Tell Me (33 page)

“Look, just leave it alone, man,” Roland was saying, pacing in front of the couch, destroying Donny Ray’s view of the basketball game in progress on the big screen, a monster of a television set Donny had bought just before flat screens had become the thing. It filled up a third of his single-wide, but he really didn’t care, the picture was just so damned big. “Chill out,” he advised his stepbrother. “Who cares if she gets out?”

“I do. And you should too.”

“She didn’t rat us out before. Why would she now?” He and Roland had had this conversation a hundred times in the last twenty years—no, more like a thousand times. Roland just didn’t know how to calm down.

“Not only the police, but that bitch Nikki Gillette is poking around. She’s called a couple of times.”

“You talk to her?”

“Not yet, but she’s not the kind to give up.”

“We’re free, man,” Donny Ray insisted. He’d been Roland’s alibi for the night those kids were shot up, and it had worked out just fine for him as well, as he’d been cheating on his wife at the time. Sayin’ he’d been with Roland, rather than admitting to banging Wanda Colbert, had saved his marriage. For a little while anyway. Eventually Sharon had found out and served him with papers—the bitch!—but for
that
night, he’d been safe. Not that he’d ever felt good about it. After all, a girl had
died,
a
pregnant
girl. But Donny Ray had been true to his word, and luckily for everyone involved, Blondell hadn’t named Roland as being in the room with her; she’d come up with the stranger story instead.

Weird, that.

It was something he didn’t really get. Hell, he didn’t want to think about any of it, but here Roland was so nervous he was just twitching around, almost tweaking, though Donny Ray had never seen Roland touch meth or anything stronger than an occasional joint.

“Just be cool,” Donny Ray advised. “Everything will work out.”

“Not if that bitch gets out, man. No way. And not if that stupid Nikki Gillette keeps at it.”

“You gonna try and stop her?” Donny waved Roland off and caught the end of a three-point play. Beautiful shot. Nothing but net!

“I’ll have to. I’m gonna be counting on you again, man.”

“For an alibi?” Donny Ray didn’t like the sound of that. He’d stuck his neck out for Roland more times than he wanted to count and kept his mouth shut about the big one because it had served his purpose as well.

“What’re you plannin’?” Donny Ray asked cautiously.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m here, remember. If anyone calls, you just say I’m in the bathroom and I’ll call them back, then you phone my cell, tell me who called and what the score of the game is. Who made the last big play, so pay attention.”

“Jesus, Ro, what’s in it for me?” he asked, half-joking, then saw the glimmer of rage in his stepbrother’s eyes. He knew what that meant and backpedaled fast. “Just kiddin’, man—you know it. I’ve got your back. If anybody comes askin’, you and me, we were watchin’ this here game.” He pointed at the TV. “That’s it, tossin’ back a few cold ones and rooting on the Jaguars.”

“That would be good, bro,” Roland said as he opened the door of Donny’s mobile home. “That would be real good.”

As he left, Donny Ray didn’t know if his stepbrother’s final words were an observation or a warning.

 

Nikki stared at the images on Effie’s computer, and as she did, her shock gave way to anger, a sharp, pulse-pounding rage.

The picture of her on the porch of the cabin was just the first of dozens of photographs of Nikki and her family. Snapshots at the lake when she was a child, photos from school albums, Hollis riding her horse or in the dance studio, Elton in his football uniform or behind the wheel of his car, Aunty-Pen as a girl riding dressage or in college.

“What is this?” she said aloud.

There were newer shots as well. The house where she lived currently was featured, along with the one where she’d grown up. There was a photo of Uncle Alex’s home and the farm by the lake. Some of the pictures were older, some more recent. The cabin was featured prominently. Older shots, some with members of Nikki’s family, but newer ones as well.

What the hell was this and where the hell was Effie? Nikki had been sitting at the computer for more than half an hour and half-expected Effie to walk into her apartment and discover her, which, Nikki decided, would be just fine. She was itching for a fight, and she sure as hell needed to know what was going on.

She sorted through Effie’s pictures and realized she was in a folder marked “Family.” Yes, it was Nikki’s family, but . . . holy crap. Not Nikki’s family. But Effie’s. Somehow Effie had adopted Nikki’s family . . .
adopted.
Her mind began spinning with all the innuendos and quiet whisperings she’d heard, the skeletons that had kept rattling in the family closets, one of which was about her aunt. Hadn’t Nikki’s own mother intimated that Aunty-Pen wasn’t as lily-white as she’d pretended to be? And Hollis had made a few similar remarks.

