Jill Elizabeth Nelson (10 page)

Rich left the glass shards with Derek and wolfed down his cold lunch. He fielded a call from a reporter wanting a statement about the rose garden baby case and the shop fire, but all he gave was a no comment on ongoing cases. Then Terry came in from rounds, and Rich assigned him to cart the boxes of financial records from the sewing shop over to an impartial accountant in a neighboring town for evaluation.

After Terry left, grumbling about getting stuck with the dumb gopher jobs, Rich drove up to the Elling place. He no longer needed DNA from the baby's parents in order to confirm the child's identity, but he did still want to interview Fern. Surely she'd be available this time of day. He rang the bell and waited. A barefoot, rumple-haired Mason opened the door.

“All hail the chief.” He sneered. “What do you want this time? Grandpa's not here and neither is my mom, and
I didn't do anything, as I'm sure Deputy Dog has told you by now.”

Rich reined in his temper. This kid was just fishing for a reaction. “I'm not here to see any of those people…or you. I'd like to speak to your grandmother.”

Mason snickered and ran his fingers through his bed-head. “She's out cold. Took something for one of her migraines. Who knows when she'll grace us with her presence again. Could be suppertime, but probably not. I expect
Madame
will be served in her room.”

At least Rich didn't have to feel like he was the only recipient of this punk's disrespect. Everyone was a candidate.

“So you and your grandmother and Hannah are the only ones home right now?”

“That'd be the size of it. If you want to talk to Hannah, she's in the garden. Probably sleeping on a bench. She doesn't do much actual gardening anymore.”

Was that a hint of fondness in the young man's tone? Could be Hannah, in her vague way, had been the only one to show Mason much kindness when he was growing up.

“No, I don't need to speak to Hannah again. Thanks, anyway. I'll—”

“I know. You'll be back.” The young man smirked.

“Tell your grandmother to call me.”

Rich returned to his SUV. He looked up as he climbed into the vehicle, and that same curtain he'd noticed last time he was here twitched back into place. Rich's hands clenched around the steering wheel. Either Mason had lied to him about where everyone was and what they were doing, or else Fern or Hannah had awakened from their naps in time to spy out the window.

The Elling family had closed ranks on him. They were hiding something, but Rich didn't have a shred of hard
evidence to wangle a search warrant, even from a sympathetic judge. As he drove away, Rich scowled into his rearview mirror at the brick mansion. Whether the Ellings wanted to believe it or not, he was going to uncover the secrets that mausoleum guarded.

Only one problem. How?

N
icole nibbled at a tuna sandwich without tasting it. The security company was booked solid and couldn't get to her job for a few days. Rich would have a fit…if she told him. Otherwise, except for a couple of interruptions from reporters calling for interviews that she declined, she'd spent the afternoon hunting for the elusive insurance policy to no avail. Surely, Grandma had insured the shop.

While Nicole looked, she'd put things in order from the police search, but had hardly made a dent. Amazing how easy it was to make a mess compared to the time it took to clean it up. Mostly, she'd concentrated on her grandmother's bedroom as the likely place to yield important papers. No insurance policy had come to light or anything to do with the baby buried in the backyard, but in the closet Nicole had found a wealth of photos from her dad's and her childhoods, plus a box of awards and school papers of her father's. Nicole discovered things she'd never known about her dad.

The sentimental journey had absorbed more hours than she should have allowed, but the distraction had been welcome. She would never have guessed her dad took dance lessons as a small boy or that he had a lead part in a play in junior high. An artsy streak wasn't what she associated
with her manly-man father. The image was sort of jarring, like Clint Eastwood singing in the movie
Paint Your Wagon.
Come to think of it, that had been one of her dad's favorite old flicks. Now she knew why.

A knock sounded on the back door, and Nicole jerked. She laid the remnants of her sandwich on a plate and went to peer out the curtain over the door's window. Rich stood on the porch, gazing around as if searching for threats. She opened the door, and he stepped into the kitchen. His grim expression didn't convey comfort.

Nicole tensed. “Bad news?”

“Stan says the fire was arson.”

A forlorn cry escaped her throat. “Who would want to burn the shop? Why? It can't be to destroy evidence. The place had already been searched.”

“So had this house when someone attacked your grandmother.”

Rich's bald statement sent a pang through Nicole. Maybe the motive was sheer malice. Who could possibly hate the Kellers so much? She couldn't recall her grandparents having a single enemy, unless she counted her grandmother's antipathy toward Hannah. Was the feeling mutual? Hannah had shown herself plenty spry when she did that pirouette in her bedroom. Still, Nicole couldn't picture the plump, elderly woman tearing down those attic steps like the attacker had done or roaring around in a sports car setting fires. Of course, Nicole hadn't been able to picture her dad as a dancer or an actor, either, yet he'd been both.

“How did it happen?” Nicole steeled herself to absorb another vile report.

