Final Grave (29 page)

“You didn’t wake me when you took off.”

Of course not. She’d barely breathed as she passed his bed, her feet as silent as one of his cats. “I needed to get back to Becky,” she said. “The situation’s pretty scary for her.”

“You’re good friends.”

“More like family in the way we get on each other’s nerves.”

He steered with his left hand, his right beside the gearshift, a millimeter short of hers. He said, “About last night, Meri Ann, I think we got along pretty well.”

So now it was Meri Ann—Meri Ann who had fallen asleep in the crook of his arm. “Even considering Geronimo, I think so too.”

He leaned closer to her, so that his shoulder rubbed against hers. “Want to go to a wedding on Friday night?”

Go
out
with
him
as
on
a
date?
She nearly choked from surprise. “I… I can’t.”

“Why not?”

She wasn’t sure why she’d said no. She could easily find something to wear in Meg’s well-stocked closet. She had enjoyed his company yesterday, perhaps more than she should have. She gave him an apologetic shrug. “I need the time with Becky. She’s still upset with me.” It was a half-truth.

“Well, give it some thought. I think we’d have a good time but I can take no for an answer. I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want.”

“I do and I don’t,” she said, aware of her mixed message.

He squeezed her hand and for an instant she imagined him naked with Karen Harper. She removed her hand to her lap not because of Karen, just touching him sent a jolt of electrical lust through her body. Crazy or not, if she went to that wedding, she knew she’d end up in his bed. Ha. Starting up with Jack Mendiola, who was geographically impossible and even worse whose life was more out of control than hers, would be an act of madness.

“Okay then Detective Fehr, it’s business as usual.”

She felt relieved, then terribly empty.

# # #

Birdie found an isolated marine surplus store in Garden City, not far from the Bannock Bar. He parked on a side street to make sure no one saw his truck, a minor precaution since the place was void of customers. Still, it seemed prudent, and he’d exercised prudence in every minute detail, all the way down to his disguise: a duck-hunter’s cap with earflaps and a bulky parka to hide his body frame.

On entering, he checked every aisle as well as the front of the store for surveillance equipment. But the 1950s dinosaur of a store didn’t even take Master Card or VISA. No digital cash register or clever impulse items were displayed at check out—well, nothing but dusty packages of beef jerky and Red Hots clipped to a cardboard panel. Certainly no surveillance cameras to record his image.

A toilet flushed and seconds later a bone-skinny clerk stepped out from a door at the back of the store. His flannel shirt and peg-legged pants were so out of style, they matched the time-warp store.

Birdie nodded and went about his business, methodically gathering a dozen taut new bungee cords, six twelve-foot lengths of quarter-inch nylon line from a wooden spool, and a five-pound bag of rock salt—no telling why the store kept rock salt.

The clerk measured the line, flapping his thin ribbon lips with small talk. “Fine day for boating. Too bad the water’s low up at the reservoir. Only twelve-foot lengths of line? That’s short, even for bowlines, don’t you think? You got a canoe or something?”

Birdie shook his head.

“So what’s it for? Something kinky?”

“As a matter of fact, it’s project for the love of my life.”

The clerk laughed as though he understood. Fool. Birdie’s muscles tensed, and an urge to strike the man overwhelmed him. “All I need is enough length to tie her in a choke hold before I kill her.” His arrogance spewed out like venom.

The clerk recoiled in shock, then disbelief. Birdie reveled in the man’s discomfort, slid his right hand into his pocket and pulled out a pair of leather gloves.

The clerk squirmed, glancing over his shoulder at the door.

“Just cut the cord,” Birdie said, in his softest voice, then slipped on his gloves.

“Sure, Mister. Sure You’ve got one helluva a sense of humor. Kill your wife.” He giggled like a girl.

No, a sheep, Birdie thought. The voice bleated. Its staccato triggered Birdie’s need. Wolves killed sheep. He wrenched a cord from the clerk’s hand and whipped it around the man’s neck.

