When Death Draws Near (8 page)

I FOUND MYSELF PACING THE ROOM LIKE A
caged cat. How would I find out how Clay could afford all the luxury items in his life?
Hey, Clay, who's bribing you? Or are you brewing and selling your own moonshine?

I'd just have to keep my eyes and ears open tonight. Preparing for it physically wouldn't take long. I had one dress. My hair was
still growing back after chemo and formed a layered, feathery cap on my head. Naturally wavy, it didn't need anything more than a quick comb to be presentable. Makeup would take another two minutes. Entire preparation for the dinner party: ten minutes.

I had several hours to kill, and pacing this room, although it was beautiful, was driving me crazy. I
could
read a book. Watch TV. Think about cancer. Or snakes. Or death threats.

The Indian-summer afternoon suggested a walk. I grabbed my camera and a jacket, then left my room. This end of the house was a rabbit warren of closed doors and short hallways. Eventually I found my way to the patio doors leading off the living room. All the lunch dishes and food had been cleaned
up, chairs returned to order, and throw pillows fluffed. On the left of the outdoor fireplace, a landscaped hot tub burbled, and a meandering, stone-paved path began on my right. I took
the path.

The Campbells had poured a lot of money into making their grounds appear natural. The stone path wove through densely planted trees and shrubs, occasionally opening up to a log bench or meandering past a man-made stream. I passed by the window to my room, then worked my way to the side of the house, pausing to snap a photo of an interesting leaf or light pattern. The house was tucked into the hillside, and the trail now ambled downward. The mossy soil perfumed the air, and a squirrel briefly checked me out. I found a bench next to the tiny brook and sat. Whoever designed this site was an artist. Dappled sunlight painted the trunks of the aspens in shades of peach and cameo rose. The leaves were every shade of golden yellow, from amber to azo. I longed for a paintbrush and my watercolors. I could stay here forever, cocooned by the forest. Leaning against the trunk of the nearest tree, I closed my eyes and listened to the birds sing to each other.

The soothing sounds did nothing to slow my clicking mind, replaying what I'd seen and heard so far. When I'd mentioned the type of snake appearing in my bed, Wellington and Trish had exchanged glances. That tidbit of information held some special meaning to them. The snake theme emerged again with the possible identity of Jason Morrow from the video surveillance drawing I'd completed. And a connection to this house. Then there was the dead body, compliments of an untreated snakebite.

I really hated snakes.

A cool draft slipped uncomfortably up the back of my jacket, raising goose pimples. I opened my eyes. The breeze stopped, but the uncomfortable feeling didn't. Someone was watching me.

I stood and stretched, rolling my head and rubbing my neck, casually checking the landscape around me. The foliage was simply too dense to see through. Looking toward the house, I searched for prying eyes. I didn't see anyone, but they could have moved away from the window.

Clouds covered the sun, and the thick plantings cast dark shadows around me. Standing, I hurried down the path toward the front of the house. I arrived at a small, stone-lined patio outside open French doors on the lower level.
A shortcut to my room?
I sped toward it.

“Ah, there you are.” Arless's voice carried clearly through the opening.

I was about to answer when he spoke again.

“No. The problem will be resolved no later than the thirty-first. Don't worry.” He passed by the open door, phone pressed to his ear. I stopped, sure he'd seen me.

He hadn't. He was in an office, with a partner desk and wall of bookshelves behind him. Strolling to the shelves, he pushed on one side. The shelving unit opened, revealing another room beyond.

I melted into the background foliage, not wanting him to think I was eavesdropping or spying on him. The trail continued to a gazebo, then opened to a short slope to the street.

The gazebo was a white octagon with a triple roof, Victorian braces, and gray roofing. The entire structure was screened in.

A silver sedan, looking very expensive, pulled up to the house and parked. The driver stepped out and opened the rear door,
then helped an older woman from the backseat. An older gentleman exited from the other side. They looked vaguely familiar.

Dashing into the gazebo, I hid behind a window column. I didn't need folks to know I was here. Not yet.

The driver was about my age, with sun-bleached hair tumbling over drawn brows. He wore a sports jacket over a black T-shirt and jeans. Gold-rimmed sunglasses glinted in the sunlight. From a distance, he was easily in the Arless category of gorgeous men. My eyes lingered on his broad shoulders.

“What time should I pick you up?” he asked the older man.

“We'll call. Thank you.”

The driver, or chauffeur, gave a two-fingered salute, then glanced around. His gaze stopped on the gazebo.

