Jill Elizabeth Nelson (15 page)

Rich rose and stuck out his hand to the wizened, retired farmer. “Thanks for the information.”

The elderly man clasped Rich's hand. “Don't know if it shed any light, but happy to help with the investigation. If my opinion amounts to a hill of beans, I don't see Frank as a kidnapper, much less capable of hurting a child. Sure hope you track down the weasel who did.”

“Thanks. Me, too.” Rich waved and climbed back into his unit.

He took a meandering route on country roads back toward the office, giving himself time to think. Frank and Jan Keller's long-standing good reputations argued against either of them being involved in kidnapping and murder. But every piece of evidence, including Jan Keller's mysterious behavior, insisted that they were up to their necks in the crime. Unfortunately, Rich still wasn't in a position to come to a conclusion about Frank or arrest Jan. He agreed with the district attorney: all they had so far was circumstantial. Even the information he'd gleaned today would go under that heading.

What if the circumstances were misleading? Maybe the
truth was something quite different than anything anyone had considered. Could there be a nugget of evidence or information out there that would make the circumstances fall into place, forming a far different picture than what everyone assumed?

If so, he needed to find it soon, or the handwriting was on the wall—Nicole Mattson would shake the dust of Ellington from her feet, and she'd take her grandmother with her if the older woman survived. Neither of them could stay in this town under the dark cloud that swirled around them here. Rich pulled up in front of the station, dreading the report he needed to write casting more suspicion on Frank Keller.

The dispatcher looked up from paperwork on her desk. “Nicole Mattson stopped in with some evidence in a bag. She said it contained Fern Elling's DNA. I put it in the evidence room.”

Rich's step quickened on his way to the cubicle, little bigger than a closet, where they locked up small items to be used as evidence. Good for Nicole. Now they were one step closer to determining Samuel Elling's exact parentage. Who knew? They could be all wet in suspecting it was anyone but Simon and his wife. On the counter in the little cubicle he found a paper bag with his name on it. Inside was a plastic bag containing a crumpled white handkerchief.

He held it up and grinned. This was going to be shipped to the crime lab in St. Paul along with the evidence from the trunk of Mason's car that sat in a box on the floor under the counter. Derek had spent meticulous hours trying to locate the shadow of a print on the gas jug and empty Sun Drop bottles to no avail. Maybe an expert would find some other kind of trace evidence. At the very least, a lab technician was going to analyze the gas in the jug that currently provided the slight perfume in this enclosed space. Rich
had sent Derek and Terry out collecting gas samples from all the area outlets to be sent in along with the rest of the material. Discovering where the gas for the Molotovs was purchased offered a marginal possibility of a lead on the purchaser.

Rich opened the box that contained the items from Mason's car trunk and surveyed the contents—glass shards in baggies, the gallon milk jug that held gasoline, twisted rags, one of those click-style fire-starters, a long-handled windshield scraper, jumper cables and a tire iron. He'd insisted that everything go in for analysis, not merely the bomb makings. Whoever put the incendiary ingredients into the trunk, whether Mason or not, could have left evidence on other items. Terry had teased Rich about an attack of O.C.D., but something bugged Rich about the normal items. Mason's prints were found on the windshield scraper and the jumper cables, but the tire iron had been wiped as clean as the bomb parts. Why?

Rich donned gloves and then pulled the tire iron out of the box. He examined the object under a magnifying glass. This was the cleanest tire-changing utensil he'd ever seen. Not a trace of grease or a spec of dirt. Whoever cleaned this tool was thorough. However, there was an element that didn't wash off as easily as dirt. An article could look clean, but still test positive. Rich got out the test kit, feeling a little sheepish. Who was he kidding? He was no forensics tech. He'd better not mess up any other type of evidence by conducting this little experiment, but he had one of those porcupine-in-his-gut feelings that wouldn't leave him alone.

A few moments later, Rich stared at the results. His gut was right. Human blood speckled the iron. Someone had used this tool on a person. Was it the same perp who attacked an old lady? Who was the victim of violence this time? More critical still, did they survive the assault?

