Whisper of Evil (14 page)

Still grave, Shelby said, "Then maybe it's emotional ghosts disturbing your sleep. Coming home after so many years can't be easy."

Nell shied away from the tacit invitation to talk about whatever might be bothering her, wondering grimly if it was the discretion recently learned because of her job or the old reluctance to open up that kept her silent.

Whichever it was, she heard herself say, "I never sleep well the first few nights in a strange bed. It'll pass. And this place really doesn't feel like home, you know. Far as I can tell, Hailey changed just about everything from the rugs to the wallpaper; I don't even recognize half the furniture."

"She liked to shop," Shelby observed with a grin.

"No kidding."

"The word in town was that with only one of his girls left, your father sort of went overboard trying to keep her here. Gave her anything she wanted, pretty much."

Nell could have said that her sister had always been good at turning circumstances to her benefit, but all she said was, "I'm not surprised."

"It seemed to work too. I mean, she seemed pretty happy. Until there were a few whispers about her and Glen Sabella, and the next thing we all knew the two of them ran off."

"Our father was always… very unforgiving. If she had done anything to disappoint him, he wouldn't have hesitated to let her know how he felt about it."

"And disowned her?" Shelby shook her head. "Jeez, talk about being hard-nosed. He didn't disown you, though."

"I didn't run off with another—I didn't run off with a man." Nell saw Shelby's eyes narrow, and added quickly, "Anyway, like I said, this doesn't really feel like home. But I do have a lot on my mind, so it's not surprising I haven't slept well."

Shelby looked at her a moment, then tapped one finger on the photo still lying between them on the table. "And this?"

"I don't know how to explain this," Nell confessed. "Maybe we're both… making too much of it. We may not be able to explain it, but that doesn't mean it isn't… just a shadow."

"And if it's something more?"

"Then I have no idea what that would be. But—I may know someone who could figure it out for us. Do you mind if I keep this?"

"No, of course not. I made myself a print to brood over, but this one's yours." Shelby rummaged in her shoulder bag and produced a manila envelope. "I even brought you the negative. Hey, you will tell me if this expert of yours figures it out, won't you?"

"Sure." Nell slid the photo into the envelope with its negative, her gaze on the other woman. She debated for a silent moment, but since it was something she'd been considering ever since the day she'd arrived and spoken to Shelby, she abruptly decided to follow her instincts. "Shelby… these murders. They interest you, don't they?"

"I've always loved mysteries, you know that." Shelby grinned. "The more murky the better. And this one's about as murky as they come. Why?"

Nell drew a breath and let it out slowly. "Because I have a favor to ask. And a story to tell."

Business was slow on this Friday, so Nate McCurry left his secretary in the office doing paperwork and went off toward town on the pretext of calling on a few customers. What he actually did was stop in at the cafe for a cup of coffee and the opportunity to listen in on the latest about the investigation.

He wasn't the only one doing that either. The place was unusually busy on this weekday morning roughly halfway between the breakfast and lunch rush hours, with most of the customers having coffee like Nate or some sort of light snack they could pretend was brunch.

Other than that, however, nobody was trying to pretend.

"I heard the cops found all kinds of shit George Caldwell had stashed away," one customer announced, sitting at the lunch counter with his back to it so he could see everyone else.

"Like what?" another demanded.

"Porn is what I heard. Really nasty stuff too."

"Naw, I heard it was diamonds."

Somebody laughed, and another man, older and heavyset, said incredulously, "You saying poor oid George was a jewel thief? Setting aside the fact that he was about as light on his feet as I am, I wouldn't say there'd be much to interest a jewel thief around here."

"Plenty of people put their money in gold or jewels, Ben. You might be surprised at just how many."

Ben Hancock shook his head and said, "Wasn't jewels. Or porn. I'd be surprised if they'd found anything at all. Yet, anyway."

"Okay, but what do you think he was into? He must've been into something, Ben, or he wouldn't have got his head blown off."

With a shrug, Ben replied, "If I had to guess, I'd say George's biggest problem was that he was nosy. Always poking into things that didn't concern him. Always writing things down and making those lists of his."

"But why'd somebody want to kill him for that?"

"I'm just saying, he might've found something that somebody didn't want him to find, that's all. This whole thing's about secrets, isn't it? So maybe it wasn't George's secret that got him killed. Maybe it was somebody else's."

"Like whose?"

"Hell, I don't know. The killer's, maybe?"

Someone else said, in a hopeful tone, "Maybe it's not about secrets. Maybe it's just about something usual. Like money."

Nate McCurry spoke up then, making sure his voice sounded only mildly interested. "If you believe the newspapers, people get killed because of money every day. But there are other reasons too. And if you look at the other three dead men, two of them had secrets that had nothing to do with money."

"That's true enough," Ben allowed. "And George had been separated from Sue for a long time, so you know the marriage had been in trouble—for whatever reason. Maybe it was just a midlife crisis, the way she kept saying, or maybe it was something else."

One of the few women in the cafe said, "I heard there was another woman, but if there was, he sure didn't show her off around here."

"Married," Ben guessed. "Either that or he didn't want to give Sue any ammunition to use in court."

Obviously speaking from bitter experience, another man said, "The judge does tend to award the wife a bigger settlement if the husband has been screwing around, especially if he's doing it so that everybody knows he's doing it."

Patiently, Nate said, "Yeah, but would cheating on a wife he'd already left and hadn't lived with for two or three years make George a target for this killer? Is that a big enough secret—or a big enough sin—to make this killer want to punish him?"

Ben grimaced. "Jesus, how many of us can say we don't have at least a little secret or two and a few minor sins laying around? If that's the yardstick this guy is using, then nobody is safe."