I felt like he was staring right at me.

Heat rose to my face.
He can't see me. The screen is blocking his view
.

He waited until the couple was almost to the door before returning to the car. I could see the car's symbol, a letter
B
with two wings, as he turned around and drove off. A Bentley. I suddenly recognized the older man: he was a fantastically wealthy Oscar-winning director known for his charitable organization. Arless's visitors, or more probably campaign contributors, were top rung.

The driver, however, made my fingers itch for a pencil to sketch him.

It's high time you started noticing men.
I heard Beth's voice in my head. Until now, I hadn't had any desire to meet new people. The scars from my divorce were too fresh, and Robert kept picking at the scabs. But here I was, staring at a chauffeur as if he were a shop window full of chocolate.

Well, admiring a nice-looking man wasn't a crime. It was like . . . studying the menu, not ordering out.

I could hear Beth's sniff.

Okay then, like appreciating the handcrafted lines of the Bentley. It wasn't as if I was racing out to buy one tomorrow.

A chauffeur is hardly a Bentley . . .

“Let it go, Beth.” I stood and left the gazebo, allowing the screen door to slam behind me with a satisfying
whack
.

A large boulder marked the end of the path, and I dropped down the small incline to the pavement. The house now perched to my right and loomed above me. Walking up the street past the house, I found the driveway leading to a three-car garage.

Mrs. Fields stepped from a hidden doorway. “I saw you walking around the house.”

Although the words were innocent enough, she stated it like an accusation. Had she seen my sketch? Did she think I was setting up her son?

“I needed some fresh air.” I approached the house and tried to breeze past her.

She put out her arm. “Understand one thing. I'm watching out for Mr. and Mrs. Campbell.”

And your son?
“I'm not here to cause anyone any grief.”

She dropped her arm.

A luxury, American-made car took up one of the three bays of the oversize garage. On the side opposite of the garage doors, a raised concrete area held sporting equipment: bicycles, two kayaks on a rack, shelves with neatly labeled plastic bins, and a large laundry sink. Keeping my head up and back straight, I marched through the garage, up the three steps to the raised area, then to the interior door. The kitchen beyond was immense, with professional
stoves, pots, pans, and mixing bowls. The aroma of baking bread filled the air. Extensive counter space provided enough room to prepare a dinner for the entire White House staff.

Considering the Campbells' ambition, that was probably the goal.

A rounded man in a white chef's jacket paused in his chopping of something green, frowned at me, and pointed with a rather large carving knife to the exit.

Given his rather hostile attitude toward my intrusion into his lair, I decided not to share my recipe for tuna noodle casserole with potato chip topping.

I could hear Beth's voice.
Ah, Gwen, not sharing that noxious concoction with the chef is returning good for evil. I'm proud of you.

Sometimes I wondered why she was my best friend.

Checking my watch, I figured I'd have enough time for a bubble bath before dinner. I returned to my room. The phone was ringing.

I picked it up.

The same deep male voice was on the line. “I told you to leave. You need to learn to take me seriously.”
Click.

My skin prickled between my shoulder blades. I ran to the living room. “Mrs. Fields? Mrs. Fields!”

The woman appeared. “Yes?”

“My phone . . . I mean, the phone in my room. Who has that number?”

“The guest suite? I suppose someone could look it up. It's not unlisted, if that's what you're asking.”

“Mrs. Fields, did you tell anyone I was staying here?”

She folded her arms. “Of course not.” She pivoted and stalked off.

I stared after her. Should I call Clay and mention Jason? Was he the one threatening me? Slowly walking to the suite, I replayed the day. Clay mentioned Arless's name in the lobby, and a number of people could have heard him as we carried the luggage outside. Clay could have told someone he moved me. Technically, Clay could have even made the phone call. The voice was disguised.

Terrific
. I had someone I suspected, actually several people, but who could I turn to if Clay were involved? And what did the caller mean by, “You need to learn to take me seriously”?

I found a small sketchbook in my kit and wrote Clay's name at the top of a blank page. Underneath I wrote:
said caller was male, doesn't want me working on the case, smokes (cigarette burns on Shelby Lee), knows forensics, not around when calls come in, knows my location, living beyond his means? DNA results in desk.
I thought about Shelby Lee's reaction to the sheriff's presence
.
She'd stared at his hand and watch. If he wore a disguise, maybe she recognized his watch. A useful piece of information would be if he owned a cabin in the mountains or if his house were remote. He was divorced, according to Beth. Lady friend? Or did he live alone?