N
icole finished packing a large suitcase for an indefinite stay in the Twin Cities and zipped the bag shut. She parted the curtain on her bedroom window and gazed down into her grandmother's backyard. Evening sunlight had stretched the shadow of the maple tree to twice its length. The yellow crime-scene tape was gone from the remnants of the rose garden, the new piping had been laid to the house and the trench filled in. Still, a great sadness fell over Nicole. A terrible tragedy had been concealed under the beauty of the roses, and suspicion clouded the halls of this home she'd once counted a haven.

The words of that angry young man at the funeral played again in her mind, followed by a rerun of Fern's agonized mutters. If only she could shut those disturbing sounds off, but they kept running through her mind. It might have helped calm her unease if she could have spoken to Rich when she delivered Fern's handkerchief to the station. If nothing else, it would have been fun to see his reaction to her gift.

The house phone shrilled and Nicole jerked. She let the curtains fall back into place and trooped down to the foyer to answer it. Maybe it was Rich calling to thank her. Smiling, Nicole picked up the phone and spoke a greeting.

A raspy breath answered her. “You Kellers better leave town. We don't want your kind here. What happened to Jan could just as easily happen to you.”

“Who is this?” Nicole demanded, but the telltale click said the person had hung up.

Electric chills coursed through her body. She didn't recognize the voice, but the venom was unmistakable. Had she just been threatened with violence? A graphic image of a bat swinging for her head appeared in her mind's eye. Heart galloping against her ribs, Nicole slammed the receiver into the cradle and backed away as if the attacker might leap out of the handset.

A sudden ring of the doorbell riveted her to the spot. Blackness edged her vision, but a full breath would not come. A fist pounded on the front door. Then a voice called her name.

Rich!

Tension melted and Nicole staggered for the door. She ripped it open, Rich stepped inside, and then she was wrapped warm and safe in his arms.

“It's okay, honey. Don't worry. We'll figure it out.” His hand rubbing her back reinforced the soothing words.

Tiny alarm bells jingled in the back of her mind. What was she doing? She shouldn't let this man hold her. He was bound to uphold the law, and she was bound to uphold her grandmother. Besides, Glen was barely cold in the grave.

Nicole disengaged herself and put a few feet of distance between them. “I—I apologize. You must think I'm insane.”

“After what that idiot said to you at the funeral, I don't blame you for being upset. Honestly, I could wring some big mouths' necks sometimes.”

Nicole shook her head. “Not that. I just had a phone call.”

Concern puckered Rich's face. “About your grandmother? Is she—”

“No, everything's the same there, as far as I know. Someone threatened to hurt me if I don't get out of town.”

Rich's gaze turned to steel. “Who?”

Nicole spread her hands. “Whoever it was growled in this raspy voice. I couldn't even tell if the person was male or female.”

“That does it. You should leave for the Cities tonight and don't come back until this case is solved.”

“That could mean never.” Nicole's heart twisted. Would she ever see Rich again?

He stepped forward and grasped her upper arms. “Don't give up hope on me now. Your help with Fern's DNA and other leads I just ran across might bring us answers.”

“I want to believe this nightmare will end.” She gazed up into his eyes. “And I know you're doing everything humanly possible.”

“Then let's believe together for a little Divine assistance.”

Nicole allowed herself a slow nod. “All right. Just don't expect me to drive tonight. These past days have exhausted me. I'll get some sleep then go first thing in the morning.”

Rich tapped the end of her nose with a forefinger. “Then you'd better believe I'll have a car outside your door all night.”

“But—”

“No argument. I'll let you turn in. I just stopped by to thank you for the handkerchief. Get some rest.” Rich opened the door part way then looked back at her. “That's an order.” He offered her a lopsided grin that sent her pulse skittering.

She giggled, and the terror that had clutched her a few
minutes ago faded like a preposterous nightmare. Closing the door after her visitor, Nicole watched through the window as he trotted to his unit.

