But she had already accepted her grandmothers death. Gran had lived a long life, and every memory she had that revolved around her grandparents was good.
The house, if it had a personality at all, was good.
Im okay. Really. And I love this house. Gran left it to me because she knew that. Ill never sell it, she told him. But thank you for your concern. She cleared her throat. At another time in her life, she mused, she might have been thrilled to have Jed Braden practically on his knees in front of her, but this moment was far too raw for that. Im all right, she said, indicating that she wanted to get up. He stood first, and since his hand was still on hers, he helped her up, too. Do you want coffee? Or something to eat? she offered.
He shook his head. No, thanks. I need to get going. I have a few self-imposed deadlines today, but Im only a phone call away if you need me.
He did think she was crazy, she thought. Or at least emotionally fragile right now because of Grans death.
We checked every room, she said. Theres no one here. And like you said, no one breaks into a house just to move a Ouija board.
He smiled a little ruefully and reached for her, pulling a blade of grass from her hair. Call me if you need me.
Sure. Thank you, she said, and smiled at him. Like hell, she fumed in silence. That damned Ouija board had moved.
She managed to keep her smile in place as she walked him to the door.
Christina, he said gravely, then hesitated.
I know. Theres a killer on the loose with a thing for redheads. Ill be very careful, I swear.
Sleeping on the lawn isnt being careful.
I wasntOh, never mind. It wont happen again.
I really am here if you need me.
Right, she said, thinking, I had such a crush on you once, buddy.
He was still crush-worthy, she had to admit. The character worn into his features by life made him a striking man.
The fact that he was obviously patronizing her was a sharp wake-up slap, however.
Thank, Jed. Thanks. I will call if I need youif theres a real problem, she assured him, and there was only a slight note of coldness in her tone.
If he heard it, he gave no sign, and left.
She closed and locked the door, then looked around. The house was silent. Then the old grandfather clock chimed out the hour of 8:00 a.m. and she jumped.
With an irritated sigh, she headed for the kitchen and the coffeemaker. While coffee brewed, she raced upstairs. Shed been wearing those damp blades of grass just a little too long, and she had too much to do that day to be hanging around in her nightshirt.
Maybe she was crazy, she thought as she showered. Or at least more fragile than she had thought, too open to suggestion.
Because he was right. No one broke into a house just to move a Ouija board.
Unless
Unless they wanted you to think you were crazy.
Police Detective Shot and Killed Disposing of Victim.
Police Detective Beau Kidd Identified as Interstate Killer.
The newspaper headlines gave no indication that Beau had only been the alleged killer. A little voice inside Jed nagged at him guiltily, even though he knew, rationally speaking, that if the department, the news and everyone else had condemned Beau Kidd, there was no reason why he shouldnt have done so, too.
He had seen the story as terrifying, horrible, sadand a lesson about how impossible it was to know even those closest to you, those who should be trustworthy. He had been completely convinced of Beau Kidds guilt.
Now he was equally convinced hed been wrong.
Why?
Sitting at his computer in his townhouse overlooking one of the areas natural lakes, Jed called up his files on the case. He stared at the names and ages of the previous victims as if some new truth would suddenly be revealed. Kelly Dunhill, twenty-four; Janet Major, twenty-eight; Denise Grant, thirty-one; Theodosia Wallace, twenty-two; and Grace Garcia, twenty-five. Only one of them, Grace, had come from the area, and she had been born in Tampa. The others had migrated south from four different states, Kelly from Tennessee, Janet from New York, Denise from Iowa and Theodosia from California. All had long red hair, ranging from strawberry-blonde to a deep, dark auburn. Their eye colors had been different, and their heights had ranged from five six to five nine. Each one had been found in the grass off one of the states highways, naked, arms crossed over her chest. None had shown signs of torture, such as cigarette burns, but there had been bruises on the bodies, as if they had been pushed around when they were alive.
As if they had tried to fight their abductor.
Theyd all been sexually molested, but no semen had been recovered; their killer had used condoms. Nor had there been any flesh beneath their fingernails, so there was no way to test for DNA. The killer had been very careful.
The nos were endless.
No fingerprints, no DNA, no footprints, no cigarette butts found by the dump scenes. Simple physiology said that something was left behind when two bodies came together. But not in this case. Nothing of any use whatsoever had ever been discovered. It was baffling, and had been seen as indicating that someone in law enforcement or forensics had been involved.
He read through everything he had acquired from the newspapers and police files, hoping to see something, anything new, a spark of information or even misinformation that might help him. There was nothing.
He decided to take a trip down to his old precinct.
Christina looked around the house while she waited for a new singer, a local girl named Allison Chesney, to show up to work with her on a new nonfat potato chip commercial. The promotions department at the giant food manufacturer had chosen her because of one of her previous jingles, which had been filled with pep, or so her contact had told her.
Shed managed to get rid of the boxes, storing most of them up in the attica perk most of the houses in the area didnt have. She even had a basement, another rarity in the state. Going up to the attic and down to the basement had been a bit overwhelming. Why, she wondered, hadnt she realized just how much stuff she would find there? Despite that, there had been plenty of room for her boxes. In time, she promised herself, she would check out everything that was already there.
She sat down at the piano in the parlor, feeling happy as she ran through the jingle herself one more time. She was ready to try out Allison Chesneys sound, she decided, just as the doorbell rang.
Being smart, as she had promised everyone she would be, she looked through the peephole before opening the door. The young woman on the other side was a pretty brunette with flashing hazel eyes. As soon as Christina opened the door, she offered her hand with a shy smile. Christina? Im Allison.
Hi, great to meet you. Come on in.
This is your house? Allison said in awe as she stepped inside.
Yes.
Its fabulous.
Thank you. Its been in the family a long time, Christina replied. Can I get you something before we get started? Tea? Coffee? A bottle of water?
Water would be great, thanks.
Make yourself comfortable in the parlor, Christina told her, pointing the way.
She got a bottle of water from the kitchen and returned to find Allison standing by the piano, looking out the bay window.
This is really spectacular, Allison told her. I grew up in a place just like this.
Really? Where are you from?
The Gainesville area.
Its pretty around there.
Allison laughed. Pretty quiet.
It cant be too quiet. Its a university town, Christina reminded her.
Yeah, and thats about it. But at least its close to the action here. Well, action Florida-style. I thought I was so good when I was a kid that I was sure Id be a big deal in New York by now, she said ruefully. But thats not the way it happened.
Dont put yourself down. I listened to your demo, Christina told her. Youre good. She sat down at the piano bench and smiled in return. Or are you trying to tell me that doing jingle work is slumming it?
Oh, good God, no! Allison said. Not at all. Its just thatwell, I guess its this house and, quite honestly, you. What are you? About twenty-five?
On the nose.
And youre so successful, Allison murmured.
Im paying the bills, Allison said, smiling.
Did you ever want to compose great operas or something? Allison asked, openly curious.
Nope. I always liked writing little ditties. Must be my Irish heritage, she said dryly. Quite frankly, I just got lucky with my first jingle and found a good agent. My cousin Dan is an actor, though, and hes still trying to get a break into the big time. Well, the bigger time, anyway.