I turned to a fresh page and wrote
Junior Reed
. Underneath his name I wrote:
knows forensics, likes snakes, not around when calls arrive, knows my location, weird.
Just being weird wasn't a crime, but torturing women wasn't the most socially acceptable behavior.

I knew even less about Junior. Another call to Beth was in order. She could find out if Clay, Junior, or Jason drove a black pickup truck.

On a third page I wrote
Jason Morrow
. Underneath I jotted:
could easily find out I was here, likes/handles snakes, resembles sketch from surveillance still.

One thing was for sure. I needed to keep my eyes and ears open tonight at the dinner party.

BY THE TIME I NEEDED TO PREPARE FOR THE
dinner, I'd decided not to mention the second phone call. Whoever made the calls might slip up and give himself away. I also needed to be more mobile. Depending on Clay or one of his officers to cart me from place to place limited me too much.

The burgundy velvet sheath dress was a great find at the secondhand store, and I loved the way it fit. I just hoped we wouldn't be required to dress every night for dinner, and if we were, they'd better like the color burgundy.

I followed my nose and the sound of voices to the living room. The conversation ceased when I appeared. Clay, looking quite dapper in a black sports coat, designer jeans, and loafers, stepped beside me and quickly took my elbow.

“You look lovely.” He led me to Arless Campbell, who was busy pouring drinks from a wet bar.

Blanche waved at my outfit. “What a lovely dress. An Oscar de la Renta?”

“I believe so.”

She smiled slightly. “May I get you a drink?”

I didn't need alcohol to cloud my thinking. “Club soda, please.”

Blanche nodded to Arless, who proceeded to pour my drink. Before I could say anything to either of them, Mrs. Fields appeared. “Dinner is served.”

We moved toward the dining room, an alcove surrounded on three sides with glass and two intricately detailed bronze sculptures.

Arless seated me to his right, with Trish across the table and Clay next to me. The array of silverware was impressive, as was the Waterford bone china and crystal. I tried not to think of my own chipped dinnerware, now wrapped in newspaper and sitting in storage.

“Clay told us about all the stuff you've already done with the surveillance drawing and watching the video and looking for lies,” Trish said to me as a uniformed maid served our first course of tomato aspic on a bed of lettuce. She gave an impish grin to the sheriff. “He's most impressed.”

Clay shifted in his chair and a slight flush spread up his neck.

“But I got to wondering,” she continued, “don't computers do it all now? I mean, I don't want to offend you by saying you're obsolete, but . . .”

“That's a common question, and I'm not offended,” I said. “That's like saying now that computers have spelling and grammar check, any writer can become a novelist and crank out a bestseller.”

“Good point.”

I tried the aspic. Spicy and interesting. “Even with a computer, you still need artistic knowledge about the face, shading,
and facial features. Computers become obsolete before you can take them out of the box, and the learning curve on programs is steep. Most of the forensic artwork is still done with a pencil, especially in smaller cities and rural areas.”

“So you don't use computers at all?” Trish asked.

“Well . . .” I took a sip of water. “
I
don't, but there is a newer program out, horribly expensive, that takes hand-drawn composites, puts a grid over them, assigns facial feature priorities, then runs the results against a huge database of mug shots and driver's license photos. It then narrows down the likely suspects with a series of possible photo matches. The victim or witness looks at the results for a match. The better the witness and drawing, the more the suspect range is narrowed down. I understand the match rate is very high.”

“You've never used it?” Trish asked.

“No, well, not in its present format. I sorta helped develop it.”

“Really.” Wellington scooped some aspic into his mouth.

“For a time,” I said. “I taught at the police academy. Forensic art, cognitive interviewing, that kind of thing. A computer company approached me about developing a program. One that used composites. I told them what they needed to do. They left and I didn't hear from them again. Things got a bit complicated at home . . .”
Now's not the time to talk about divorce, cancer, and rebellious teens, not to mention massacres and bombs . . .
“Well, anyway, I read about the program in a law enforcement magazine,” I finished lamely.

“So what's this program called?” Arless asked.

“Um, Compositfit? Comp-Fit? Something like that.”

Clay took a small notebook from his pocket and jotted a note.

“You mentioned the surveillance photo you worked on,” Arless said. “Has there been a change since a lot of businesses are using surveillance cameras?”

“Yes, to a point, but many of the photos are at weird angles or blurry. Someone needs to be trained in what to look for in the human face.” I took another bite of the aspic.

