Waking the Dead (37 page)
PICNIC AT MY PLACE TONIGHT. REAL FOOD
.
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She dropped the phone on her lap as if it burned. Obviously Andrews hadn’t caught up with Zach yet. It was doubtful he’d be in the mood to issue invitations after spending a few hours in the sheriff’s company. As a matter of fact, Cait had an all too clear mental picture of exactly how he’d react to the questions the woman would be leveling at him.
It was still plenty fresh in her mind what it had felt like to be on the receiving end of the sheriff’s interrogation this morning.
Not for the first time that day, she considered Andrews’s implication about Cait’s objectivity. Without knowing it, the woman had unerringly put her finger on the button guaranteed to elicit all the old self-doubts about her judgment in men. Doubts she’d never considered in the course of her job. In that area, at least, her instincts didn’t fail her.
She’d discounted Sharper when she developed the profile. Before she became involved with him. But it was easy to question those conclusions now, with the sheriff’s questions still fresh in her mind.
Rather than bothering with a map, she relied on familiar landmarks to find her way back to McKenzie Bridge. When she saw the General Store up ahead, Cait knew exactly where she was. She took the next left toward the small town.
Andrews was wrong about Sharper. And it was professional opinion rather than emotion that told Cait that. Even the evolving theory that they were looking for at least two UNSUBs instead of one ruled him out in her mind. The man was a loner. While it was plain he had friends and was well liked by people in the area, he wasn’t the type to join forces with another in something as twisted as the crimes they were investigating.
If Zach Sharper were going to kill eight people, she’d be willing to bet he’d do it alone. And he damn well wouldn’t invite the sheriff to his disposal site to show off his handiwork.
Certainty accompanied the thought. Almost enough to completely alleviate the sneaky little sliver of doubt Andrews had unleashed this morning.
Doubt that reminded her that it wouldn’t be the first time she’d been wrong about a man. Her track record in that area was dismal. But just because she’d chosen men for years who were interested only in arm candy, didn’t mean that this time she’d hooked up with a serial killer.
Cait pulled up to the curb on Main Street and put the vehicle in park. She’d made mistakes in her life. And maybe—a chill broke out over her skin as the echo of that long-ago gunshot sounded in her mind—maybe she’d started the mistakes at an early age. Undoubtedly the trauma when she was eight had factored into a years-long habit of choosing the wrong men for the wrong reasons. But she’d broken that pattern long ago.
And Sheriff Marin Andrews wasn’t going to convince her any differently.
The glare from the afternoon sun was still strong, so she kept her sunglasses on as she got out of the vehicle, locked it, and rounded the hood toward the sidewalk. There were people out and about. Little clusters chatting in front of the ice cream shop and the post office. Others loitering outside the shop windows, peering in. Whatever impact the murders had had on the area, business seemed brisk this afternoon, with most storefronts boasting a steady trickle of customers through their doors.
Because it was closest, Cait ducked into the ice cream shop first, her gaze going to the wait staff at the counter. She knew immediately they’d be no help. Both were teenagers, a boy and a girl, and neither would have been working age three years ago when Livingston had been in the area, much less Recinos.
Nevertheless she approached them and waited patiently to be waited on. As it happened she got the girl, who raked her over with her gaze, taking in every inch of her appearance.
“What can I get you?”
She spoke with a slight speech impediment, but Cait decided that was due to the piercing on her tongue. The girl couldn’t be more than fifteen, with brown hair in need of a wash, and an unfortunate complexion.
“I’d like to speak to the owner. Is he or she around?”
As an answer the teenager turned away toward a door that led to a back room. “Mom! Someone here to see you.”
Obviously feeling like she’d done her duty, the girl walked by Cait to wait on the next customer. Several moments passed before a woman appeared in the doorway, a frown on her face as she wiped her hands on a dishtowel and scanned the interior of the shop.
“You’re the owner?” Cait was already reaching for the file folder she carried with the victims’ pictures.
“Casey Teames. And you’re not a salesperson.” Something in the woman’s stance eased and she came closer to the counter, leaned both hands against it. “Sorry, but that’s about the only people who come in asking for me.”
A slight smile curving her lips, Cait pressed her temporary Sheriff’s Department ID against the clear plastic back-splash separating them. “No, I’m not here to sell you anything. I just have a few questions. How long have you owned this shop?”
The woman gave the ID a cursory glance before returning her gaze to Cait. “Nine years, I guess. No wait, eight and a half. Steph was in second grade when we bought it, and she’s a sophomore now.” She slid a quick glance to the girl who was now giggling with the boy working beside her. “Hard to believe.”
Passing the pictures of the two victims to Casey, Cait said, “Both of these people have been tourists in the area in the past few years. Recognize either of them?”
To her credit, the other woman took her time studying each, before slowly shaking her head and passing the photos back. “I don’t. Sorry. We usually get a lot of people in and out of here in the summer and fall. Is there any reason I should recognize them?”
Ready to move on, she said, “Not really. I’ll be hitting as many shops in the area as I can to ask the same question. I appreciate your time.”
There was a slightly puzzled expression on the woman’s face, but it was clear the majority of her focus was on her daughter and the girl’s attention to the boy working with her. “No problem.”
Cait vacated the shop and wended her way through the half-filled tables on the walk outside it to move on to the next store, a small crowded space featuring leather goods. The owner, a lean taciturn man by the name of Jacob Beales, spent much less time looking at the photos than Casey Teames had, and much more time pressing his wares on her.
