Kitabı oku: «Killer Investigation», sayfa 3

“Yes.”

“It’s been a long time. Everyone had begun to think that we’d lost you for good.”

Arden wondered whom he included in that “everyone.” Not her grandfather, surely. Clement Mayfair had never shown anything but a cursory concern for her welfare. “I’ve returned periodically for visits. I spent almost every Christmas with Grandmother.”

“And now you’ve come home to any empty house and me looking like something the cat dragged in. I apologize for my appearance,” he said as he held up his gloved hands. “I’ve been working in the greenhouse.”

He looked nothing short of pristine. “At this hour?” Arden asked in surprise.

“Maybe you’d like to see what I’ve been up to. That is, if you don’t mind the general disrepair. The greenhouse is in rather a dismal state so mind your step.”

“What have you been working on?”

His eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “You’ll see.”

He turned and she fell into step behind him on the flagstone pathway, following his graceful gait through borders of silvery artemisia and pale pink dianthus. She felt safe enough in the company of her uncle. She didn’t know him well, but he’d always been kind. Still, she couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder. She couldn’t help remembering that her mother had been murdered on an evening such as this.

The greenhouse door opened with a squeal.

“The hinges have rusted and the latch doesn’t catch like it should,” he said. “Not that there’s anything of value inside. The tools, what’s left of them, are secured in the shed around back. The lock needs to be replaced, regardless. No one needs to be traipsing about inside. Could be a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“Ambrose should have had that taken care of,” Arden said. “At any rate, I’ll have someone come out as soon as possible.”

Her uncle glanced over his shoulder. “You’re here to stay then.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t made any plans yet.”

He looked as if he were on the verge of saying something else, but he shrugged. “You’ve plenty of time. There’s no need to rush any decisions.”

She stepped through the door and glanced around. The tables and racks were nearly empty except for a few chipped pots.

“Straight ahead,” he said as he peeled off his gloves and tossed them aside.

“I’d nearly forgotten about this place.” Arden glanced up in wonder through the glass panels where a few stars had begun to twinkle. “Grandmother never talked about it anymore and we didn’t come out here on any of my visits. She gave up her orchids long ago. I’m surprised she didn’t have the structure torn down.”

“It served a purpose,” Calvin said.

“You’re being very mysterious,” Arden observed.

“Just you wait.”

Arden hugged her arms around her middle. “When I was little, Grandmother used to let me come in here with her while she mixed her potions and boosters. Her orchids were the showstoppers at every exhibit, but secretly I always thought they were the strangest flowers with the spookiest names. Ghost orchid, fairy slipper, Dracula benedictii. They were too fussy for my taste. Required too much time and effort. I adored Mother’s cacti and succulents. So hardy and yet so exotic. When they bloomed, the greenhouse was like a desert oasis.”

“I can imagine.”

Arden sighed. “The three of us spent hours in here together, but Grandmother lost interest after the—after Mother was gone. She hired someone to take care of the plants for a while... Eventually everything died.”

“Not everything.” Her uncle’s blue eyes glinted in reflected moonlight. He stepped aside, leaning an arm on one of the tables as he waved her forward. “Take a look.”

Arden moved around him and then glanced back. “Is that...it can’t be Mother’s cereus? It’s nearly to the ceiling!” She trailed her gaze up the exotic cactus. “You kept it all this time?”

“Evelyn kept it,” he said, referring to his mother and Arden’s grandmother by her given name. “After you moved away, it was the only thing of Camille’s she had left. She spent most of her time out here, trimming and propagating. As you said, mixing her potions and boosters. She may have lost interest in the orchids, but she never lost her touch.”

Arden felt a twinge of guilt. She could too easily picture her grandmother bent to her work, a slight figure, wizened and withered in her solitude and grief. “I see lots of buds. How long until they open?”

“Another few nights. You’re lucky. It’s promising to be quite a show this year.”

“That’s why you’re here,” Arden said. “You’ve been coming by to take care of the cereus.”

“I couldn’t let it die. Not after Evelyn had nurtured it all those years. A Queen of the Night this size is rare in these parts and much too large to move. Besides, this is its home.”

