Tin God (4 page)

“It’s hotter than a two-peckered Billy goat in here.”

Jaymee yanked open the mobile home’s rusty window and propped up the cracked, plastic sill with an old fan. She turned the fan on full blast and sucked in a gulp of air. June had barely begun, and the temperature hovered in the mid-nineties. She should be used to the heat—it was a southern tradition. But the inside of the trailer was baking hot.

Anxiety had kept her awake most of the night. Noisy hoot owls, the damned raccoons searching through a neighbor’s trash–every sound had Jaymee ready to spring out of bed. Considered a newer model–meaning, the one with the least amount of rust–Jaymee’s trailer was near the back of the lot and close to the woods.

Most nights she was grateful for the breeze, but her frayed nerves were on edge. Roselea was a safe town. Even sleazy Ravenna Court only produced crime of the domestic variety.

But if Evaline, nearly a fortress with its modern security system, wasn’t safe, then Jaymee’s old tin-can home might as well have an open door. Anyone could sneak through the trees and pick her flimsy trailer lock.

Not to mention Darren had put the fear of God into her with his worrying. He’d driven her home last night, furious because she hadn’t called him as soon as she found Rebecca.

“A woman–your
friend
–has been murdered, and you’re out walking around at night,” Darren said. Still in his pale blue dress shirt, Darren had leaned against her counter, looking considerably out of place in her worn-out trailer. At least a head taller than Jaymee, he’d gotten the height in the family and inherited their father’s dusty brown hair. Thankfully that’s where the resemblance ended. Darren usually had a smile on his face and nothing but encouragement for his younger sister. However, he looked tired last night, his lean cheeks covered with a day’s worth of stubble, shadows lining his eyes.

“You look worse than me,” Jaymee said.

“Eli’s been sick. I took the nightshift so Mary could rest. Don’t change the subject. Why didn’t you call me for a ride?”

“Give the little turkey a kiss for me.” Jaymee wished she could see her nephew more often, but life was simpler when she stayed away from her father’s side of town. “And you know why I didn’t call.”

“Don’t worry about Dad. I can handle him.”

She said nothing. Over the years, Darren had protected Jaymee from more slaps than she could count. He might be able to handle their father, but their mother would take the brunt of his wrath. And she would still be in the same position. Why add to Sonia’s misery?

Darren checked the trailer before he left. “I wish you’d come stay with Mary and me for a while. Until they bring in Rebecca’s killer.”

Paul would love that. “I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m a target. I just had the dumb luck of finding her body.”

“How are you doing with that?”

She shrugged, exhaustion suddenly weighing her down. “It’s like a dream. Surreal.”

“I’m sorry.” Darren draped his arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry you had to see something like that. After losing Lana–”

“Her eyes were open, Darren.” Jaymee drew a raggedy breath. “Bulging out of her head. She looked so…shocked.” She couldn’t muster another word and allowed Darren to pull her close. The sobs forced their way out of her chest. “How could a person do that to another human being?”

“I don’t know.”

“Gossip is she was having an affair.” Jaymee tried to focus on something other than the memory of Rebecca’s corpse.

“You believe that?”

“I don’t know what to believe any more.”

Darren made her promise to check in from Sallie’s in the morning. “You need a phone out here.”

“Money’s tight.”

“I’ll pick you up one of those pre-paid deals. For emergencies.”

“No, you won’t.” She had refused dozens of offers of financial help from Darren over the years. She wasn’t about to give Paul another reason to call her an embarrassment.

“Lock the door,” Darren had said as he stepped out into the night. “Although breaking into one of these things wouldn’t take much.”

Now, a scratching sound came from the closed door, followed by an urgent whine. A pair of mismatched eyes half-hidden by shaggy hair stared back at her. The stray Jaymee started feeding a few months ago waited to escape the sun.

“You’re pathetic.”

