care to share?”

“I want to see where they found blood traces, or anything else.” Like semen, maybe, on the wall. Owen DeWitt's smirking voice echoed in her ears. “He had her up against the wall. Banging her like crazy, and she was . . . man . . . in ecstasy. Head thrown back and first making these little kittenlike sounds and then screamin'! She was riding him and lovin' it.”

The thought hit her again like a bullet. Aching pain in her soul. While she was thinking and talking about the case, she could almost forget. That was what she needed to do. Keep her mind busy.

“I can get you the report,” Lang said, bringing her back to the present.

“No. I'll come in tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I can't just sit around and think, Lang.”

“Okay,” he said slowly.

“Okay,” she agreed. Then, before he could come up with some further reason for her to stay away from the station, she steered him out of the room and said, “I was just heading to the cafeteria. Do you know that you need even more calories when you're breast-feeding than when you're pregnant? It takes a lot of energy to manufacture milk.”

“You're breast-feeding?”

“For the moment,” she said, pushing the niggling worry about how Hale would react to the back of her mind.

“You want a wheelchair?” he asked, seeing the careful way she moved.

“Not on your life.”

 

 

His grandfather wasn't in the kitchen when Hale let himself into his house, and he yelled loudly, “Hello!”

“I'm at my desk!” Declan called back, and when Hale walked down the hall and entered the office, he found him busily writing on a yellow notepad.

Declan looked up and blinked rapidly. “What happened to you?”

Hale made a strangled sound that was meant to be a laugh. “I hardly know where to start.”

“Well, then, let me go first. Somebody's been around here. I keep hearing them in the house.”

Hale nodded. He wasn't going to argue with Declan; he just didn't have the energy. But his grandfather wasn't as sharp as he used to be, and this wasn't the first time he'd been certain there was someone in his house. Hale had made the distinct error of suggesting that maybe Declan should move to assisted living and had been told clearly and colorfully where he could stick that idea. Declan, for being a gentleman around women, was salty enough when there were just men around.

“He says he's my son,” Declan said, at which Hale, who had been feeling dozy and unfocused, snapped to attention.

“Someone actually talked to you?”

“Felt more like a dream, actually.” He waved a hand, as if hearing how that sounded. “
Ach.
I'm getting the two things confused. Someone's definitely been walking around the house. Sneaking around.”

“I'll take a look.” Hale pushed himself to his feet with the arms of the chair.

“Be careful.” Declan suddenly looked concerned.

Hale did a cursory inspection of the house, but there was no one inside. Then he walked around the home's perimeter, but there were no footsteps in the snow apart from his own. He came back inside, stamping snow from his boots.

“I don't see any signs of trespass,” he said, retaking the chair across from Declan's desk, practically falling into it.

“You think I'm making it up,” Declan declared.

“I don't really know.”

“Someone's been here.”

“I know. Your son.” Hale regarded him soberly. “You keep saying things about having another child.”

“I said it was a dream,” he said quickly.

“Yeah, but it's not the first time you've said it, or something like it. I'm starting to think you're trying to tell me something.”

“I have a daughter,” Declan stated firmly. “I don't have a son. I'm not crazy, Hale. But someone's been here. He's trying to send me a message. He's the one that's out of his mind, but I swear, he's gaslightin' me.”

“Dreams'll do that.”

Declan stubbornly pressed his lips together and glared at him.

Hale closed his eyes. Lack of sleep was playing tricks with his mind as well. He had to cut through his grandfather's paranoia. “I've got some things I need to tell you. Then I'm going home, and I'm going to bed. I haven't slept since Friday night, and that wasn't the greatest night's sleep, either.”

“Well, get on with it,” Declan said irritably, glancing around again, as if he didn't quite believe someone wasn't there.

Hale took a breath, thought about how to tell Declan everything that had transpired, then launched into the tale of the past few days with, “Kristina didn't come home at all on Friday night. . . .”

 

 

As soon as Savannah and Lang entered the cafeteria, a voice called, “Detective?” and they both swung around.

It took a moment for Savvy to recognize the blond-haired young woman staring at her. Seeing her in a pair of pants, a shirt, and a jacket and so out of context had Savannah reaching through her memory to the people she'd recently seen in Portland and the hospital before the connection was made.

“I'm Ravinia,” the girl said, seeing her struggle.

“Ravinia,” Savannah repeated.

“What are you doing here?” Lang asked before she could say anything else. “Where's Catherine?”

“She's here. Aunt Catherine had an accident, and Earl brought us.”

“Us? Who else is with you?” Lang asked.

