DEAD CERTAIN Read online

  Friends. He'd said he'd like to be friends, no strings attached. There was no fooling herself about the fact that she could use a friend. She hadn't realized until after Jimmy's death that most of their friends had been his, and they had vanished soon after Jimmy.

  For Savannah, her family had always been enough, but now her family was fragmented and there were moments when her feelings of isolation threatened to consume her.

  But a friendship with Riley? Was that possible? They'd already overstepped the boundaries of friendship with the kiss they had shared, a kiss she'd had difficulty forgetting.

  Once the coffeepot was steaming and spewing hot brew into the glass container, she picked up the kitten. At the same time Riley came back inside, his arms laden with supplies.

  "My goodness, it looks like you bought out the place," she exclaimed.

  "I bought the things I thought a kitten would need to live a long, healthy life."

  "Obviously a long, healthy, pampered life," she said with a small smile as he unloaded the items on the floor near the kitchen table. "Let me repay you what you spent, Riley."

  He looked shocked at the very notion. "A gift isn't a gift if the recipient pays for it. And she and everything that comes with her is a gift."

  "Then, thank you." She looked down at the kitten, her heart filled as it hadn't been in a very long time.

  "Now all you need to do is name her."

  "Happy," she said without conscious thought, for that was what she felt at the moment.

  "Sounds good to me," he agreed. "And that coffee smells great."

  Minutes later, with Happy contentedly eating gourmet cat food, Savannah and Riley sat down at her kitchen table, each with a cup of coffee.

  "Now, how are you? You look tired," he said.

  "I am," she admitted. "The last couple of days have been frantic. I've been dividing my time between the hospital, work and distributing posters of my mom all around town. I came home from work tonight ready to collapse. I promised myself a night of doing nothing, so I took a long, hot bath and climbed into my nightgown and robe." Self-consciously she tugged on her belt once again.

  "Then I'm interfering with your quiet time. I should go." He started to rise from his chair.

  "No, it's fine," she said hurriedly. "Besides, now you have to stay and help me finish that pot of coffee."

  He sank back down. "I heard your father came out of his coma."

  "Yes, and he's recovering nicely. Unfortunately, he doesn't remember anything about the night he got hurt, and he needs some rehabilitation for some resulting weakness on the right side of his body."

  "Has anyone told him yet about your mother being missing?"

  "We had to tell him yesterday." Her heart ached as she remembered the tears her father had shed at the news. In all her thirty years she'd never seen her father weep until yesterday.

  His tears had quickly transformed to bellows of rage when they told him the authorities thought Rita was responsible for his injuries. He'd called them stupid fools, shouted that it was impossible that his Rita had been responsible. It had been a heartrending scene.

  "He believes, like all of us, that there's no way Mom could have done this to him then run away."

  Riley shifted positions in his chair and the displacement of air around him sent a whisper of his scent wafting to her. He wore the smell of the outdoors, the fragrance of a sunshine-drenched shirt and an underlying hint of woodsy cologne.

  It was a scent that provoked memories of what it had felt like to be held tight against his broad chest, feel the beat of his heart against her own.

  "My uncle Sammy arrived in town yesterday," she said, trying to keep her mind focused on her life and not the man seated next to her. "He's my father's younger brother. He's going to be staying at the ranch now that the police have released it."

  "Is that a good thing?" Riley asked.

  "It will be good to have somebody there. None of us wanted to leave the place empty until Dad can go home. I probably would have been the one to stay out there, and to tell the truth, I wasn't sure I was ready for that."

  He nodded and she had the satisfaction of knowing he knew exactly what she was talking about. "Are you and your uncle close?"

  She smiled at thoughts of her uncle Sammy. "Throughout our childhood Uncle Sammy was like this bigger-than-life hero who would swoop into our lives and turn everything topsy-turvy for a couple of days, and then disappear again. He was handsome and fun and always brought presents." She paused to take a sip of her coffee, then continued. "Now that I'm older I see him a little differently."