She let Mutt inside, and he made a beeline for her bedroom. She followed the dog into the tiny room at the back of the trailer where Mutt had taken up residence on her bed. He wagged his tail in greeting and then stretched out over the old sheets.

“Get off.”

Mutt stretched and rolled over. He chuffed a sigh and then was quiet.

She stripped off her damp clothes, tossed them into the laundry basket, and then made her way into the sweltering bathroom. She turned the water toward cold and stepped into the spray, leaning against the cool vinyl. Her brain raced out of control. She needed to tell Detective Charles what Crystal had said.

But Sarah…if Jaymee were accused of prostituting as Crystal had threatened, her slim chances of getting custody of her daughter would evaporate.

You have to find her first.

The few memories of her daughter took over. Pink and tiny, her skin wrinkled and still covered with afterbirth. Then she was gone. Jaymee begged and pleaded saying she’d changed her mind. No one cared.

The bar of soap slipped from her fingers and landed with a thunk. Her limbs numbed and her stomach churned as she sank to the floor. All she wanted to do was keep a low profile and save her money until the time was right. Get a lawyer. Then justice would finally be dealt.

But what about justice for Rebecca? Could Jaymee really keep silent?

She shivered under the cold water.

Don’t get involved
.
Find your daughter and move on with your life.

Jaymee finished her shower and then quickly dressed. Her lightweight tank top and cutoffs would keep her cool for a few minutes. A loud rap on the door made her jump. She didn’t recognize the fast pattern.

Mutt didn’t even bark. Some watchdog.

Detective Charles stood at the door huffing, sweat rolling down his red face.

“Yeah?”

“Told you I’d be by this morning. Mind if I come in?” He wiped his forehead with another soaked handkerchief. His extra pounds were dangerous in this heat.

She stepped aside and motioned for him to enter. “You want some water?”

Charles’s large frame looked even bigger in the small space. “That would be great. Can I sit?”

“Go ahead.”

The plastic bench squeaked in protest as Detective Charles sank onto it. Jaymee grabbed a plastic glass with flowers etched across the center–her best China–loaded it with ice, and stuck it under the faucet. Tap water would have to do.

“Thank you.” Charles gulped down the water. “Don’t handle this heat the way I used to.”

Jaymee leaned against the counter. Her fingers wouldn’t stop twitching. “What did you want to know?”

“How long you known the Newtons?”

“Since they first moved to town almost five years ago. ”

“How’d you meet?”

“I was working at Sallie’s. Rebecca came in asking if Sallie knew anyone who cleaned houses. I needed extra money, so I offered.”

“That’s when they were renting while Evaline was being restored?”

“Yeah,” Jaymee said. “Why does any of this matter?”

“Everything matters.” Charles pulled a crushed pack of cinnamon gum from his shirt pocket. He tore off the wrapper and jammed the stick in his mouth. “Rebecca ever confide in you about anything personal?” He rolled the wadded paper between his meaty fingers.

Jaymee’s defenses went up. “Like what?”

“Anything beyond the usual chit-chat.”

“She didn’t want kids. Neither did Royce. That’s why they were a good match.”

“She ever tell you how they met?”

“Didn’t you ask Royce all this?”

Charles took a long drink. “I did, just this morning, when he arrived home from Jackson. But I’d like to know what Rebecca told you.”

“He didn’t come home until this morning?” The question burst out of her. Jackson was only two hours away. His wife had been murdered, for Christ’s sake.

“Nope. That typical?”

“I wouldn’t know. This is the first time his wife’s been murdered.”

“Real nice,” Charles said. “I’ve heard it’s pretty typical for Royce to put his business ahead of his wife. Also heard she might have been gettin’ her needs met elsewhere.”

“I don’t know about any of that,” Jaymee said. “I do know Royce still spends plenty of time in Jackson even though he resigned from his firm when they moved down here. Supposedly does pro bono stuff.”

