All the Beautiful Brides (24 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Cal gripped the phone with clammy hands as Deputy Kimball filled him in. “I got a lead on those wedding dresses. I spoke to a woman who does alterations out of her home, and she said a lady who lives out on Deer Park Road might know who made them. I’m on my way there now to speak to her.”

“Let me know what you find out.”

Cal’s phone was buzzing that he had another call, and he connected it. “Agent Coulter.”

“This is Pastor Hopwood at the First Baptist Church in Graveyard Falls.”

Cal frowned. “What can I do for you?”

A hesitation. “Well, I’m not certain about this, but I think a woman may have been abducted outside the church a few minutes ago.”

Cal’s pulse kicked up a notch. “Go on.”

“There’s a young lady, Josie DuKane. She’s Sheriff Buckley’s granddaughter. She came in once before asking about the memorial service for the victims of the Thorn Ripper. She drives a blue Jetta and it’s in the parking lot. But it’s empty and she’s not in the church.”

“What makes you think she was kidnapped?”

“I heard a noise, and when I looked out back I saw a man carrying a woman to a pickup.”

Cal cursed. “Did you recognize him?”

“No, he was wearing a dark coat and ski cap.” He hesitated. “Although I thought it might be the young man who sometimes volunteers to clean the church. His name is Billy.”

Cal’s pulse clamored. Billy the taxidermist. He was waiting on an address. “Do you know where he lives?”

“No, somewhere in the mountains.”

“Describe the truck for me.”

“Black. Rusted. Old. I don’t know the license plate.”

“I’m on my way.” Cal rushed to his vehicle, then headed to the little church. “You said the man was carrying the woman?”

“Yes, it looked as if she was unconscious.”

He barreled around the corner, tires screeching, and pulled into the parking lot. The pastor was waiting by the Jetta.

Cal yanked on gloves, then glanced inside the car to search for clues.

The preacher gestured toward the ground by the driver’s door. “I found her keys and purse in the dirt.”

The scene was reading like an abduction, all right. Cal checked inside the purse and found her cell phone, then scrolled through until he spotted a contact she’d named Mom.

He punched the number, hating to alarm a family member, but he needed to know if this was an emergency.

A female voice answered. “Hello, Josie, where are you?”

“I’m sorry, Anna, but this is Agent Cal Coulter.”

“Oh, God,” the woman said, panic in her voice. “What’s wrong? Why are you calling on my daughter’s phone?”

Cal gritted his teeth. “Ma’am, I don’t want to scare you, but I’m at the First Baptist Church. Your daughter’s car was found here abandoned, her purse and keys still here.”

“Oh, God . . .” Anna’s voice broke.

“I thought you might know where she is.”

“No, she left the house upset. We had an argument. I’m out driving around looking for her.”

“Does she have a friend in town, someone she might meet up with?”

“No, we’re just here temporarily.”

“So she doesn’t have any male friends? One who drives a truck?”

“No,” Anna cried. “What’s this about a truck?”

Cal inhaled sharply. “I . . . the pastor thinks she was abducted.”

A sob caught in her throat. “My God, you don’t think that crazy killer got her, do you?”

Unfortunately, that’s exactly what he thought.

Mona was relieved she’d made peace with Sylvia and her son. Forgiveness and acceptance were part of the healing process. Holding on to hatred and bitterness would only hold her back.

She steered her car toward her house, but her cell phone buzzed, startling her. Cal.

She clenched her jaw, still furious with him, and let it go to voice mail. A second later, she listened to the message, her chest clenching at the sound of his worried voice. “Mona, I think the Bride Killer has another victim. Her name is Josie DuKane. She’s the sheriff’s granddaughter.”

Mona swerved and nearly ran off the road. Josie—Anna’s daughter. Anna, who’d confessed she’d been in love with the Thorn Ripper.

Anna, who must be crazy with fear now.

She steered the vehicle toward the radio station. If Chance wasn’t the Bride Killer, and the man who’d called in was, maybe she could convince him to talk to her.

It might be Josie’s only chance.

Josie tried to recall tips she’d heard from news stories about how women had survived abduction. But fear clogged her thoughts.

She’d heard the man’s mother call him Billy.

He was crazy. Delusional.

Worse, the house smelled like rotting eggs and body waste and . . . death.

Her eye caught something in the corner, and bile rose to her throat. A wedding dress. Ivory lace, pearl buttons, taffeta skirt . . .

He was the Bride Killer.

“Mama says you have to cook something for me.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair, sending the dull brown ends sticking out. “That’s your first test. Then we’ll see how good you are at cleaning.”

Josie swallowed revulsion as she looked at Billy’s mother in that wheelchair. The poor woman—

“Did you hear me?” Billy dragged Josie up to stand, but her feet and hands were bound, and she stumbled. He caught her, then cradled her face between his hands. “It’s all right now, Josie. I love you. I want to make you my wife.” He frowned and turned to his mother.

“What, Mama?”

