Jill Elizabeth Nelson (14 page)

“To tell you the truth, populating my lonely home with rugrats would suit me to a
T.
”

He pulled up outside the Keller house, and she stared at him with a grip on the door handle. “You're kidding. Right?”

Rich crossed his heart and pointed Heavenward.

“I thought…well, it seemed obvious.” She spluttered
a laugh. “And what would your daughter think of such a thing?”

Rich grinned. “I'd have a hard time keeping her away at college if she had a baby brother or sister to play with at home.”

“Oh, dear. Oh, my. I think…I can't…” Nicole sounded like someone had body-slammed the air out of her lungs. “I'd better go. Thanks for the ride.” She burst out of the vehicle, scurried up to the house and disappeared inside without a backward glance.

Rich gaped, stunned. He'd expected to hit a home run with her in the kid department. Instead, she ran like a scalded cat. Women! He shook his head and turned his unit toward the Elling home. Breaking the news about Mason to the town's leading family should distract him big-time from a certain dark-haired female with a heart-shaped face and big brown eyes.

 

Nicole shut the door behind her and leaned against the panel, eyes closed.

Rich wanted children. He
wanted
children. He wanted
children.

The realization streamed through Nicole's heart in a nonstop paean. Her head wanted to put the brakes on. Just because Rich welcomed children didn't eliminate the obstacle that he was a
cop.
Yes, a cop who
wanted children!
A cop who made her pulse skip with one sidelong look. And when he smiled? Oh, baby! And that brought her back to children. She could feel that little one snuggled in her arms, so sweet, so soft. And that wonderful newborn smell.

Stop it! Just stop!

Nicole opened her eyes and marched into the living room, where she dropped her purse onto the couch, and then proceeded to the kitchen. She needed a glass of warm milk
and a night of halfway decent sleep. Like that was going to happen after this evening's horror. She popped a mug of milk into the microwave and slumped with her back against the edge of the counter. Her heart didn't have a lick of sense where Rich was concerned, but after a little much-needed rest, her head would prevail. She'd make sure of that.

 

The next day found Rich in the office early, despite his late hours the evening before. As he'd suspected, his duty call on the Ellings had been wrenching and wretched. Melody fell apart and wailed like he'd never heard in his life, and she seemed to blame Simon for Mason's death, hurling terrible words at her father. Fern wept silently and hugged herself. Hannah lurked in the background, chin up, gaze sad, as if resigned to continuous disaster. Predictably, Simon raved against the police department and threatened Rich's job, which was what brought him bright and early to the office, fielding calls from public officials, concerned citizens and reporters.

Simon might be interested to know that, except for a few old Elling cronies, public opinion supported the police department. This community knew Mason was an accident waiting to happen. Folks were relieved the wild child didn't take someone else with him. The young man tried though. He surely did. But Dr. Sharla had already been on the phone to Rich this morning, apologizing for last night's outburst. Taylor was going to be fine. With a pair of broken legs to recover from, she wouldn't be heading off to college in the fall as planned, but her recovery should be complete in time. And maybe she'd gained some hard-won wisdom about relationships. That just left the rose garden baby case, the thefts, the attack on Jan Keller, and the arson on his department's overflowing plate.

Rich brought up his e-mail and spotted a message from
the MBCA tech in St. Paul. The subject line said DNA results.

“Hallelujah,” Rich muttered under his breath and clicked on the message. He read the comparison from the hairbrush and the infant's bone marrow and let out a low whistle.

“Must be some hot mail there, Chief,” a familiar voice spoke from his open doorway.

He looked up to see Nicole smiling at him. The wooden set of her lips indicated the expression was a bit forced.

“I hope you don't mind,” she said. “The dispatcher ushered me in.”

“Not at all.” Rich rose. “What can I do for you?”

“I'd like to get that DNA test over with.”

“Oh, right.” Amazing how awkward he suddenly felt around her. Last night's talk should have been a breakthrough, but it felt more like two steps back. “Come with me.”

He took her in the workroom and swabbed the inside of her cheek. As he packaged the sample, he reached a decision.

“Have a seat.” He motioned toward a chair at a small table then he shut the door against intrusion. Settling in a chair opposite Nicole, he wound his fingers together and planted his hands on the tabletop.

Nicole let out a small titter. “I feel like I'm about to be interrogated.”

“No, I'm going to tell you a few things about this case. Today I will make a public announcement that DNA evidence supports the assumption we've all been making that the infant's remains are those of Samuel Elling.”

Breath hissed between Nicole's teeth. “Then why did you take my DNA sample?”

“Even though the DNA on the hairbrush given to you by
Hannah matches the DNA found in the child's bones, that doesn't prove Fern and Simon are the baby's parents.”

“Of course!” Nicole massaged between her eyes. “I should have thought of that. Thank you for telling me the results first.”