Charles picked up the National Enquirer Crystal had left and waved it in front of his face. “So what else did Rebecca tell you about their relationship?”

“They met at a charity function for the children’s hospital. She wasn’t into older men, but Royce swept her off her feet. She wanted to move to Roselea, restore Evaline. Said she used to visit Roselea as a child and always wanted to bring Evaline back to her former glory. Royce did that for her. That’s all I know.”

“They seem to get along?”

“When he was around.”

“What about Jonas, the tour guide extraordinaire?”

“He’s Royce’s guy more than Rebecca’s. He gave her the creeps, always nosing into stuff.”

“They argue?”

“Nothing major,” Jaymee said. “Rebecca didn’t need to argue to get her point across. She had a way of speaking real quiet, just sharp enough to show she was pissed.”

“A southern lady.”

“Guess so.” Jaymee shifted against the counter. “Is that it?”

Charles finished his water and wiped his face again. “I’ll be honest with you, Miss Jaymee. No sign of forced entry. Alarm not tripped.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“Most times, murders like these are committed by someone the victim knows. Most times, it’s her husband.”

Jaymee looked away, her nerves crackling with the voltage of a live wire, and tried to keep her face benign and her hands still. Charles was already going in the right direction. Crystal’s throaty voice invaded her thoughts.
Best leave him to it
.

“You ever see anything that makes you think Royce or Jonas had it in for Rebecca?”

A harsh laugh escaped Jaymee’s tight throat. “Fat Jonas? No. He’s a lurker. Only person he’ll go toe-to-toe with is someone he thinks is beneath him. Besides, he’s short and soft. Sometimes I think he’ll barely make it across the house. Rebecca was athletic. She could have fought him off.” Jaymee closed her eyes, willing the memory of Rebecca’s body not to surface.

“So that leaves her husband.”

Jaymee grabbed Charles’s empty glass. “You want more?”

“No, thanks.”

She busied herself rinsing it off in the sink, her back to the detective.

“You think Royce is capable?”

Jaymee dropped the plastic cup into the sink. Outside the small window, a mockingbird hovered over a pepperbush, scouring the plant for bugs. Two small children played in the shade of the woods, chasing each other with water guns. Nearby, a second mockingbird called, its sound distinctive.

“Jaymee?”

She clawed the edge of the sink. “I’m sorry, Detective Charles. I don’t go ‘round trying to figure out if a person’s capable of killing someone. I just keep my nose down and work.” Courage bolstered, she turned to face him. He stared back with curious eyes, a half-smile on his chubby face.

“How could I possibly know if Royce Newton is capable of killing Rebecca?”

“All right,” Charles nodded. “You think of anything about Royce that didn’t sit right with you, let me know.”

“Fine.”

He checked his watch. “Damn near eleven. You got a shift at Sallie’s?”

“Yeah, and I’m running late.”

“Figured. I’m heading downtown. Why don’t I give you a ride?”

Deep in the heart of the Delta, Nick stepped out of his Taurus and almost fell back inside as the Mississippi midday heat assaulted him. Roselea was less than two hours away from the crossroads of Routes 61 and 49, the place many believe to be the location where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil in exchange for his blues mastery. The temperature had climbed at least ten degrees since he’d left the city less than two hours ago. He gazed up at the restored Victorian and thanked God Annabelle’s Cottage had air conditioning.

I killed your wife again last night.

He’d read the letter a hundred times, trying to chalk it up to a sick joke, some bastard playing games. Nick had made plenty of enemies in his career. One of them could have sent the note as payback.

But he’d received it the day after the murder of the Roselea housewife, Rebecca Newton. And the letter had to have been sent before she was killed. Mail didn’t travel at the speed of light.

A blue jay rushed past, its jeering squawk interrupting the peaceful afternoon quiet. The bird landed on a feeder hanging from a hulking oak and muscled a finch out of the way.

