Traceless (27 page)

"Can't think of a thing."

Ray couldn't put his finger on the problem, but there was definitely a problem. Troy looked hungover as hell; that was true. But there was more, deeper. A defeat of some sort.

"Any more questions?" Again Troy didn't look at him.

"That's all for now."

Troy pushed out of his chair and walked to the door.

"You let me know," Ray said, "if you think of anything that might help with this investigation."

His hand on the door, Troy didn't look back. "Sure."

Ray rubbed his chin and thought about Troy's reaction for a bit. Definitely off. As badly as Troy had to be hurting, he hadn't launched a verbal attack as he usually did.

Maybe Ray would get lucky and the ABI would find some usable physical evidence at the scene.

But so far luck had been looking the other way in Pine Bluff.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

3:30 pm.

Emily was summoned to City Hall. Ray wanted her to come in and answer a few questions.

Keith was dead.

She couldn't believe it. God, Violet and the kids would be devastated.

Emily hadn't left her room since returning from Clint's place the day before. Part of her kept hoping her parents would call and invite her home. Maybe she should have taken the first step, but she hadn't. She'd tinkered with her lists some more, finally had them in shape to turn over to Ray. Outside that, she'd spent a good deal of time trying to banish the confusing episode in the barn. She couldn't say she regretted what she'd done. But she felt uncertain about herself... about everything.

The chief's secretary wasn't at her desk, so Emily went straight to his door and knocked.

"Come on in!"

Emily steeled herself and opened the door.

Ray pushed to his feet and offered his hand across his desk. "Thank you for coming, Emily."

She walked straight over, shook his hand, and wilted into the chair he indicated. "I can hardly believe it. I'm sure Violet is inconsolable."

Ray nodded and resumed his seat. "She's pretty torn up."

"And his father." Keith had been an only child. Granville had doted on him nonstop. The poor man would be grief stricken.

"You can imagine," Ray offered.

She could.

"That's why I called you here, Emily," he explained. "We want to be as thorough as possible."

"Of course. Anything I can do."

"You've spoken with Violet recently. Did you pick up on any trouble between them?"

What was he saying? "Surely you don't consider Violet a suspect?"

"We have to consider the spouse as well as anyone close to the victim."

Emily exhaled a weary breath. "I'm sorry. Of course you do. But, in answer to your question, I haven't been that close to anyone since... Heather's murder. So I'm not really the best person to ask."

"You're not aware of any encounters between Clint and Keith? I know you've been keeping a pretty close eye on Clint."

Now she understood what this was about. "Is Clint a suspect?" Dumb question. Sure he was.

"Right now most anyone who knew Keith is a suspect." Ray leaned back in his chair.

He didn't mention Heather's murder. Or Emily's father's visit.

"Do you have any reason to believe that Clint held Troy or Keith responsible for the fire?"

"No."

Ray stared at something on his desk for a long moment Was there something more he couldn't tell her? Something that implicated Clint?

"Where were you between ten and eleven yesterday morning?"

"Is that when you think he died?"

"It's an estimate. We'll know more after the autopsy."

Evidently Clint hadn't told Ray he'd been with her. "Did you question Clint?" She was sure he had.

Ray hesitated, then said, "Yes."

"Then you should know where I was."

The confusion on his face confirmed her deduction.

"I was with Clint."

Ray's expression turned wary. "He didn't mention it."

"If the estimated time is right, Austin does have an alibi."

"He claims he was home,
alone
."

"He was home," Emily agreed, "but he wasn't alone, I was with him."

All reaction had been banished from Ray's face now. "Why would he withhold that information? Having confirmation of his alibi would be very important for Clint."

Emily moistened her lips, tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry. "Maybe to protect me; I don't know." She looked directly into Ray's eyes. "I have no reason to lie for him."

She would prefer Ray didn't ask for details. Memories, too vivid to ignore, kept filtering through her head, reminding her of what she'd done.

"This doesn't have anything to do with what your father told me yesterday, does it?" Ray eyed her closely. "If you're feeling guilty because of the information your father withheld, you shouldn't."

He did think she was lying! How could he believe that? Of course she should feel guilty. So should he! She reached for her purse. Whether it served any purpose or not, she wanted him to see what she'd come up with.

"There are things about Heather's murder that—"

"That investigation is over." He cut her off. "Closed."

"Wait." She looked up, surprised at his sharp tone. "If he's innocent—"

"We don't know that," Ray interjected.

He was the one who'd stood by Clint all these years. Had supported the parole board's decision. Why the about-face?

"What we all need to do is put this behind us," Ray explained patiently. "The past is over; we can't change it." He paused. "It's time to look to the future, Emily, not the past. We've all done too much of that already."

"You don't want to see the past set to right?" How could he not? The law was his job. "And what about the real killer? If Austin is innocent, that means the person who did it got away with murder."

"Emily, there was no evidence other than what was used to convict Clint," he said quietly but firmly. "Not a single trace. There's nothing I can do." He stood, letting her know that the conversation was over. "I appreciate you coming in, Emily. We may need to call on you again when we have a more exact time of death."

She rose, confusion making her slow to react. "Sure."

What had just happened here? She made her way out of his office and across the lobby without pausing to turn around and stare. When had Ray stopped being Clint's ally?

