When Death Draws Near (7 page)

“Well—”

“But hear me clearly on this. If your stupid job has again threatened your life, the second I'm back in town, I'm petitioning for sole custody. You are an unfit mother.”

“Robert!”

“So? Are you in any danger? Or more importantly, would Aynslee be at risk with you?”

“You know I'd never put her in jeopardy.”

“Well then, Aynslee told me you flew into Lexington, so I've put her on the 4:15 p.m. flight tomorrow.” He disconnected before I could say anything.

“Robert, you skunk!” I redialed, but he'd obviously turned off the phone.

I paced from the desk to the window and back.
If I tell him about the two attempts on my life, he'll go after sole custody in a heartbeat. But by saying nothing, am I placing my daughter in the sights of . . . who? I don't even know who wants me off this case.

I'd just have to keep her safe.

I sat on the chair, rubbed my toes, and looked around the room. The bed was big enough, and the room spacious, but how much was I stretching my hosts to announce my fifteen-year-old daughter would be joining me? I hadn't even met them yet.

Then there was the small problem of my reoccurrence of
cancer. “Buck up, Gwen,” I whispered. “You don't know how long you have. Enjoy your time with your daughter.”

And lest you forget, the local rapist is keeping busy. And someone threatened me.

Robert called me an unfit mother. If anyone got near my daughter, they'd see just how fit I could be.

A divorced, menopausal mother with nothing to lose.

THE PHONE RANG, LIGHTING UP THE GUEST SUITE
button. I picked it up.

“Miz Marcey, lunch is served,” Mrs. Fields said.

Glancing at my watch, I stood and moved to the bathroom to check my appearance before exiting the room. I made a wrong turn and ended up in a short hallway with three doors. The first
door proved to be a half bath, the second another guest room, and the third door was locked.

I reversed and found the wide staircase going downstairs. I went down and followed a murmur of voices across the living room to French doors leading to a natural stone patio. To my right was a seating area around an outdoor fireplace. Straight ahead, a tall, angular man with broad shoulders and a woman with long, dark hair sat on ocean-gray wicker chairs pulled up to a glass-covered, wicker table. Matching hand-painted dishes on papaya-colored place mats graced five settings. The sun was warm, but a large umbrella offered shade. A hint of blooming roses perfumed the air.

The man had been watching something on a laptop. He shut the computer and stood as I approached. “Ah, so there you are. The renowned forensic artist. I'm Professor Thomas Wellington.” In his midthirties, he wore a blue oxford shirt under an earth-toned tweed jacket. He reminded me of Paul McCartney.

“Professor Wellington.” I shook his hand.

He turned to the slender woman who looked to be in her late twenties. “And this earnest young lady is my research assistant, Trish Garlock.”

Trish had an infectious grin and a smattering of freckles. She wiggled her fingers at me. “Hey.”

“Hey, Trish.” I took the unoccupied seat next to her.

Mrs. Fields rolled a cart stocked with food from another door, apparently leading to the kitchen. “Mr. and Mrs. Campbell will be slightly detained. They have asked that you not wait for them.” She placed lunch on the table—an array of salads, sliced meats and cheeses, an overloaded bread basket, condiments, and fresh fruits. Trish and the professor dove in, filling their plates.

I sighed, feeling slightly guilty for enjoying the glorious day, beautiful setting, and abundance of delicious food served by trained staff.

But only
slightly
. I dug into the chow.

Halfway through my strawberry spinach salad, the French doors opened and a man crossed to the table. “I'm so sorry I'm late.” He smiled when he saw me, displaying perfect teeth.

I made a concerted effort not to gape at him.
Please don't let there be spinach between my teeth.

Arless Campbell was easily the most gorgeous man I'd ever seen. In his mid- to late thirties, he had thick black hair framing
a square forehead, with a hint of gray dusting his short sideburns. His face was chiseled with a strong jaw and full lips. He wore a charcoal suit with a cranberry silk tie and a blindingly white shirt.

I felt like I should stand, or curtsy, or bow, as if in the presence of royalty. I couldn't figure out what to do with my hands, so I stuck one out for a handshake. That might be an Appalachian-royalty faux pas, but Arless didn't blink. He took my hand in both of his. “So we finally meet. Welcome to our home.”

