At nine a.m., Tom saw Natalie McClure and her lawyer, Cecil Merck, drive into the parking lot in Merck’s black Cadillac. After he parked, the two sat with their heads together, the lawyer apparently delivering last-minute instructions. Their huddle gave Tom time to send Brandon and Dennis next door to fetch Troy Shackleford. When Natalie and Merck entered the building, Tom was in the lobby, leaning on the reception desk.
“Good morning,” he said. “Thanks for coming in.”
Natalie didn’t return the greeting. With an expression of mild revulsion, she took in the FBI Wanted posters on the walls, the worn green linoleum, the wooden bench and the sand-filled receptacle bristling with cigarette butts. Her gaze came to rest on the frizzy hair and sharp features of Maggie Jenkins, the part-time jailer who was back at her regular job on the front desk. When Maggie returned Natalie’s stare with a mocking smile, Natalie drew the collar of her mink coat closer and hugged her purse to her side.
“I want to remind you,” Merck said, “that Mrs. McClure is under no obligation to submit to questioning. She’s here as a courtesy, to clarify matters so you’ll be free to focus your efforts on pursuing the actual criminal.”
Tom had never liked Merck, and his distaste for the lawyer was reinforced by the sight of him standing like a protective white-haired father next to a woman who thought she was superior to 99.9 percent of the people she encountered.
“I appreciate the help.” What was taking Brandon and Dennis so long? He hoped Shackleford wasn’t resisting the unexplained excursion out of the cell block. “Can I get you some coffee, Mrs. McClure?”
“No, thank you.”
Wise decision. The coffee was as bad as she probably thought it was. While Tom was wondering how to keep Natalie and Merck standing out here for another minute or two, he heard the sound he’d been listening for. The lock clicked open in the side door. Dennis entered first, followed by Shackleford in handcuffs, then Brandon.
Natalie yelped and took a step backward. Merck’s puzzled expression told Tom that the lawyer didn’t recognize Shackleford. “Natalie?” Merck said, a solicitous hand on her shoulder.
Shackleford came to an abrupt halt when he spotted Natalie, and his startled gaze swung from her to Tom. He needed only a second to recover his composure. Pasting on a grin, he gestured at Merck with his manacled hands and asked, “You my lawyer?”
Merck looked affronted. Before he could answer, Tom said, “No, Troy, I’m afraid Mr. Merck is a little more selective about who he represents. Your mother called and said to tell you she’s working on finding somebody for you, but it might take a while.”
Natalie retreated to a window, her back to the men. She trembled so violently that the dark hairs on her fur coat vibrated as if stirred by a breeze.
“You two know each other, I believe,” Tom said. “Mrs. McClure? Didn’t you tell me that Troy used to work for you? Back when he worked for a living.”
“He did a few chores for my husband and me,” she said without looking around. Her voice sounded high and thin. “A long time ago.”
“How you doin’, Mrs. McClure?” Shackleford said. “How’s Dr. McClure?”
Natalie started as if he’d poked her with a stick.
Merck demanded, “What’s going on here?”
Not enough to suit Tom. “Let’s all sit down and see if the two of you can fill in some gaps for me.”
“This is absurd,” Merck blustered. “We’re leaving.”
Natalie turned, and her eyes flew to Shackleford like metal to a magnet. His gaze held hers, and Tom could see in Shackleford’s face a warning, a threat.
An amazing thing happened: Natalie’s already fragile composure cracked like crazed glass. A faint keening sound rose from her throat.
“Natalie?” Merck said, clearly unnerved. “Let’s go. I’ll take you home.”
But she seemed rooted to the spot, her eyes locked on Shackleford. And Shackleford was beginning to look as alarmed as Merck.
Tom stepped closer to her and said quietly, “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? A long time to live with such a terrible secret.”
“Leave my client alone!”
“I’m sure you’ve heard how Pauline was killed,” Tom said to Natalie. “Her head was split open with an ax, right through to her brain.”
“Oh, God,” Natalie whimpered. She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth.
“Get ahold of yourself,” Shackleford said. “Don’t let him play this game with you.”
“We’re done here,” Merck said. Grabbing Natalie’s arm, he pulled her toward the door.