Nick lugged his suitcase up the cobbled walk. The stones were probably as old as the house. According to the sign from the National Register of Historic Places, Annabelle’s Cottage was Roselea’s oldest Victorian home. More restored houses adorned the tree-lined street, all guarded by oaks and magnolias—their delicate, white blossoms scattered across the well-kept yards. Pink crepe myrtle crawled over the weathered picket fence, and the stately home reminded him of the pictures Lana had kept in her memory box. Roselea was everything a historic Mississippi town should be.

Except for the murder he’d come to investigate.

Nick pushed open the heavy door. Large and marred with age, only its paned glass appeared new. A bell chimed. Blessed cool air greeted him, followed by the distinct, musky scent of antiques and old wood. The Victorian’s grand foyer had been turned into a reception area. An old, mahogany sideboard covered with tourist brochures sat at the left of the entrance, and Nick caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror.

As usual, he looked like hell. Rumpled clothes, messy hair, a hint of invading gray shining under the bright lights. Dull blue eyes gazed back at him. He’d had the same stare since Lana’s death.

“Can I help you?” A short woman with a head full of thick, gray curls came around the corner, huffing and pink-faced.

“Nick Samuels. I have a reservation.”

“Oh yes.” The woman squeezed her ample frame behind a large desk and pulled out an old-fashioned ledger. She slid her horn-rimmed glasses down her nose and peered at the book. “From Jackson, right? Staying for a week?”

“Right.” For now. If he managed to connect Rebecca Newton’s murder to Lana’s, his stay would be extended.

“I’m Annabelle.”

Nick took her hand. “You restored this place?”

“My husband and I did. He passed a few years ago, but I’m still going. Love this old house too much not to be.”

Nick looked around the foyer. To the left was a parlor decorated with antique furniture, including a grand piano and settee upholstered in lush, crimson silk. Nick was no expert, but the pieces looked authentic.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Annabelle puffed out with pride. “It was a labor of love. I’ve lived in Roselea all my life. Owning this house was my dream.”

After she checked him in, he followed her up a sweeping staircase. The old lady wheezed with every step.

“I can find my way.” Last thing he needed was a heart attack victim.

“Nonsense.” She paused and sucked in a heavy gasp, hand over her heart. “Damned diabetes. Makes everything a challenge.”

Annabelle finally made it to the top. Nick lingered behind, afraid she’d topple backward. “Your room’s the last on the right,” she said. “The one beside it’s empty right now, so you should have plenty of privacy.”

Nick didn’t care about the solitude as long as he had a bed and Internet access. When she opened the door and stood aside for him to enter, he saw the room was large enough for a queen-sized bed, a comfy-looking couch, and a small desk. A vase of fresh cut gardenias sat on the nightstand, their heady scent filling the room. Better than the aroma hovering around his apartment.

“Window air conditioner, and we’ve just installed cable Internet.” Annabelle gestured to the desk. “Your private bathroom is to the left. You’ve got fresh towels, and you can change those daily.”

Nick hefted his suitcase onto the bed. “This looks perfect, thank you.”

He crossed the scuffed floor and turned up the air conditioner. His room looked out over Pearl Avenue, providing a full view of the bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River. The tops of Roselea’s finest pre-Civil War homes peeked out from the throng of trees like sentinels watching over the old town. Union soldiers had been so taken with the homes’ fine architecture that instead of burning them during the war, they set up camp and made Roselea a base of operations for several months. Grateful not to lose everything, the citizens had welcomed the enemy army, and Roselea survived the Civil War mostly unscathed.

In another life, Nick could see himself setting up at Annabelle’s, writing the great American novel, and watching the summer days pass by over the town. Now, the love story he’d always planned would be a tragedy: dark and twisted, the once valiant hero a washed up workaholic complete with a sour chip on his shoulder. No chance of happiness in sight.

“You’re from Jackson?” Annabelle leaned against the oak armoire, still catching her breath. Moisture darkened the roots of her gray hair, and she fanned herself with a plump hand.