My mouth didn't seem to work, my brain locked up, and heat rushed to my face.
Since when did you become such a bumbling refugee from a turnip truck?

I'd been so busy staring at Arless Campbell I hadn't even seen his wife. If he was gorgeous, she was breathtaking. She'd swept up her blonde hair into an elegant bun. No, make that a chignon. Women who looked like her would never simply have a bun. The hairstyle emphasized her graceful Audrey Hepburn neck. She had huge dark eyes that dominated her delicate face. Her dress was a simple black sheath that clung to her slender body. She carried a Coach purse the color of butterscotch.

“Mrs. Marcey, welcome.” Her voice was without accent and finishing-school modulated.

“Please call me Gwen.” I resisted offering Blanche a hearty handshake.

“And you must call us Arless and Blanche.”

Arless pulled out a chair for his wife, then sat in the remaining unoccupied seat and placed the cloth napkin in his lap.

Trish leaned close. “I saw your face as you met Arless,” she whispered. “I had the same reaction. He's beautiful.”

“I feel like an idiot. I hope
he
didn't notice,” I whispered back.

“I think he's used to it. Their nicknames are Ken and Barbie.”

Mrs. Fields appeared, placed a frosty glass of iced tea in front of each of them, and just as quickly disappeared. “I'm sorry to be so tardy.” His voice was rich and deep. “I was tied up in a meeting, and my dear wife waited for me.” He looked at her with such an expression of love that it took my breath away.

Robert, no man for that matter, had ever looked at me that way. I shoved down the self-pity and concentrated on my surroundings. If I stared at his face, I'd start looking for pores, maybe a wart, some indication he was human and not a perfect robotic creation. “Your . . . uh . . . home is beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Blanche picked up a spoon and added some sugar to her tea. “I'm glad we could provide you with someplace to stay while you're here. It's not fancy, but I hope you're comfortable.”

Not fancy? I'm in a different reality
. “I understand you provided the funds to bring me out from Montana. Thank you.”

Blanche stirred her drink. “Darling, you didn't tell me you'd arranged for Gwen to come out and work on the recent cases.”

Arless waved his hand. “It was nothing. Clay told us about you and we insisted on getting your help. He was pretty stubborn about ‘bringing in an outsider,' as he put it.”

I gave a noncommittal grunt.

Blanche placed her spoon on the table and looked at me. “But it seems this has put you at considerable risk. Clay told me someone tried to run you down, and you found a snake in your bed at the hotel.”

“A rattlesnake.”

Wellington and Trish exchanged glances. “How'd they get the snake out of your bed?” Trish asked.

“The hotel called animal control.”

“Jason Morrow?” Arless asked.

“I think that was his name. Why?”

“Small town. Everything tends to be connected.” Arless glanced over my shoulder.

“Jason is my son.” Mrs. Fields refilled my glass.

“Oh!” I hadn't noticed her approach.

Arless said, “If you're concerned about your safety—”

“I'm here to do a job. Please don't worry about me.” I didn't mean for that to sound so abrupt. I smiled through stiff lips.

“We shall see to it that you're not harmed while here in Pikeville,” Blanche said.

“Really, I'm fine, and grateful for your hospitality.”

An uneasy silence fell on the gathering.

“What does Clay have you working on?” Trish finally asked.

“Pretty much what I do back home in Montana.” I took a sip of water. “Unknown remains, composites, signs of deception—”

“Deception?” Trish sat up straighter.

“Sure. Being able to tell when people lie.” I took a bite of spinach salad.

Blanche looked surprised, Arless amused, and Trish excited. “You mean,” she asked, “like body language?”

“Mmmm.” I quickly swallowed the mouthful. “That, plus written and verbal clues.”

“Fascinating.” Blanche touched her lips with her napkin. “Are you always checking to see if people are lying?”

I laughed. “That's what everyone thinks when they find out I've studied deception, but no, it's too much work to do all the time. Unless, of course, something sets off my warning bells.”

Arless leaned forward. “And you studied this because of your work?”

“When I interview, I have to know if my victim or witness is being truthful.”

“That would be useful knowledge during a campaign to assess the other candidates,” Arless said thoughtfully.

Wellington laughed. “Most people feel that you can tell a politician is lying because his lips are moving.”