She stumbled, then her legs gave way and she folded. Tom sprang forward and he and Merck caught her and helped her to the bench. Tom pushed her head down to her knees and ordered, “Breathe. Deep and slow.” He signaled Dennis and Brandon to remove Shackleford.
“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing,” Merck said, “but you’re way out of line. This stunt is unprofessional and unethical and—”
“I think it’s time for your client to tell me the truth,” Tom said.
Natalie began to sob, her face buried in the lush fur of her coat.
Dennis and Brandon shoved Shackleford through the door to the jail. He shouted back to Natalie, “You’ll keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you!”
“I don’t want you saying another word,” Cecil Merck told Natalie. With a hand on her elbow, he hauled her to her feet. “We’re leaving.”
“I think we should go in my office and talk,” Tom said.
“Absolutely not. Mrs. McClure came here willing to answer questions, but after the stunt you’ve pulled, she’s withdrawing her cooperation.”
Natalie stared at the floor, her smooth golden hair draping her cheeks.
“Mrs. McClure,” Tom said, “I believe you have something to tell me.”
When she raised her head, she was so pale that Tom was afraid she might collapse again. Her tortured eyes seemed fixed on some inner vision.
“Mrs. McClure?” Tom said gently. “Do you really want me to get all my information from Troy Shackleford? Why don’t you tell me your side of it?”
For a second he didn’t think the bluff would work. Then she nodded, and Merck groaned.
In Tom’s office, Natalie sat stiffly in a hard wooden chair, her mink coat drawn close around her, and stared at the whirring tape recorder on the desk. Sunlight through the windows bathed her face, giving a touch of warmth and life to bloodless cheeks. Tom watched Natalie while Merck recited the official line: Mrs. McClure didn’t get along with her sister-in-law, she wasn’t happy about her husband’s closeness to Pauline, but she had nothing to do with Pauline’s murder. Puffing himself up in his chair and looking down his nose at Tom, Merck added, “And I’m certain you have no proof that she did, regardless of what you’re hearing from garbage like Shackleford.”
“Pauline wasn’t the only victim,” Tom said. “Her sister Jean was murdered around the same time, probably because she threatened to go to the police. Another woman was also killed. We think it was Pauline’s niece Amy, and she might have been killed because she knew too much. A few days ago, Shackleford’s pal Rudy O’Dell was murdered, probably for the same reason. Somebody tried to kill Pauline’s niece Holly and her friend, Dr. Goddard. All because, years ago, someone was angry at Pauline.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting,” Merck said, “that my client murdered three women and is now running around the countryside hunting people down like a savage.”
Natalie whimpered and brought a hand to her mouth.
Tom concentrated on her. “Here’s what I think happened. Your husband had an affair with Pauline. Ed was in love with her, and he would have left you for her. Left you with two sons to raise while he went off to indulge his romantic fantasies with Pauline.”
“This is cruel,” Merck said. “You have no right—”
“She didn’t even want him,” Natalie broke in. “She didn’t love him, but he wouldn’t stay away from her.”
“Natalie,” Merck said, his voice heavy with warning.
Agitated now, Natalie blurted, “Why do men do things like that? He humiliated himself. He made a fool of me. Our sons knew about it, but he didn’t care whether they respected him or not.”
“You must have been very angry at him,” Tom said. “And at Pauline.”
“I
hated
her.”
“That’s enough now.” Merck placed a hand on her arm.
Tom pushed on, “She was destroying your marriage. As long as Pauline was around, he’d never belong to you again.”
Natalie bowed her head.
“So,” Tom said, “you decided to get rid of her. And you knew somebody else who hated her because she was interfering in his life. Did you pay Troy Shackleford to kill Pauline?”
“Don’t answer that,” Merck told her.
Natalie was back in her private world, her eyes focused on a scene only she could see. “I was desperate. I had to get her out of our lives.”
Merck shook his head. “Natalie,” he said with weary resignation, “I am strongly advising you not to say anything more.”
Shut up, damn it.
Natalie was on the verge of spilling everything, and Tom wanted to gag Merck to keep him quiet. “People do extreme things when they’re desperate,” Tom said. “That’s understandable.”