She started to rise, but Rich motioned her to stay, and she subsided into her seat.

“Now I'm going to let you in on a tidbit that a reporter mentioned to me this morning—something my investigation had also uncovered. I need you to know so you will be prepared when the detail is released on the news.”

Rich hated the misery and fear on her face. If Samuel was Frank and Hannah's love child, Nicole would have more losses heaped upon her—a murdered uncle and a trusted family heritage destroyed forever. He sent up a silent prayer that a different answer—any other answer—would be revealed.

“Samuel was born at a private sanitarium where Fern, with Hannah as her companion, had spent the entirety of her pregnancy.”

Nicole's eyes widened. “Only maybe it wasn't Fern who was pregnant. Maybe it was Hannah.”

“The information leaves that possibility open.”

Nicole looked down and fidgeted with the purse on her lap. “Believe me, I appreciate all you've done—all you are doing—for me, regardless of how the case turns out.” She surged to her feet and rushed from the room, lower lip caught between her teeth.

Rich stomped back to his office. If someone would wipe his heart up off the linoleum, he might feel a little less like dirt for dumping that load on Nicole.

His phone rang again. “What!”

“A little touchy today, are we?” Terry's too-cheerful voice answered.

“Sorry.” Rich plopped into his desk chair. “What have you got for me?” He'd sent Terry and Derek over to the impound garage to take Mason's car apart.

“Jackpot! It's a miracle that kid's car didn't blow up. All the makings for a Molotov cocktail were in his trunk, including a jug of gasoline. Looks like we've caught our bomber. Maybe if we shake up Mason's cronies a bit, we'll corral a gang of thieves, too.”

“Good work, Terry.” Rich's spirits lightened marginally. “Turn Derek loose with the fingerprint kit and see whose sticky fingers we turn up.”

Rich cradled the phone and sat back in his swivel chair. If Mason bombed the sewing shop, he'd bet the crime had nothing to do with theft and everything to do with his family's newfound vendetta against the Kellers. Did a bunch of trash talk at his house incite the young man, desperate for the approval of his family, to a rash act? Did Mason also attack Jan in her attic? His slight stature matched the vague description Nicole was able to supply.

But why would Mason have taken that yearbook? How would he even have an inkling about such ancient history? And what had Taylor quoted Mason as saying? He couldn't let his car be searched because he wasn't going to “take the rap.” Maybe Mason knew about the incendiary materials in his trunk but didn't put them there. Someone else did. Maybe someone else even used his car to commit the crime. In that case, the real bomber was still out there, squatting like some bloated spider ready to inject more poison into this suffering community.

T
wo days later, Nicole studied herself in the full-length bedroom mirror and straightened the collar of the cream-colored blouse she wore beneath her navy blue pinstriped suit. The last time she'd donned this outfit was for Glen's funeral. Today marked another funeral, one Rich thought she shouldn't attend.

They hadn't spoken much over the last couple of days. He was busy with multiple high-profile investigations, so she shouldn't be disappointed about lack of contact. But she was.

It was thoughtful of him to have called her yesterday about the funeral, even though their conversation had been brief. So foolish that her heart went pitty-pat at the sound of his voice. He'd recommended against her making an appearance at Mason's service. She understood his reason. Enough people believed the worst about the Kellers that she might invite unpleasant backlash by showing her face at an Elling funeral.

“Bring it!” she'd told him on the phone. “Innocent until proven guilty. Isn't that the credo this country's justice system is supposed to live by?”

Rich sighed. “Unfortunately, the social grapevine doesn't apply the same standard.”

“I know it, but I need to show the self-appointed judges that I believe in my family's innocence. Staying away from the funeral would feel as if I were tucking my tail between my legs and admitting guilt. I won't do it. I'm going to hold my chin high and pay my respects.”

“I can't say I don't admire your guts.” Rich let out his mellow chuckle. “Look for me if things get too hot. I specialize at putting the chill on troublemakers.”

“I appreciate that. You're going to be at the funeral, too?”

“Suit, tie and all, but it'll be semiofficial.”

“Watching for suspicious behavior?”

“Something like that.”

“Won't there be ill feeling from certain quarters about you attending the funeral, also?”

“A badge tends to encourage people to curb their baser instincts. I'll be fine.”

“Me, too.”

Now, staring at the reflection of her whitewashed face and haunted eyes, Nicole wasn't so sure about her declaration of bravery. “God, please help me,” she murmured. What was that verse of scripture her mother used to quote whenever her father's department faced public scorn?

Nicole opened her nightstand drawer and pulled out her Bible. The weight was welcome in her hands. Once upon a time, she'd thumbed up this copy quite well. She'd been neglecting this book for longer than she should have. Flipping through the Psalms, she stopped on a page with highlighted verses. There it was in Psalm 31, where she'd marked it years ago.

