Cold Heart Page 7

  “Two broken ribs and a broken clavicle. A subdural hematoma. He’s going into surgery soon.”

  “A summer . . . toma?” Jimmy stammered.

  “Like a bruise on his brain.” She knelt and rubbed his head. “He’s going to be fine.”

  “That’s good news,” I said.

  “Keep it to yourself? Anything you say will be headlines the next day. We talk publicly only through Lincoln’s press agent.”

  “Of course.” I gave her my business card. “Anything I can do, let me know.”

  “He chose the public life, not me. Some days I have to dig pretty deep, you know, to find the strength? Now, I’m going to stay here. My sister is coming to pick up the boys.”

  I offered to stay with her until the sister arrived, but she shooed us off. “Go on, there’s nothing wrong with me. Appreciate your help just now.”

  We took the elevator down. “Cute kids,” Anselmo said. “Sure hope he’ll be okay.”

  “She didn’t seem too worried.”

  “Was that OCD, her coming through the door?”

  “Looked like it.” I felt self-conscious because my hair was so wild. The helicopter-wind had turned me into Medusa. I dug in my purse and found a hairclip to subdue the mane.

  “Don’t,” he said. “I like your hair like that.” He reached out and smoothed an errant curl. “Mermaid hair.”

  I laughed. He likes my hair. A small joy.

  Next on my list—ask Temple about the money in her husband’s bank account. The gum-smacking guard at the Silver Hills gate waved me through. Temple was staying with her neighbor in a Tara wanna-be with two-story white columns. A huge spider had spun an impressive web at the top of one of them. It looked like prime real estate for a spider.

  Temple motioned me to a rocking chair on a screened side porch. She’d put on makeup but fatigue had hollowed out dark shadows under her eyes. She wore black leggings and an oversized white shirt, looking more chic than any nine-months-pregnant woman had a right to. She wore a pin, a circular disk with Paige’s picture, a website, and in bold print, “Have You Seen This Child?” She gave me one and I fastened it to my jacket.

  “Paige Central,” she said, pointing to a window. Inside I could see a dozen people at computer screens or huddled in small groups. “They’ve been here all night.”

  “Family?” I asked.

  “Neighbors and friends. My sister can’t get away from work, and my mother is in a mental hospital.” Temple rubbed her belly with her small, pale hands. One of her fake nails had broken off, exposing a chewed nub.

  “Couple of questions. Did your husband have a life insurance policy?”

  Temple twisted her bulky body and pushed her face close to mine. “Yes, he did. Did he make the payments? I sure as hell hope so, or I’ll be celebrating Mother’s Day in a homeless shelter.” Her face sagged.

  “Did you know about your husband’s second bank account? Fifty thousand dollars deposited last week?”

  Her eyes widened. “Fifty thousand? I thought we were broke!”

  I believed her, since their joint account held less than five hundred dollars. “Any idea where that money came from?”

  She snorted. “I’m not surprised he had a separate account. To tell you the truth, Stella, we were about through. I’d had enough. Kent was always out for himself, taking the easy way, sliding through life with a wink and a smile. Well, his smile was fake and his winks made me want to throw up.”

  “I met him at Clemmie’s. He was charming.”

  Temple ran her fingers through her hair. “Yes, that’s how he got me. I mean, he could be irresistible. No woman could hold out. But it only lasts as long as he wants something. Then he moves on to someone else.”

  A behavior I recognized. On to someone else, the bums. I wanted to say Temple, you deserve someone decent, but it wasn’t the moment. “Can you give me any names?” Wouldn’t be the first time a scorned woman turned on her lover.

  “I didn’t want to know. Ouch.” She shifted herself into a half-lying position. “This one’s a real kicker.”

  “Who had a reason to kill him?”

  “He kept things secret. I don’t know where he got money from. He blamed me for spending, but he picked out the house we couldn’t afford, he leased expensive cars.” She stood and arched her back. Her white shirt billowed like a sail. “We were broke, really broke. Our landlord was threatening eviction. And we couldn’t talk about it—Kent would yell at me about credit cards.”

  “So you were stuck.”

