Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2) (23 page)

“What does all of that have to do with Gary Sullivan?”

Franklin Taylor took off his cap and rubbed his hand across his short gray hair. “Mr. Sullivan knew who lived there in that old place. He knew what happened to them, too. That’s what got him killed.”

“What did happen to them?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know. Nobody around here do, else they ain’t saying so. But there was a family lived there, went by the name of Stone.”

Elliot sat forward. The old man had finally said something that made sense to him. “Did you know them?”

“Not really. They was members of the church. Them people tend to keep to themselves.”

“Were you ever a member, Mr. Franklin?”

“Oh, no sir. They don’t allow no black folk in that congregation. Don’t bother me none, though. Don’t want no part of it anyway.”

“Can you tell me more about the Stone family?”

“Yes, sir. The man was called Solomon, and the lady, now I believe her name was Kathryn. I don’t recall the names of the children, but they had two of them, a boy and a girl.”

“I heard they weren’t really popular around here. Do you know anything about that?”

“Rumor among the church folk is, they was worshiping the devil, if you can believe that.”

“So what happened?”

“Don’t know. One day they was here, and the next thing you know, they was gone, the whole family, no signs of a break-in, no blood, no nothing. Far as I know, nobody’s ever heard from them since.”

“Have you ever considered that maybe they owed money, for back rent or something, and simply pulled up stakes and left during the night?”

“Sure I did. Everybody comes around to that sooner or later. I guess you could say it’s the general consensus around here. I don’t buy it, though.”

“Why not?”

Franklin Taylor pulled a flask from inside his jacket and poured himself another drink, his hands beginning to shake. “’Cause I seen something nobody else did.”

Elliot poured himself another cup of coffee. “Go on.”

“There’s a man lives in the valley, goes by the name of Abraham Saucier, ran a funeral parlor in town. Don’t no more, though. I used to see him at night over at the Stones’ house, hiding in the bushes next to one of the back windows.”

“Do you think he had something to do with the family’s disappearance?”

“Yes, sir, I do. I think he killed them and buried them out there in the woods behind the house.”

“Did you see any of this?”

“No, sir. I just pieced it together.”

“Maybe he’s just a Peeping Tom.”

“Could be. Ain’t nobody around here pays me no mind, think I’m crazy. That’s all right. I come and go as I please. You’d be surprised what I see, what I hear.”

He got up and poured what was left in the coffeepot over the fire, dousing it. “That’s all I got to say. Do what you want with it.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

After leaving Franklin Taylor’s cabin, Elliot had called Chief Washington, but he wasn’t in his office. Knowing there was little more he could do on the case that evening, Elliot called Cyndi and invited her over for dinner.

While Elliot stirred the spaghetti, Cyndi removed her jewelry and washed her hands, then found the cutting board that hung from a hook fixed to the side of the old cupboard that Elliot used as a pantry. He’d run across it in an antique shop. Cyndi took the cutting board to the center island and began chopping lettuce and carrots for the salad. She looked at home in Elliot’s kitchen, and he found himself fantasizing that they were married and it would always be this way.

“You really don’t have to do that,” he said. “I’d planned on preparing the meal for you.”

Cyndi continued working. “Honestly, I’m having a hard time visualizing you as being good in the kitchen.”

Elliot checked the pasta, snatching one of the noodles with a fork. “My menu may be limited, but I make a mean pot of spaghetti.”

Elliot tasted the noodle for consistency. “I think it’s ready.” He stirred the sauce that had been simmering beside the pasta, then brought the wooden spoon to his lips, savoring the sweet taste of tomatoes stewed in oregano and basil. “Perfect. You’re in for a treat, my love.”

Cyndi glanced at Elliot, her face unreadable, but he suspected she was a bit stunned that he would use that word. He bowed before her, a medieval knight honoring his queen. “I assure you, my lady, that my intentions are purely honorable.”

She rolled her eyes, then, seeming to know right where everything was, she grabbed a couple of plates and some silverware and set the table.

Elliot drained the pasta, wincing as the steam came toward his face, then dumped it into a bowl and took it to the table. He poured the sauce into another bowl without splattering the countertop and set it beside the spaghetti. With that done, he lit the candles he’d placed on the table and doused the lights.