He spoke in a reverent tone as if concerned for the plant’s sensibilities. That was nonsense, of course, nothing but Arden’s overstimulated imagination; yet she couldn’t help sneaking a glance at her uncle, marveling that she could look so much like him and know so little about him.

Arden’s grandparents had divorced when their children were still young. Calvin had remained in the grand old mansion on East Bay Street with Clement Mayfair while his older sister, Camille—Arden’s mother—had gone to live with Evelyn at Berdeaux Place. Outwardly, the divorce had been amicable; in reality, a simmering bitterness had kept the siblings apart.

Growing up, Arden could remember only a handful of visits from her uncle and she knew even less about her grandfather, a cold, taciturn man who disapproved of little girls with dirty fingernails and a sense of adventure. On the rare occasions when she’d been summoned to Mayfair House, she’d been expected to dress appropriately and mind her manners, which meant no fidgeting at the dinner table, no speaking unless spoken to.

Clement Mayfair was a tall, swarthy man who had inherited a fortune and doubled it by the time he was thirty. He was in shipping, although to this day, Arden had only a vague idea of what his enterprises entailed. His children had taken after their mother. In her heyday, Evelyn Berdeaux had been a blonde bombshell. Capricious and flirtatious, she must have driven a reclusive man like Clement mad at times. No wonder the marriage had ended so acrimoniously. Opposites might attract, but that didn’t make for an easy relationship. On the other hand, Arden and Reid had been so much alike there’d been no one to restrain their impulses.

Her uncle watched her in the moonlight. He had the strangest expression on his face. “Is something wrong?” Arden asked.

Her voice seemed to startle him out of a deep reverie. “No, of course not. I just can’t get over how much you look like your mother. Sometimes when you turn your head a certain way...” He trailed off on a note of wonder. “And it’s not just your appearance. Your mannerisms, the way you pronounce certain words. It’s really remarkable considering Camille died when you were so young.”

“That’s interesting to know.”

He seemed not to hear her. “My sister was full of sunshine and life. She considered each day a new adventure. I was in awe of her when we were children. I sense that quality in you, too, although I think you view each day as something to be conquered,” he said with a smile. “Evelyn always said you were a handful.”

Arden trailed her finger across one of the scalloped leaves of the cereus. “I suppose I did give her a few gray hairs, although I’m sure she had her moments, too. She became almost a shut-in after Mother died, but I remember a time when she loved to entertain. She kept the house filled with fascinating people who’d traveled to all sorts of glamorous places. It was a bit like living in a fairy tale.”

Her uncle remained silent, gazing down at her in the moonlight as if he were hanging on her every word.

“Did you know that she used to organize blooming socials for Mother’s cereus? The buds would never open until well past my bedtime, but I was allowed to stay up on the first night to watch the first blossom. The unfurling was magical. And that heavenly scent.” Arden closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. “I remember it so well. Not too sweet or cloying, more like a dark, lush jungle.”

“I have cuttings at my place and I still do the same,” Calvin said. “My friends and I sit out on the balcony with cameras and mint juleps. There’s something to be said for Southern traditions. You should join us this year.” His voice sounded strained and yet oddly excited.

“At Mayfair House?” Somehow Arden couldn’t imagine her prim and proper grandfather being a party to such a frivolous gathering.

“I haven’t lived at Mayfair House in years. I have a place near my studio.”

“Your studio?”

His smile turned deprecating. “I paint and sculpt. I dabble a bit in pottery. I even manage to sell a piece now and then.”

She put a hand to her forehead. “Of course. You’re an artist. I don’t know how I let that slip my mind. I’m afraid I haven’t been very good at keeping in touch.”

“None of us has. We’re a very strange family in that regard. I suppose we all like our secrets too much.”

Arden couldn’t help wondering about his secrets. He was a handsome man, still young at forty-six and ever so charming in manner and speech. Yet now that she was older, the drawl seemed a little too affected and his elegance had a hint of decadence that hadn’t aged well. Maybe she was being too critical. Looking for flaws to assuage her conscience. No one on either side of the family had been more distant or secretive than she. Her grandmother had given her a home and every advantage, and Arden had repaid that kindness with bimonthly phone calls and Christmas visits.