All of a sudden the reason Effie reminded her of someone became increasingly clear. She was large for a woman, like Aunty-Pen, her eyes as blue as Penelope’s and Hollis’s.

No longer worried about breaching Effie’s privacy, Nikki kept searching the documents in her computer, looking for clues to the woman. She had little trouble as Effie kept her password taped to the desk on which the computer rested, allowing Nikki access to evermore-personal files: a copy of Effie’s birth certificate, with Aunt Penelope’s name listed as the mother, the father blank; adoption papers signed within two months of Effie’s birth; and finally the obituaries and death certificates of Nelson and Vivian Savoy, who, according to the obits, had no living relatives other than their daughter. Newspaper articles about the automobile accident that had taken their lives were in the file.

“Dear God,” Nikki said under her breath, as if the very walls could hear her. She found that Effie had joined a couple of Web sites dedicated to connecting adoptive children with their birth parents.

All of it was starting to make some kind of sense until she opened an album marked “Blondell O’Henry.” Just as there had been pictures of Nikki’s family, there were photos of Blondell and her children, her ex-husband, even some of June Hatchett, Leah, and Cain, a virtual family album of people connected to Blondell O’Henry. What now? Nikki wondered. Pictures and links to footage from the trial were included, and Nikki saw her own father in his judicial robes, as well as Alexander McBaine on the courthouse steps, smoking a cigarette, and Garland Brownell standing at a microphone.

It didn’t stop there, either. Not only did Effie have pictures of the players at the trial and shots of the crime scene, but there were photos of Blondell’s home before she was incarcerated and ones of the exterior of the prison. “What the hell are you doing, Effie?” Nikki said. Then she saw why Effie had been seen hanging around her station at work: she’d obviously lifted some of these pictures from Nikki’s database.

“Tit for tat,” she whispered, angry all over again, and when she opened Effie’s Word document file, she saw, big as life, the start of a long document with the working title “Mother or Monster: The True Story of Blondell O’Henry,” by Effie Savoy.

“You bitch,” Nikki whispered in wonder, realizing that Effie planned her own true-crime book about Blondell O’Henry’s case.

She went back to the photo library again and found an album marked “Research with RC.”

With a click of the mouse, Nikki was exposed to Effie Savoy’s private sex diary, photographs primarily shot in the bedroom of this apartment. The man who was tending to Effie’s sexual needs was obviously tall and muscular, with a few tattoos emblazoned across his broad back, but his face was generally turned away from the camera’s eye.

Only one photograph showed his features clearly.

Nikki’s heart nearly stopped.

There, on the computer screen, big as life, was a naked and sweating Roland Camp.

 

“I knew you’d show up again,” Flora Beauregard said quietly. As before, her jeans were too tight, her hair a perfect cap of soft waves. “I just didn’t know it would be so soon.” Through the screen, with only the porch lamp for illumination, she looked defeated, as if she’d done some serious soul-searching since Morrisette’s last visit.

“There’s not a lot of time. Blondell O’Henry is about to be released. If you won’t tell me the truth, I’m pretty sure she will, and I thought you might want to unburden yourself first.” It was a ploy, but Morrisette pushed it a little. “I know there’s more to the story, and I’m willing to bet you know it.”

As if she held the weight of the world on her shoulders, Flora unlatched the door. “I don’t know if it matters anyway,” she said wearily. “From what Deacon tells me, it’s a done deal, but come in. I suppose it’s time to tell the truth. Flint is long gone, the boys are men now, able to fight their own battles, and I don’t really care any longer anyway.” She looked at Morrisette with sad, defeated eyes, then led her back to her living room, with its pictures of her family proudly displayed on the mantel, attended by Jesus and the antique rifle.

Flora dropped into her chair. “All right,” she admitted, “It’s true. Amity O’Henry was Flint’s daughter. He and
that woman
had an affair. It was short-lived; she was little more than a girl and ended up pregnant.” Flora’s lips tightened at the memory. “We were going through a rough patch in our marriage, the boys young, not enough money, me dealing with my father’s failing health, and we just drifted apart for a while, though, of course, I didn’t know that he’d . . .” She squeezed her eyes so tight that her whole face crinkled, and she looked suddenly ten years older. “It was a nightmare. Lord knows he was at fault, being as she was so young, but that woman was sly and calculating, demanded money.”

