Light from Her Mirror (Mirrors Don't Lie Book 3) (33 page)

Madison
frowned. “None of the houses were locked. The computers don’t even have
pass-codes on them. All I had to do was show up and go to work.”

“Describe
to me what you were hired to do.”

“Walk
houses.” When he glanced up again expectantly, she expounded on her answer.
“You know, make four rounds in each house, picking up dead chickens, looking
for water leaks, that sort of thing. I have to record the number of dead
chickens and throw them in the incinerator out back. I also have to record the
levels of ammonia in each house, the gallons of water consumed, and check
back-up temperatures.”

The
police chief flashed a smile that still had the power to set Madison’s heart
aflutter. “Sounds like you really did ‘learn the ropes’, as you called it. Have
you done this sort of work before?”

“Hardly,”
she muttered. “There aren’t many chicken houses in Dallas.”

“Oh?
Is that where you’re from?”

“I’ve
lived there for the past fifteen years.”
And will be headed back there soon,
with any luck.

“When
was the last time you spoke with Mr. Gleason?”

Madison’s
mind was reeling, bouncing back and forth along with the conversation. She
supposed this was all part of the technique, intended to put a witness as ease.
Or to lull a suspect into admission
, a wicked inner voice whispered. Was
she a suspect? The thought caused a new shiver to dance down her spine.

“He
called me yesterday morning. He reminded me of a couple of things I needed to
do and said he would be leaving by early afternoon.”

“What
were you supposed to do if you had any trouble?”

“He
gave me his cell phone number, although he said he might not have service out
in the Gulf. He also gave me the number for Barbour Foods’ Poultry Division and
for his Service Tech.” A thought occurred to her. “Oh, dear. I suppose I should
call them, shouldn’t I?” She fished in her pocket for her cell phone, but the
officer held up a restraining hand.

“Not
yet. We’ll take care of that in due time. I still have a few more questions.”

With
a worried glance toward the structure behind her, Madison asked a question of
her own. “Is the fireman still inside?”

She
wondered about the policeman’s short but humorless laugh. “Don’t worry about
Montgomery. The kid apparently has an iron stomach. He’ll be fine.”

“Why
did the fire department show up, anyway?” It just now struck her as odd.

“We
do things a little differently in small towns than what you’re used to in
Dallas, ma’am.” His drawled voice was openly condescending. “Our volunteer fire
departments respond to a variety of emergency situations, not just fires. Most
of the department is out on the highway right now, working a wreck and
providing traffic control.”

“He
seemed very efficient,” she murmured somewhat lamely.

“Be
assured, Montgomery is one of our finest First Responders.” Brash cleared his
throat and pulled the conversation back to the victim. “You were telling me how
and when you first discovered the body.”

“Yes.
Right. Well, I got here around eight this morning and started in House 6. It
took me about an hour and a half to walk the first two houses. I had already
made one round on the opposite end of this house and started down toward this
end. I noticed several chickens were . . . taller than the others. I knew they
sometimes ganged up on injured birds or stood on top of dead ones, so that’s
what I thought was happening. As I got a little closer, I noticed the smell. It
was horrendous.”

She
stopped to clear her throat, trying, too, to clear her nose of the putrid
memory. “It was worse than anything I had ever smelled before. I-I thought it
must be a chicken that was several days old. There was a horribly messy one in
House 6 that just . . . fell apart when I lifted it. I-I remember thinking this
one would be even worse. And then- And then I saw it. Him. There was a - a
rooster perched upon his chest, strutting about like he was king of the roost.
It was horrible.” Madison clenched her stomach, afraid she was going to be sick
once more.

“I
know this is difficult, ma’am. You’re doing great. Just hang in here with me a
little while longer, we’re nearly done. By the way, I didn’t catch your name.”

He
probably wouldn’t recognize her name, any more than he had recognized her face.
She took a deep breath and blew it out. “Reynolds. Madison Reynolds.”