As unsatisfied as she’d been with her professional life in Atlanta, she was even more discontent with her personal growth. She’d been selfish and entitled for as long as she could remember. Maybe that assessment was also too critical, but Arden had reached the stage of her life, a turning point, where hard truths needed to be faced. Maybe that was the real reason she’d come back to Charleston. Not to put old ghosts to rest, but to take stock and regroup.

Her uncle picked up a pair of clippers and busied himself cleaning the blades with a tattered rag and some rubbing alcohol. “You know the story of your grandparents’ divorce,” he said. “I stayed with Father and Camille came here with Evelyn. We lived only blocks apart, yet we became strangers. She blamed Father for the estrangement, but Evelyn could be just as contentious. She had her secrets, too,” he added slyly as he tested the clippers by running his finger along the curved blades. Then he hung them on the wall and put away the alcohol.

Arden watched him work. His hands were graceful, his fingers long and tapered, but his movements were crisp and efficient. She marveled at the dichotomy. “No matter who was at fault, it was wrong to keep you and my mother apart. To force you to choose sides. She never wanted that. She used to tell me stories of how close the two of you were when you were little. I know she missed you.”

“And yet she never reached out.”

“Did you?”

He shrugged good-naturedly. “That’s a fair point. Fear of rejection is a powerful deterrent. After the divorce, I’d sneak away from my father’s house and come here every chance I got. Sometimes I would just sit in the garden and watch my mother and sister through the windows. Or I’d lie in the summerhouse and stare up at the clouds. Berdeaux Place was like a haven to me back then. A secret sanctuary. Even though Mayfair House has a multitude of sunlit piazzas with breathtaking views of the sea, it seemed a gloomy place after the divorce. It was like all the joy had been stolen and brought here to this house.”

“You must have been lonely after they left.” Arden knew loneliness, the kind of killing emptiness that was like a physical ache. She’d felt it often in this house and even more so in Atlanta. She felt it now thinking about Reid Sutton.

She brushed back her hair as she glanced up at the sky, trailing her gaze along the same twinkling stars that she and Reid had once counted together as children.

You see that falling star, Arden? You have to make a wish. It’s a rule.

I already made a wish. But if I tell you, it won’t come true.

That’s dumb. Of course, it’ll come true.

All right, then. I wish that you and I could be together forever.

That’s a stupid thing to wish for because we will be.

Promise?

Promise. Now hurry up and make another wish. Something important this time. Like a new bike or a pair of Rollerblades.

“Arden?”

She closed her eyes and drew another breath. “Yes?”

“Where did you go just now? You seemed a million miles away.”

“Just lost in thought. This place takes me back.”

“That’s not a bad thing. Memories are how we keep those we’ve lost with us always. I made my peace with Evelyn before she passed. I’m thankful for that. And I’m thankful that you’re back home where you belong. Perhaps I’m overstepping my bounds, but I can’t help wondering...” He trailed away on a note of uncertainty.

“What is it?”

“You said you haven’t made any definitive plans, but Ambrose tells me you’re thinking of selling the house.”

“When did he tell you that?” Arden asked with a frown. She didn’t like the idea of her grandmother’s attorney repeating a conversation that Arden had considered private.

“Don’t blame Ambrose. He let it slip in passing. It’s none of my business, of course, but I would hate to see you sell. This house has been in the Berdeaux family for generations.”

Was that a hint of bitterness in her uncle’s voice? He would have every right to resent her inheritance. He was Evelyn’s only living offspring. Why she hadn’t left the property to him, Arden could only guess. In the not-too-distant future, her uncle would be the soul beneficiary of Clement Mayfair’s estate, which would dwarf the worth of Berdeaux Place.

She rested her hand on one of the wooden tables. “It’s not like I want to sell. Though I can’t see myself living here. The upkeep on a place like this is financially and emotionally draining. I don’t want to be tied to a house for the rest of my life.”

“I understand. Still, it would be nice to keep it in the family. Perhaps I could have a word with Father. He’s always had an interest in historic properties and a keen eye for real estate. And I imagine the idea of Evelyn rolling over in her grave would have some appeal.”

Hardly a convincing argument, Arden thought in distaste.

“A word of warning, though. Keep everything close to the vest. Father is a master at sniffing out weakness.”