Natalie’s eyes filled with tears. “I came to my senses, though. I’d gone a little crazy, I knew it was wrong, and I told him I’d changed my mind.”
“What?” Tom said.
“I told him not to kill her.”
“You hired Shackleford to kill Pauline, but you changed your mind?”
“I told him the money didn’t matter, he could keep the money, but I didn’t want him to hurt her.” Natalie’s voice rose to a wail. “But he did it anyway. I told him not to, but he killed her anyway.”
With half his jaw numbed by Novocaine, Sheriff Willingham made Tom think of a stroke victim, speaking indistinctly out of one side of his mouth while the other remained slack and motionless. “I can’t even go to the dentis’ wi’out all hell breakin’ loose aroun’ here.” Pacing Tom’s office, Willingham jammed fingers against his numb left cheek as if he could force feeling back into it. “You planned ’is, didn’ you? So I wouldn’ be here.”
Tom, leaning against his desk, pretended surprise. “It just worked out this way.”
“Like hell.” Willingham dropped into the chair where Natalie McClure had sat not long before. “She won’ be convicted. She had a momen’ of weakness, ’a’s all. Didn’ follow ’hrough.”
“She confessed to hiring Shackleford to do it,” Tom said. “Money changed hands. And Pauline ended up dead.” Willingham started to interrupt, but Tom cut him off. “She’s the prosecutor’s problem now. He’s setting up a quick arraignment. He’ll be asking for a high bail, but the McClures can manage it. She’ll stay in the holding cell at the courthouse till then. I don’t want her in the jail with the Shacklefords. We can’t take any chances on them intimidating her.”
“Rober’ McClure’s gonna have a fi,” Willingham said.
“I don’t imagine her husband’s going to be too happy, either. He’s teaching in Blacksburg today, but Merck’s probably already let him know.” Tom had wondered why Ed McClure wasn’t with Natalie when she came in for questioning. His guess was that she hadn’t told Ed about it.
“Pauline never meant to hur’ a soul,” Willingham muttered. Sighing, he gazed into space as if he were replaying a scene from long ago in his head. “But she hur’ so many people. I tried and tried to tell your dad to stay away from her—”
“I’m going to talk to Shackleford now,” Tom broke in. He still wasn’t sure what to believe about his father and Pauline, he hadn’t had a quiet minute to think over what Durham had told him, and he’d be damned if he’d stay here and listen to Willingham talk about them. He pushed away from the desk and headed for the door, speaking without looking back. “We’ll be in the conference room if you want to sit in.”
***
Shackleford seemed subdued, perhaps humbled by a night in jail and the knowledge that Natalie McClure had been arrested and charged and had already signed a statement. He took a chair facing Tom across the conference table. Under the merciless fluorescent light, every line in Shackleford’s face looked like an etching in stone and the stubble on his face was more gray than black.
Willingham sat at one end of the table, out of Shackleford’s direct sight. Tom hoped the sheriff would stay quiet.
When Brandon placed a Styrofoam cup of coffee—lukewarm, on Tom’s orders—before Shackleford, he lifted it with his cuffed hands, brought it to his mouth for a sip, set it down with a grimace. Brandon, standing guard behind the prisoner, grinned at Tom.
“Where’s my lawyer?” Shackleford demanded.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the court to appoint one,” Tom said. “Unless you want a public defender.”
“I’ve got money to pay a good lawyer. My mother’s had time to find one by now.”
“Your mother says she’s called everybody, and nobody’s willing to take your case. You see, they all know the court wouldn’t allow them to keep your money because it’s proceeds from illegal activity. Besides, the prosecutor’s asking the court to freeze your assets, and Buddy’s and Rose’s. So you don’t have a cent to pay an attorney.”
“Shit.” Anger and frustration stewed in Shackleford’s face.
“Like I said, we can get one of the public defenders to represent you. I don’t think either of them’s ever handled a murder case, so they’ll probably be fighting for the chance to get the experience.”
“I don’t want no snot-nosed little kid straight out of some backwater law school.” Shackleford shoved his cup away. Coffee sloshed onto the table.
“All right then,” Tom said, “you’ll have to wait till tomorrow. Meanwhile, I think it’ll be in your best interests to answer a few questions.”