His
russet head snapped up and he peered at her with new curiosity. “Maddy? Maddy
Cessna, is that you?”

***

Brash
stared at the woman before him. She was covered in filth and looked like death
warmed over. At the beginning of the interview, her face had been bright red,
all splotchy and mottled, but the color had drained slowly away as she recanted
the day’s events. She was now as pale as any ghost might be. He remembered Maddy
Cessna as being a cute brunette with a straight, slim figure and killer long
legs. In this garb, it was impossible to tell what kind of figure now hid
behind the baggy shirt and tattered jeans. Even though he knew he wasn’t
catching her on her best day, he was guessing that the years had not been kind
to the girl he once knew.

“It’s
Reynolds now,” she said stiffly.

“I
heard about your husband. Sorry for your loss.” He offered the rote sentiment
as he pushed the brim of his cowboy hat up with one finger.

“Thank
you.” She dropped her eyes as she murmured the weary reply.

Brash
was an expert at reading people’s expressions. It was necessary in his line of
work. He watched as the emotions flickered briefly across Madison Cessna
Reynold’s grimy face. He saw sadness and regret, a touch of resentment, a lot
of worry, but the one emotion he did not see was grief. He made a mental note
to find out more about that later; right now he had more important things to
worry about than whether or not she had been in a happy marriage.

“I
heard you moved back,” he said conversationally. “I know Miss Bert is glad to
have you home.”

Bertha
Cessna, or Miss Bert as she was commonly known, was Madison’s feisty
eighty-year-old grandmother. She was a cornerstone of the community and more or
less the matriarch of Juliet since the namesake’s death in the early 1980’s.
Miss Bert only recently resigned as Mayor, saying the duties interfered with
her love to travel. After all, she wanted to go as much as possible now, before
she got too old to enjoy the sights, particularly those seen from behind the
windshield of her brand new motor home.

For
the first time, Brash saw a glimpse of the girl he remembered. A smile flashed
across Madison Reynold’s face, transforming her haggard features with the glow
of genuine affection. “She’s thrilled to have someone to fuss over again.”

“And
to cook for, I’m sure.”

A
grimace created new creases in her dirt-streaked face. “Except that she’s on a
new health-food kick. I made the mistake of giving her a juicer for Christmas,
so now she’s experimenting with a ‘liquid’ diet. Believe me, there are some
foods that are not meant to go into a blender.” As her shoulders shimmied with
distaste, Brash could not help but laugh. He could only imagine some of the
combinations Miss Bert would come up with.

A
gust of wind whipped away his burst of laughter, rendering the atmosphere
solemn once again. His next question was all business. “I don’t suppose Mrs.
Gleason has been down here this morning?”

Madison
looked up in surprise. “I-I guess I didn’t realize there was a Mrs. Gleason.”

“And
why is that?” Something in her expression set off warning bells.

Madison
Cessna Reynolds shrugged. “He never mentioned a wife, for one thing. I got the
impression there was no one else to walk houses for him when he was out of
town.”

Brash
tried to imagine Ramona Gleason stepping foot in the chicken houses. It would
be one of those high-heeled shoes, no doubt; hadn’t Shannon called them
stilettos? He had a mental image of one of those heels impaling a hapless
chicken.

“You
said ‘for one thing’. What else?”

“Well,
he was a little … flirty,” Madison admitted reluctantly.

Before
he could stop himself, Brash dropped his gaze to trail over her, frightful
clothes and all. Her face flamed in humiliation after his silent assessment,
particularly when he questioned, “Flirty?”

Madison
lifted her chin with defiance. “Yes, flirty.” This time her voice held more
conviction. Her hazel eyes flashed with irritation. “A true gentleman would
never sound so surprised,” she snapped.