What a good man. He'd make a great husband for somebody. A pang smote her at the thought of some nameless, faceless female snuggled in his arms. Turning on her heel, Nicole squashed the tiny green-eyed monster by an act of will. She would
not
be jealous over a man she couldn't let herself love.

As she drew a relaxing, hot bath, a persistent whisper breathed through her soul. She was fooling herself if she thought Rich Hendricks hadn't already laid claim to her heart.

 

Quite a feat. He'd made Nicole smile, while inside himself he was ready to rip someone's head off. Things were getting way out of hand in this town, and if he had to guess who might be stirring the pot with influence and innuendo, he'd put Simon Elling at the head of the list. That man was a snake of the first order, and it was time Rich had it out with the spiteful old geezer.

A few minutes later, a haggard Melody ushered him into her father's study. “Cop's here to see you,” she snarled at her father who slouched in a leather recliner before the cold fireplace. A half-full snifter and a half-empty bottle lay near at hand on the side table.

Simon rose, crocodilian gaze on the intruder to his domain. “Quit pestering us. Haven't you done enough damage to this family?”

“The damage was done long ago, and not by me or anyone outside these walls. Whatever has happened started here.”

Simon's gaze popped wide, and his color receded. “What do you mean by that?”

“You're a churchgoing fellow. You know there's a scripture that says God will not be mocked. Folks
are
going to reap what they sow.”

The other man paced, hands flexing and fisting. “You're not paid to preach, Hendricks. If you've got proof of something, spit it out.”

Rich took a step closer. “I've got a container full of evidence from the trunk of Mason's car that is now headed by special courier for the lab at the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Before the courier picked it up, I made a discovery. The tire iron found in the trunk has traces of blood on it. Mason's not the likely culprit, because whoever used that iron as a weapon wiped it clean.”

Simon took up a belligerent stance in front of the cavernous fireplace. “What are you getting at?”

“Let me finish.” Rich lifted a hand. “The blood evidence got me thinking. I took another look at the fingerprint report, and an anomaly jumped out at me. Derek found only Mason's prints on the steering wheel of the vehicle.”

“So?” Simon crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “It's his car.”

Rich spread his lips in a cold smile. “I happen to know that Taylor Mead drove the vehicle just days ago. Where were her prints? Wiped away, of course. Because someone else drove Mason's car between the time Taylor got behind the wheel and the night of Mason's accident. Someone who had access to the car keys. Someone from this household. The person who really bombed Jan Keller's shop and likely the culprit who struck some poor soul with that tire iron.” Rich canted his head and studied the man before him. Simon's face had gone purple. “Did a witness get clobbered, perhaps? An accomplice? The only person who's been missing in Ellington since shortly after the bombing is Ralph Reinert. What did you do with the body, Simon?”

“Are you calling me a murderer?” The senior Elling whirled, tiger quick, and then whipped back around with the fireplace poker.

Rich dodged the swipe, but not fast enough to protect his belt equipment. His radio and cell phone caught the brunt and went flying.

Screaming curses, Simon kept on swinging like a demented ballplayer. The bottle and snifter on the side table crashed into splinters. Rich dived for the man's knees, and took him down flat. Simon's head cracked against the thinly carpeted floor, and he went inert, staring in a daze. Rich flung the poker away then hauled his attacker to his feet. Simon stood swaying, head lowered, while Rich snapped cuffs on him.

“I didn't kill anyone,” Simon muttered.

“Says the man who took a swing at a cop with the fireplace poker. You won't ‘good old boy' your way out of this one. Even Judge Becker would throw the book at you.”

“We'll see about that.” Steel returned to the Elling patriarch's voice and stance.

Rich escorted the prisoner out of the man's office and past the amazed gazes of Fern and Melody. Hannah was nowhere to be seen. On the drive to the county jail, Simon kept up a litany of threats and curses. So much for being knocked half silly in his study. Jan Keller wasn't the only person with a hard head in this community. Rich glanced at the fireplace poker he'd deposited in the passenger seat, along with the shattered remains of his radio and cell phone. A chill rippled down his spine. That could have been
his
noggin.