Arden detested the idea of her grandmother’s beloved Berdeaux Place being used as a final weapon against her. She’d have Ambrose Foucault put out feelers in other directions, although she was no longer certain she could trust his discretion. Maybe it was time to look for a new attorney.

She glanced at her uncle. “Please don’t say anything to anyone just yet. As I said, my plans are still up in the air.”

“Mum’s the word, then. I should get going. I’m sure you’d like to get settled.”

“It’s been a long day,” she said.

“Don’t forget about the blooming party. And do stop by the studio when you get a chance. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

“Thank you. I would like that.”

“You should probably also know that the Mayor’s Ball is coming up. It’s being held at Mayfair House this year, all proceeds to go to the construction of a new arboretum. You know how political those things are. Everything revolves around optics. If Father gets wind that you’re home, he’ll expect an appearance.”

“Balls are not really my thing,” Arden said with a shrug. She could hardly imagine Clement Mayfair hosting an intimate dinner, much less a grand ball, but as her uncle said, those things were political. She doubted her grandfather had agreed to throw open his doors and his wallet without getting something very valuable in return.

“He can be relentless when he wants something,” her uncle cautioned. “It’s never a good idea to cross him.”

Arden lifted her chin. “I’m pretty stubborn, too. I guess that’s the Mayfair gene.”

Calvin’s expression froze for an instant before a smile flitted. “Yes, we are a hardheaded lot. Maybe Father will have finally met his match in you. At any rate, your presence at the ball would certainly make things more interesting.”

They stepped out of the steamy greenhouse into the cool evening air. He turned to her on the shadowy pathway. “Whether you come to the ball or not, Arden, I’m glad you’re home. It’s good to have someone in the house again.”

“It’s good to be here.” For now.

“Good night, Niece.”

“Good night, Uncle.”

He strode down the flagstones toward the gate, pausing at the entrance to pluck a magnolia petal from a branch that draped over the wall. Lifting the blossom to his nose, he tilted his head to the moon as he closed his eyes and savored the fragrance.

Then he dropped the flower to the ground and walked through the gate without a backward glance.

Chapter Four

Reid pulled his car to the rear of the house and cut the engine. The bulb at the top of the back stairs was out. He’d been meaning to replace it, and now he decided that adding a couple of floodlights and cameras at the corners of the house might not be a bad idea. The neighborhood was normally a safe place, but a murder half a block from where he sat tended to make one reevaluate security. He scanned the shadows at the back of the house before he got out of the car. Then he stood for a moment listening to the night.

Somewhere down the block, two tomcats sized each other up, the guttural yowls unnerving in the dark. He was on edge tonight. He rubbed a hand over his tired eyes, feeling weary from too little sleep and too many conflicting emotions. Seeing Arden had affected him far more deeply than he cared to admit. Maybe that was why he’d remained on the veranda after Evelyn Mayfair’s funeral rather than going inside to offer Arden his condolences. He’d sensed even then that a face-to-face would awaken all those old memories.

Too late now to put that genie back in the bottle. Already he could feel himself tumbling down the rabbit hole of their past.

He should have left well enough alone. There was no real reason she’d needed to hear about that magnolia blossom from him. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. She could take care of herself. Truth be told, she’d never needed his protection, but there was a time when Reid had liked to think that she did.

Okay, so, big mistake. Miscalculated his feelings. Now he would have to make sure that he stayed on guard, stayed on his side of town, but why did she have to be one of those women who grew more attractive and interesting as she settled into her thirties? More desirable as the years went by with her sunlit hair and secretive smile?

A part of Reid wanted nothing more than to pick back up where they’d left off, while another part—the more distant and less-listened-to part—reminded him of the hurt she’d once inflicted. Maybe that assessment was overblown and unfair, but she’d turned her back on him when he needed her the most. When he’d been drowning in pain and confusion and desperately needed a lifeline. That she had been just as hurt and confused did little to soften the betrayal.

That was all water under the bridge. Reid had made peace with their estrangement years ago. He hadn’t exactly been pining away. He’d sowed his wild oats and then some. No regrets. Still, no matter how much he wished otherwise, her homecoming wasn’t something he could take in stride.