The words washed over her, more energizing than a jolt of strong coffee, more calming than warm milk. Fortified, she left the house and headed for the largest and most prestigious church in town.

Where else would the Ellings attend? Her grandmother belonged to a more intimate congregation up the road, but Grandma said that every Sunday she drove past the bigger church, the Ellings' Mercedes was parked in the lot. But, like Grandma said, church attendance didn't guarantee the status of one's soul. For too many people, membership in any given congregation, big or small, was more about social status or family tradition than real faith in Jesus Christ.

Nicole entered the cavernous narthex where little knots of townspeople chatted in muted voices. As she approached the guest-book table, conversations fell silent then resumed as she passed. No one spoke to her. Ignoring the prickly sensation on the back of her neck, Nicole signed in and deposited her memorial card in the basket provided. She put the pen down and glanced around the room.

Near the coatrack that lined one side of the room, Rich stood in a relaxed posture, scanning the area with a steady gaze. No one seemed eager to associate with him, either. He afforded her a marginal nod and a slight quirk of the lips. Her skin warmed. Honestly, the man looked absolutely amazing in a suit and tie.

She ducked her head and started for the viewal line that passed before the casket on the other side of the narthex. A presence warmed her elbow, and she glanced over to see Darlene smiling at her.

“Good for you, chickadee.” She winked.

Several other women, Grandma's particular friends, rallied around them. The knot beneath Nicole's breastbone broke apart, and she grinned. They grinned back.

“How's Jan doing?” one said, nice and loud so heads turned.

“Hanging in there,” Nicole answered. “They plan to ease off on the sedatives in a couple of days and see what kind of response they can get from her. Whether she can wiggle her toes. Things like that.”

“We'll keep a-prayin'.” Darlene nodded.

“Your support is worth more than you can imagine.” Nicole's heart expanded, and then she reached the coffin containing Mason Elling, and her blood chilled.

Features relaxed in death, the young man's face reflected peace. An expression he'd rarely worn on earth. Had tidbits of the preaching and teaching in this place lodged in some corner of his heart? Did he grab the truth in that instant before his final foolish choice took his life? Tears welled in Nicole's eyes. She prayed it was so.

Nicole's self-appointed bodyguard swept her on into the sanctuary, where they took seats, and the organ soon swelled with the opening hymn. The congregation rose as the coffin was wheeled in by the mortuary attendants, and family members filed solemnly in its wake. Melody came first, head bowed, shoulders shaking. Then trod in Simon, face a grim mask, with his wife beside him, wringing a handkerchief in her hands and staring ahead, unblinking. The haunted look was more unsettling than Melody's honest grief. Hannah trudged alone behind the rest. Her downcast gaze and steady shuffle hid her emotions from the world.

The service passed mercifully quickly. Funerals hit Nicole harder than most. Yet a nugget of scripture, often-heard but newly heeded, struck her heart. “Comfort one another with the Blessed Hope.” She couldn't speak for
Mason, or any of the Ellings, but she did know beyond the smallest doubt that her father and her husband lived on in a place of joy. If she grieved, she did so for herself, and only for this split second of earthly existence. She was still here, so there must be a reason—a purpose to fulfill.

Nicole inhaled a long, cleansing breath and released it slowly. The veil of darkness over her spirit began to lift. Problems abounded in her immediate future, but if she didn't cling to God in the midst of them, she might as well be dead for all the use she'd be to her fellow man. It was time to walk on in the precious gift of life the Lord had given.

In her newly buoyed spirit, Nicole walked into the fellowship hall to join in the funeral dinner. Scents of stout black coffee and a tomatoey macaroni hot dish, staples at any Minnesota gathering, teased her nostrils. Nicole stood off a little and looked around for Rich. She didn't see him, but maybe he hadn't reached the fellowship hall yet.

A burly young man with a scowling face planted himself in front of her. “Should be you in that casket, woman. Maybe we could plant you under a rose bush.” He snickered. “At least there'd be some justice in the world.”

Pulse fluttering, Nicole stepped back before the onslaught, and a wall brought her up short. Judging by a whiff of this guy's breath, he must be one of Mason's drinking buddies who'd fortified himself well for this occasion.

The big goon followed her retreat, sticking his face in hers. “Mason didn't do nothin'. We didn't, either. But now the cops are all over us, acting like we're firebugs and thieves. Hey, I got news for you. Mason's the victim here.” His big paws made fists. “He's dead, and you're—”

A large hand fell on the young thug's shoulder and whipped him around.

“Get on home, Brent, and sleep it off.”

Rich. Nicole released a pent-up breath and slid sideways against the wall toward an open doorway. It
had
been a mistake to come here. Now Rich was stuck with a situation to handle. Conversations had begun to still and heads to turn as Brent responded in loud belligerence. A hefty, middle-aged woman hustled up, took the young man's arm and tugged him toward the main doors. His mother? Her scolding tone reached Nicole's ears, but not her words.