The clerk staggered in fright. His fingers clawed at the line, unable to loosen it. Finally, his arms flailed in the air. He twisted and slammed against a wall of seven-foot metal shelves. They teetered to and fro, finally banging against the wall. Boxes of cleats and brass screws rained down like shrapnel.

Unbothered by the commotion, Birdie continued to tighten the line until the man’s soft neck skin gathered in folds. In minutes, the clerk’s face turned gray, then blue. His mouth slacked open, and his tongue emerged from his mouth. Still, Birdie cinched the line tighter. Little red speckles dotted the man’s bulging eyes. His skinny frame finally went limp.

Birdie’s grip loosened and the man fell at his feet. He straddled the body for a moment, caught in an orgasmic release of jubilation. He’d never before killed on impulse. The exhilaration surprised him. He glanced at his watch, amazed that the whole transaction hadn’t taken but fifteen minutes.

He looped the nylon line over his shoulder and pocketed the bungee cords. On his way out he grabbed a bag of Red-Hots, tore it open with his teeth and savored a mouthful of the candy. The spicy cinnamon tingled his gums, his tongue, his throat. He stepped outside, filled his lungs with air. He felt light enough to fly. “Birdie,” he said, amazed at how much he enjoyed the sound of a nickname he’d once despised.

He drove around town in a hyper-haze, unable to settle down. The traffic light on Warm Springs Avenue seemed to take a lifetime to move from red to green. He tapped a drum roll on the steering wheel, eager to get going. By chance he glanced left at a green Chevy Blazer, then did a double take, gawking in amazement. Sonofabitch. Meri Ann was on the passenger side, no more than three feet away. Boise was a small town but this uncanny incident, like all the rest, amazed him.

Her passenger-side window was open and that short, short dark hair fluttered in a breeze. Her wide apart eyes watched the traffic ahead, alert, intelligent, sensuous. So like her mother’s. His palms broke out in a sweat and he almost lost hold of the wheel. Goosebumps rose on his neck and arms, as though he’d been caught. Then he remembered his disguise, the rented truck. He was anonymous.

“Joanna,” he whispered. “My dearest, Joanna.” He sat in awe as her likeness turned and stared right through him.

Chapter Thirty-five
 

D
illon had assigned Meri Ann and Mendiola to search Wheatley’s master bedroom while the rest of the search team worked downstairs. Any other room would have made Meri Ann’s job easier, but here she was, again, in a bedroom with Mendiola.

Her hands moved deftly in between layers of Wheatley’s socks, handkerchiefs and undershirts. In the next drawer his laundered and folded dress shirts, odd pen sets still in their boxes. What did she expect to find? A weapon with dried blood? Trophies? Photos of the victims? She’d found nothing so far and still doubted he was their man. Yet he could be she reminded herself.

Across the room, Mendiola rummaged through a drawer of Mrs. Wheatley’s silk and soft nylon tricot lingerie with bullish movements. He wasn’t at it long when he gave the drawer a frustrated tumble and crossed to the master closet. “I’ll look in here.”

Dillon nodded from her post at the doorway. She stood like a sentinel, keeping Robin Wheatley at bay. He moved restlessly behind her, his wireless phone to his ear. He claimed to be looking for his wife. He said she had been missing for hours but then, so had Harold Graber.

Meri Ann finished her search of Wheatley’s bureau and turned her attention to the drawer of his wife’s underclothing, which Mendiola had only searched half-heartedly. The scent of Lauren perfume overpowered her, the same scent her mom had worn and a reminder of Tina Wheatley’s sick obsession.

At the bottom, she felt a lump beneath the drawer lining. She fished out a thin book. The cover, like the rest of the room, was Laura Ashley feminine. Yellow roses curled around a romantically scripted title,
Thoughts
to
treasure
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
.