Cyndi poured the wine, and Elliot took the liberty of dishing up the meal.

Once seated, she rolled a generous portion of pasta onto her fork and stuck it into her mouth, her eyes widening. Moments later, after a few sips of wine, she said, “It’s good, Kenny. It really is.”

“I tried to warn you.”

She raised her glass. “To a long and lasting . . .”

As if she was unsure of how to finish the toast, she paused, and before he knew what he was doing, Elliot spoke up, filling the void as their glasses touched. “Relationship.”

And as they stared at each other, frozen in their own capsules of time, Elliot lowered his defenses and allowed himself to realize what the moment meant. He was in love, or at least well on his way to finding it.

The doorbell clanged, accentuated by a pounding on the door, as if the grating sound of the bell alone would not be sufficient to gain his attention.

Elliot glanced at Cyndi, broadcasting through his expression both his annoyance and his apologies.

Her nod said she understood.

He pushed away from the table and strode into the living room, where he opened the front door to find Kelly Anderson, standing on the porch, holding a plate in her hands. She stepped inside and marched toward the kitchen.

Elliot closed the door and followed her. When she entered the kitchen she stopped suddenly, and Elliot could tell by the tense angle of her shoulders that she’d seen Cyndi.

Kelly glanced back at Elliot, then set the plate on the counter.

He shrugged awkwardly. “Cyndi, this is my neighbor Kelly Anderson. Kelly, this is Cyndi Bannister.” Elliot paused, then added, “My fiancée.” The boldness of this unexpected statement caused a pleasant swell of emotion in his chest.

Kelly spun around and started back toward the front door. “”I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.” She gestured toward the plate she’d set on the counter. “I baked a cake. It was too much for Joey and me. I thought you might like some of it.”

“Thanks,” Elliot said. “Would you care to join us?”

But Kelly Anderson had already opened the door and stepped outside. “I left Joey alone. I need to get back.”

Elliot lingered at the door for a moment in a wholly unsuccessful attempt to grasp the enormity of his stunning announcement. Giving up, he locked it, hoping Cyndi hadn’t bolted out the back door. When he turned around, she was sitting on the sofa, sipping her wine.

Elliot came around the sofa and lowered himself onto the cushion next to her, sliding his arm across the cool leather back of the furniture before allowing his arm to drop around her shoulder. His pulse was like a jackhammer in his ears.

Cyndi put her hand on Elliot’s leg and squeezed it, but it was more of an attention getter than a gesture of closeness. “She was hurt by that.”

Elliot was aware that Kelly Anderson had been uncomfortable, seeing Cyndi there, knew that was what she was referring to, but the words tumbled out anyway. “What do you mean?”

“You should have told me you had a girlfriend.”

“I don’t,” Elliot said. “We just met. I had this dog, and . . . well, it’s not like that between us.”

“You might want to tell her that.”

“Why?” He couldn’t seem to stop asking questions to which they both already knew the answers. She was sure to take this as an indication of a subnormal IQ.

Cyndi rolled her eyes for the second time that evening. “You really don’t see it, do you? That woman likes you, Kenny. She likes you a lot.”

A lot? Perhaps on some level he’d recognized a subtle flirtation, but if he had, it’d certainly been below the surface. Cyndi clearly seemed to think otherwise. “I’ll try to make it up to her.”

Cyndi raised her eyebrows.

“All right. I’ll explain it to her, the way it is.”

Not only had Cyndi carried her glass from the dining room table, but she’d brought the bottle as well, along with Elliot’s glass, which she now slid into his hand. She leaned closer, resting her head on his shoulder. They stayed that way, neither of them speaking for what seemed a long time. At some point, she took the wine from Elliot’s hand and set the glasses on the side table. Elliot pulled her close, brushing her hair from her eyes, then pulled her still closer, and their lips touched.

Fragmented thoughts of Elliot’s past and visions of his future swirled inside his head, in and out of sequence, like a kaleidoscope gone wild. And he didn’t know whether he actually spoke the words or if the feelings they represented merely danced inside his head; but if he had lost control in the warmth of her touch and whispered in her ear, had he told her that he loved her? Her answer came as a gentle rain of warm tears that fell upon his chest.