Nicole fled out the side door into a hallway lit only by diffused sunlight streaming through windows in the rooms on either side. Her presence was hindering Rich's need to mingle and listen and observe. If she could just find a back way out of this building, she'd take herself on home and pack for tomorrow's trip to the hospital. She belonged at her grandmother's bedside.

Her low, spiked heels echoed with every step. She moderated her pace to minimize the click-clack as she peered through one doorway and then another. These were classrooms. Evidently, she'd happened into the Sunday school area. Another sound reached her ears, and she halted, breath bated. Muffled sobs tugged on her feet. She moved to the next door and peeked around the frame.

Fern Elling hunched in a child-size chair weeping into her handkerchief. Waterlogged words brushed past Nicole's ears.

“Accursed…reap the whirlwind… Should have stopped it… God will not be mocked… Broke His commandment…Can't go back…undo… Never should have agreed…” And on and on.

Nicole's skin crawled at the eerie echoes of Goody Hanson's demented cries. Should she interrupt Fern? Let her know she wasn't alone?

“What is going on here?”

At the muted bellow, Nicole nearly jumped out of her shoes. She whirled to find Simon Elling striding up the hall.

“I-It's your wife,” Nicole said. “She's in distress.”

The man reached the door and peered down his nose at her. “Of course she's in distress. We just lost
another
family member.” He turned on his heel, dismissing her as effectively as a slap on the cheek, and stalked into the room. “Fern, pull yourself together. Our guests are waiting in the fellowship hall to start the meal.”

Nicole crept past the door, fighting the shivers. If ever there was a man who could kill, she'd just looked into his eyes. Ahead she spotted an exit sign. Finally! An escape into the outside world. She reached the exit and looked back in time to see Simon and his wife disappear into the fellowship hall. A piece of something white on the dark linoleum caught Nicole's eye. She backtracked to the object. Fern's handkerchief.

Nicole picked it up between thumb and forefinger and smiled. The damp hanky was a treasure trove of Fern Elling's DNA.

 

After Brent's mother dragged her grown son away, Rich looked for Nicole in the fellowship hall, but didn't find her. He widened his search and ended up by the glass-paneled front entrance area. Outside, a familiar figure rounded the corner of the building and headed into the parking lot. As usual, she'd taken care of herself. She'd found an alternate exit. Nicole got into her car and drove away. Rich watched her go, hands in his pockets, frustration gnawing his gut.

He could have rushed out and spoken to her, but what would he have said? His instinct was something else again. And inappropriate. He wanted to gather her in his arms and kiss her until she forgot everything else but him.

Rich turned away with a low growl about duty and went
back to the funeral dinner. Afterward, he changed into his uniform at home and headed out into the country to interview some of the current owners of what had been Elling property—up until the founding family was forced to sell in order to meet the ransom demand. Could there be some common denominator in these sales that he had missed?

He encountered mostly descendants of the individuals who'd made the original purchases. A few times he hit the jackpot. The direct purchaser was still around, and he got a firsthand account. Everyone's situation was a little different. In some cases, the purchaser had been a small, independent farmer squeezed between the massive holdings of the Elling family. At last, they were able to increase their land ownership and bring in a decent income for their families. Then again, some of the land had been bought by former tenant farmers, glad to be out from under the Elling thumb. Until that moment, the Ellings had wanted exorbitant sums to part with their property. When crisis came, they were only too willing to take a fair price.

“We're honest folks,” one oldster stated, as Rich sat with him on his farmhouse porch. “We didn't want to cheat nobody out of what was right, but it sure tickled us tenant farmers silly when we finally got our honest chance.”

“In a sense,” Rich answered, “the Ellings' misfortune became a liberation day for a lot of people.”

The fellow frowned, and his rocker sped up. “We all hoped like everything they'd get that baby back. Nobody wants something bad to happen to a youngster. That's another reason we told Frank we'd pay the going rate for the land, even though he said the Ellings might take less.”

Rich sat forward, clasping his hands between his knees. “Frank?”

“Keller. That sharp young man had recently come back to Ellington with his accounting degree. The bank snapped
him right up as a loan officer with plans for advancement. Bright career ahead of him, and he fulfilled it all. Started as a teller working part-time in high school, got his education and ended up president. True community servant.”

Rich gnawed the inside of his cheek. He'd known Frank Keller had been respected as a civic-minded banker with an honest reputation. But he hadn't realized a young Frank had brokered the farm loans on behalf of the buyers that raised the ransom money. Did this citizen of the year also turn around and collect the ransom to line his own pockets? It looked like he was going to have to subpoena old bank records, as well as Frank's personal financial information. Nicole was going to love that.