Authors: Kylie Brant
Waking Evil 02 (13 page)
Dev was shaking his head. “He’d be of no help to anyone. He’s hardly a reliable source. He’s got the judgment and the intellectual level of a four-year-old. No one would credit anythin’ he had to say, especially about somethin’ as important as murder.”
“Maybe not.” But Ramsey mentally filed it away to ask Rollins about later.
“So.” He turned to face her more fully, a slight smile playing about his mouth. “’Bout your unpopularity in these parts . . . I can probably help you out with that.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”
“Oh, really.” His brows rose. “How are you plannin’ on workin’ a sit down with Donnelle to hear more about the legend?”
Lifting a shoulder, Ramsey craned her neck to see if any familiar dishes were lined up on the cook’s counter. “It’s not like the information is pertinent to solving the case.” It was background, nothing more. Filler that explained the whys and hows of people’s attitudes and beliefs, which, come to think of it,
could
, in a roundabout way, affect what they told law enforcement.
could
, in a roundabout way, affect what they told law enforcement.
Vicki set a pile of disposable containers down in front of Ramsey. “That will be nine fifty. You can either pay at the register or I’ll take your money right here.”
Ramsey opened her purse and fished out a ten and two ones, handing it to the woman. “Thanks.”
“You have yourself a good day, hon,” the waitress said, heading to greet another customer.
“I’m surprised you think that way, after what happened yesterday evenin’.”
She stood, reaching for the containers. “Why, what happened?”
He jerked his head toward the full restaurant behind them. “Haven’t you been listenin’? Everybody in town’s talkin’ ’bout it, seems like. Beau Simpson killed himself last night.”
Pausing in midmotion, she looked at him. “And who’s Beau Simpson?”
“Has the hardware store here on Main Street. Took it over from his folks some years ago. Nice guy. Hard worker.” His expression was somber for once. “Left a wife and little girl.”
“Tragic, but what does that have to do with me or the case?”
“It’s the second death after the red mist was sighted. That’s what people are sayin’.” Vicki set his plate in front of him, and he looked up and smiled his thanks before returning his attention to Ramsey. “And if you were findin’ folks closemouthed before, they’re really gonna button up now. At least those who hold with the legend. And others who don’t but won’t push their luck.”
Intrigued, she sat on the edge of her stool facing him. “And why is that?”
He reached for the maple syrup and spread it liberally on his stack of pancakes. “Because the way the legend goes is that the deaths—some call them murders, but history doesn’t necessarily bear that out—happen in threes. And there are some who believe the subsequent ones occur because of people askin’ questions and stirrin’ up things that should just be let be.”
“Just ignore homicide, in other words.”
“Didn’t say I agreed. Just tellin’ you the way some folks ’round here think.” He lifted a bite of pancakes to his lips and chewed, his eyes sliding shut in an expression of appreciation. Swallowing, he added, “Donnelle is the one to see if you want the full story and all the versions of the legend. I can help you out with that. You heard her invite me to call on her at the museum tomorrow. I could take you along. She might not open up to a stranger, but she’ll talk to me.”
“She might speak to me if I stop in on my own tomorrow.”
He took another bite, then reached for his juice. “She might.”
She heard the doubt in his tone. Based on the woman’s friendly dismissal earlier, Ramsey doubted it, too. “Or maybe I could get Leanne to intervene somehow.”
“She’d probably be glad to. If you let her get her hands on your hair. Probably have to throw in a manicure and pedicure, too, but most women go for that sort of thing anyway, so it’s not like it’d be too taxin’.”
Shrewdly, she assessed his too-innocent expression. The man observed entirely too much. “But you’d let me go with you?”
“Sure.” He paused long enough to cut more pancakes, rubbing them generously in the syrup pooled on his plate before bringing them to his mouth. “For a price.”
“I should’ve known,” she muttered, disgusted with herself for wasting time with the man. Rising again, she grabbed the containers and prepared to leave.
“Whoa.” His eyes twinkled as he reached a hand out to stop her. “All I’m talkin’ ’bout is a date.”
She stopped, eyed him jaundicedly. “A date.”
“Has to include a meal,” he said judiciously, “to count as a real date. Dinner would be best.”
“Breakfast,” she counter offered.
“I’ve seen your mornin’ mood, remember? Lunch.”
“Done.” With a sense of resignation, she gave in. “But not until after we’ve talked to Donnelle.”
He studied her then, his eyes brimming with merriment. It occurred to her that some men could be too handsome for their own good. “Okay. I’m gonna trust you. That you won’t think of some excuse to beg off after you’ve gotten what you want from me.”
Because it’d only barely occurred to her, she said tartly, “And I’m going to trust you to get Donnelle to open up to me.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ve got a gift for gettin’ people to talk to me. I often thought I should have been a priest ’cept for one li’l thing.”
“Let me guess.”
“I’m not Catholic.” Grinning, he shook his head and speared another bite of pancakes. “But I like the way you think.”
Out of patience, she rose, this time intent on making her escape. “I’ll meet you at the museum tomorrow at . . .”
“If that isn’t just like you, Dev, to hoard all the pretty gals for yourself.”
Ramsey and Dev looked up at the newcomer in unison.
“Hey, Doc.” With a look of genuine pleasure on his face, Dev got up and shook the newcomer’s hand. “You still chasin’ Jenny ’round the office in between patients?”