  "How so?"

  She startled as Happy jumped up in her lap. She scratched the kitten's head and frowned thoughtfully. "Uncle Sammy is still handsome as the devil and can be a lot of fun. But I've come to realize he's also an irresponsible dreamer who has always chosen the easy way out of everything. He drifts from place to place looking for the next get-rich-quick scheme. He's had some brushes with the law, he's never worked a regular job and never has a permanent address."

  "So, he's kind of the black sheep of the family," Riley observed.

  "More gray than black," she replied. "What about you? Any black sheep in your family?"

  "No family," he replied. "My parents were only children, and I was an only child. I guess that's why I was so close to them … because it was always just the three of us."

  She doubted he even heard the depth of pain in his words, but she heard it and found it impossible not to be moved. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to stroke the back of his hand or place her fingers on the warm skin of his forearm, but she was afraid … afraid that if she touched him once, she'd want to touch him again … and again.

  "Beside everything else that's going on, I'm in the middle of a murder investigation that's driving me insane," she said to change the subject.

  "Want to talk about it?"

  She shrugged. "Unfortunately, there isn't much to talk about. Greg Maxwell was found naked and stabbed in front of the public library on Main Street and we have no idea who's responsible."

  "Oh yeah, I remember reading something about that when it happened." He stood and walked over to the coffeepot and refilled his cup, then hers. As he took the pot back to where it belonged, she couldn't help but notice how his jeans seemed to fit as if denim had been invented just for him.

  She quickly shifted her attention back to the kitten in her lap, who was purring like the engine of a motorboat. He rejoined her at the table, his gaze curious. "So, no forensic clues in the case?"

  "No, the scene was fairly well contaminated by the time Clay got there to collect evidence."

  "What about motive? Who stood to gain something if Greg Maxwell was dead?"

  Savannah raised an eyebrow. "You sound like a cop."

  He grinned, the gesture lighting his eyes to an azure blue that nearly stole her breath away. "I watch a lot of television. So, any motive?"

  "A fairly substantial life insurance policy for his wife."

  "Ah, so there's your answer," he said. "Don't they say most homicides are committed by spouses?"

  "That's the mentality that has our mothers as prune suspects," she said wryly.

  "Touché." He frowned thoughtfully. "But statistically isn't it more likely than not in a homicide that the first suspect is always the spouse? And the other thing I've always heard is that cops follow the money, and that often leads to the guilty."

  "Sure, and in the Maxwell case I haven't written off Virginia Maxwell as a suspect." It felt good to talk about the case with somebody who had a fresh eye, somebody she trusted completely. "There's something about her that doesn't quite ring true to me."

  "What do you mean?"

  Savannah stared down into her coffee cup, trying to discern just what it was about Virginia that didn't sit right with her. She looked back up at Riley, as always finding his direct blue gaze almost hypnotic.

  "I don't know, maybe it's because I'm a widow, too. Her grief just doesn'
t feel deep enough, true enough. She says all the right things, but I just don't believe her."

  "Does she have an alibi for the night of her husband's murder?" Riley asked.

  "According to her, Greg had spent the evening at the library and she'd had dinner with friends. After dinner she went home and fell asleep while waiting for Greg to return home. As an alibi, it's impossible to corroborate."

  "But it's also difficult to think about a woman being able to strip a man naked and stab him to death," Riley said. "Especially if that man is her husband."

  "That's what Glen thinks, too," she admitted. "But, women do kill … and sometimes they kill viciously. Whomever killed Greg knew him personally, of that I'm convinced."

  "What makes you so sure?"

  "He was stabbed in a frenzy and that indicates rage … a personal rage. Also, the fact that he was left naked suggests the perpetrator wanted him humiliated. I'm betting on Virginia having something to do with it and I'm checking into her background. And I've bored you long enough with all this talk about my work."