“Child support?”

Absently Flora picked up her knitting needles. “Oh, no, Detective, this was blood money.”

“She
blackmailed
him, that’s what you’re saying?”

“Her boyfriend came back from the army, and he was in on it too. Though O’Henry formally and legally adopted Amity, Flint was always expected to pay. If he didn’t, she swore she’d cry rape.” The needles began clicking furiously. “And then, where would we have been? It all came to a head when Amity was killed. Flint was beside himself and blamed her . . . oh, well, he blamed himself too. So he pushed hard to have her put away, and she didn’t dare tell the truth, not with her life in the balance. He promised to push for life rather than the death penalty.”

“There was no deal,” Morrisette said.

“Of course not. That entire trial was a sham.” Her mouth twisted at the irony of it all. “And then
she
ends up getting involved with her lawyer.”

“
I’m pretty sure nothing about the State of Georgia vs. Blondell Henry was legal, but everyone just played their part,” Flora continued.

“So Blondell did shoot her kids?” Morrisette asked.

“Of course she did, Detective. But the prosecution just couldn’t prove it, not without that little boy’s testimony.”

“But it doesn’t really matter anymore now, does it? Amity’s gone. Her baby, Flint’s grandchild, gone too.” Flora’s lips quivered.

“Amity’s baby,” Morrisette said. “Do you know who the father was?”

She shook her head. “But it wasn’t Holt’s. Flint made sure of that. When he found out Holt was dating her, I thought he’d wring Holt’s neck.”

“You’re positive?”

Her needles stopped for a second, and her lips twisted in distaste. “Yes, ma’am. And now that woman is going to be set free, her crimes suddenly erased.”

“What a banner day for all of Georgia,” Flora Beauregard declared, holding back a flood tide of emotion Morrisette guessed was just about to burst through.

N
ow that Nikki knew what Effie was up to, it was time to leave. She’d love to confront her right then and there, but obviously Effie was out for the evening.

Convenient,
Nikki thought, as she scooted the desk chair back. She was about to exit out of Effie’s desktop when she spied the online calendar on Effie’s monitor.

Could she get so lucky?

With a click, she was on a page for November, and, sure enough, work info and appointments from doctors to hairdressers were listed on the virtual page. On today’s date, she had a note: meet at cabin.

Cabin?
Meet who?

No note.

It had to be the only cabin pictured in the laptop’s memory, the very spot Amity O’Henry had been killed.

Why would anyone want to meet there?

Nikki’s first thought was that Effie had set up a meeting with her birth mother, but no way would Penelope Hilton McBaine go to that dilapidated cabin at night. Besides, according to Nikki’s mother, she and Penelope were scheduled to attend the Benefit for the Arts.

So that left Roland, right?

Or someone else?

Another player in all of this?

Someone who could give her a little more insight into the book she was writing.

Nikki thought about it hard. She should crash that meeting, find out what was going on.

Her doubts kept pounding through her brain, but her determination to learn the truth won as she made her way out of the apartment the way she’d come in, walked around the building again, and slid behind the wheel of her dented Honda.

She could just drive home. It was only a few blocks. That would be the smart thing to do.

Or if she needed to feel as if she were doing something useful, she could even stop by Aunty-Pen’s while she was out and return the keys.

But she didn’t heed any of her saner options. From the second she’d seen the note on Effie’s calendar, she’d known, deep in her heart, what her next plan of action would be.

She took the time to text Reed, saying she was still doing research, but she didn’t have the heart to admit that she was going back to the cabin. Still, she couldn’t go out there and not tell anyone, so she left another text with Trina and asked her to call her in an hour.

Just in case there was trouble.

Then she headed out of town.

 

“That’s right,” Reed said to the dispatcher, “I want a BOLO alert on Roland Camp’s Dodge pickup.” Driving back to the station, he rattled off the license-plate number and hung up. Maybe he was jumping the gun on Camp. The guy hadn’t done anything illegal that Reed knew of, but there were those missing snakes in Dahlonga and a dead man to go along with them.

Roland Camp could have had nothing to do with Alfred Necarney’s death, but Reed wanted to be sure. Truth to tell, he didn’t like the guy.

His cell phone blasted, startling him out of his thoughts of Camp and Blondell O’Henry and religious ceremonies with snakes.

