Dead Women Tell No Lies (3 page)

Rose shook her head and turned to the photo of her mother who could now pass for her sister. The camera’s eye preserved her mom’s youth at age twenty-five. In her short life, her mother had several boyfriends but never met a man who cared for her beyond a month or two.

Maybe the Blue women weren’t born for love. None of them had found it. Not that it mattered. Tomorrow she’d meet with Detective Lennox. She prayed he was about to make an arrest. His intense stare and sharp questions left her on edge, yet his decisiveness drew her to him. She liked the fact a strong man was working her sister’s case. He’d find Dahlia’s killer.

The memory of Dahlia lying in the morgue hung in her mind. Her lifeless eyes stared forever upward. Her blue lips frozen open in a last gasp.

Rose tossed the album aside, threw on her winter wear and fled the apartment and the painful memory. The cold soon invaded her boots and gloves, but she welcomed the fresh air. She wandered the well‒lit sidewalks of the clapboard homes reminiscent of houses from the turn of the century. Their carriage houses now used as garages or altered into small apartments stood a short distance from the main buildings. A variety store and a Laundromat occupied the corners of the next two blocks. As she walked, her mind retraced the last couple of weeks until she stopped.

Where was she, a park? To her left was a fenced-in tennis court without a net and, most likely, abandoned for the season. Ahead a sign stapled to a stake announced the skating hours and rules for the ice.

The wind whistled for a second before dropping to a whisper and transformed into Dahlia’s voice calling to her, coaxing and pleading somewhere near the water. Rose hesitated then drew closer to the frozen pond. She peered downward where blond hair lighter than her own floated weightless toward the ice. Her sister’s face, a face like her own for twenty-seven years, tilted up, revealing the birthmark under her chin, their one difference. Her bound hands pressed against the invisible barrier. Her hazel eyes screamed for someone to listen. The duct tape over her mouth strangled the last plea for mercy, but the muffled desperate cry reached Rose.

“Help me!”

Oh my, God! “Dahl-ia? Dahl-ia!” Rose’s heart jumped into her throat, making her voice shake. She lunged toward her sister, and the crack of the thin ice under her feet warned her away. She retreated to the firm ground and shivered in the frosty air.

In the water, Dahlia’s form dissolved and disappeared.

This was how her sister’s life ended. Her mouth taped, her limbs bound, she’d been left to drown, to die without hope. Rose swept shaking hands over her face and tried to wipe away the terrifying vision.

“Dahlia, who did this to you?” Chills swept over her. She fumbled with the jacket zipper, pulling the tab up to her chin while a myriad of emotions, shock, terror, and grief left her frozen to the ground. “I’m sorry we fought. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her gray parka, hunched her shoulders and struggled with the tears until someone shouting and whistling for a dog brought her back to the surroundings.

How late was it? She’d lost sense of time and place. Shuddering, she grabbed control of herself. Now, she craved traffic and noise, not the solitude of the park where she’d attempted to seize a few seconds of peace. She had to escape her twin’s ghost.

Near the plaque for a historic trolley stop, she emerged onto the empty sidewalk. Across the street, large houses with wraparound porches rested dark and silent. It must be close to eleven o’clock. She cut across the street, putting distance between her sister’s spirit and herself. Why had Dahlia appeared to her? Was she trying to tell her something, or did she think Rose didn’t care about her after their last big fight? How many times during their lives had she given Dahlia one more chance to change? Sharp regret bit into Rose. “I know you were a good person, Dahlia, but you sometimes seemed to lose your way. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“I’ll make it right. If it takes everything I own, I’ll make sure the monster who killed you is found and punished. He’ll never hurt anyone again. I promise.”

Rose trotted down Main Street with its two and three story clapboard facades and mixed brick fronts. She passed the dark store windows and locked doors of Minicake Bakery and Joe’s Coffee. Above the shops, unlit apartments reminded her of the late hour. At least the city salted and sanded the main sidewalks, but no one else seemed inclined to enjoy a stroll in the late March night air. In their homes, people snuggled in their beds or wound down in front of the television. She was the only one foolish enough to wander out this late. The cold stung her fingers and toes, pushing her forward.