The back of his neck prickled as he scoured his surroundings. An indefinable worry blew a chill wind across his nerve endings, and he frowned as he tried to clear the cobwebs from his memory. Arden’s return wasn’t the only thing that had thrown him off his game tonight. The proximity of the murder disturbed him on a level that he didn’t yet understand.

He’d come home last night, having called a cab from the bar where he’d spent the evening with friends. Vaguely he remembered paying the driver and watching the taillights disappear around the corner. As the sound of the engine faded, he’d heard the tomcats fighting. Or had the sound been something else entirely?

He told himself he’d been sober enough to discern caterwauling felines from a human scream. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen something, heard something that had gotten lost in his muddled dreams.

He thought about walking down to the alley where the body had been found to see if anything jarred loose. He discarded the notion at once. The entrance was still cordoned off, and, for all he knew, the cops might have the street staked out in hopes the killer would return to the scene of the crime. Best not to get involved. He had enough on his plate at the moment. This was make-or-break time for the new firm, and he couldn’t afford to get sidetracked by a murder or by Arden Mayfair or by an ex-con with an ax to grind against his family. Keep your head down and stay focused.

After locking the car door with the key fob, he climbed the back stairs and let himself into the apartment, flipping on lights as he walked through the rooms. The house was old and creaky, his living quarters in bad need of remodeling. But for now the space suited his needs. He didn’t mind the peeling paint or the sagging doors or even the ceiling stains from a leaky roof. What he cared about were the long windows that let in plenty of natural light and the oak floors that had been worn to a beautiful patina. The house on Logan Street felt more like home to Reid than his sleek waterfront condo ever had. He’d never liked that place or the position at Sutton & Associates that had paid for it.

He poured himself a drink and then leaned against the counter to glance through the paper. The murder received only a scant mention. The victim’s name was still being withheld, along with any details about the crime scene. Nothing about the magnolia blossom or any suspects. Nothing at all to explain that warning tingle at the back of Reid’s neck.

He scanned the rest of the paper as he finished his whiskey and then poured another, telling himself he needed to relax, just needed to take the edge off that meeting with Arden. He still had a bit of a hangover from the night before so hair of the dog and all that. Booze had flowed freely at Sutton & Associates. The competitive nature of the firm had worn on the associates and junior partners, and Reid, like the others, had fallen into the habit of happy hour cocktails with clients and colleagues, wine with dinner, liqueur with coffee and then a nightcap to finish off the evening. Sometimes two or three nightcaps just so he could shut down and get to sleep.

Now that he was out of the pressure cooker environment of his father’s firm, he needed to start taking better care of himself. Lay off the hooch. Hit the gym. Add a few miles to his morning run. Get back in shape mentally and physically. Turn over a new leaf, so to speak.

Resolved for at least the rest of the evening, he poured the remainder of his drink down the sink and then stuffed the newspaper in the trash can. Out of sight, out of mind.

It was too early to turn in so he went out to the balcony to enjoy the evening breeze. The house was built in the Charleston style—narrow and deep with the windows and balconies overlooking the side garden. If he turned his chair just so, he could glimpse the street through the lush vegetation. A ceiling fan whirled sluggishly overhead, stirring the scent of jasmine from his neighbor’s fence. He propped his feet on the rail and clasped his hands behind his head.

This had become his favorite spot. Hidden from view, he could sit out in the cooling air and watch the comings and goings in the neighborhood while his mind wound down from the daily grind. Not that his schedule was all that packed these days, but he’d just taken on a couple of promising cases, and the stress of any new venture took a toll.

He’d been rocking gently as he let his mind drift, but now he stopped the motion and sat up straight as he listened to the night. The tomcats had long since called a truce and moved on. There was no traffic to speak of, no music or laughter from any of the nearby houses. Everything had gone deadly still. It was as if something dark had crept once more into the neighborhood. A shadowy menace that prowled the streets, luring young women into alleyways and leaving the kiss of death upon their lips.

Or white magnolia blossoms beside their dead bodies.

Reid chided himself for letting his imagination get the better of him. But the longer he stared into the darkness, the more certain he became that his house was being watched. Across the street, someone hunkered in the shadows.