  “Yeah. Though mostly I didn’t think about it. I was a mom who took pictures. That was—is—my life.” She laughed though her words were bitter. “Fifty thousand dollars, huh? I’d give it all to have my baby back.”

  “The medical examiner said Kent’s wounds were made with an unusual knife. Curved like this.” I curled my finger to illustrate.

  “I have a little knife like that. A bird’s-beak paring knife. It’s purple, blade and all. It’s very sharp.” She shuddered. “Can I go back to my house?”

  “They should be finished later today. Temple, my grandmother remembers you. Fern Lavender.”

  Her face lightened. “She’s your grandmother? She is so cool! And I loved her old farmhouse.”

  “With its picturesque falling-down porch?”

  “Who cares? Artists are supposed to be broke. None of that bourgeois worry about appearances.”

  Easy for you to say. Us bourgeoisie had worked thirty hours a week after school serving pizza to pay the artist’s electric bill. “Fern said you two were good friends.”

  “I hung out there nearly every afternoon, just to talk to her and watch her paint, my senior year, the year my dad left us. Such a warm, safe place to be. I’d love to see her again.”

  “I’ll bring her to the memorial service this afternoon.”

  Temple winced and rubbed her back. “I keep thinking about Paige. She’s a picky eater—do they know what to feed her?”

  I wanted to tell Temple about Fern’s what-if and the anonymous text, but Anselmo had forbidden it. All I could manage was, “I’m hopeful,” as a fat tear spilled out of her eye.

  CHAPTER 10

  Wednesday midday

  I picked up Fern for our appointment with the antiques dealer. It was drizzling rain and the wipers’ swipe-swipe was aggravating the hell out of me, but Fern was also to blame. She refused to tell me whether she knew anything.

  She held up her hands. Her fingernails were painted watermelon pink. “Fuchsia Fling. Don’t you love it? I did my toes too.”

  “Don’t change the subject. Is it someone in your painting class?”

  “Can’t you be patient a little longer?”

  “Not when a child is missing and a murderer is wandering around Silver Hills.”

  “Hmm,” said Fern. “I see your point.”

  Fern was good at keeping secrets and I was so furious I didn’t speak to her for the next ten minutes, and having to stew in silence made me even madder. Finally I mentioned that I’d seen Temple. “She’s all alone, Fern. No family. I don’t know how she’s getting through this.”

  “Did you know her mother’s in a mental hospital?”

  I nodded. “This must feel like more insanity.”

  “Well, I hope she gets her baby back soon. I’ll call her.” She pulled down the sun visor and applied lipstick. More Fuchsia Fling. I wanted to throttle her.

  Chris and his crew had left a muddy hill of red earth in Fern’s front yard. The antiques dealer stood next to it, waiting for us under an umbrella. Jane was a petite white-haired dynamo, often seen jogging the streets of Verwood at six a.m. Her store, The Treasure Trove, occupied several rooms on two floors in a downtown building. She sold everything—Civil War–era furniture, vintage linens, Depression glassware, old books, kitchenware from the Fifties. If Jane couldn’t appraise an item, we’d have to go to Atlanta to find the expertise.

  Jane and Fern wandered around the attic while I searched do
wnstairs for a light bulb so we could see. Even after I replaced the bulb it was dim as a bat cave.

  “Where to begin?” Fern murmured. “All this stuff!”

  “Tell me about the chifferobe.” Jane ran her hands over its carved doors. “Cherry. Beautiful.”

  “It was my mother’s, but I don’t know much about it,” said Fern.

  “It’s a fine piece. Can I open it?”

  Fern had stashed some paintings inside. She helped Jane take them out, one at a time. “Ugly things, aren’t they?” Fern said. “All cubist crap.”

  The paintings were abstract, with harsh lines and colors. They didn’t look like her work at all. “Who painted them?” I asked.

  “When I was in Paris, friends gave them to me in exchange for meals or a few dollars. Back then it was all abstract—blocky, puzzle-piece stuff. They fooled people into thinking it was art. I thought maybe someday they’d be worth something.”

  Jane nodded. “You could be right, Fern. These are signed and the names are familiar—Michael Reyes and Everett Klein. I’m going to get an art appraiser over here.”