Blanche shot him an annoyed look. “I'm sure, Gwen, that most parents would find your lie detection handy if they have teenagers.”

“You bet,” I said. “Though studies show that even young children lie at about the same rate as teens and adults. But speaking of teens, you folks have been so gracious in taking me in that I hesitate to even ask you this.”

Blanche and Arless gave me encouraging smiles.

“My fifteen-year-old daughter needs a place to stay for a week or so. I hate to impose on your hospitality—”

“Think nothing of it, Gwen,” Blanche said. “Of course she's welcome. We have a big house.”

Arless nodded in agreement, then turned to Blanche. “See? If Gwen were worried about her safety, she'd never bring her daughter out.” He patted her on the knee.

“Er, right. And thank you so much. She won't be a bother. She's a really good kid . . . most of the time.”

“Is she flying in?” Blanche asked.

“Yes. She arrives tomorrow in Lexington. I'll rent a car—”

“You don't have to do that.” Blanche took a scoop of fresh fruit. “I'd be happy to drive you.”

“But—” I began.

“A splendid idea, my dear.” Arless stroked her hand. “Maybe once your daughter is here, she'd enjoy taking in some local
culture. Does your daughter like live performances? We're patrons of the local small theater.”

Trish laughed. “You're patrons of all the cultural activities.”

“Hmm, well, Aynslee likes live musical groups.”
Like Neutral Stench, but undoubtedly not on their list of favorites.
“She'd probably like the theater. I'm usually too busy to take her,” I finally offered lamely.
And too broke to buy the tickets.

“This play's great. And spooky,” Trish said.

“It's the story of Octavia Hatcher,” Arless said. “A local woman, married to one of the richest men in town. Have you heard of her?”

I shook my head.

“The story goes,” Blanche said, “young Octavia had a child, a son, Jacob, born in January of 1891, who died shortly after birth. Octavia became severely depressed, then fell into a coma. On the second of May that year, the doctors pronounced her dead.”

“And she was buried right away,” Trish said. “'Cause they didn't have a way to embalm her body.”

“A number of other people in town developed the same symptoms,” Professor Wellington said. “But after slipping into a coma, after a couple of days, all of them woke up.”

A cool draft from somewhere brushed against my neck. “But Octavia . . .”

“Woke up also,” Professor Wellington said. “In her coffin. She was buried alive.”

MRS. FIELDS APPEARED AGAIN AND BROKE THE
silence following the professor's statement. “Would anyone care for coffee?”

“I . . . I would.” I caught the professor's attention. “How did they find out she'd been buried alive?”

“Once her husband realized others were waking up, he had
her exhumed. Her fingernails were ripped to the quick, and frozen on her face was a look of horror.”

I shook my head, trying to get the image out of my brain. “Did anyone ever figure out what happened? What the disease was?”

“No. It's been quite the mystery.” Blanche nodded at her husband. “We need to get you and your daughter tickets to the local theater production. And if Clay will give you any time off, you and your daughter can visit the statue her grieving husband placed over her grave. She looks down on the town from the cemetery.”

“Aynslee would relish the idea of visiting a cemetery with
a ghoulish story attached,” I said. “Especially with Halloween approaching.” I hesitated a moment. “But I'll probably keep her out of sight.”

“I understand,” Blanche said.

“You'll both be safe here,” Arless said. “Traditionally we host a Halloween costume party. We'd be delighted if you and your daughter joined us.”

“I can get you costumes,” Blanche added. “I just need to know what size your daughter is.”

“That sounds like fun,” I said.

Blanche gave Arless a small nod. “We may be making a big announcement—”

“Now, Blanche . . .” He wagged his finger at her. “No hints.” He took a proffered cup of coffee and changed the subject. “If you'd rather stay out of sight, maybe you both could spend a few nights at our cabin.”

“Darling, no one's been there for a long time. It's probably a mess.”

“I'll have Mrs. Fields get someone up there to clean it. Even if Gwen doesn't want to stay there, no sense in having it fall down.” He nodded at the hovering woman and she nodded back.

Professor Wellington glanced at his watch, then jumped to his feet. “Excuse me. I'm afraid I must eat and run. I have an appointment over in Grundy, Virginia. I found a church practicing shape-note singing.”