It’s nothing. Just a tree or a bush. No one is there.

But he was already up, leaning far over the balcony railing to peer through the oak leaves, zeroing in on a dark figure that didn’t belong in the neighborhood.

The silhouette took on definition. Slumped shoulders. Tilted head. Reid could imagine the sneer.

Dave Brody.

Keeping to the shadows, Reid slipped back into the apartment, and then raced down the stairs and out the front door. But Brody had vanished by the time he crossed the street.

Probably not a good idea to go traipsing about his neighbor’s yard, Reid decided. Good way to get shot. Instead, he circled the block, eyeing fences and garden gates until he found himself back on his street, standing at the alleyway where the young woman’s body had been found early that morning. Police tape barricaded the entrance, but no one was about. No one that he could detect.

He lifted his gaze, searching along the buildings that walled in the alley. Apartment windows looked down on the narrow street. Someone must have seen something, heard something. Had the police done a thorough job canvassing the area? Were they even now zeroing in on a suspect?

Reid turned to scour the street behind him, and he cocked his ear to the night sounds. The screech of a gate hinge. The scratch of a tree limb against glass. Somewhere at the back of the alley, a foot connected with an empty can. Or was that just the wind?

The sound jarred Reid and he told himself to go home. Leave the investigation to the police. He would be a fool to breach the police barricade and an even bigger idiot to pursue Dave Brody down a dark, deserted alley.

But when had he ever taken the prudent way out?

Ducking under the tape, he paused once more to glance over his shoulder. He could just make out his house through the lush foliage. He hadn’t taken the time to lock up on his way out. If he was bound and determined to do this, he needed to be quick about it. For all he knew, Dave Brody could already be inside his house, hiding in a closet or underneath the bed.

Disturbing thought. Chilling image.

Almost as unnerving as exploring the scene of a violent murder.

He shook off his disquiet as he entered the alley, hugging the side of the building to avoid the glow from the streetlights. He came upon the bloodstains. There were a lot of them. Whoever the young woman had been, she’d met with a violent end.

Crouching beside the stains, he lifted his gaze to the buildings. The night was very still except for the quick dart of a shadow on one the balconies. Reid’s pulse quickened as he strained to make out a silhouette. No one was there. Just his imagination.

He rubbed the gooseflesh at the back of his neck as he scoured his surroundings. A dog barked from behind a garden gate, and a fluffy yellow cat eyed him from atop a brick wall before leaping headlong into darkness. Night creatures stirred. Bats circled overhead. And somewhere in the alley, a two-legged predator watched from the shadows.

“Evening, Counselor,” a voice drawled.

It took everything Reid had not to react to that whiny twang. Instead, he rose slowly, peering back into the alley as he said in a matter-of-fact tone, “That you, Brody?” As Reid’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, the man’s form took shape. He lounged against the wall of the building, one foot propped against the brick facade as he regarded Reid in the filtered moonlight. Reid couldn’t see his features clearly, but he had no trouble imagining the tattoos, the buzzed head, the perpetual smirk. He hardened his voice. “What the hell are you doing back there?”

“I could ask you the same thing. Me? I’m just enjoying the night air while I check out the neighborhood. I always liked this area. Quiet streets. Friendly people. Maybe I should start looking for a place around here. Put down some roots. What you think about that?”

Having Dave Brody for a neighbor was the last thing Reid wanted to contemplate. And the irony of waxing poetically about the quiet streets while standing at the scene of a brutal murder seemed particularly creepy, but Reid knew better than to allow the man to goad him. “I saw you watching my house just now. You weren’t out for a stroll. You were hiding in the bushes staring up at my balcony.”

Brody turned his head and spit into the alley. “If I meant to hide, you wouldn’t have seen me. I did tell you I aimed to keep an eye on you, didn’t I?”

Reid clenched and unclenched his fists as he worked to keep his voice even. “We have more stringent stalker laws these days. You cross a line, I’ll have your hide back in jail.”

He could hear the amusement in Brody’s voice. “I’m not too worried about that, Counselor. See, I had a lot of time on my hands in prison. Did a lot of reading. I know my rights and I know the law. I won’t be crossing any lines. Just nudging up against them a little.”