  “Mick and Ev—now that takes me back.” Fern closed her eyes and smiled. “The Place du Tertre in Montmartre. We sold our paintings to tourists. They were both in love with me, always hanging around my apartment hoping the other would leave. It’s quite possible one of them was your grandfather, Stella.”

  “ ‘Quite possible’? Or perhaps someone else?” Jane and I exchanged looks of mock-dismay but I’d quit being embarrassed by Fern years ago.

  I went outside to make calls. Picking my way through the muddy ruts of Fern’s drive, I was pondering how to get around a particularly wide and mucky patch when Anselmo called with news about Lincoln Teller’s accident.

  “Chamberlain noticed brake fluid on the street and a trail of it back to Lincoln’s garage up the hill,” he said. “So she went to the tow yard and crawled underneath his Jag. Guess what she saw?”

  “I’ll let you tell me.”

  “Brake lines were cut.”

  “That’s a movie cliché,” I said, the smart-ass response masking my alarm. Someone wanted Linc Teller’s car to speed uncontrollably down the hill and smash into any luckless passer-by or parked car. A catastrophe for Lincoln and his family.

  “Yes, but an efficient way to cause an accident. Especially on a car built in 1963, before dual brakes. So when he started down Graham Parkway . . .”

  “Deliberately cut?” I asked. “Not worn away?”

  “Neatly sawed. No accident.”

  “There must be a connection with Kent Mercer’s death,” I said.

  “You’re the investigator. Tell me who would want to kill both of them.”

  I laughed as though Anselmo were joking. I didn’t have the slightest idea.

  Around eleven, I was on Highway 64 halfway to Raleigh to meet with Richard when my phone chimed. I slowed to take the call but didn’t recognize the number.

  “Miz Lavender?” The woman’s voice had a definite Carolina twang. “My name is Kim Grady, and I’m the manager on duty at Roll’s Grocery, up in Essex Junction? How are you today?” A southern conversational trait—it’s rude to get to the point too quickly, as though the only reason you called was to conduct business. “Gosh, it’s so exciting to be talking to an SBI agent!”

  I was mystified. “What can I help you with?”

  “Well, one of our customers went into the restroom and found a little girl all by herself in a shopping cart. She has a note pinned to her shirt with your name and number on it. Says to call you and only you.”

  Could it be . . . ? An adrenaline rush gave me head-to-toe goose bumps. “What does she look like?” I checked my rearview mirror. A Coke truck was in the passing lane.

  “She’s the cutest little thing. She’s got on a little hat and seersucker shorts and won’t let go of a boom box. Her t-shirt has a monkey on it, Curious George. He’s one of my son’s favorites. Ryan’s older than she is, though.”

  God give me patience, she was a talker. “Age?” I asked.

  “This child? About one and a half, I’d say.”

  It had to be Paige Mercer. “Was there anything else in the note?”

  “No, just to call you. She was in the restroom in a cart, like I said.”

  I moved across the passing lane, rolled onto the grassy median for a U-turn, and looked at my watch. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. She O.K.?”

  “She looks fine. I gave her some juice.”

  “Great. Thank you, Ms. Grady. Thank you very much.” As I sped the twelve miles back to Verwood, I called Anselmo and told him about Kim Grady’s call. Was Fern right and the kidnapper had changed his mind? Now would Fern share what she knew?

  At Roll’s I pulled into the fire lane and ran into the store. Deputy Chamberlain from the sheriff’s department was already there, beaming such a wide smile I thought she’d levitate from happiness.

  “Stella,” she said, “it’s her. Paige Mercer.” Chamberlain led me into the store office where a tiny girl grasping a Hello Kitty boom box sat in a grocery cart. She had grape juice on her chin, but there was no doubt it was the same child whose face had been plastered all over the TV news and internet for the past two days. With those delicate features and dark-lashed hazel eyes, she was clearly Temple’s toddler. I felt nearly airborne as chains of fear and worry dropped away.

  With an inquisitive “ahh-siss?” Paige pointed to a pair of sunglasses lying on a desk. Chamberlain picked them up and slid them onto Paige’s face. The child grinned like it was hilarious. Joy surged through me. She was alive.

  “Now what? This is a first for me,” Chamberlain said.