“Earl went back for Ophelia . . . well, Isadora, but Ophelia came.”

“What kind of accident?” Savvy asked.

“I guess she slipped in the snow and smacked her head on something.”

“How serious is it?” Lang demanded, cutting to the chase.

“I don't really know.” Ravinia's face clouded. “They don't tell me much, but they act like she'll go home soon.”

“Good,” Lang said.

“She should be just fine,” Ravinia added, sounding strained.

Savvy couldn't tell if that was wishful thinking on her part or the truth. Lang looked past her, toward the cafeteria doors, and Ravinia, reading his mind, put in swiftly, “Oh, she wouldn't want a man coming to see her, believe me.”

Lang nodded and rubbed his jaw. He had known Catherine before Savvy had, and knew the truth of that.

“I'd like to check on her,” Savvy said.

Ravinia looked uncertain about that idea, but Savvy didn't much care. Catherine, and her issues, would be another distraction from her own tortured thoughts. Nailing her request home, Savvy added, “She came to the TCSD for help, and I'd like to tell her I'm following up.”

Ravinia's gaze skated over Savannah from head to toe, and she said, “I saw them bring you in last night. You had your baby.”

“Yes.”

“But the man you were with.” Ravinia's gaze flicked to Lang and then away. “He wasn't the man you were with.”

“I'm Detective Stone,” Lang said. “I'm a friend of your aunt's.”

“I was with the baby's father last night, Hale St. Cloud,” Savvy told her.

Ravinia reacted as if stung.

“You know Hale?” Lang asked.

“No . . . no . . .” Ravinia looked away for a moment, and Savvy could almost see the calculations going on inside her head.

Lang said to Savannah, “Fill me in later.”

“Will do,” she answered. To Ravinia, Savvy asked, “Can you tell me which room Catherine's in?”

“I can do better than that. I'll take you there,” she answered woodenly.

R
avinia led Detective Dunbar into her aunt's room and locked eyes with Ophelia, who was sitting in a chair, her hands folded on her lap. Ophelia had been looking out the window to the west, but as soon as she turned her head and saw them, she straightened into a stiff line.
Good.
Ravinia was pissed at her older sister. Earl had dropped her off after mumbling something about being unable to get her to come any earlier, and then he'd picked up Rand and left the hospital. Aunt Catherine had fallen into a deep sleep, and Ophelia had held her finger to her lips, so Ravinia had been unable to talk to her. Chafing at the unfairness of it all, she'd headed for the bathroom first, where she'd finger-combed her hair and gazed into her darkly clouded eyes in the mirror and wondered how, if ever, she was going to get any serious information beyond what Catherine had already told her.

It felt important that she know everything. Imperative. Who was out on Echo Island? The man from the bones?

She'd wondered if she should find a way home and question Cassandra, or Maggie or whatever the hell she wanted to be called. Maybe she had something more than her dire woo-woo predictions. Like some actual facts. Sure, Aunt Catherine clearly knew more, but the way she gave out little tidbits of information, then just clammed up, set Ravinia's teeth on edge.

Maybe it was time to leave, she'd determined as she headed down to the cafeteria. It looked like Aunt Catherine was going to be okay, and Ophelia was in charge—and Isadora, of course, was back at the house—so the urgency that had driven Ravinia since the night before had dissipated. What the hell. She didn't belong with them, all shut up in that drafty old monster of a house. It was probably time to get the hell out of Deception Bay and find out what her life was really supposed to be about.

And then she'd run into Detective Dunbar and the man, that other detective. Stone. So, here they were.

Ophelia rose and held up her hand to both Ravinia and Detective Dunbar, silently asking them to back right out the door. The detective nodded and complied, and Ravinia, feeling rebellious, opened her mouth to protest. She wanted to scream, “I was here first!” but it didn't really matter, anyway, so she followed Detective Dunbar into the hall, and Ophelia followed and closed the door to Catherine's room behind her.

“I'm Savannah Dunbar,” the detective said, introducing herself. “I heard Catherine was in an accident.”

“I told her,” Ravinia put in.

Ophelia said, “She's sleeping. I just didn't want to disturb her. I'm Ophelia Beeman.” She held out her hand, which the detective shook.

“Catherine went to the police and asked for help,” Ravinia said.

“Help?” Ophelia repeated.

“Catherine asked me to come to Siren Song last week,” Detective Dunbar explained.

And you weren't around, Ravinia thought smugly, meeting Ophelia's surprised eyes.

“Oh.” Ophelia didn't seem to know what to say.