Shackleford glowered at him with the helpless hostility of a cornered animal.
“I’ve heard Natalie McClure’s side of the story,” Tom said. “She says she paid you to kill Pauline, then decided not to follow through. But you went ahead. You took money from Natalie to commit a murder, and you did, in fact, murder Pauline.”
“I never killed nobody. You can’t prove I did.”
“Now, come on, Troy. If a jury compares your story to Natalie’s, who do you think they’ll believe? Why would a woman like Natalie McClure, with everything in the world to lose, confess to hiring a hit man if she didn’t do it?”
“I’m not a hit man, damn it!” Shackleford half-rose, but at the touch of Brandon’s hands on his shoulders he dropped back into the chair.
“Did you take money from Natalie McClure to kill Pauline?” Tom persisted. “Did she tell you she wanted Pauline dead?”
Shackleford scrubbed his hands over his face. “Yeah. Is that what you want to hear? She told me she wanted me to kill Pauline for her. But I never intended to. I took the money—why wouldn’t I? Who’s she gonna complain to if she never gets what she paid for? The Better Business Bureau? And when Pauline disappeared, yeah, I let Natalie think I did it. But I didn’t.”
For the briefest moment the passion in Shackleford’s plea made Tom wonder whether the man could be telling the truth.
Tom was about to press on when the door opened and Dennis Murray stuck his head in. “Sorry to interrupt, but could I talk to you for a second?”
When Tom joined him in the hallway, Dennis said, “I just found out something that might shed some new light. I heard from the cops in South Carolina who checked out that private mailbox that’s rented in Amy’s name.”
“And?” Tom’s heartbeat kicked into high gear.
“It’s billed to somebody else, the name doesn’t mean anything to me, but the bills go to a post office box in Washington, D.C. All the mail that comes into the South Carolina address is remailed to the Washington address. And several times a year something comes in from Washington to be remailed with the South Carolina postmark.”
“Oh, man.” Tom clapped a hand to his forehead. “And who do we know who lives right across the Potomac from Washington?”
Mary Lee.
Tom sent Shackleford back to the jail, collected his notes from every interview he’d conducted through the day before, and returned to the conference room with Willingham, Brandon, and Dennis.
“Let’s look at the whole picture,” Tom said. “Natalie McClure admits she hired Troy to kill Pauline, but he claims he took Natalie’s money then didn’t do the deed.”
Willingham snorted. “Likely story.”
“Let’s suppose he’s telling the truth for once in his life.”
“Aw, come on, Tom,” Willingham said.
“Just consider it. If he didn’t kill the women, he knows who did. And I’d stake my life on him and O’Dell being the ones who got rid of the bodies. What did O’Dell’s mother say?” Tom opened the folder of notes and sifted through the sheets. “Here. On the night Pauline disappeared, Rudy came home hours later than usual and told his mother Pauline was dead—
and the girl too
. He said Troy, quote, made him do something horrible, unquote. But he wouldn’t tell his mother what.”
“Assuming Shackleford didn’t do the murders,” Dennis said, “why would he get involved at all? Did he care enough about anybody to dump the bodies for them?”
“Not likely,” Tom said. “But he might have done it for money. The only people in Pauline’s life who had the money to buy that kind of cooperation were the McClures and Mary Lee. Now that we know about the post office box, I’m leaning toward Mary Lee.”
“My lord, Tom,” Willingham said. “You think the girl killed her own mother?”
“That sort of thing has been known to happen,” Tom said. “If she killed Amy too, that explains why she would write to Holly and to Amy’s parents, pretending to be Amy, making the whole family think Amy’s alive.”
Brandon and Dennis both nodded.
“We don’t know whether Mary Lee’s the one renting that P.O. box in Washington,” Willingham said. “And we won’t know for sure unless we force the Postal Service to tell us. We’d have to go through the U.S. Attorney up there for a warrant.”
“It all fits,” Tom said. He let his imagination run loose, pictured the very reserved woman he’d met in a lavish McLean house sinking an ax into her mother’s skull. Not an easy image to conjure, but anybody was capable of anything, given enough motivation. “She got Shackleford and O’Dell to hide the bodies, and she left for college the same night and pretended she’d actually left a day earlier. Nobody ever doubted her story. I think my father accepted it at face value. I haven’t found anything in the old file to make me think he suspected Mary Lee.”