Brash
found her ire amusing. He even had the audacity to grin. “You knew me in the
early days. Never claimed to be a gentleman,” he drawled. When she merely
sniffed in disdain, he returned to business once again. “I was surprised because
he’s married. Happily so, from all indication. And because you are newly
widowed. I know these days that doesn’t account for much, but I figured Ronny
for the faithful sort.”

She
softened only a fraction. Her tone was still frosty when she spoke. “I said he
was flirty, not that he propositioned me. And my marital status has nothing to
do with it. I can assure you, I did not flirt back.”

Brash
waved a large hand with an air of surrender. “Never suggested you did, ma’am.”
It seemed safest to address her with the respectful —and less personal— title.

Now
she huffed at him, still clearly agitated. “Are we through yet? I still have three
houses to walk, and I would like to get out of these filthy rags before they
start to set up.”

Glancing
over his notes, Brash checked out a few last details. “What did you do after
you discovered the body?”

“I
ran back outside and called 9-1-1. My cell phone was in the golf cart he left
for me to use.”

“Did
you come back inside the house?”

She
gave him a withering look that only mothers knew how to perfect. He vaguely
recalled hearing she had twins, hence the three newest citizens to their
community. “Not until the fireman arrived. And only then because it seemed the
humane thing to do.” Her haughty tone faltered as she added, “You know, with
the chickens, and all.”

Brash
took mercy on her at that point. Most women he knew would have fallen apart
long before now. Many men would have done the same. “I think that will be all
for now, Maddy, but I may have more questions later.”

She
sighed wearily. “You know where to find me if you do.” She turned to walk away,
mustering as much dignity as possible when covered with chicken poop and vomit.

***

Madison
went through the rest of her duties on autopilot. She numbed her mind to the images
which danced through her head with alarming frequency. Each whiff of a dead
carcass brought on a fresh wave of nausea, each sight of two or more chickens
converging in a group filled her with dread. By the time she finished her
rounds and threw the last of the dead birds into the incinerator, her nerves
were frayed, her head was pounding, and her mind was no longer numb.

More
officials had come and gone on the scene, numerous people were milling around
the farm, and the county coroner’s van was now backed up to the end of House 4,
alongside another fire truck and several cop cars. She pulled the golf cart up
next to the fire truck and got out. Her body was aching from all the walking
and bending and, if possible, she now smelled even worse. If she never stepped
foot inside another chicken house again in her life it would suit her fine. She
was considering eliminating the versatile fowl from her kitchen, as well.

She
caught sight of Brash deCordova’s broad back and made her way toward him. As
she approached, she heard a woman’s high-pitched whine. “I just can’t believe
this! He can’t be gone, he just can’t!”

“There,
there, Ramona.” The police chief made a clumsy attempt to console the woman in
front of him. He moved just enough for Madison to get a glimpse of bleached
blond hair, a bright pink jogging suit, and the same neon pink and black
designer sneakers her own teenage daughter had her heart set on. Mrs. Gleason,
she presumed.

The
woman clung to the officer, pressing her voluptuous body a bit closer than was
necessary. Madison took an immediate dislike to Ronny Gleason’s widow. She told
herself it had less to do with the officer involved and more to do with the
inappropriate spectacle she made of herself. Having had a recent similar
experience herself, Madison certainly had not thrown herself at the man
delivering Gray’s death notice.

Madison
hung back, but she suspected the odor emanating from her clothes announced her
presence. Brash turned, looking so grateful for the interruption that she
almost smiled. Almost. This was still a solemn situation.

“Ah,
Miz Reynolds,” Brash said, setting the weeping woman away from him. “Did you
think of anything else that would be helpful?”

There
was such desperation in his tone that Madison started to pretend she had
recalled another tidbit of information, just to save him from the clinging
widow. But her pride still stung from his earlier implied insult, and she had
the distinct impression that Brash deCordova could handle himself in most any
situation, particularly those that involved the fairer sex. Dashing his hopes
of an escape, she shook her head. “No, I just thought I would let you know I’m
heading home now.”