But despite Rich's confident statement, Simon Elling wasn't all wet to spout defiance of his arrest. What had transpired in that study was Rich's word against Simon's. Unless something concrete turned up in the evidence he'd
sent to the MBCA or something dramatic shook loose in this case, he might well be hauling this evil old soul to the lockup in vain.

 

Despite all the fears and upsets of the past days, Nicole fell into deep sleep almost as soon as head and pillow met. Sometime in the night, she surfaced near enough to consciousness to dream. Goody Hanson's wizened face, screeching about lies and breaking the sixth, alternated with Fern Elling's distraught wails about reaping the whirlwind and violating a commandment. Words screeched and growled, images cascaded one on top of another. Harsh breathing melded with the nightmare, growing in volume.

Louder… Louder…

Nicole snapped awake and sat up stiff, lungs sawing for air, heart rattling against her ribs. Her own breathing had awakened her. That and a realization.

She knew what the sixth commandment meant. Or at least where to look it up. What deductions led from that bit of research, time would tell. Nicole grabbed her Bible from the side table. She found the book of Exodus and flipped around until she found what she was looking for in Exodus 20—the list of “Thou Shalt Nots” that was the Ten Commandments. Hopefully, it would be the same as the number Goody and Fern meant.

A few minutes later, she had the list sorted out: “Thou shalt not commit adultery.” Adultery? Sure, if Grandpa Frank and Hannah were an item once upon a time, they had committed that sin, but there had been no hint of accusation toward her family in the ravings of either Fern or Goody. The swirl of agony and remorse seemed focused on the Elling family alone. Besides, as Rich had pointed out, a Frank/Hannah liaison would not result in an Elling
heir. Why had they claimed Samuel as their own and stuck to that story all these years?

Or maybe there was an explanation. Did Hannah and Fern fool the Elling men? After all, the pair had gone away to a sanitarium during Fern's supposed pregnancy. Nicole's research had shown how difficult it was for an Elling wife to survive in that household unless she produced an heir. Maybe the women engineered the switch to save Fern's marriage—possibly even her life. But how awful for Hannah not to be able to claim her own child!

Nicole had no proof that this is what happened, but the scenario answered a lot of questions, except how the kidnapping went down and who exactly shook that poor baby. Regardless, she needed to tell Rich about her deduction right away. Nicole threw on her robe, donned her slippers and headed downstairs to the phone.

From the foyer, she glanced at the living room wall clock and snorted. A few ticks after midnight. She'd been asleep for barely two hours. If Rich was a night owl, maybe she wouldn't wake him up when she called. Nicole tried his home phone, but he didn't answer. Then she tried his cell, but the call went straight to voice mail. She didn't leave a message. What she had to say was too important. She'd try the station and have them send him over.

“He's headed your way now,” the dispatcher told Nicole. “Said something about taking a shift outside your house.”

“Excellent.”

Nicole went to a front window and peered out. A black-and-white sat on the opposite side of a peaceful street bathed in diffused lighting from poles set at opposite ends of the block. Danger appeared to be a million miles away, but the police presence was comforting. She waited, looking out the window periodically, for Rich's SUV to show up.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe she should go out and see if
the deputy would give Rich a holler on the radio. Or maybe she should be patient a little longer. She waited another five minutes, but no SUV. Had something happened to Rich? The trip from the station to her address was five minutes, max.

Nicole tightened the belt on her robe and slipped out her front door. She padded on slippered feet toward the police unit. Scents of a still summer night met her nostrils—dust from the dug-up streets, new-mown grass, blooming flowers. Or was that floral scent wafting out the open window of the squad car? She drew close, and a streetlight revealed a pair of silhouettes in the car. One of those profiles was feminine. The man and woman were fully absorbed with one another, heads close. Were they whispering to one another or kissing? Nicole couldn't quite tell, but one thing was obvious—Terry was entertaining a woman in his car while on duty.

Planting her hands on her hips, Nicole took a few steps closer. “Terry Bender, I'd only half believed the stories about you, but this beats anything. Romancing on the county dime.”