Adjusting the ear device on his Bluetooth, he said, “Reed.”

“I’m on my way back to the station.” Morrisette’s voice was weak, background noise distorting it a little, as she was also driving. “But I thought I’d give you the rundown. Looks like Flint
was
the father of Amity O’Henry. The missus finally spilled the beans.” As he maneuvered his Caddy through the streets of the city, she told him a story of statutory rape, unwanted pregnancy, and blackmail. When she was finished, she sounded pleased with herself. “You know, Deacon might just regret forcing another twelve hours on us.”

“Who’re you kidding?” Reed asked, slowing for a traffic light and watching a jogger overtake an older man with a cane who was crossing more slowly. “You would be doing this, deadline or no. You love this.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Hate to admit it, though.” He knew she couldn’t deny what was so patently true. As opposite as she and Reed were, when it came to working doggedly on a case until it was solved, they were totally in sync. Neither could stand a case going cold. “So what about you?”

“I’m looking hard at Roland Camp again.”

“For Amity’s murder?”

“I don’t know. I just found out he has an affinity for poisonous snakes.” He launched into his meeting with the Reverend Byrd and his association with Camp. “Since Roland’s MIA again, I put a BOLO out on him. Just to talk to him.”

“And maybe scare him a little. I like it. You’re kinda pushing the limits,” she said.

“Guess you’ve rubbed off on me.”

“About damned time. I’ll meet you back at the station. I should be there in five.”

“You got it. I’m here already.”

He pulled into the lot and was getting out of his car when the text from Nikki came in.

“Working late. Looks like we may have picked up another stalker. Seriously. Effie Savoy. Will fill you in later. Meet at home and maybe eat Chinese?”

He read the text twice and didn’t get it. He knew that Effie was a woman Nikki worked with and that there was some friction between them, but a stalker?

As he climbed out of the car, he had his phone in hand to call her when he nearly ran into a wild-eyed June Hatchett.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

“I’m sorry.”

“Going to my church! Bothering my brother! Asking all kinds of ridiculous questions!”

“Mrs. O’Henry, slow down,” he suggested.

“I am sick and tired of all the harassment my family has endured. Reporters. Police. Curious people driving past our house and up our lane! It has got to stop!” Eyes rolling until the whites showed, she said, “I want to talk to your supervisor.”

“She’s gone for the day.”

“Well, there has to be someone on duty!” She was raving, her face drained of color, her body shivering with her outrage. “Why don’t you come into the station and we’ll talk this out,” Reed suggested as, from the corner of his eye, he saw Morrisette pull into the lot.

“Fine,” June agreed. “But don’t try to placate me, Detective. I know my rights, and religious freedom is guaranteed by the Constitution of these United States.”

“That it is, Mrs. O’Henry,” he agreed as Morrisette parked and started toward the door. “That it is.”

 

Nikki had never used the stun gun that Reed had insisted she carry. In fact, she always left it at home, near the bed, but tonight she took the time to find it and make certain it was working.

Just in case.

Then she drove as fast as she dared to the dilapidated home her great-great-grandfather had constructed more than a century earlier. The night was clear, a moon rising, the breath of winter chilling her bones as the beams of her headlights splashed against the trees and underbrush surrounding the cabin. The lake was much as it had been the last time she’d driven here, white caps swelling on the dark, restless water, reeds and marsh grass bending in the wind.

This is nuts,
her inner governor told her, but she blocked her mind to that glimmer of sanity.

The gate to the property was open, and that gave her pause. How had Effie figured that one out? Was it left unlocked the other night after she’d had her car towed?

Setting her jaw, she drove forward, through the open gate.

Her jaw was so tight it ached, and fear crept up her spine, but she was determined to ignore it.

The coward who’d placed a snake in her car wasn’t going to stop her. And besides, Effie would be here. As irritating and deceitful as she was, Nikki didn’t think she was physically dangerous.

So where was her car?

Bracing herself, fighting her inner demons, she told herself the ramshackle cabin was not evil, that just because an unthinkable horror had occurred within its crumbling walls, there was no reason to be afraid.

Armed with a large flashlight, her cell phone, and the stun gun, she climbed out of the car and this time had the presence of mind to lock the door before making her way through the mud and patchy grass to the front door, which also was open.