Trying not to sound as desperate as he felt, Nate said, "The police haven't found any other connection between the men except that they all had secrets?"

"We don't know about George yet," Ben reminded.

"Yeah, but the others?"

"According to the papers there's no other connection. Of course, we don't know that the police are making all their information public. Maybe Ethan and his people know something they aren't telling."

"I don't think they know squat," somebody else muttered loudly. "Running around chasing their own tails, if you ask me."

They were still pondering that when a tall man rose from a shadowed booth at the back and came to the front to pay his bill. He had a pleasant word with Emily when she emerged from the kitchen to take his money, then saluted the others with a cheerful, "Have a nice day, folks," as he left the cafe.

The bell on the door jingled, the waitress returned to the kitchen, and the customers were left staring at each other.

"Was he here the whole time?" someone asked uneasily.

"The whole time," Ben confirmed. "Didn't you see him back there?"

"No, Ben, I didn't see him back there. Jesus."

Somebody else muttered, "They ought to make them all wear uniforms, even the detectives."

"Guilty conscience?"

"Hell, no. But he shouldn't eavesdrop."

"Part of his job," Ben pointed out, obviously enjoying the chagrin all around him.

"Shit."

Nate McCurry looked out the window beside his table to watch Detective Justin Byers strolling away.

He was scared.

He was really scared.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"I think I can handle it," Shelby said.

"I know you can. But be careful, okay?"

"I will if you will."

Nell smiled. "I'll be careful."

"I'm glad to hear it. And, listen—you have a standing offer to come use my guest room, so don't hesitate. If nothing else, you just might want some company."

The words were barely out of her mouth when they both heard through the open kitchen window a sharp whistle from out back and Max's voice calling Nell's name.

"Or maybe that won't be a problem," Shelby murmured, amused.

Glancing down at the envelope holding a photograph that in addition to a threatening shadow also showed Max lurking and watching her very intently, Nell said, "I suppose it would be useless to pretend this is just a casual visit to offer a neighborly good morning."

"Entirely useless," Shelby responded with a grin as she got to her feet. "I'll be in touch if and when I have something. But for now, I'm going away. Don't bother showing me out, just tell Max I said hi, okay?"

Nell took Shelby at her word and didn't walk with her through to the front of the house. Instead, she put the envelope safely away in a drawer, then shrugged into the light jacket hanging ready by the back door. She went out to find Max, as she'd expected, riding his bay gelding and leading a saddled pinto.

"I thought we might as well get an early start," he said in lieu of a good morning.

"Shelby said hello," Nell responded in a wry voice.

They both heard Shelby's little car roar to life out front, then the cheerful tattoo of its horn as she headed back to town.

Max grimaced. "I should have called first."

Determinedly offhand, Nell said, "Like the mayor said, if people see us together, they'll likely focus on past history instead of making any connection to the murders. Shelby certainly did. I can stand it if you can."

He handed over the pinto's reins. "I'd put up with just about anything to find out who killed those men."

Nell decided not to examine that sharp remark too closely. She patted the horse, then paused before mounting to say, "For all you know, I might not have been near a horse in twelve years."

"If so, it'll come back to you quickly. Natural riders never lose their abilities."

Nell swung up easily and settled into the saddle. "Well, as a matter of fact, I still ride every chance I get."

"Are there many chances in D.C.?"

"A few. And I work quite a bit outside D.C., you know." She barely paused. "I gather you've decided to help and that you feel approaching at least some of the crime scenes by horseback is the way to go."

"Didn't I say so?"

She wasted a moment wondering how long he would carry the chip on his shoulder, then reminded herself that he wasn't likely to improve in temperament, at least as long as she continued to hold him at a distance.

It didn't help much, knowing that. In fact, it didn't help at all.

Pleasantly, she said, "Probably a good idea, at least for the first two murders. The bayou where Luke Fer-rier drowned is closest, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Lead the way."

Silently, he turned the bay and set off through the woods.

Nell followed, trying to focus completely on familiarizing herself with the pinto's smooth gait, with enjoying the mild warmth of the morning and the clean scents of spring. She wanted her mind occupied with trivialities rather than open and receptive; her restless night had left her feeling raw and unsettled, a state not helped at all by Shelby's eerie photograph—or by Max and his silent insistence that she answer questions she was not yet ready to face.

It was hardly the best condition in which to go looking for evidence—psychic or physical. In fact, it was the worst possible condition. Not for the first time, she wondered if she was being unprofessional in not telling Bishop she was too close to this situation to do her job effectively. But the answer she arrived at was the same one she had reached every time she had asked herself the question before: Doing that would only confirm that she was a coward, so afraid of facing her past she was willing to allow it to ruin her present and her future.

She couldn't do that, could she?

Could she?

No. She had to deal with this, no matter what it cost her. It was impossible to move forward until she stopped looking back, she knew that only too well. And she needed to move forward. For Max's sake as well as her own.

She fixed her gaze on the uncommunicative expanse of his leather jacket and stifled a sigh that only the pinto's turned-back ear could have caught.

Why did everything have to be so goddamned hard?

Max stopped at a fork in the trail they were following and turned in the saddle to look back at her and say briefly, "I guess they told you about your grandmother's house?"

"Yeah, they told me." Nell stopped her own horse, gazing along the south trail that all during her childhood had led her to an old house at the edge of a plowed field where her grandmother had chosen to live alone. "It burned down."

"It had been standing empty since she died," Max reported. "I rode out this way pretty regularly and never saw anybody around or any sign of vandalism. Far as I could tell, your father and Hailey never went there once they'd cleared the place out, and nobody from town would have—except maybe some kid on a dare."

Well aware that her grandmother's house had long been considered by the local children to be a spooky, haunted place to be approached only when proving one's bravery, Nell merely nodded in understanding.