She sat on the edge of the bed and thumbed through the pages. The journal spanned five years. Her eyes widened as she read what amounted to the ramblings of a mad woman. Her mother’s name appeared in every troubled account, prayer, thought and deed. “My God,” Meri Ann said.

Jason
promised
me
the
same
color,
same
cut
as
Joanna’s,
but
it’s
never
the
same.
Robin
ignores
me.
Two
weeks
later:
I
saw
Joanna’s
ghost
today.
Followed
a
dark-haired
woman
downtown,
into
the
post
office,
through
the
Bon
Marche.
It
wasn’t
Joanna,
though.

She
is
dead.
I
see
her
tangled
body
in
my
dreams,
the
dripping
knife,
her
heart
in
my
hand.

The last entry was dated the previous morning:

Robin
still
loves
Joanna,
and
now
her
clone
taunts
me.
He
comes
and
goes
like
a
phantom,
no
time
for
anything
but
thoughts
of
her.
Blessed
Isaiah:
For
the
day
of
vengeance
was
in
my
heart,
and
my
year
of
redemption
has
come.
Then,
She
must
die.

A Sarasota phone number followed. It was Meri Ann’s.

She cleared her throat, which felt raw as she swallowed and a bitter taste trickled down her throat. “Lieutenant,” she called, crossing to where Dillon stood. “You’d better take a look at this.”

Dillon opened the book, scanned random pages, ending at the last entry, Meri Ann’s personal information. “Could it be her? Think she called your home, checking up on you?” Dillon glanced over Meri Ann’s shoulder. “Hey, Jack, get over here.”

Wheatley was close enough to them to overhear. He nodded in the direction of the book. “I know what you’re thinking but you’re wrong. I’ve seen her journal. Tina leaves it out sometimes, so I’ll find it.”

Worry lines etched his forehead, yet he blurted out defiantly, “Don’t be so cock-sure it’s evidence, or anything even remotely admissible in court. Your warrant was written on me, not Tina.”

Dillon stood her ground. “If I were you, I’d stick to engineering, sir.”

“She’s innocent until proven guilty,” he said. “
We
all are.”

“You got that right,” Dillon said. “So where is your wife, Mr. Wheatley? We’d like to clear her name.”

“At this moment, I’ve no idea where she is. She had a doctor’s appointment today, as I told you. She walked out on the session; he thinks she’s suicidal.” Wheatley glared at Dillon. “I’m not asking you, lieutenant, I’m begging you to find her.”

Dillon’s fair face burned red. “I intend to, Mr. Wheatley and you’re coming with us. So call your favorite attorney. You’ve got some explaining to do. So has your wife.”

Mendiola approached Dillon, his onyx eyes on the book. “You got something?”

“Mrs. Wheatley’s diary,” Meri Ann said. “We need to talk to her.”

“What’s it say?” Mendiola asked. His cell phone rang and his hand slid down to his belt. He checked caller ID, then handed the phone to Meri Ann. “It’s for you—Becky.”

Meri Ann stepped away from the trio and answered the call. “What’s up?”

Becky wailed in her ear. “She… she’s outside, dead.”

“What did you say?”

“Dead,” she sobbed, “the woman in the raincoat.”

“Stay away from the body,” Meri Ann said.

“No shit, kid, I’m holed up inside.”

“We’ll be right there.”

“Judas priest, bring the whole freaking sheriff’s department.”

Meri Ann raced to the stairwell to catch the descending trio. Mendiola led, followed by Wheatley. Dillon went last and Meri Ann was close enough to grab her arm. “Lieutenant.”

Dillon reared her head back. “What?”

“We’ve got another body. Not a skeleton, but real flesh and blood. My friend thinks it’s the woman who stalked us.”

# # #

Meri Ann and Mendiola were first to arrive at River House. The quiet cul-de-sac on Shuster Lane seemed no different than the last time she had driven up the street. Yet it was.