Before heading inside, she ducked her head against the wind and walked to the back of the cabin. Parked close to the building was a BMW, the same make and model that had tried to run Nikki over. It was Effie’s, she realized as she tried the handle. It was locked tight, and she turned from it to look at the cabin. No one around, no flashlight glowing from inside.

So Effie was more dangerous than Nikki had thought.

Still, she wasn’t a murderer.

Right?

Nonetheless, it didn’t hurt her to let Reed know where she was. Deciding that safe was better than sorry, she texted Reed simply:

“Am at the cabin.”

Then she pocketed her phone and, with her uncle’s key, let herself in.

The door creaked on its rusted hinges, and once again Nikki was hit with the dead, musty smell of the place. Outside, the wind buffeted the walls, screaming and howling, rattling the few windows that remained.

Nikki swept her flashlight over the interior. “Effie?” she called, though once again she felt as if the place was empty.

Her stomach roiled a bit as she stood where she imagined Blondell had stood. Fighting with a stranger? She swept the beam of her flashlight over the area under the loft and thought again of her friend who had died here so long ago.

“Effie?” she yelled again. Where was she?

Slowly she moved the beam from the area where the sofa bed had been positioned to the wall where the kerosene lamp had shattered, still a bit of charring visible. She imagined the screams and the broken glass, the bits of fire dripping down the wall and onto the floor as the kerosene spread, miraculously not catching anything on fire.

There were so many unanswered questions. It seemed that the more Nikki learned, the less she knew.

She stared at the spot where Blondell had sworn she struggled with an intruder—in front of the fire—and claimed she’d struck her head on the mantel. The police had found bits of hair and scalp that confirmed that part of her story.

Nikki crossed in front of the cold hearth and climbed the staircase along the far wall. She saw where bullets had been pulled from the wall, where the spindles of the railing had been broken; once again, she saw the spattered bloodstains that were still visible on the wood. Her skin pimpled at the thought of that night, but she kept moving upward, one hand trailing the smooth banister.

On the second level, she had a view of the first floor, and she tried to imagine what the kids had seen.

The empty loft hadn’t changed since the last time she’d been here, of course.

No Effie.

Just her car.

What the hell was going on?

She felt another chill and thought she heard a soft click, as if a lock were being turned.

She started to call out but held her tongue. What if whoever was opening the door wasn’t Effie, but the person who had left a snake in her car the last time out? Suddenly the stun gun in her pocket seemed like a small weapon.

As if a spider had climbed up the back of her arms, her skin crawled. Turning off the flashlight, all the while telling herself she was a ninny, she strained to hear over the rush of the wind and the scrape of a branch against the siding.

Her finger hesitated on the button of the flashlight.

A floorboard groaned.

Her mouth turned to dust, her throat suddenly dry.

Squinting into the lower level, she thought she saw a shadow move, then realized it was that same skeletal branch near the window, casting an eerie shadow, dark on dark, through the living area.

Time to get the hell out, Effie or no Effie. Something just wasn’t right.

Walking as softly as she could, she reached the top of the stairs, still not turning on the flashlight, when she heard the noise again. Definitely footsteps. She stopped, ready to take another step, but held herself still. Frozen.

“I know you’re here,” a man’s voice called out, and she nearly fell through the floor. Definitely
not
Effie. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

The voice was familiar, and now she knew who it was: Roland Camp. Effie’s lover.

“You just couldn’t stay away, now, could you?” he said as she tried to melt into the shadows. Here, in the loft, she was trapped, couldn’t sneak down the stairs, and there was no window, just a sloping roof.

Darkness was her friend as well as her enemy.

“Oh, well, Nikki, there’s no need for you to expose yourself, I suppose.” He struck a match, scraping his thumb over its tiny head. With a hiss a little flame appeared.

If only she had a gun—her father’s tiny pistol he’d kept strapped to his ankle, which had come in so handy the last time she was in trouble, or even her uncle’s gun. But no. The stun gun required close contact, and she was going to avoid that at all costs.

She did have her phone, though, and if she could switch off the ringer and other sounds, she could call Reed and—oh, God, was that a knife, glinting in his other hand? The match’s flame was reflected on a long, shiny blade.

She swallowed hard.

“Let me guess. You’re upstairs,” he said, and her heart fluttered in fear. “Thinking you would find Effie.”

Panic threatened her, and her fingers fumbled, but she reached into her pocket and speed-dialed Reed without exposing the cell to the light, not taking a chance that its glow would expose her position.