“Born and raised.”

“Then you probably know Roselea’s claim to fame. Our very own Reverend Wilcher’s pastor of New Life Baptist Church, right in downtown Jackson. Even has his own television show,
Hope for a New Life.
I’m sure you’ve heard of it?”

Nick pinched his lips into what he hoped was a pleasant smile. “I have. Very popular show.”

“We’re proud. The Rev was our pastor for years before movin’ to the city.” Annabelle toed her orthopedic shoe on the old floor. “You’re in town researchin’ for a book?” Her smile was friendly, but a keen expression lit her milky-blue eyes. Old lady probably knew everything that went on in Roselea.

“That’s right. Haunted antebellum homes of Mississippi.”

“We got lots of those.” She exhaled a breathless, labored laugh. “Oak Lynn, the big place on the hill? That was a Civil War hospital. Plenty of stories from there. Then there’s Magnolia House just down the road from Oak Lynn. General Dupont—he built the place, back in 1820—he’s been seen hanging around his study by a bunch of people. One of his daughters died from typhoid in the house, too. Lots of people have seen her, too.”

“They’re on my list.” Nick sat down on the bed and stretched his legs. The mattress sank with his weight. “What about Evaline Hall?” He kept his tone casual. “Isn’t it Roselea’s oldest antebellum home?”

Annabelle’s hand fluttered to her heart again. “Yes, but there’s more things to worry about at Evaline than ghosts.”

“Like what?” Nick played dumb.

“I really shouldn’t talk about it. But since you’re researching, you should probably know before you go walking into a hornet’s nest.” She leaned forward and spoke in a nervous whisper. “Two days ago, Mrs. Newton, the owner, was found dead in her bed. Murdered. Terrible scene.”

“Jesus.”

“That’s not the worst of it.” Annabelle had a full head of steam now. “Her husband’s the prime suspect. Rumor was she was having an affair. Guess that’s what Royce Newton gets for marrying a woman almost twenty years younger. Course he’s not been arrested, being a big-shot attorney. Police don’t have enough evidence, they say. Pretty obvious if you ask me.”

“Sounds like it.”

“Things like that don’t happen here,” Annabelle said. “I hope Royce Newton is brought to justice.”

“So do I.” Nick caught the woman’s curious glance and knew he’d have to be careful around her. He didn’t need his cover blown just yet.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Annabelle hobbled out of the room. The staircase creaked with her descent.

Nick stayed motionless on the bed. Heavy quiet, the kind cultivated by bone-numbing guilt and weariness, loomed over him. He hadn’t been back to Roselea since the funeral. Shameful, he knew. Lana’s family deserved better. He just couldn’t face them, even her brother, whom he’d always liked. Burrowing into work came easy, a trait Lana had dually admired and loathed. She’d told him so the day she died. Same day Nick accused her of having an affair. He’d had no proof, no reason. Just his own shortcomings.

He still remembered the hurt simmering in Lana’s eyes. She’d said nothing. Simply stood up, gathered her briefcase and keys, and walked out. He knew then he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, but he’d been too proud to take the words back. Besides, he had a story to chase down, and begging for forgiveness would have to wait until later.

Later never came.

Nick gazed out over the town Lana had grown up in. Somewhere amid the picturesque history, a killer hid. Rebecca Newton’s body was still being autopsied, but after Nick’s frantic phone call, his brother-in-law had gone to the coroner’s office to see Rebecca first hand.

“Was like looking at my sister all over again,” Cage had said last night. “Even the purple bruise pattern on her neck looked the same. I hauled ass into the john and threw up.”

I killed your wife again last night.

The letter waited in his laptop case, still carefully sealed in the plastic bag. He should’ve known better than to try to fool himself when he first heard of Rebecca Newton’s murder. There were no coincidences.

