Dead Girl in a Green Dress (9 page)

"I just thought of something else," she babbled in her little girl voice. "I know the mugger took Jessica’s purse with her phone, keys, and identification, but I found a single key in her jewelry holder. It was tied on a piece of satin ribbon, but it doesn’t appear to fit anything in her room, or anywhere else in the house."

Byrony’s
pulse quickened. "What kind of key does it look like?"

After a pause, her step-mother replied, "Actually, it looks like a plain old door key. You
know,
the kind that fits a dead bolt."

Trying to keep the excitement out of her voice,
Byrony
said, "Send it to me, Barbara, here at the B&B on Mackinac Island. Overnight it." She gave the other woman the address. "I’ll share it with the
police,
see if they think it’s important."

But as she hung up, a shiver ran down
Byrony’s
spine. If Jessica had tied a key on a ribbon, then it must have been important to her.
 

Eagerly, she started to call Tate, but saw she had one missed call.
From the man himself.
His alluring baritone caused a low flame to ignite deep in her belly. He apologized for his "unprofessional behavior" and told her it wouldn’t happen again.

Unsure whether she felt relief or disappointment,
Byrony
decided against calling him back. Instead, she took a nice steamy shower, hoping that would clear her chaotic thoughts. She discovered the bruises she’d sustained when she fell on the sidewalk were now ugly dark blue and purple blotches, mostly near her left knee. But the warm water soothed the lingering aches in her hips, back and shoulders. She didn’t want to wonder what a mess she would be if the horse had really struck her.

The shower did the trick, for she’d scarcely been in bed a half hour when she nodded off in the midst of watching an inane sit com on the TV perched on her bureau. She didn’t wake up until close to midnight, and she stayed awake just long enough to switch off the late night talk show, roll over and go back to sleep.
Byrony’s
early morning dreams were troubled by menacing horses dashing right at her, but unlike reality, this time the mysterious rider in yellow rain gear turned out to be a scowling Tate Madison.
   

***

Sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup, Tate glanced nervously up and down the crowded sidewalk for any sign of
Byrony
. The ferry had already started boarding passengers and he didn’t want to wait for the next one. He wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that she hadn’t responded to his apology last night. But he hoped for what was probably the hundredth time he hadn’t completely blown it with her. The kiss might have been badly timed, but he’d certainly enjoyed it, and for a couple of moments there, he was pretty sure she had too. Maybe once this case was settled….

His speculations were cut short by the glimpse he caught of
Byrony
, hurrying down the sidewalk, her expression somewhat gloomy but determined.
Always determined.
And always in a rush.
He shook his head to clear away any lingering thoughts about her so he could concentrate on the case. His job, he reminded himself, as in his livelihood.

Byrony
barreled up, her breath streaming out in a white cloud on the cold morning air. "Sorry I’m late, but I have some information that may be important."

"Let’s get on board first," he insisted. He handed her the paper ticket and ditched what remained of his coffee in the nearest trash can.

As they walked briskly down the pier toward the waiting vessel,
Byrony
, with her usual impatience, started talking. "I called my step-mother last night, and she told me she found a key in Jessica’s jewelry case, a house key. I asked her to overnight it to me."

Tate waited until they were on the ferry and seated inside before he responded. "You think this might be the key to her boyfriend’s place? The boyfriend you didn’t believe she had?"

Her eagerness melted with his sardonic second question. "Okay, I’ve reconsidered my original opinion, especially after I heard about this key. If we can find out whose door it fits."

"That’s a pretty big if, Sunshine." As much as he hated to burst her bubble of excitement, Tate also wanted her to be realistic. "First, we need some clue as to who she might have been seeing. I don’t suppose your step-mother had any ideas about that?"

Tight lipped,
Byrony
shook her head. She waited until the ferry had pulled away from the pier before she spoke again. "Even if we go with your theory about someone who shouldn’t be involved with a seasonal, that still leaves a lot of possibilities."

"Afraid so," Tate acknowledged. "Though it could prove out, but I’m still thinking Prince is our best bet."

He watched the conflicting emotions chase across her face, and frustration tinged her voice. "Will the Mac City police agree? Prince is a big-shot, while we’re a couple of nobodies from Chicago."

"Couldn’t have summed it up any better myself.
Guess we’ll find out soon enough."

From the ferry terminal, Tate hailed a taxi for them to take the short ride to the Mackinaw City Administrative Building. He’d called Jim Shaffer before they got in the cab, and the burly detective waited for them in the lobby. After brief introductions, Tate and
Byrony
signed in at the front desk, clipped on their visitor badges, and followed Shaffer through a maze of corridors to a small meeting room. A fat folder full of crime scene photos lay in the middle of the conference table, with a second, slim folder next to it.

"Those are the shots of the cataloged evidence you asked for." Shaffer nodded at the smaller folder.

"Appreciate it." Tate knew he couldn’t examine the actual evidence, but maybe the photos would suffice. He shifted his gaze to
Byrony
, who stood stiffly, complexion pale and jaw tightly clenched. "You sure you’re up to looking at all this?"

"I’ll be fine," she insisted, and he knew better than to argue. Instead he pulled out the nearest chair for her. Then he sat in the chair next to her and opened the bigger folder.

"Anybody else want coffee?" Shaffer asked, and when both Tate and
Byrony
said yes, he shuffled out the door.

Drawing the smaller folder in front of her,
Byrony
asked, "What are we looking for?"

"Nothing in particular."
Tate noticed that for all her bravado, her hand
trembled
a little as she opened the folder. "Just anything that might seem out of place, or not right somehow. Mention anything that strikes you as off."