  He smiled. "I don't find it boring at all. I find it fascinating, but you're right, that's enough shop talk. And I've taken up enough of your evening."

  This time when he rose from the table she didn't attempt to stop him. All the talk about the Maxwell case had exhausted her and had reminded her of all the unanswered questions in the cases that were dearest to both her heart and Riley's.

  She stood also, gently placing Happy on the floor, where the kitten stretched, curled up in a ball and went back to sleep. She walked with Riley to the door. "I can't thank you enough for Happy," she said.

  "Yes, you can," he said, and turned to face her as they reached the front door. "The way you can thank me is by making me a promise."

  "A promise?" She looked at him curiously.

  He reached out a hand as if to touch her, but to her relief quickly dropped it back to his side. "You can promise me you'll stay off that bridge."

  A hundred different emotions attacked her from all sides at his request. Anger that he would even presume to ask for such a promise, a tiny thrill that he would care, and the frustration that he obviously didn't understand, couldn't understand the constant grief that drove her.

  "I can't do that, Riley, and you really have no right to ask that of me." She focused her gaze away from him, unable to look at him without fearing she might capitulate and make the promise to him. And she wasn't ready for that.

  "You're right," he said with a deep sigh. "I apologize. I was just hoping as a friend who cares about you, I'd have the right to ask you that. Anyway … good night, Savannah." He leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to her forehead. "Sweet dreams."

  For a long time after he'd left, Savannah felt the sweet burn of his lips on her forehead and a curious ache she couldn't identify in her heart.

  She'd just settled down in bed with Happy curled contentedly at her feet when her cell phone rang. She struggled to sit up and reach for the offending instrument on her nightstand.

  "Officer Tallfeather," she said.

  "Savannah … it's Glen. We've got another one."

  "Another one?"

  "Sam McClane was found a little while ago behind the post office. He's naked and has been stabbed."

  "I'm on my way."

  Although she was exhausted, adrenaline shoved her out of bed and she was dressed and out the door within minutes. Although she dreaded what lay ahead, she was relieved for any distraction that would take her mind off Riley.

  By the time she arrived at the scene, the county medical examiner was already there and the immediate area had been cordoned off. Clay was there, as well, gathering evidence that would hopefully give them some clues.

  "Hey, Walter, what have you got for me?"

  The elderly M.E. drew off his plastic gloves and shook his head. "I'd put time of death within the last two hours. Cause of death is multiple stab wounds to the chest. At first investigation it looks just like the Maxwell scene."

  At that moment Glen Cleberg joined them, his brow deeply wrinkled with worry. "Who found him?" Savannah asked.

  Glen jerked a thumb in the direction of the back of the post office building where a young man stood talking to one of the officers. "Name is Burt Sheffle. He works part-time cleaning some of the offices down here. He had just finished up inside the post office and was taking trash out to the Dumpster."

  "He look likely?" she asked.

  "Not hardly. The kid's been puking his guts up since he found the body."

  Savannah sighed. "I guess this shoots to hell my gut instinct that Virginia Maxwell killed Greg."

  "Unless this is a copycat deal," Walter said.

  "Let's hope it is," Glen replied. "Let's hope to hell it's a copycat."

  Savannah knew what he was thinking. If it was a copycat, then that meant they had two murderers to find. If it wasn't a copycat, then it could be the beginning of something much more sinister. It could mean they had a brutal serial killer in the small town of Cherokee Corners.

  The officers worked the scene until the first tentative colors of dawn spread across the sky. Only then did they finally take a break for coffee.

  Savannah took her foam cup and carried it over to where her brother sat on the curb. She sank down next to him and took a sip of the hot, strong coffee.

  "Hell of a business we're in," he said. "I spent all day processing our parents' house, and tonight I'm processing a new crime scene. I haven't been this busy since I started on the job."

  "Did you find anything interesting at Mom and Dad's?" she asked.