“Finest leather goods in the area, and everyone around here will tell you the same.” He picked up a brown suede purse and tried to thrust it into her hands. “Just feel that. Doe skin. You may pay less at a country fair, but then you’d never be able to find the vendor again if something goes wrong. I guarantee everything I sell. Thirty days, same as cash.”
The bell on the door tinkled, and Cait took advantage of the diversion to make her escape back outside.
She remembered the gift shop next door. She’d spent a bit of time looking in its windows the last time she’d strolled Main Street. Pushing the door open, she entered to find it crowded with several browsers.
With a quick glance toward the front, she saw one woman with gray braids pinned up on her head manning a cash register and another, a couple decades younger, helping a couple trying to decide between two paintings on whitewashed canvas.
Cait decided to use her intervening time perusing the rows of artwork lining ledges along one wall. But after only a few moments, she decided that nothing on display came close to the images painted on back of the scapulas. Not, she admitted silently, that she would necessarily recognize the style on a bigger canvas. But it reminded her to show the picture she’d brought of close-ups taken of a few of the images, just in case.
“Ms. Fleming. Decide to buy a painting after all?”
The familiar voice had her turning. And smiling when she saw Jeffrey Russo behind her. “Just poking around. What about you? Looking for another place to display your work?”
“Can’t paint fast enough to keep my gallery happy as it is.” Today he was dressed in creased walking shorts, Birken stocks, and a buttoned-down shirt. With a flip of his hand, he indicated his fiancée on the far side of the store. “You remember Candi Montrose? She’s trying to decide whether to make an offer on this place. It wouldn’t be my first choice, but she’s the one with the head for numbers. And according to her figures, it’s very successful, given its limited inventory.”
Cait’s gaze lingered on the woman for a moment. There was a certain charm to the shop, but somehow she couldn’t imagine Candi spending her days inside it, waiting on demanding customers. She reminded Cait of her mother. Although the women didn’t look alike, they shared a similar regal bearing and a vague sense of entitlement. Something that said they were born for better and that their expectations in life had never quite been met.
“And how is your case going? I’ll admit to being intrigued enough by the details to listen to every bit of news there is about it. The news of the bones being found in Mimosa Creek was absolutely chilling.”
Her attention firmly back on the man at her side, she said, “Have you ever been there? To the springs?”
The elderly man shook his head. “Candi’s not much of an outdoorswoman. Are you close to making an arrest?”
The retired professor, she decided, was something of a gossip. “The case is progressing. We have several leads we’re following.”
“Cop speak,” he complained, but his eyes were twinkling. “I’ve watched enough TV to recognize it.”
“Maybe so. But that doesn’t make it untrue.”
Russo lowered his voice. “I heard some young lovers found the bones when they snuck into the springs au naturel.”
“You heard wrong.” The man looked so crestfallen that she almost felt sorry for her response. “As usual truth isn’t as an exciting as rumors.”
“Well, that’s to be expected, I suppose.” His tone was rueful. “Never believe everything you hear, right? Small-town grapevines are like university campuses. Facts change to become more titillating.” He scanned the displayed artwork critically. “See anything that meets your fancy?”
Coming to a sudden decision, Cait took the camera picture of some of the images she’d blown up that had been found on male E. Handing the sheet to him, she watched his expression closely. “Actually, I’m looking for something along the lines of this art work.”
His expression went from curious to scholarly. “Shows aptitude, undoubtedly. There’s uniqueness to the line movement. The technique is solid. Originality is hard to determine since he or she has chosen familiar objects. But this artist hasn’t had formal training.” He handed the sheet back to her.
“Why do you say that?”
“Several reasons.” Russo slipped his hands into the pockets of his shorts and sent a quick glance at his fiancée before returning his gaze to Cait. “The materials used in the paintings are subpar, for one thing. Garish rather than soft or bold. It’s difficult to enter into the work, as the over-specificity of content lacks individualization.” Her expression must have been blank, because he explained, “Even in the rendition of familiar objects, something of the artist should be imbued in the work. Whether in the lighting, brushwork, spatial relationships . . . if the objective is to paint exactly what you see, one may as well use a camera.”
As if suddenly realizing he may have insulted her taste, his expression became arrested. “But of course if you enjoy this artist’s work, if it speaks to you on some level, don’t let my opinion sway you. The most important thing about a piece is how it makes you feel.”
Dark humor filled her. How these particular images made her feel was hardly appropriate subject matter to be discussing with the professor. But if he was correct about the UNSUB being untrained as an artist, that, too, helped her get a handle on the offender.
“I appreciate your insight.” She tucked the page back into the folder.
Russo began to move away. “Looks like Candi is ready. I hope you find more of that artwork you’re interested in.”
Cait murmured a good-bye and strolled closer to the ladies manning the front of the shop. Despite the warmth in the shop, the professor’s parting words gave her a chill.
Because she found herself hoping exactly the opposite. She was hoping the person responsible for this particular work was finished. That they’d catch him before he “created” again.
It was nearly twenty minutes before she was able to speak to one of the women running the store. It was the elderly of the two who waited on her with a wide smile and a discreet glance that took in the fact that Cait had no store items in her hands. “How can I help you?”
Handing her the two photos, she said, “I’m wondering if you recognize either of these people. Both have been tourists in the area in recent years.” She stopped, a bit bemused as she caught sight of the woman’s nametag. MOONBEAM. Either the woman’s parents had hated her when she was born or she’d changed her name for her own incomprehensible reasons. Whichever it was, the woman was studying the pictures intently.
After a few moments Moonbeam tapped the picture of Recinos. “She has such a tragic aura,” she murmured before lifting her gaze to Cait. “Who is she?”
“Do you recognize her?”
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