“What do you look for?” Blanche asked.

“If I can see the ears, I'll start there.”

“Really?” Blanche asked, blinking rapidly.

“Sure. Ears are probably as distinctive as fingerprints. And you can tell a bit about the family tree. For example, earlobes are either attached or unattached, though there are variations within that, and the shape is inherited.”

Professor Wellington inspected Trish's ear, while Clay gazed at mine. “I see what you mean,” Clay said. “You have a bump on your ear.”

“Darwinian tubercle.” I touched it. “A congenital thickening of the helix. I noticed your ear on one side is smaller than the other, Blanche.” I glanced at Clay, then blinked. “And Junior isn't your son,” I blurted out.

Everyone's gaze shot to me. Heat rose in my face. “I'm sorry. I just noticed your lobe's attached and Junior's isn't. I should have asked to see a photo of his mother.”

Clay shifted in his seat. “No. You're right. He's adopted. You're very observant.”

“Ah, well, it's things like that I look for,” I said.

“Now I'm going to look at everybody's ears,” Trish said.

“Occupational hazard,” I said.

The first course was whisked away to be replaced by an attractively presented main course. “Traditional Southern food
to welcome you,” Blanche said. “Fried catfish, cheese grits, okra, and cornbread.”

“Yum.”
I hope.
Everything
smelled
heavenly, but the cornbread was the only thing I'd ever tasted.

“Did you get hold of that church in Grundy?” Wellington asked Trish.

“Darling,” Blanche said to Arless. “Are we having music this time?”

While the conversation swirled around me, I forked some of the catfish, then leaned over to Clay. “I'm wondering if you know somewhere I could rent a car? I don't need to tie up your officers carting me around the countryside.”

“Where did you need to go?” Clay asked.

“I've been invited to the funeral of Samuel Adkins, that young man I sketched.”

Conversation ceased. Everyone stared at me.

“Elijah and Ruby Adkins invited you to their place? For a service?” Trish asked.

“A funeral. I think they were grateful when I gave them the sketch of their son. Why?”

I took the last bite of the catfish. It was delicious.

Blanche carefully placed her wineglass on the table. No one spoke for a few moments.

“Well, well, well,” Arless finally said, looking at each person sitting at the table. “Shall we retire to the study?”

After carefully folding my linen napkin and placing it on the table, I followed everyone into the room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on three walls. Table lamps cast pools of golden light on the mahogany leather furniture, and handmade rugs covered the oak floors. Arless lit the logs in the fireplace, filling
the room with a flickering amber glow and the scent of burning applewood.

I could feel eyes on me, but when I looked around, no one seemed to be paying me any attention. They'd settled in a semicircle around the fireplace, cupping the lead crystal glasses Blanche had filled from a bar in the corner of the room. She'd held up a bottle of Kentucky bourbon and raised one eyebrow, but I shook my head.

“It's your call,” Arless said to Clay. “It didn't work with Trish.”

Clay swirled his bourbon, then took a sip. “Of course, we can't predict how this will go either.”

“It is a matter of trust.”

“We know what
doesn't
work. But with that program . . .” Blanche leaned forward. “I think it's a fabulous idea. When could we start?”

“We could put the plan together as early as tomorrow.”

“Excuse me.” They obviously needed to discuss something without me. “I have a long day coming up. Thank you for the lovely dinner. I'll leave you alone—”

“Please have a seat, Gwen.” Arless nodded at a chair near the fire. “I'm sorry we were being so cryptic. We”—his gaze rested on each individual in the room—“have a proposal for you.”

Everyone's gaze focused on me. I wiped a damp hand on my dress.

Sheriff Clay cleared his throat. “I'm afraid I haven't been completely up front with you.”

I frowned at him and waited.

The sheriff shifted in his chair and took a sip of bourbon. “I told your boss, Dave, about the serial rapist. I didn't think about the other . . . problem.”

“Problem?” I asked.

“We've had a lot of bodies showing up. Quite frankly, it never occurred to me that a forensic artist would be useful for sketching someone for identification. Most of these bodies, including the one you sketched, belong to a particular group of people.”

Professor Wellington cleared his throat. “What do you know about the people who call themselves Signs Following Believers?”

“Never heard of them.”

“The full name of their church is the Church of the Lord Jesus Christ with Signs Following. They're snake handlers,” Blanche said through stiff lips. “Pentecostal snake handlers.”