Suddenly the sound of footsteps prickled her skin. She peered over her shoulder. An unfamiliar figure dressed in black trailed less than a block behind. The figure’s height and stride suggested a man.

Two more blocks to her sister’s place. Throwing back covert glances, she picked up her pace. She’d learned basic self-defense moves but at a lean five feet, she was hardly a match if her might-be pursuer turned out to be a wrestler from a Friday Night Smackdown.

The sound of the shadowing footsteps increased. Was it a coincidence? She broke into a jog. The man’s steps pounded behind. Her jog changed to a flat out run. He mirrored her movements. Adrenaline shot through her body.

Across the street, Dahlia’s two story apartment bounced into sight.
Hurry. Faster.
She forced her legs to move at breakneck speed. The thud of boots told her the pursuer was closing in.
No!
Her lungs burned from the effort to breathe. Her gasps of breath shot out and trailed behind in the frigid air. She fingered the trigger of the pistol in her side pocket. A stolen glimpse over her shoulder confirmed he’d narrowed the distance between them. A ski mask concealed the pursuer’s face. He kept one hand inside his jacket. Was he carrying a weapon?

I’ll never make it.
She yanked out her gun and peeked behind while swerving into the street to cross.

Brakes squealed. A vehicle’s horn blew. Her pistol tumbled to the ground. A black car squealed to a stop, its hood inches from her legs.

She scooped up the handgun. The driver pulled to the side and slammed the door. Rose clutched her weapon with both hands and met the anger in the six-foot-plus driver’s familiar, sharp blue eyes and shadowed jaw.

“Detective Lennox, someone is chasing me.” She gestured toward her stalker without taking her gaze from the detective.

“Stay here.” Without another word, he took off down the street.

She watched his form grow smaller on the sidewalk. No signs remained of the pursuer. Her breathing evened out. She slid the gun into her jacket pocket, safe for the moment, but her tail could be hiding nearby.

Across the street, her building’s main entrance lured her with promises of security. No reason to stand around. She’d speak to the detective later. She headed for the front door and paused to jam the key into the keyhole.

“He’s gone.”

She whirled around at the voice and stared into the detective’s large chest. She backed a step, and her hand tightened on the butt of the gun in her jacket.

“I hope you’re familiar with that Thirty-Eight Special.” He nodded at her pocket.

“Of course, I legally bought it after my sister went missing and I was out searching for her.” Rose wasn’t about to admit she intended to wave the gun around and never take off the safety even though she’d taken a crash self-protection course. What are you doing here? You couldn’t have just happened by.”

“I finished a call and was on my way home. Who chased you?”

She stared up at the towering man in the leather jacket. He was dressed in jeans and running shoes. He watched her closely, and her heartbeat picked up. Was she lucky or unlucky? Had he really been driving past, or had he parked nearby to scope her out?

“Miss Blue?” He wagged a hand in front of her face.

“Sorry, I’ve no idea who followed me or if he was someone out for a jog.” Had she imagined the man pursued her?

“Has anyone tailed you before tonight?”

“Never.”

His grim façade fell away. “I’m relieved you’re well enough for a run, but exercising late at night isn’t anything I’d recommend. A young, pretty woman alone in the dark can attract attention she doesn’t want.”

“I wanted some fresh air. It usually helps my migraines. I can’t predict them, and emotional stress doesn’t help. Don’t worry, I won’t repeat my mistake.”

“Good to hear. Rest up and come down to the station tomorrow. I’ll take your statement then.” He stepped forward. “Let me escort you into your apartment.”

Without waiting for her answer, he pushed the entry door wide and walked across the threshold. Inside, he paced around the hall, examining the shadows in the corners, and finally yanked on the door leading to the vacant, first floor restaurant. It was locked. She shut the main door and turned the bolt. Safe.