Ravinia took the bull by the horns. “So, maybe the detective should talk to Aunt Catherine. I mean, if something bad happened to her out there. If she didn't just slip or something . . .”

Ophelia gave Ravinia a cold look, one of those “We'll talk about this later” glares.

“Fine,” said Ravinia's silent glare back. “Bring it on.”

“Maybe you should talk to her,” Ophelia said slowly to the detective, ignoring Ravinia's smirk of achievement.

 

 

Savannah followed the two Colony women back inside Catherine's room and gazed over at the woman who'd been so tough and in control just days before. Now, lying on her back, her eyes closed, Catherine looked older and more fragile than her actual fifty-plus years.

“Aunt Catherine?” Ophelia said quietly, placing one of her hands over one of Catherine's.

It took two more tries before Catherine's eyes fluttered open. Savvy had just opened her mouth to say that maybe it was better to wait when Catherine's gaze centered first on Ophelia, then Ravinia, then Savannah.

Ravinia said, “The detective was here at the hospital and wanted to see you.”

“Savannah Dunbar,” Savvy said, reintroducing herself.

“I know who you are,” Catherine said in a voice that sounded dry and rusty. She cleared her throat and added, “Ophelia?”

“Earl brought me. Isadora's at the lodge with the others.”

Catherine nodded her understanding. She seemed to collect herself with an effort, and when she spoke, it was to Savannah. “You . . . found out about . . . my question?”

Catherine clearly didn't want the other two to know about the knife, so Savannah answered obliquely, “I was at the hospital because I had my baby last night.” And my sister died, she said to herself silently. The real reason she'd ended up at Ocean Park.

“Is he all right?” Catherine asked instantly, a look of concern on her face, and Savvy saw that she'd inadvertently telegraphed her feelings about Kristina.

“He's fine. Better than fine. Great, actually.”

The older woman relaxed a bit. “What did you name him?”

“Uh . . . he's not mine to name.” Another wave of sadness caught at the back of her throat. “I was a surrogate for my sister and her husband. The last I heard, she and Hale were thinking of naming him Declan, after his great-grandfather, but I don't really know if—” She cut herself off at Catherine's swift intake of breath.

“Aunt Catherine?” Ophelia asked with concern.

“Excuse me. I'm sorry.” Catherine touched a hand to the side of her head, where an ugly bruise had formed near her temple. “Did you say you were a surrogate for
Hale
St. Cloud?”

“You know him?” Savannah asked.

Ravinia had been gazing at Savannah with laserlike intensity, but now she turned to her aunt. Ophelia looked a little startled, like she either wasn't following the conversation or was surprised by where it had turned.

“I know of him,” Catherine said, ignoring both of her nieces. “You grow up around here, you know everybody. Girls . . . do you mind leaving me with the detective for a moment?”

Ravinia said, “Why? What can't we hear?”

“I just need a little privacy.”

Ophelia hustled the resisting Ravinia toward the door. “Can I get you anything, Aunt Catherine?” she asked over her shoulder. “Something to drink?”

“A cup of tea would be wonderful,” Catherine said.

As soon as Ravinia and Ophelia were out of earshot, Savvy said, “I followed up on your request. The knife's being tested now.”

“Take a seat, Detective,” Catherine said. “You look . . . tired.”

Savvy did as suggested, sinking gratefully into one of the two straight-backed chairs in the corner. “But I put it through as a possible homicide investigation, not as a private request,” she added.

“That's not what I asked for!” Catherine said sharply.

“I'm sorry, but you think someone killed your sister. That's what I'm getting from you, and it may come to an exhumation—”

“My sister's remains are not to be disturbed. I just want to know if there's any blood, other than Mary's, on that knife.”

“Well, that's the problem,” Savvy stated flatly. “You said she was stabbed, so it's up to the ME to determine whether it was accidental or intentional.”

Catherine sank back into her pillows, an anxious expression tightening her face. “Don't name your baby Declan. It's unlucky.”

Savannah almost laughed at the sudden change of subject. “Unlucky?”

“Mary used that name for one of her sons.”

“Declan?” Savvy said, getting a bad feeling about that, especially considering Catherine's genetics lesson. “One of the ones she adopted out . . . ?”

“It's not what you think. Declan Bancroft wasn't his father.”

“Okay . . .”

“Where's the journal?” Catherine asked suddenly. “Is it still in the room, or did Ravinia take it?”

“I don't see any journal,” Savvy said, glancing around.

“It's all going to come out now that Ravinia knows. If it were just Ophelia . . .” She moved her head fretfully from side to side against the pillow.

