Beach Thriller(38)
Anna shouldn’t have been alone that night. I should have been with her. Her death is my fault.
Walker would have growled if he could. “You called me out here for that?” Then he laughed, a grating sound that made her blood pressure surge.
She straightened, her resolve hardening. “Yes, Tom,” she said, purposely forgoing any formalities. “I need to take a look for myself.”
“And what exactly are you looking for?” Walker latched his hands to his hips, inches from his gun.
Holly noticed his chest swell as he tried to appear more intimidating. She’d expected pushback and had come prepared. “I won’t know what I’m looking for until I see it.”
“Are you implying that we didn’t do our job—that I didn’t do mine?” Heat radiated off him.
“I’m not implying anything, Officer Walker,” said Holly in a measured tone. “I’m simply asking for information about my family.”
Walker leaned back on his heels. His broad frame continued to block the entrance to the inner sanctum. He cleared his throat.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Holly,” he said. “Technically, the case is still open. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to do anything to violate the integrity of the evidence. If there’s a development and something got mishandled, it could impede our ability to make an arrest.”
Holly eyed him with disgust. “This case is close to twenty years old. Is anyone actively working on it?”
Walker cocked an eyebrow. “Any open case is always an active investigation. And besides, the evidence box isn’t even here. We keep older case files in an off-site storage area. I couldn’t get to it even if I wanted to. We’d need to contact the DA’s office first. There’s paperwork to file—bureaucracy, you know how that is—and there are no guarantees you’ll even get permission. You’re better off letting bygones be bygones.”
But Holly didn’t let it go. “Why is her death listed as undetermined? That alone means there’s more to investigate.”
Walker shrugged. “All that means—and I apologize for being tactless—is that your sister’s body wasn’t in good enough condition for the ME to determine what exactly killed her. But let’s be honest, we all know it was the fire. And there’s no evidence the fire was anything other than a tragic accident. When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras. Know what I mean?”
Holly craned her neck to meet Tommy Boy’s hard stare. “To my ears, you sound like a man with something to hide.”
Walker grinned as if he enjoyed being challenged. “I’m just doing my job and following protocol. You have an overactive writer’s imagination, Holly. Don’t let it get you into trouble.” The message rang loud and clear, a veiled threat from a shoddy small-town cop.
Holly turned to go. Tommy Boy wasn’t worth any more of her time. She’d find a way to work around him.
As she marched out of the station, her writer’s brain kicked into high gear. She composed a list of “Unusual Ways to Die” in her head, with Tommy at the center of every mishap—shark attack, fall from a cliff, an incident with a hot frying pan. Better still: an accidental firearm discharge into a very sensitive part of the male anatomy.
Chapter 23
Jade
Back at Miramar, the stone walls of the manor feel colder, and the space has grown darker. I don’t see Dr. Hill or Maeve, but Sid is milling about, and I’ve received the first task of my new position. I’m sorting jewelry that belonged to Baxter’s first wife. I’m not sure what her name was, but I guess she died young—and he kept way too many of her belongings. I wonder how Maeve felt about that.
I’m seated in a velvet chair at a large, kingly table with a mirror-like polish in a spacious dining room. A massive crystal chandelier hangs overhead. My task is to detangle all the necklaces and arrange the rings and brooches in some semblance of order.
When I open the lid of the massive walnut jewelry box, I feel like a pirate. I’ve never seen such a collection of glittering jewels, splashes of gold and silver intermixed. Is Conrad testing me? Even though the necklaces are tangled, it’s possible that he has inventoried every last piece and plans to check afterward to account for all items.
“I have to go into town for business,” he says. “Mother is still resting, so when you’re finished organizing the jewelry, you can head home for the day. Come back tomorrow, and we’ll get you started sorting through my stepfather’s old closet. Nine AM?”
“Sounds great,” I reply, wondering what happens before seven. But I know all three rules, and he can count every piece of jewelry when he returns. It will all be here—except for the piece hanging around my neck.
I peer at the inscription etched on the back of my pendant—Beauport, MA.
The detached stone is in my pocket. I almost showed it to Conrad so he knows it’s mine, but then I’d have to explain too much. I could ask him about local jewelers. He might be able to help me figure out where it came from. But I bet he only knows the super-high-end shops, and my piece—though I love it—is hardly Carmichael caliber.
The detangling work is mind-numbingly tedious but oddly satisfying. It’s very quiet. The home has the weighty silence of an empty church.