“Well, maybe there’s a reason,” Willingham said. “He was a better judge of people than you are, and he knew she was innocent.”
Or he was predisposed to be blindly protective of his lover’s daughter. “If Mary Lee’s writing letters, pretending to be Amy, that means she knows Amy’s dead. How would she know if she wasn’t involved in the killing? And why would she conceal Amy’s death?”
“This is pure guesswork,” Willingham said. “Meanwhile, we’ve got a McClure locked up for the same murders you’re trying to pin on Mary Lee.”
“Natalie McClure’s guilty of conspiracy to commit murder, at the very least,” Tom said. “Her confession doesn’t mean we have to close our minds to other possibilities.” Before the sheriff could interrupt again, Tom went on, “Ed McClure had a reason to be furious at Pauline, and he had the money to pay Shackleford for disposing of the bodies. If he’s Mary Lee’s real father, and Mary Lee knows it, she might protect him.”
“Now you’re calling Reed Durham a liar?” Willingham said. “He told you the girl was conceived by artificial insemination.”
“That’s what Pauline told him. Doesn’t mean it’s true.”
Willingham threw up his hands in exasperation.
“Mary Lee would’ve been upset,” Brandon said, “if she found out her real father was some stranger who jerked off in a cup.”
“Wait a minute.” Tom flipped the pages in the folder, hoping something would jump out at him. He stopped when he came to an account of his interview with Bonnie and Jack Watford. He skimmed the interview notes, went back and read a couple of quotes a second time. “Let’s think about Bonnie and Jack. Seems to me they felt a lot of resentment toward Pauline. Still do, even after all these years. And Bonnie was at Pauline’s house right before the disappearance. Screaming at Pauline about something, but Mrs. Barker couldn’t make out what it was about. Let me find—”
He shuffled papers and found the account of his last interview with Mrs. Barker. He read it quickly. The scenario taking shape in his mind was so far-fetched that he didn’t dare put it into words. Not until he was sure it was possible. He pushed back his chair and rose. “Hold on a minute. I need to make a call.”
***
“Hey, Tom,” Reed Durham said when he answered the phone. “I heard about Natalie McClure. I am flat-out amazed, but I guess we should have suspected something like—”
“Reed,” Tom interrupted, “I need some information.”
A brief silence. Tom could envision Durham bracing himself to deflect intrusive questions. “I’ll help if I can,” he said, his tone turning brisk.
“Where was Mary Lee born?” Tom asked.
“That’s what you want to know? Florida. Palm Beach, I believe.”
“How did Pauline and Adam happen to be in Palm Beach when the baby was born?”
“Well—” Durham paused. “What’s this about?”
“I don’t have time to explain. Why were they in Florida?”
Durham hesitated, and Tom knew the lawyer was trying to figure out what kind of trap he was walking into. “It was winter,” Durham said at last. “Pauline was having a lot of morning sickness and backaches and so forth. She wanted to be in a warm place.”
“How long was she down there?”
Another silence, this one stretching out. Tom tapped a pencil on his desktop and waited.
“About six months, I guess,” Durham said. “Adam wasn’t with her the whole time, he had his work at the bank, but he flew down a lot. She was about three months pregnant, I guess, when she left. That’s a hard time for a lot of women. My wife—”
“Pauline was in Florida from the third month of the pregnancy until after the baby was born?”
“Right.”
“Tell me this. Did you ever see Pauline looking pregnant?”
“What kind of question is that? She started wearing looser clothes, and…Well, no, I guess I never saw her really heavy. Why?”
“Thanks.” Tom dropped the receiver into its cradle.
Back in the conference room, he faced the sheriff’s displeasure. “What are you up to?” Willingham said. “Who’d you have to call in such a hurry?”
“I’ll explain everything.” Tom leaned his palms on the tabletop and swept the three men with his gaze. “We know Mary Lee isn’t Adam’s daughter. What if she’s not Pauline’s daughter either?”
“Now you’re not making any sense,” Sheriff Willingham said. “Pauline gave birth to Mary Lee. How could the girl not be her daughter?”