“Billy, please,” Josie said in a choked voice. “This is not the way to win my love. Why don’t we go out on a date? We could go to dinner—”

His eyes clouded over for a moment as if he was considering her idea, but then he jerked his head back toward his mother. “No, Mama says I need a wife who can cook for me.”

Hysteria threatened to immobilize Josie, but she forced herself to remain calm. Maybe if she stalled long enough, her mother would realize she was missing and come looking for her.

God . . . she’d been so angry with her. What if she died and never got to tell her she was sorry? That she loved her no matter what? That even if her mother had lied to her, she’d forgive her because that’s what families did.

Her mind raced. He wanted her to cook. “All right, Billy, let me make you an apple pie. I have a recipe I’m sure you and your mother will love.” If he gave her a knife to chop the apples, she could use it on him.

“I do like apple pie,” Billy said. He leaned over to talk to his mother. “What, Mama? You’re right. She should make biscuits and gravy. Anyone can make an apple pie.”

“But mine is special,” Josie said quickly. “I add a little bourbon to it.”

Billy’s nostrils flared. “Mama said good girls don’t drink whiskey. I thought you went to church.”

Tears of fear clogged her throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend your mother. I do go to church and I pray every day.” She was praying now, praying she’d survive.

Billy grabbed her arm and ushered her over to the kitchen counter. She struggled with the ropes. “I can’t cook with my feet and hands tied.”

“Yes, you can.” Billy dragged a bag of flour from the cabinet below, then a rolling pin from the drawer, and set a carton of buttermilk on the counter. “These better be good,” Billy said. “Mama loves biscuits.” He turned on the radio. “I hope you like church music. Mama used to sing in church before she got so sick.”

“I like to sing, too,” Josie said, desperate to befriend him.

But instead of music, the radio counselor’s voice echoed from the speaker.

“This is Mona Monroe talking to you live.”

Billy tensed. He looked panicked at the sound of Mona’s voice, as if he thought the police might be onto him.

Maybe they were.

Josie had to stay alive long enough for them to find her.

He moved up behind Josie, sweat trickling down his neck. “Show me you’re the one, Josie.”

“I will.” Josie began to hum “I’ll Fly Away” beneath her breath as she scooped flour into the bowl. She’d play along for now. If she could get close to a kitchen knife, she might be able to free herself and fight back.

“The last time we talked, many of you expressed concern over the recent murders in Graveyard Falls,” Mona began. “I understand your concerns, and if anyone has information regarding those deaths, please call the police.” She took a deep breath. “I just learned another woman may have been abducted. Her name is Josie DuKane. Her mother, Anna, is terrified that something bad has happened to her, so if you’ve seen this young woman or know anything about her disappearance, please call the police. I also want to make a plea to the man who phoned before. He calls himself Will. If you’re listening, please call me.”

The phones started buzzing, the switchboard lighting up. Mona gritted her teeth. Chance should be here to handle this, but he was dead.

That meant no screening of calls.

She connected the first caller. “Hello, this is Mona.”

“Are you talking about Anna Buckley, Sheriff Buckley’s daughter?”

Mona tightened her fingers around the phone. “Yes.”

“Anna dated that awful boy Johnny Pike who killed those girls at the falls.”

Mona sighed. “Do you have information that might help locate her daughter?”

“Maybe she should ask Johnny. She covered for him years ago. Maybe he has a protégé trying to copycat his crimes.”

They had already considered that theory.

The caller hung up, and she connected the next call. “This is Mona Monroe.”

“Perhaps Anna Buckley turned into a killer herself. I always thought she might have helped that Pike boy.”

Mona gritted her teeth again. No wonder Anna had had to leave town and change her name. “I’m sure the police questioned her and eliminated her as a suspect.”

“The police?” A sardonic chuckle followed. “Hell, Anna’s daddy was the law back then. He arrested the Pike boy and could easily have covered for his daughter. No way he’d let his precious girl go to jail.”

“Thanks for your thoughts,” Mona said. “I have someone else on the line.” She connected the next caller. “This is Mona.”

“I never believed Johnny killed those girls,” the caller said.

“Why do you say that?” Mona asked.

“Cause he was tenderhearted. I taught him biology and he got upset when we killed the frogs we had to dissect.”

She wasn’t sure that meant he couldn’t have killed the girls. “If you think he didn’t do it, do you have any idea who did?”

“Not really. I just thought he got railroaded, that’s all. I don’t think the sheriff ever looked at anyone else.”

The woman ended the call, and Mona clicked to answer another one. “This is Mona.”

“I was friends with Johnny back then,” a man said. “I didn’t think he was guilty. Everyone liked Johnny. He wasn’t cocky or stuck up like some of the other popular kids.”

“Was he involved with the girls who were killed?”

“Not really. He dated them a couple of times, but then he dropped them and started seeing Anna Buckley.” The man made a low sound in his throat. “He was in love with her. Told me he planned to marry her someday.”

Instead he’d gone to prison for life.

“I always thought the sheriff framed him,” the man said.

“Why would he do that?” Mona asked.