Rich described a crude Molotov cocktail flung through a back window.

“So anyone could have started the fire,” Nicole said.

“That's about the size of it.” Rich's gaze reflected the sad anger in Nicole's heart.

“Any leads on the driver of the sports car that the witness heard?”

Somber amusement flickered in Rich's eyes. “You know I can't tell you that.”

“Of course not.” Nicole sniffed. “But I take it you don't.”

Rich didn't correct her. Nicole turned away. When was the horror going to end? “Thanks for letting me know about the fire inspector's verdict. I haven't found the insurance policy yet, but I'm really tired, so—”

“I need to warn you about something else.”

Nicole whirled toward him. He'd stepped so close she had to crank her head back to look into his eyes. His gaze held sorrow and sympathy. She held herself rigid to keep from yielding to his warmth and stepping into arms that would hold her tight if she issued the invitation.

“Some loudmouth folks around town are jumping to conclusions about your grandparents and the Elling kidnapping.”

Nicole stared off in the direction of the cookie jar in the shape of a goose on Grandma Jan's counter. “We sort of expected that, didn't we?”

“Yeah, but I didn't want you to be blindsided when you go out into the community.”

“Well, thanks, then.” She backed away from Rich. “Have a good evening.” The trite expression flowed out her mouth even as she wished him to stay, or for herself to go somewhere far, far from death and fire and a good-looking cop that spelled danger to her heart.

“Lock up tight.” Rich turned and grasped the doorknob. “The night-duty officer will do frequent drive-bys, but don't
hesitate to call at the least hint of something out of the ordinary.”

“Will do.”

Then he was gone, and Nicole sought solace in a book. When she couldn't remember what she read, she tried a sitcom, but didn't crack a smile because all the funny lines fell on deaf ears. At last the news came on. There was a segment on the incidents in Ellington. A brief statement from Stan, the fire inspector, revealed last night's fire as arson, but there was no comment from the Chief of Police. The next shot showed a scowling crowd of townsfolk standing on a downtown sidewalk around a microphone extended by a woman reporter.

“Them Kellers been part of this community all my life,” said a craggy-faced man dressed like a farmer or laborer. “Before I was born, I guess. Always did think they was too good to be true. Upstanding bank president?” The man snorted. “Kidnapping babykiller is more like it.”

People around him nodded. Nicole clapped a hand over her mouth and swallowed bile.

The reporter put the microphone to her own lips. “It hasn't been confirmed that the bones found on the Keller property belong to the kidnapped Samuel Elling.”

The self-appointed community spokesperson sneered. “What other baby's gone missing around here?”

Vocal agreement chorused through the group.

“What's going on?” A woman's voice blared in the background and heads turned.

The familiar figure of Darlene Hooper stepped out of her beauty shop behind the group. The beautician had given Nicole's hair a trim more than once when Nicole was a little girl. Now the woman had aged to the point that she used a cane, and she stabbed it toward the crowd.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, talking about
fine folks before the evidence is in. You're all cruising for a lawsuit when the Kellers come out innocent.”

Heads lowered and people shuffled away, all except the blabbermouth, who turned toward the microphone, hunting another two seconds of fame. The reporter darted past him, microphone extended toward Darlene.

“What do you know about the recent incidents in Ellington?”

Darlene glared toward the camera. “I know what kind of folks the Kellers have always been. More good-hearted people you couldn't hope to find. Whoever hurt that baby, it wasn't them. And if I ever hear who hurt Jan, I wouldn't mind schooling them at the end of my cane.” She turned and disappeared into her shop.

The reporter faced the camera, gaze alight. “As you can see, emotion runs high in the citizens of the little town of Ellington over the discovery of the remains of the Rose Garden Baby and subsequent events, including a violent attack on the woman whose backyard served as a burial ground and the fire that destroyed her downtown shop.”

The reporter babbled on, advising viewers to tune in to future newscasts for breaking developments. Nicole jammed her thumb on the remote button, and the television went dead. Too bad she couldn't turn off the echoes of those cruel voices in her head so easily. Thank goodness for decent people like Darlene Hooper.

The phone rang, but inertia held Nicole on the couch. She didn't want to talk to anyone right now. But what if it was the hospital with news about her grandmother? Nicole sprang up and scurried to the phone on the entry table.

“Hello?” Her greeting came out rather breathy.

“I didn't wake you up, did I? You sound like you've been exercising.” It was Rich.

“No, that's all right. I thought maybe it was the hospital calling about Grandma.”

“Just me. I—um… Well, I was just wondering if you watched—”

“Yes, I saw the news broadcast.”

Rich let out a sound akin to a growl. “I wasn't sure whether to call or not. If you hadn't seen it, I didn't want to bring unnecessary hurt. But then I figured you'd probably watch the news, if not now, then tomorrow sometime. They're likely to reair that segment. Juicy, you know. Anyway—” he huffed a long breath “—I just wanted to tell you not to pay any attention to Ralph Reinert. He hangs with the wild crowd around Mason Elling.”