“If she’d given birth in Mason County General,” Tom said, “and she’d seen a local doctor throughout her pregnancy, I wouldn’t question it. But she went off to Florida before the pregnancy was even showing, and she came back with a baby.”
“So what?”
Tom repeated what Durham had said and Willingham lost his inclination to argue. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured. He frowned at Tom. “Then whose baby was it? Mary Lee’s got to be related to the Turners. She looks just like them.”
“She’s related, all right,” Tom said. “Here’s what I think happened. Adam and Pauline couldn’t have children. But Pauline’s sister Bonnie was a baby-making machine. She had four sons and a daughter, one right after the other, when she was in her teens and early twenties. I’ve heard from several sources about Bonnie’s emotional instability, her bad nerves. She was overwhelmed. Maybe when she got pregnant again, a sixth baby was the last thing she and Jack wanted.”
“And along came Pauline to take the kid off her hands,” Brandon said.
“Right. We’re probably not going to find any records after all these years, but I’d bet anything that Bonnie Watford was in Florida with Pauline, and she probably used Pauline’s name when she saw a doctor and when she had the baby.”
“But why go to so much trouble?” Dennis asked. “Why didn’t Adam and Pauline adopt her sister’s baby? Or some other baby.”
“Because Adam’s mother wanted
real
grandchildren. She wouldn’t have accepted an adopted baby. Robert told me the only reason the elder Mrs. McClure tolerated Pauline was because she was the mother of her grandchild.”
Willingham slumped back in his chair. “Okay, let’s say all this is true. What does it have to do with the murders?”
“I think it’s the reason for the murders,” Tom said. “Maybe Bonnie and Jack regretted giving up their child. They wanted some contact with her, but Pauline wouldn’t allow it. When I talked to Bonnie and Jack, Bonnie said something like ‘I just wanted to see her now and then, but Pauline treated me like poison.’ I thought she was talking about seeing her sister, but she might have been talking about her daughter.”
Willingham frowned. “I don’t know, Tom. This is all pretty hard to believe.”
“Another thing,” Tom said. “Pauline sent Mary Lee to boarding school and wouldn’t tell anybody where she was. From the time Mary Lee was twelve, she spent almost no time in Mason County. Everybody says Pauline was trying to protect her from the fuss the McClures stirred up about the girl’s paternity. But maybe she was hiding Mary Lee from her real parents.”
“What are you thinking?” Dennis asked. “Bonnie or Jack killed Pauline? But why would either of them kill Amy? Maybe Mary Lee found out the truth and flew into a rage and killed Pauline? Why would
she
kill Amy?”
Brandon said, “Mary Lee thought Amy was trying to take her place with Pauline. And she felt threatened after she found out she wasn’t really Pauline’s daughter.”
Tom shook his head. “I’m not sure who did the murders. Shackleford’s one possibility. Mary Lee already had access to a trust fund, so she had money to pay him off. He could have killed O’Dell too. But if Shackleford’s not guilty, I’m convinced he knows who is. Let’s get him back in here.”
***
Troy Shackleford, in handcuffs, halted in the conference room doorway and surveyed the uniformed men. “I’m not talkin’ anymore without a lawyer.”
“Sit down, Troy.” Tom pulled out a chair. “Listen to what I’ve got to say before you decide whether to talk.”
With an elaborate sigh, Shackleford sank into the chair. “I’m all ears.”
Tom took his seat across from Shackleford and switched on the tape recorder between them. “If you don’t cooperate, you’ll be arraigned tomorrow morning on capital murder charges, based on what Natalie McClure told us. You meet us halfway, tell us everything you remember about the night Pauline died, and we might reconsider. If your story jibes with what we already know.”
Shackleford’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t answer for a long time. His gaze roamed the room, his breathing rasped. When his eyes met Tom’s again, he drawled, “You don’t know a damned thing. There’s a lot of stuff you’re never gonna figure out, ’cause you don’t know the right questions to ask.”
Tom smiled. “We know that Jack and Bonnie Watford are Mary Lee’s parents.”
Shackleford’s mouth dropped open. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said slowly. “You’re a real detective after all, Deputy Dawg.”
Tom wanted to whoop in triumph at this confirmation, but he said coolly, “We also know Rudy O’Dell helped you hide the bodies.”