“Will you be here for dinner?” Mrs. Fields poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Trish.

“I'm not sure. It depends on how long everything takes. I'll call.” The professor left.

Arless wiped his lips with his napkin, then placed it on the table. “I'm afraid I must rush off as well.”

I glanced at Trish. “Okay, I gotta ask. What's shape-note singing?”

“It dates back to the early eighteen hundreds in America. It's a way of quickly learning music by placing a shape on the note heads. It's mostly done for religious music, hence the professor's interest. Anyway, you should ask Professor Wellington about it.”

“Okay.” Clay would be calling soon about the sketch, so I excused myself and headed to my room. The propped-up drawing on my desk was almost finished.

Stopping at the door, I stared at the sketch. I'd seen that man before, with a slightly fuller face.

Jason Morrow, the snake wrangler. And Mrs. Fields's son.

Swiftly I shut the door behind me. What if Mrs. Fields saw this?

It's not a positive ID. It's a sketch. There could be a number of people who look like that.

I resisted the urge to widen the face and increase the resemblance.

Using the house phone, I dialed Clay's number. He answered on the second ring. “Hi. I'm just finishing up the video surveillance drawing.”

“I'm tied up right now, but I'll send someone.” Clay's voice was clipped.

I wanted to tell him that I thought I'd recognized the man, but I didn't want to influence his own possible recognition. And I could be wrong. “Okay. Do you have anything else for me?”

“Not right now. See you tonight.” He disconnected.

I put the finishing touches on the drawing, scanned it, and printed several copies. After backing it up on a flash drive, I placed the printouts in a folder. Taping some tracing paper over the top of the original sketch to keep it from smudging, I placed it in a separate folder. Before I could take it to the front door for pickup, Mrs. Fields tapped on my door. “An officer is here for you.”

Following her, I spotted Junior in the foyer shifting his weight from foot to foot. His restless fingers danced around the hat he held.

“Here you go, Junior.” I handed him the folder. He glanced at it, then left without a word. Mrs. Fields shut the door behind him. I wanted to ask about her son's whereabouts, but instead said, “Odd fellow.”

“Always has been.” She sniffed, then headed for another part of the vast house.

My cell phone was ringing as I entered my room. “Gwen Marcey.”

“How's the case going?” Beth asked. “I picked up your mail and phone messages. You have someone who has a case for you in Folly Shoals, Maine. How much longer are you going to be? I finished the research you asked me to do.”

“Challenging. Thank you. Where's that? I don't know. Tell me.”

Beth was silent for a moment. “Okay. Point made. Let me try again. Folly Sholes is an island off Summer Harbor, Maine.”

“At least I'll have some work waiting for me.”

“How's the case going?”

“Interesting. Someone tried to run me down, I've gotten a death threat, and someone put a rattlesnake in my bed.”

“Oh! Really? Doesn't that enervate you?”

“I have no idea what you just asked. Is that your word of the day?”

“It is. I didn't think I'd be able to use it. What does Robert think about all that? Isn't he sending Aynslee to be with you? He called me, but I didn't have room.”

I rubbed my forehead. “Aaah, Beth, I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention anything I just said to anyone.”

“So he's threatened you. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Meeting someone new, a decent guy for a change, would—”

“Don't go there, Beth. I'm still not ready for the dating scene. Just tell me how the research went.”

“Hold on.” Paper crackled in the background. “Your Clayton Reed is divorced with one son and has a BA in criminal justice from the University of Pikeville. He ran for state representative four years ago. Lost. Ran for city council the year before that and lost that as well.”

“So. He's ambitious, but not very successful at it. Could be one of the reasons he hangs around Blanche and Arless. The allure of power.”

“Who are Blanche and Arless?”

“The folks who paid for me to come here. Check them out next. Last name of Campbell. Also look into a Jason Morrow and Mrs. Fields.”

“Do you have a first name on Fields?”

“No, but she's Jason Morrow's mother. Works for the Campbells.”

“Okay. One last thing on Clayton Reed. He has several
luxury cars registered in his name and pays some pretty hefty taxes on his house.”

I thought about his gold watch. “Thanks, Beth. I think, as the saying goes around these here parts, I'm fixin' to look into that ole boy.”