###

Nick’s fingers thumped unevenly on the steering wheel as he drove down the residential street. Lana’s parents lived on the outskirts of Roselea’s prestigious antebellum district. Nestled between the hulking mansions with the colonnades and pristine white columns was a beautifully kept Craftsman Bungalow with white paint and burgundy shutters. A blooming red maple dominated the yard, and rosebushes surrounded the front porch. Nick slowed to a stop.

Nerves throttled him. He’d lingered at Annabelle’s into the early evening, convincing himself he was doing research for the case rather than stalling. But time had run out. Lana’s family had invited him for supper, and he was already late.

He didn’t want to see them again. Their pain was too palpable. He needed to be objective. Approach Rebecca Newton’s murder like another lead, a chance to move up the food chain.

A curtain fluttered in the bay window. Too late to turn back.

Nick stepped out of the Taurus and was greeted by the racket of cicadas welcoming the evening. His footsteps synced with the noise as he trudged up the sidewalk.

His pace stalled as Lorelai Foster stepped out onto the porch. Tall and willowy, her fair skin still boasting a peaches-and-cream complexion and her once-blond hair now a regal white, Lorelai had aged beautifully. This is what Lana would have looked like in another thirty years. The ache in Nick’s heart was paralyzing.

“Nick.” She held out her arms. “It’s good to see you.” Even her voice reminded him of Lana: distinctly feminine, full of warmth and compassion.

“You, too.” He climbed the steps and hugged Lorelai. She smelled like vanilla and apples. She’d been baking.

Lorelai held him at arm’s length. “You look well. Bit too thin, though. We’ll be fattening you up while you’re here.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

She ushered him into the house. The scent of apple pie wafted around him along with the onslaught of emotion he’d been dreading. Lana’s presence still hung over the home she’d grown up in. Her pictures displayed on the walls, stages of a life cut far too short. Her wedding picture held a place of prominence on the mantel.

Her mother touched his arm, drawing his gaze away from the picture. “How have you been?”

“Fairly well. Better than last year.”

She smiled, and he noticed the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes had deepened. “Us, too. Time seems to make the loss a bit more tolerable.”

“Is that Nick?” A deep voice boomed from the kitchen—Lana’s father. A Vietnam veteran, Oren’s gruff demeanor had put the fear of God into Nick on their very first meeting.

“Yes,” Lorelai answered.

“Tell him to get in here and have some pie.”

Nick followed Lorelai into the kitchen. It looked just as he remembered, decorated with chickens and roosters. The family table sat in a nook near the back door. Lana’s father had taken up residence there, an enormous slice of apple pie sitting in front of him. He’d added an extra chin to his already stout neck since Nick last saw him. “Oren.”

He shook Nick’s hand with a meaty paw. “Lorie, get the boy some pie.”

Nick sat down across from Oren. “Afternoon snack?”

“Nothing like Lori’s fresh apple pie. Eat up.”

Nick couldn’t stop the moan of appreciation at the first bite.

“I told ya.”

Lorelai set a fresh glass of lemonade in front of Nick. “Cage’ll be here soon. He called to say he was on his way.”

“I’ll be glad to see him.”

Oren polished off the slice of pie and leaned back in his chair, hands on his belly. His graying eyebrows knitted together. “I ain’t pussyfootin’ around. You really think the same person who killed our baby girl is here in Roselea?”

“Cage tell you about the letter?”

“He did.”

Nick finished chewing, sat his fork down, and held his father–in–law’s gaze. “I do. And I’m not leaving until I prove it.”

Oren nodded, and Lorelai busied herself at the sink. Nick knew she wouldn’t join in the conversation. Cage had told him she didn’t talk about Lana’s death. Her way of coping was to push everything aside and trod forward.

The back door squeaked, and a tall man entered, crossing the room in two long steps. Cage still wore his uniform, his deputy badge glinting in the sunlight. He took off his gun belt and set it on the counter. “Nick.”

“Cage.” Nick extended his hand. “Busy day?”