Shackleford shifted in his chair, ran his tongue over his lips. “Rudy’s dead. He ain’t been tellin’ you nothin’.”
“He told somebody else about it. That’ll be good enough. You waited too long to kill him.”
“I didn’t kill Rudy. And I told you, I took Natalie’s money but I didn’t kill Pauline.”
“Prove it. If you don’t, Natalie McClure’s going to put you on death row.”
“What kind of a deal am I gettin’ out of this?”
“Tell us your story and we’ll decide what it’s worth.”
Shackleford looked down at his bound wrists and didn’t answer.
Changing tack, Tom asked, “Did you know from the beginning that Mary Lee was Bonnie and Jack’s child?”
“Naw.” Shackleford wiped the back of one hand across his mouth. “I didn’t hear about it till the girl was a teenager. Jack got drunk one night and told me. Amy wasn’t but two months old when Bonnie got pregnant again. And her already a nervous wreck. Jack didn’t want any more kids, but Bonnie wouldn’t get rid of it. So Jack sold it to Pauline and Adam. They all went down to Florida and Bonnie had the baby and Pauline and Adam’s names went on the birth certificate. ”
A tide of revulsion rose in Tom, disgust with Jack and Bonnie, Pauline and Adam in equal measure. “But Jack and Bonnie kept trying to see Mary Lee, didn’t they?”
“Not at first. They got a chunk of cash to move out of state, but after nine, ten years—before Adam died—they come back home. And the trouble started. Bonnie wanted her little girl back.”
Tom could imagine the panic Pauline and Adam felt when the Watfords reappeared. “But the McClures wouldn’t let them see Mary Lee.”
“Adam paid ’em to get lost again. They left for a while, but Bonnie kept comin’ back, tryin’ to see the girl. Jack couldn’t control his own wife. When Adam died, Pauline had to send Mary Lee off to boardin’ school to keep Bonnie away from her. Bonnie was already nuts, but it made her crazier, not bein’ able to see the little girl Pauline took away from her. And Pauline made it worse by takin’ a shine to Amy. She ought to’ve had more sense.”
“Bonnie felt like Pauline was taking her other daughter away from her too.”
“Oh, yeah,” Shackleford said. “That was the last straw. They had a big fight about Amy spendin’ so much time at Pauline’s and puttin’ on airs like she was better’n her own family. So it was all set to blow. Pauline was just askin’ for it.”
“What do you remember about the night of the murders?”
“Didn’t happen at night,” Shackleford said. “It was afternoon, late. I was fixin’ the light over the kitchen sink and Rudy was out cuttin’ the grass when they walked in, Bonnie and Jack and Amy.”
Tom’s vague mental picture of the murders dissolved and a fresh one sprang up, but he didn’t know whose hands had held the ax. “Go on.”
“Bonnie heard somewhere about Mary Lee comin’ home for a visit before she headed off to start her first year at college, and her and Jack and Amy hightailed it out to Pauline’s place, hell-bent on seein’ Mary Lee and tellin’ her the truth.”
“What happened when they showed up?”
Shackleford placed his hands on the table, the cuffs rattling when they struck the wood. He grinned, but his dark eyes were cold. “Things got out of hand. People got killed. I can tell you who killed who, but I got more to offer too. I can give you a juicy little morsel that’ll make you drool like a dog sniffin’ a bitch. I’m keepin’ it to myself, though, till y’all guarantee in writin’ to let me off on the murder charges.”
“No guarantees till we know what you’re offering,” Tom said.
“Well, then,” Shackleford said, rising, “if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m startin’ to miss my deluxe quarters in your fine facility. I’m done talkin’.”
***
Rachel studied Joanna’s enclosed porch with a critical eye. “Yeah,” she told Holly. “We’ll have to improvise, but this will do. Help me move the furniture out of the way.”
The supplies Rachel had ordered would arrive the following morning, and as long as no patient needed emergency surgery, she’d be able to carry on at Joanna’s house for a week or so, until the parts of the clinic that hadn’t been burned were cleaned up and made usable. Soon she would have her insurance payout and could begin rebuilding.