  “We take the child to the doctor to be checked over.”

  “I have a car seat,” said Kim Grady. “You can borrow it. I’ll need it back before four.” I almost kissed her. State car-seat law exempts emergency vehicles, but I didn’t want to take any chances reuniting this child with her frantic mother. I called Temple with the great news. “We found Paige. She’s fine.”

  “What? Oh Stella, thank you, thank you. I knew it! I knew she was all right! Where is she? I want to see her!”

  “We’re at Roll’s in Essex Junction. She’ll have to be checked over by a doctor.”

  “Wait there, I’ll go with you.”

  “I’ll wait. Bring a change of clothes for her.”

  I asked Chamberlain to secure the store. “You know what to do now?”

  She nodded. “Question all employees and talk with everyone currently in the store. No one goes in or out. I’ve already impounded the store’s security tapes, though they just film the cash register area.”

  The child was all right. She looked fine; her color was rosy and she was alert. In fact, she was a wiggle worm—while waiting through my conversations, she had climbed into my lap and was trying to unbraid my hair.

  “Okay, let’s go, cutie pie.” I hugged her close and carried her out of the office, avoiding eye contact with any curious onlookers. I didn’t want to answer questions, neither deny nor reinforce any rumors. Kim installed the car seat like a pro and fastened Paige into it. A few minutes later Temple flew into the parking lot. When Paige saw her mother, she burst into tears but soon calmed down as Temple covered her face with kisses.

  I told Temple how she’d been found. “The sheriff’s department will interview everyone who was in the store when we got there. But I suspect whoever put Paige in the restroom left the store right away.”

  “Fern called me, did you know? She was certain Paige would be found. And she was right!”

  “Yes, she was,” I said, though I suspected Fern’s certainty was based on more than the power of positive thinking.

  On the way to the hospital I phoned Richard to let him know the good news. For once Richard wasn’t grouchy. He congratulated me, though I insisted I had nothing to do with her recovery.

  “Why did you get that text? Why was your name pinned to her shirt? Someone felt you could be
trusted,” he said. “But this doesn’t feel like a kidnapper’s move.”

  “Maybe taken to keep her safe,” I said. “Someone witnessed Mercer’s murder, and worried about the baby being in danger. Or saw the body, found her afterwards.”

  “A felonious Samaritan. Interesting.” He seemed to like that idea.

  Listening to my side of the phone call, Temple turned to her daughter. “Where have you been, Paige? Who’s been taking care of you?”

  Paige punched a button on her boom box and a man’s voice begin to sing. Her father. Whatever Kent Mercer’s crimes, his singing would make his daughter’s memories. This old man, he played one . . . Paige and Temple joined in and I bit my lip hard to stop the tears filming my eyes at the sound of the three gentle voices. “Where” and “who” meant nothing to the toddler singing along with her parents, restoring her world with each tuneless phrase.

  At the hospital the doctor pronounced Paige healthy and unharmed. I put the Curious George T-shirt, seersucker shorts, and denim hat into an evidence bag. Temple dressed Paige in clean clothes, and I drove them back to Roll’s parking lot.

  I hoped these two would be spared any further suffering. But the attempts on Lincoln’s life did not bode well for this being over. Desperation, revenge, or greed was still driving someone to murderous acts. I needed better evidence—or a witness. I knew where, how, and when Kent Mercer was killed. Who and why were unanswered questions.

  CHAPTER 11

  Wednesday afternoon

  Pleasant Grove Methodist Church perched on a slight rise, a simple, white building with a cemetery to one side, a playground on the other, and developers pressing in relentlessly as the Chapel Hill and Raleigh suburbs drifted outward. The afternoon sun shone through stained-glass windows high on the west wall, sprinkling drops of color on wide-plank floors. From a loft, an enormous organ boomed out a somber dirge to begin Kent Mercer’s funeral service.

  Agents don’t usually attend a victim’s funeral, but Fern wanted to see Temple, and I had to drive her. We were late because I had driven her to the farmhouse to find something to wear. Fern owned nothing in muted colors. She claimed they were unflattering. She’d fretted as she dug through her closet, finally deciding on a wrap-around jersey dress, teal green with a subtle black print, and fringed scarf.