As the top representative of the law in this town, Ray should have jumped on the information her father had passed along. Why wasn't Ray calling Sid Fairgate in for confirmation?

Maybe it was Keith's murder.

Maybe Ray was preoccupied.

She reached the door and she had to look back. She was almost surprised when she didn't find Ray watching her go. He'd been so anxious to be rid of her.

Maybe he was preoccupied with this newest tragedy.

But that didn't explain his insistence that looking into Heather's murder was pointless. She could see him suggesting

that they do so later, when Keith's death was resolved. But Ray had said there was no evidence that pointed to anyone other than Clint. In other words, why bother looking? The case was closed. End of story.

This was wrong.

Ray was ignoring the facts. She hesitated. Or maybe he was hiding a secret of his own. Every damned body else sure seemed to be.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Turner Mansion

9:30 p.m.

Justine stopped at the entrance, entered the code she knew by heart, and the massive wrought-iron gates spread open, slowly, regally, like welcoming arms. She finally had an invitation, albeit unspoken. Telepathy wasn't necessary to know Granville needed her right now.

She pressed the accelerator and rolled up the long, winding drive to the grand colonial-style mansion that still took her breath away.

This was where she belonged.

She sighed, appreciating the abundant branches of the ancient oaks and maples that shaded the lush green lawn and curving cobblestone drive. There wasn't a single home in the whole state of Alabama that even came close to being as exquisite or timelessly classic as this one.

Coming to a stop in front of the house, she got out and closed the door of her eleven-year-old Audi. It had been a long time since he'd given her that gift. Definitely time for an upgrade. He would lavish her with all the gifts she would ever require. She would never need anyone else ever again. Only Gran. They could grow old together, but she would always be younger and more beautiful than him. She would give him exactly what he needed until death parted them.

She surveyed the beautifully landscaped property that spread out in three directions for as far as the eye could see. Rolling pastures and grazing horses covered the acres between the house and the tree-covered mountains that gently sloped downward to abut the property. This was what she'd wanted since she was just a little girl. To be rich... to have everything her heart desired. And now, finally, it was her turn.

No matter that she'd made Gran happy many times in the past, he'd been devoted to that snobbish wife of his. But she was out of the way now. There was nothing to stop Justine.

She climbed the steps, took a moment to touch up her favorite lipstick, Iced Cherry, and to smooth her sleek black dress; then she rang the bell. All the hired help would be gone home by now. He would be all alone.

Grieving.

He'd been a widower for six months, sufficient mourning time in Justine's opinion. Now he was faced with the most painful tragedy of his life—the loss of his son and only child.

Yes, it was her turn. Her ultimate purpose was at hand. He would see that he needed her more than ever. No more putting her off or setting her aside. Now she would take her rightful place in society.

One of the two towering doors swung inward and a disheveled Granville stood peering out at her over his askew reading glasses. "Justine?"

"I've been out of town all day." He didn't need to know that was a fabrication, that she'd actually waited, giving him plenty of time to slip deeper into his anguish. She reached for his hand and squeezed it. "I came as soon as I heard."

"My boy's really gone." His lips quivered on the frail words.

Dear Lord, he was practically a ghost of the man she knew him to be under normal circumstances.

"Gran, honey, have you eaten? You look exhausted."  

Confusion lined the face that looked weary and uncertain rather than commanding and powerful.

"You shouldn't be alone." She walked in, ushering him aside. "Let's get some soup into you." She closed the door. "And a little brandy."

Perhaps the brandy first
, she mused, considering his current state. She ushered him to the parlor on the left, the men's den, he liked to call it. He smoked his cigars there, kept his fine liquors and whiskeys there.

Becky's tail thumped against the floor as her master and his guest entered the room. The dog's big old soulful eyes followed their movements, but the lazy hound didn't bother getting up.

"You sit; I'll get you something to take the edge off."

Justine hurried behind the bar and selected the Raynal Brandy he liked best. As she poured a hefty serving, she kept an eye on him. He hadn't taken a seat as she'd suggested, but she saw why. There were photographs spread over every available surface.

Pictures of his poor, dead family.

Well, he'd forget about them soon enough. She would see that he forgot. She would stand beside him, hold his hand and anything else that needed holding, and when this investigation into Keith's death was over, Granville Turner would be all hers. And she would finally have the life she deserved.

She crossed back to where he stood staring at the mess he'd made with the family photo albums.

"Here, honey, drink this." She pressed the tumbler into his hand. "I'll straighten up for you. We wouldn't want any of these precious memories to be damaged."

She bent this way and that, picking up photos, stacking them neatly in the designer boxes, probably the highest-quality acid-free and photo-safe products available. But she could care less about that. What she cared about was how much of her legs showed each time she crouched down to gather a pile of photographs. Or how nice her bottom looked with the black silk pulled tight across it whenever she bent this way or that.

She'd selected this dress just for him. She knew how much he loved short black dresses that fit as tight as a smooth layer of youthful skin.

"There." She stood back and surveyed what she'd accomplished. "You ready for another, Gran?" She smiled, sugary sweet. He needed her and she wanted to be there. She'd waited a long time for this moment.

The tumbler was empty, but he wouldn't be needing another drink, she realized. His gaze had riveted to her breasts the moment she'd turned back to face him.