Savannah waited a few moments while Catherine clearly wrestled with herself about something. When the older woman didn't speak for several moments, Savvy said, “I get the feeling there's something you want to tell me. More about Mary and what happened to her? But you won't allow yourself.”

“Can I trust you, Detective?” She had folded her hands together and was squeezing her knuckles until they showed white.

“If you're planning on confessing to a crime, I'm bound by law to report it,” Savannah said with faint humor, “but yes, you can trust me.”

“Mary named her son Declan because she was playing a cruel joke on me. That's how she was, especially at the end. Cruel. And delusional. She even listed Declan Bancroft as the father on the boy's birth certificate.”

“I see. . . .”

Catherine gave her a cool look. “You're wondering why it was a cruel joke. Yes, I had a . . . relationship with Declan Bancroft. It was after his wife died, and it was short-lived. My sister and I were the same in one regard. We were attracted to older men. Not that Mary couldn't go younger when it suited her.” She paused a moment, then asked, “Have you ever been in love, Detective?”

Savvy slowly shook her head.

“It makes you do crazy things. I didn't believe it until it happened to me. When my sister had Declan, Dr. Parnell Loman wrote out the birth certificate for her. Parnell did a lot of things for my sister that would have probably gotten his medical license revoked, but he was under her spell. He's dead now, the devil take his soul.” Her voice hardened. “She named the boy Declan, then adopted him out shortly thereafter. Almost from birth, he exhibited . . . traits . . . that were worrisome.”

“His gift?” Savvy suggested.

“Maybe. Something connected to it, I'm sure. Parnell helped her with the adoption, too. I don't have any records, and Mary kept that information to herself. Frankly, at the time, I was just relieved the child was gone, but now I think we need that information.”

“You think this Declan was involved with your sister's death?”

“Yes.” She glanced toward the window. “The boy, a man now, probably knows his birth name was Declan, and he may think Declan Bancroft is his father.”

“Who is his father?”

“I don't know his name. I can see him in my mind's eye, and I know what he told us, but it was a lie. I think Mary found out, but she kept it from me. But I think Declan Jr.—Mary's son, that is—may suffer from the same mental problems as his mother, only maybe it's worse.”

Savvy felt a coldness creep up her spine and actually looked behind her to see if there was something there. “When you gave me the lesson on genetics, you were thinking of him.”

“I was hoping Mary's death could be explained.”

“But you suspected Declan Jr. killed her.”

Catherine nodded.

“And you think his blood may be on that knife,” Savvy said, guessing.

“It's possible. But I don't want an exhumation unless it's absolutely necessary. I want to find him. I want you to find him and bring him in. If his blood is on the knife, then you'll be able to make a DNA match, right?”

“If he's as . . .” She almost used the word
evil
, but it sounded so melodramatic that she said instead, “As intent on causing harm as you say, he could have a criminal history already, and his DNA might be in the system.”

“No. He's too careful.” Catherine's blue eyes closed again, and she let out a soft shudder. “There's probably nothing on the knife other than Mary's own blood.”

“How do you know he's careful?”

“By a means that would never stand up in court,” she said.

“You're talking about your own gift?”

“I have a little bit of precognition. Not like Cassandra's, but a little bit.”

“What else do you know about Declan Jr.?”

“He's dangerous, and I believe Mary drew him to her on the island. She set him on a path. She unleashed him, Detective. And he killed her.”

Savannah gazed at the older woman and said, choosing her words carefully, “It sounds like you're asking me to start a manhunt for someone you think may have killed your sister, but you don't want an exhumation of her body. In fact, you're adamantly against that, even though you think this man could be a danger to others, as well.”

“Oh, he is. To all of us.”

Cassandra/Maggie's words came back to Savannah, and she shivered a little.

“What?” Catherine asked.

“Cassandra said she told you about the man and the bones. That he came for Mary, and he was coming for all of you and maybe even me, too. Is that who she meant? Declan Jr.?”

“Yes,” Catherine answered after a long moment.

I see only his beauty...
. Cassandra had said that, too.

Now, like then, Savannah felt a cold finger of premonition slide down her spine. She wasn't really buying into the whole thing; there was a lot of woo-woo and paranoia involved in the story, and she didn't see how it affected her. But it did get to her viscerally, no matter what she believed.

“When I get the report on the knife—whose blood's on it—I'll let you know.”

“Detective, don't dismiss the danger. We're not the only ones in this man's sights. He believes he's Declan Bancroft's son, and he may act on that information. I don't have any idea what his timetable is, but be assured that he has one. Yes, I believe he killed my sister, and yes, I believe he's targeting us now. And his real father was a monster. . . .”