Silently, he held her while she cried. Gradually, she quieted, and the relaxed rhythm of her breathing told Elliot she’d fallen asleep.

As the emotion of the moment ran through Elliot, he let himself realize that he had not been this happy since . . . Carmen. The thought of her sent shards of guilt racing though him. He wasn’t sure why. They’d been teenagers, caught up in some kind of powerful love that defied their age and time, only to have it ripped away from them before its peak. Carmen. Her name ran though Elliot’s senses like a lost prayer.

As if fate were against them, a sound as unwanted as an early morning alarm dragged both of them back into the reality.

It was the phone, and on the third ring the machine picked it up. The deep voice of Donegal’s chief of police blasted through the house. “This is Jed Washington. Be in my office first thing in the morning. We’ll talk about old Abraham Saucier.”

Cyndi, blinking as she came out of her dream world, said, “No.”

Elliot pulled her close again. “It’s all right. It’s just the phone.”

She was silent for a moment, her face reflecting the puzzlement of one who has yet to shake off the cobwebs and fully realize the situation. Seconds later, she grinned. “You’re learning. You didn’t answer it.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

At 7:00 a.m. the next day, Elliot walked into Jed Washington’s office. Washington sat at his desk, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. “You said you had something to show me.”

The chief’s tone fell somewhere between sarcasm and irritation. Elliot placed Sullivan’s file on Washington’s desk and opened it, pointing to a name there.

The chief glanced at the page. “Abraham Saucier?”

He pronounced it
Saucy Air
.

“So Shay,” Elliot corrected. “It’s French. I had a little chat with Franklin Taylor. He told me to ask you about old Saucier.”

Washington’s stare hardened. “Franklin Taylor’s seen too many empty wine bottles, son. You should be careful, talking with people like that.”

Elliot shook his head. He’d encountered enough crazies in his time to know one when he saw one, and he considered telling Washington that, but then it occurred to him that feigned incoherence was probably Franklin Taylor’s primary defense mechanism. “What is it with you, Chief Washington? Do we have a personality conflict or are you just generally hard to get along with?”

Washington’s jaw twitched. “Nothing personal. I just don’t need no big-city cop telling me how to run my town.”

“That’s not my intention,” Elliot said. “And maybe if you’d start acting like it was your town, I wouldn’t have to.”

“What’s your interest in this Saucier?” He said it wrong again.

“I’d like to question him, find out what he knows about the Stone family.”

“What makes you think he knows anything?”

 Elliot tapped the file he’d placed in front of Washington. “Sullivan indicates here that Saucier had some connection with the family.”

“Where did you get this file, anyway?”

Elliot smiled. “I found it in Gary Sullivan’s Tulsa office.”

The chief sat forward. Elliot finally had his attention.

“Bible-based cults, disappearing families, and Satan worshipers. Jim Llewellyn had a fascination with that kind of stuff, Chief Washington. And your little town here would have been right up his alley. Too bad he never got the chance to pay it a visit.”

The big cop swiveled his chair a fraction of an inch. “Who’s Llewellyn?”

“The one who started all of this,” Elliot said, “for me anyway.”

“What did he have to do with the town of Donegal?”

“Nothing, I suspect. He was a writer, following an interesting story he’d stumbled upon.”

“What kind of story?”

“It had to do with the Stone family. That’s why he wanted to talk to Sullivan. Now they’re both dead. Kind of strange, don’t you think?”

Chief Washington nodded. The expression on his face was that of someone who’d swallowed bitter medicine. “Tell me something, Detective Elliot. Have you ever had a pet?”

The question jolted him back to the small town of Porter, Oklahoma, and the house there where the walls were too close together and an inordinate amount of adolescent time had been spent, completely alone.

“No, sir.”

Elliot’s reply seemed to him conditioned, like that of a child answering a parent, and he wondered if the words had rolled off his tongue as an extension of his own humility. As Franklin Taylor’s had done.

“I got close once, but a neighbor rescued me. Are you going somewhere with this?”