“How long did the man follow you?” His voice held a tone of authority.

“A few blocks.” For once, she welcomed the familiar first floor mustiness.

“How often do you go for a run at night?” He seemed to watch her with a calculating expression as though he was judging her.

“The workout helps my insomnia. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go upstairs to my place. Like you said, we can talk tomorrow.”

“I’ll go with you.” He placed a foot on the first step and gestured upward.

He seemed overeager to accompany her. Did he want to poke around her apartment or had fear warped her perceptions? “I can manage the stairs by myself.”

“Humor me.” He peered at her like she was a convicted felon. “Migraines, insomnia, and the need for exercise, what else ails you, Miss Blue?”

Killers and ghosts. “You know me already, Detective Lennox,” she said, forcing a smile. “I’m ready.” She nodded upward.

The detective shadowed behind, never allowing her to get ahead. Their footsteps echoed in the empty vestibule. She stopped outside her apartment. A piece of newspaper was jammed inside the doorframe crack.

“Wait a minute. Don’t open up yet.” He wriggled the paper out of its spot.

“Really, I don’t care about an ad.”

He unfolded the clipping and held the piece of paper in his gloved hands.

She leaned forward. The picture of her murdered sister stared back from the newsprint. Underneath Dahlia’s photo, someone had altered the caption with a black marker. Her name, Rose Blue, replaced her dead twin’s.

Who’d done this? Was it the stranger who’d followed her tonight? If he left the clipping, he knew where she lived and how to get into her building.
No!

“I’m going in. Stay put.” He swiped the key from her hand and opened up. He snapped on the overhead light and removed his weapon from the belt under his jacket. The sound of his footsteps growing and fading told her where he was in the one bedroom. “All’s clear,” he said, reappearing in the narrow hallway without his gun visible.

She entered eager to be alone and deal with her raw nerves. “Thanks again, Detective Lennox. I bet you need to get home.”

“No one’s expected me there for years.” He studied the door frame and handle. “No signs of a break in.” He faced her. “You should move out of this place. It’s not safe.” His stare drilled into her, daring her to defy him.

“I’ll contact my landlord, Dean Drown, about the safety issues, and I have your number in case of an emergency. Don’t worry. I’m not planning any big gestures to trap the killer. I’m basically a coward.” She opened the door wider, a hint for him to leave. She needed to speak to Dahlia in the apartment, but would she answer?

He ignored her hint. “I know Dean. He’s busy with his new building projects and hasn’t installed any security into this one. You’d be better off staying in the hotel across the river where someone can’t sneak in and leave you photos.”

“It’s a piece of paper. I’m sure I’ll be safe once I’m locked inside.” She had her gun.

The corner of his mouth turned down. “Think about it. I’ll secure the downstairs and walk the outside perimeter.”

“Good night.” After he left, she snapped off the living room light, stole to the windows and pulled down the shades. She wanted to stay in a place where she sensed her sister’s presence, from Dahlia’s favorite brand of coffee to the sound of her voice.

But Rose wasn’t about to act foolishly either. Groping around in the darkness, she tugged a chair from the kitchen table and jammed the frame under the doorknob.

Knowing she’d get little sleep tonight, she removed her gun from her coat pocket. She dropped down on the couch and pointed the weapon toward the door. She whispered a prayer she wouldn’t have to shoot, but if her sister’s killer believed she was going down without a fight, he was wrong.

“Dahlia? I need your help. I can’t do this by myself. I never wanted to be alone.” She closed her eyes, and her hand gripping the gun shook.

A feathery caress of comfort stroked across her fingers. She wasn’t alone.

Chapter 3

At midmorning, Rose whispered a prayer that today would bring Dahlia’s killer to justice and abandoned her attempt to sleep. She poured coffee into Dahlia’s favorite mug that she’d found tucked behind a bottle of wine. Written on the two sides was the saying: Always borrow money from a pessimist. They never expect it back.