“Ralph's a bit old for that bunch, isn't he?”

“No one else will put up with his sophomoric behavior. To put it bluntly, he's known around town as a loudmouth. His opinion doesn't count for much.”

Nicole traced her finger through dust on the entry table. She'd let her grandmother down already, not keeping the place up. The inane thought passed through her brain then she swatted it away. “I could tell this Ralph guy was a lot more talk than intelligence, but there are obviously folks who agree with him.”

“Every gasbag has his following.”

A tiny titter left Nicole's mouth. “Thanks. You did manage to cheer me up. Some anyway.”

Her heart wouldn't be in her laugh until he told her he'd caught the perp who killed a baby, and that it was neither of her grandparents.

 

Rich hunkered down in his police unit, gaze scanning the display area and parking lot of the second implement company in town. The dealership sat on the north edge of the city next to open fields. For camouflage, Rich had
parked in the far end of the lot near some used machinery. Between him and the customer parking area lay a wide strip of grass that could use the services of one of the mowers he was guarding.

A yawn overtook him, and he shook sleep fumes from his head then sucked a mouthful from his coffee mug. The bitter, lukewarm brew hit his throat like sludge, but he forced it down. No way was he going to conk out on this impromptu, one-man stakeout. If the equipment thieves went after one implement dealership, they could well go after the other. But would it be tonight? Sometimes cop work was simply playing a hunch.

Rich had taken the task on by himself and on the sly because his police force was getting spread mighty thin between extra drive-bys at the Keller home, increased patrols downtown following the fire and the continued burglaries. He was pulling a double shift, but catching the larcenous outfit would be well worth the loss of a little shut-eye. Besides, tomorrow—well, today, actually, was his day off, and he could grab extra z's.

So far, the area around the dealership remained peaceful. Tractors and combines sat illuminated by three tall yard lights. The smaller equipment, like lawn mowers and garden tillers, hunkered in the shadows next to the building.

Rich checked his watch—4:00 a.m. If nothing happened soon, he'd hang it up for the night. The sun wouldn't peek over the horizon for another couple of hours, but the night sky was already graying. A predawn breeze wafted through the partially open driver's-side window, carrying a whiff of ripe alfalfa from a nearby field and a faint noise that hadn't been there before.

Was it the sound of tires creeping across gravel?

Rich stiffened, gaze sifting through the darkness for something out of place. Sure enough. The outline of a pick-
up and trailer took shape on the approach from the county road near the side of the building. There was no reason for the owner or an employee to enter the area from that direction, and certainly not at this hour. Rich held himself still, watching, cautioning himself to patience. The perps needed to make a move on the equipment before he nabbed them.

Two dark-clad figures, shadows in the dimness, approached a riding lawn mower. A sharp snap announced the chain anchoring the mower's wheels had been sliced with a bolt cutter. The pair began guiding the mower to the rear of the trailer.

Gotcha!

Rich picked up his radio and quietly told the dispatcher to send backup. Then he flipped on his lights and bleeped his siren. The perps went rigid. The saying “deer in the headlights” could have been written just for them. Ski masks and Western-style duster coats cloaked their identities, but Rich would know soon enough.

He climbed out of his unit and stood behind his door, gun drawn. “Hands in the air. Don't move a muscle.”

The perps complied with the hand raising, but their heads swiveled away from him. Movement near the pickup caught his eye. A flame flickered and caught, as if someone had lit a giant candle. Then the flame sailed through the air. Glass shattered on impact with a nearby piece of equipment, and fire exploded. Rich dived into his vehicle. The cuts on his back from the incident at the shop pulled and stung. A wave of sharp heat chased him then ebbed to steady warmth. Being flash-broiled was getting old.

Rich sat up. The night bloomed with fire in the grass in front of his vehicle. Doors slammed and tires squealed as the thieves roared away. Rich peeled out backward away from the fire, then skirted the blaze, and shot toward the county road, but the pickup and trailer had disappeared.

Derek, who was on night duty, arrived to back him up a few minutes too late, and then the volunteer fire department turned out to douse the grass fire. The sky had lightened to pewter, and the turf still smoldered by the time Terry pulled up. He climbed out of his black-and-white, eyes bleary and bloodshot. Rich gave him a sharp look.

“Short night, early call-out,” the man clipped in response.

Tell me about it.
Rich kept the thought to himself. “Apparently, our equipment thieves know how to make Molotov cocktails.”

“You gotta be kidding me.”

“This look like a joke?” Rich jerked a thumb toward the smoking grass.

“So these guys bombed the sewing shop, too.”

“Looks like it.”

“Should give us more evidence to piece together if it's the same perps.”