Her chest rose and fell as she took a fortifying breath. "I can do that." And she started to sift through the photos, which he could see were mostly of the dress her sister Jessica had been wearing.

Opening the larger folder, Tate saw that in addition to the crime scene, there were pictures of Jessica’s body. Quickly, he sorted those out and stuck them face down behind the others.
Byrony
seemed to be on the edge of losing control, no point in giving her a shove.

Shaffer came back a few minutes later, juggling three steaming mugs. Tate accepted his with a nod of thanks, but
Byrony
, lines furrowing between her eyebrows, ignored her cup and continued to pick up and closely study photos. Then she held up the inventory list of evidence. "So this is everything? I mean, didn’t my – the victim – have on anything else?"

The balding detective shook his head. "A dress and panties, that’s
it
."

"We already knew about the missing shoes," Tate reminded as
Byrony’s
frown deepened.

"My step-mother said Jessica’s brand new yellow running shoes were missing." Shaffer’s eyebrows lifted and he scribbled on a post-it note. "But that’s not the only thing bothering me."
Byrony
mused as she laid several of the photos on the table. "Look at this dress."

Tate glanced at the bright green garment with large, black floral shapes. "Fancy."

"It’s a designer, and not just any designer."
Byrony
stabbed her finger at a close-up shot of the label. "This says Oscar de la
Renta
. I can’t imagine Jessica or any other twenty-year-old wearing Oscar de la
Renta
. His stuff isn’t really aimed for such a young age group. Besides, Jessica couldn’t afford a dress like this."

"Maybe someone else bought it." Shaffer voiced the thought that instantly sprang to Tate’s mind, and by speaking up, the detective saved Tate from playing devil’s advocate. Then, at
Byrony’s
skeptical expression, the other man added, "Or maybe she borrowed it?"

However,
Byrony
continued to shake her head in protest. "It still doesn’t make sense. She wasn’t wearing anything else but this fancy dress and underwear?"

While Tate squirmed with discomfort, Shaffer coughed to cover his derisive snort.
Byrony
glared at both of them and held up a photo of plain white panties. "Trust
me,
these are not the underpants a woman wears with a sexy dress.
Especially if she’s seeing her boyfriend."

Shaffer genuinely choked at her blunt words, and Tate nearly did too. But at the same time, he saw the logic of her observation. If
Byrony
wore something like that little green and black number, he’d expect her to have some alluring black lace panties under it… maybe black thigh-high stockings and shiny black high heels –
Shit! Where did that come from?
He twisted self-consciously in his chair.

 
"Point taken."
Detective Shaffer looked equally ill at ease. "So what are you trying to say?"

Byrony
bit her bottom lip. "I’m not sure. The killer stole Jessica’s clothes, shoes, and purse,
then
put a designer dress on her?" With a groan of frustration, she dropped her head into her hands. "Crazy, I know…"

"No, just sick," Tate countered with a low growl. Then he muttered, "No sign of sexual assault?"

The detective shook his head.

Eyes squeezed shut,
Byrony
sat like a pale statue. Tate touched her shoulder and she jerked as if burned and her golden eyes flew open. "I’m okay," she whispered.

"No, you’re not." Tate shoved all the photos back into their respective folders, safely out of sight. This was exactly what he had not wanted to happen. "We’ve seen enough for today." He pushed the files toward Shaffer with a meaningful lift of his brows.

Taking his cue, the detective cleared his throat. "Guess I’ve got plenty of work to do. First off, I’ll research for any similar crimes. It’s possible the sick bastard has done this before."

As Tate stood, he remembered his earlier promise to
Byrony
. "Another thing you probably want to check is the Grand Hotel manager, Mr. Prince. We talked to him yesterday, and call it a hunch, but I think the dude knows more than he’s saying."

Shaffer stared in slack-jawed surprise for a moment then stuttered, "I – I’ll, uh, give Mr. Prince a call."

Helping
Byrony
to her feet, Tate offered his hand to the detective. "Appreciate you cooperating with us." In truth, he’d found Shaffer pretty unimpressive thus far. Looked like pressuring Prince into telling what he knew would fall to Tate after all, and a small corner of his mind relished the idea. In the meantime, he needed to get
Byrony
out of here.
"C’mon, Sunshine.
Let’s grab some lunch."

They’d turned in their visitor badges and headed for the door before
Byrony
spoke again. She stopped suddenly, golden eyes wide. "We forgot to tell Detective Shaffer about the key."

Pressing his hand against the small of her back, Tate urged her out the front door. "I know, but let’s just wait until we have it in our hands."

Byrony
opened her lips to protest, but suddenly changed her mind and snapped her mouth closed. When he tried to steer her to a nearby burger joint, she demurred, saying she wanted to check on her car and then go back to the island. Tate knew she was upset after seeing the crime scene pictures, but he also sensed major avoidance vibes. Was she also thinking about his stupidly impulsive move last night? But as he glanced at her profile and felt the tingling warmth of her thigh pressed against his in the taxi, he knew he would do it all over again.

"Do you not trust Detective Shaffer? Or do you just think he’s incompetent?" She asked after they’d climbed out of the taxi at the ferry terminal. Then at his startled look, she added. "Isn’t that why you didn’t bring up the key?"

Tate rubbed the back of his neck. "Incompetent seems a bit harsh, but the guy appears to be over his head with this case. I don’t think he’s had anything like this before."

"But you said you hadn’t either,"
Byrony
insisted. "And you’re making more headway than him."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence. But you deserve some credit too." As she ducked her head in embarrassment, he added, "We just might turn you from a bean counter into an investigator."

She gave his arm a poke. "Maybe I don’t want to be an investigator."

He clutched his chest in mock pain while she rolled her eyes. "You wound me, Sunshine."