“Gave that up long ago. She got too fast for me.” The stranger looked at Ramsey. “Gonna introduce us, Dev, or are you afraid I’ll steal her clean away from you?”
“Ramsey Clark, this old coot is Doc Andrew Theisen. Been ’round this town long enough to know where the skeletons are hidden. Come to think of it, given his bedside manner, he may have contributed to a few of them.”
Ramsey found her hand engulfed in Theisen’s. “Listen to the ungrateful wretch. I brought him into this world, and he’s been bitchin’ ’bout it ever since.”
She smiled, unwillingly charmed. He was seventy if he was a day, but fit, with a receding hairline that had long since gone white. His hazel eyes behind the dark framed glasses were kind, inviting her to share the joke.
“You should have filmed the moment you slapped him after birth. I think it would have achieved bestseller status.”
The older man laughed, dug an elbow in Dev’s ribs. “I like her. She’s not meltin’ in a gooey puddle at your feet. Show’s she got character.”
“She’s got plenty of that.”
“Here, take my seat.” Ramsey took the food containers and stood. “I have to get these back to a friend.”
“Let’s say ten o’clock at the museum tomorrow,” Dev said as Doc slipped into the seat she’d vacated.
“See you then.” She smiled once again at Doc and said, “Nice meeting you.”
“My pleasure.”
Ramsey turned to go, fighting her way through a crowd that seemed to have doubled since she came in. Driving back to the motel, one of the containers tumbled off the pile, and she muttered a curse, reaching for it with one hand while driving with the other. Jonesy better appreciate her efforts. And he damn well better have some news for her on those tests sometime today.
Having learned her lesson earlier that day, she knocked on the lab door first. Or, since her arms were full, at least tapped it impatiently with her foot. She stepped back as he opened the door for her, delight written on every bit of his face that didn’t have a piercing through it. “Room service. My favorite.”
Rather than letting her into the lab, however, he came out, and she followed him to a nearby picnic table. “I’ve got tests running. I don’t want to risk any contaminants.” She sincerely hoped he was talking about the food and not her.
“Listen, Ramsey . . .” Jonesy was popping open all the containers and taking out the plastic silverware. He seemed to have trouble coming up with words. “About earlier this morning . . .”
Nearly grinding her teeth, she said, “We are definitely not going there.”
Doggedly, he went on. “I don’t know how much you saw . . .”
“Let’s call it too much and leave it at that, shall we?”
But he wouldn’t give it up. “I just want you know, there’s a difference between guys. Now me, I’m a grower, not a shower. What I mean is . . .”
Ramsey abruptly turned to go. “We are not having this conversation.” Swiftly, she started toward the motel, where she hoped to find Matthews and Powell.
“All I’m saying is, don’t judge the gift by the package, if you get my drift.”
“Call me when you have some results. That I’ll want to hear. The rest of it . . .” The mental image flashed across her mind and she winced. “We will never talk about that again.”
When she got to the office the TBI agents were using as headquarters, Powell was already gone. Matthews was sitting at the table, his laptop before him, sipping coffee and typing up yesterday’s interviews in a desultory manner.
“Where’s Ward?” she asked him.
Matthews winced, holding his head. “Inside voice, Ramsey. Have some pity on the walking dead.”
“Did you tie one on last night?” she asked unsympathetically. “How do you stand staying out all night and getting up the next morning?” She’d heard him come in again last night. She’d just gone to bed herself. But she didn’t spend much time sleeping anyway.
“Not well. This morning, not well at all. Powell got an early start to try to catch some of those property owners you guys missed yesterday.”
“Hope he has better luck today than we did yesterday.” She went to the fax machine, made a sound of satisfaction when she saw Bledsoe, the forensic artist, had sent the sketch of the victim resembling the way she would have looked alive. She plucked it off the paper tray. “Thank you, Alec,” she muttered.
She opened the cover of the copier, pausing a moment to study the rendition. This was what was needed, she recognized, at least for her. A reminder of who the woman was before she’d become a victim. When she still had a life to lead, errands to run, problems to solve, friends to enjoy.
Before she’d come to the attention of her killer.
A few minutes later she grabbed a stack of the copies she’d made of the sketch and showed the top one to Matthews. “I’m going to deliver this to Rollins’s office and have him distribute it to all the law enforcement offices within fifty miles. You’re going to help me track down all the nail salons in the same vicinity and show this sketch, see if we can get a lead on the victim.”
Matthews cocked a brow, gave her a cynical look. “Oh, am I?”
“I suppose you could go help Powell,” she said, considering. “Yesterday I had a hillie point a shotgun at me, but that was probably an exception.” She paused a beat. “You know what nail salons are full of, Matthews. Women.”
The agent didn’t look as enthusiastic at the prospect as she’d hoped. “I’ve about had my fill, thanks.”
“Now why do I have a feeling I should tape record that remark for posterity?”
“Well, not forever,” he amended, continuing to type slowly. “But the crazy gals in this town . . . you know two of them nearly came to blows last night at the Half Moon over me?”
“Don’t tell me,” Ramsey said drily, going back to check on the copies being spit out. “You’ve brought a different one of them back here at different times, and last night they were both in the same place at the same time, comparing notes. You’re a prince, Matthews.”
“And then,” he continued aggrievedly, “after I separated them and tried to smooth things over, they both turn on me.” He shook his head in disgust. “By the end of the night, they’re acting like best pals and I’m being treated like the scourge of the town. I will never understand women.”
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