  "Fibers … hairs … the usual bag of tricks. I still need to separate, examine and categorize everything. I didn't find anything that looked like a sure-fire address to the perp."

  She smiled ruefully. "It never is that easy."

  He sighed. "No, it isn't."

  "You think we have a serial working?"

  "I hope not … but this scene and Maxwell's are exactly the same. Fortunately there is less contamination at this one, so maybe something will turn up to help us find whoever did this."

  "Let's hope so." She finished her coffee, then got back to work. The last of the sunrise streaked the sky when she finally headed home.

  A serial killer. Was it really possible? Despite the press that made serial killers seem commonplace, they weren't all that common. And it seemed unbelievable that one would be in residence in the tiny, safe town where she had lived all her life.

  Her thoughts turned to Riley and the crimes that had brought the two of them together. As tired as she was, her mind whirled with what she knew of both crimes. Despite what Glen thought to the contrary, she believed they were connected.

  "If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck … it's a duck," she murmured to herself as she pulled into the parking lot of her apartment housing.

  She felt it in her gut, in every fiber of her being. The person who killed Riley's father was also responsible for attempting to kill hers. Whatever had happened to his mother had also happened to hers.

  Had it happened to others? Before this moment she hadn't considered the possibility that perhaps she and Riley weren't the only ones whose lives had been ripped apart by this person or persons.

  She was so tired it was difficult to even contemplate how they would go about checking into such a thing. Unfortunately, the Cherokee Corners Police Station didn't have the budget to have computers hooked into big mainframes and systems to exchange information.

  Every year the police department requested a tax increase to help update and every year the voters turned them down. The area was depressed and people were eking out a living as best as they could. The last thing they wanted was more tax dollars leaving their pockets.

  Most of the officers who used computers worked on laptops they had purchased themselves.

  If she was going to check to see if there were other crimes like hers and Riley's, then she would need some help. It would require hours of time checking news
papers around the area, and with a brand-new murder investigation on her hands, she wouldn't have hours of extra time.

  Riley would help. She'd call him later … after she got a couple hours of sleep. As she got out of her car, she looked up, the beauty of the sky overhead filling her with an ache of anguish.

  Where are you, Mom? her heart cried. Are you someplace where you can see the sunrise? Are you cold? Hungry? She couldn't stand the thought of her mother suffering. Wherever you are, hang on, Mom. We'll find you. I swear, we'll do everything in our power to find you.

  She headed inside for some much-needed sleep.

  * * *

  Rita Birdsong James felt as if she were swimming up from the depths of a cotton-filled lake. Consciousness came and went, like streaks of lightning in a blackened sky. She fought for the surface of the lake. An urgency filled her brain, but somehow didn't transmit to the rest of her body.

  Something was wrong … but what? She willed her eyes to open despite the fact that she felt the darkness pressing in around her, attempting to take her back to the bottom of the lake.

  Her eyes opened, but it took a moment to adjust to her fuzzy vision. She was in bed, the color and pattern of the spread achingly familiar. Her bed. The illumination in the room came from the Tiffany-style lamp that was also familiar. Her lamp.

  Her hand moved to the side of the bed next to her. Empty. But that wasn't unusual. Thomas always rose earlier than her. Any minute now he'd come in to wake her, carrying her first cup of coffee for the morning.

  She smiled and her eyes drifted closed, the sense of urgency dissipating. All was well. She was in her own bedroom, in her own home. She was just tired … so very tired. She allowed the darkness to reclaim her.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  «^»

  Riley hadn't expected to hear from Savannah again, not after he'd done such an incredibly stupid thing the night before. What had he been thinking by trying to pressure her into making him such a promise?

  He stared out his trailer window where his crews were out in full force, clearing lots and preparing for new building sites.

  What had he been thinking? He'd been thinking of her clinging to a bridge, staring into the waters below and considering joining her dead husband in some insane pact of undying love.