Holly’s eyes had a faraway look and she answered in monosyllables when Rachel spoke to her. Watching Holly’s face, Rachel could track her emotions, the grief and anger and bewilderment that crashed through her in relentless waves.
After they set up a card table for small animal exams, Rachel touched Holly’s arm. “Don’t force yourself to work if you’re not up to it.”
Tears filled Holly’s eyes. “But you need to be ready, and it’s my job to help you.” Her voice caught on a sob. “I can’t believe Mama’s really dead.”
Rachel pulled the girl into a hug and patted her back. She desperately wished she could do something to help Holly, but no one could reach into another’s heart and ease the anguish of loss. The raw misery of her grief for her own mother would never leave her completely. If that was what losing a loved one could do to you, she’d thought more than once, perhaps it was better never to feel deeply. But love couldn’t be kept at bay. It invaded her heart whether she welcomed it or not. She loved this girl who had become such a huge part of her life in only a few days. And although the possibility terrified her and made her feel like a traitor to Luke, she knew she was falling in love with Tom.
Holly clung to Rachel and sobbed. When she’d exhausted her tears, she stepped back and pulled tissues from her jeans pocket to blow her nose and dry her face. “I keep worryin’ about Grandma. She must feel as bad as I do, and she’s all alone without me to help her.”
Oh no. Holly couldn’t be thinking of going back. “She has your Aunt Bonnie,” Rachel said. “They’ll help each other.”
Holly pushed hair off her damp cheeks and shook her head. “Aunt Bonnie’s kind of…She’s not real steady, you know? She’s probably fallin’ apart, and she won’t be any help to Grandma.”
“Holly—”
“I ought to go see her and make sure she’s all right.”
Rachel bit back the words that wanted to pour out, the warnings, the pleas. She had no right to make Holly’s decisions for her. But she couldn’t let Holly be drawn back into her old life, and that would surely happen if Mrs. Turner got her alone for even a few minutes. “Why don’t you call her? That’ll make her feel better and it’ll set your mind to rest.”
Holly chewed her bottom lip and considered. Rachel held her breath. At last Holly shook her head again and said what Rachel dreaded hearing. “Maybe I ought to go stay with her a while. I know you need me to work, but Grandma just found out my mama’s dead, and she needs me too.”
“Please listen to me.” Taking her by the shoulders, Rachel made Holly look at her. “You know how it’ll turn out if you move back in with your grandmother. You might plan to stay a few days, but she’ll never let you leave again. You’ll lose your chance for a life of your own. I understand how you feel, but you have to think of your future.” Rachel paused, then added, aiming shamelessly at Holly’s most sensitive spot, “Isn’t that what your mother would want? A better life for you?”
Holly wrapped her arms around her waist and rocked back and forth, head lowered. “Yes. And I don’t want to go back there to live.” Her head came up. “But I ought to go see how Grandma’s doin’.”
Rachel imagined Mrs. Turner grabbing Holly and refusing to let go, whining that family came first, playing on Holly’s guilt until she gave in and stayed. Grief couldn’t be rushed, and Holly would probably be riding an emotional roller-coaster for weeks to come. Her grandmother would give her no peace or comfort. Rachel almost wished the Shacklefords weren’t in jail, so she could argue that venturing into their part of the county was too dangerous.
“Listen,” Rachel said. “You hardly ate any lunch. Come in the kitchen and I’ll make you some hot chocolate and toast and we can talk about this some more.”
Rachel was mixing milk and cocoa in a saucepan when the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it. It’s probably Deputy Duncan. He should come in and warm up.”
She opened the front door, not to the deputy who was guarding them but to a stunning woman with black hair and blue eyes who looked a lot like Holly as well as like photos of Pauline Turner McClure that Rachel had seen in the newspaper.
“Dr. Goddard?” The woman’s brow creased with a slight frown. She began pulling off a white leather glove one finger at a time, changed her mind, tugged it on again.
Another of Holly’s relatives, Rachel thought with a stirring of apprehension. This one must be rich. Her coat was white cashmere, her gloves looked like kidskin, and she’d arrived in a red Jaguar, which sat on the driveway. Deputy Grady Duncan, lost in admiration, circled the sports car slowly. “Yes, I’m Dr. Goddard. May I help you?”