Her Dying Breath (40 page)

B
renda had to rush from the sanitarium to Ron Stowe’s funeral.

The parking lot was packed with Mercedes, BMWs, Lincolns, and other expensive cars. She spotted her mother’s silver Jaguar two rows from the side entrance of the chapel, but she had to park across the street in the overflow lot.

Slaughter Creek had never had such a turnout for a funeral, and probably never would again. Since the senator had lived in Slaughter Creek years ago and had buried his parents here in the local cemetery, he’d chosen to bury his son with them.

Security for the senator was obviously on high alert; guards flanked the entryway and side exits to the chapel, and Deputy Waterstone stood at the door as well. There were probably more bodyguards inside.

Two other guards manned the entrance to keep the press out. Both the senator and police had agreed to ban them out of respect for the family’s loss. One reason she’d left Louis behind.

Again Brenda wondered why Seven had murdered Ron. He had nothing in common with the other victims, or with Arthur Blackwood. Still, somehow he’d crossed paths with Seven.

Unless Seven simply wanted to up her game by murdering someone in the public eye.

Sliding on her suit jacket, Brenda climbed from her car, falling in behind an elderly couple and another couple in their thirties who looked familiar. Maybe from the senator’s campaign?

A twentysomething brunette dabbed at her eyes as she entered, sparking Brenda’s curiosity. Had she dated Ron?

No…she’d seen her picture in some of the photos documenting the senator’s campaign.

Organ music flowed from the chapel, the bodyguards studying each individual in case the killer showed up and attacked the senator or his wife during the service.

Brenda’s heart picked up a beat. Maybe she was here already. Hiding among the crowd so she could observe the mourners crying over the loss of the young man she’d brutally strangled.

Senses alert, she discreetly used her cell phone and snapped photographs of all the young women in the crowded chapel. Three—no, four—blondes, two more brunettes, a woman with striking red hair, another with a short spiky brown cut.

Someone nudged her from behind, and she shifted, but realized it was a white-haired woman with a cane who’d lost her balance. The woman’s husband gripped her arm to steady her, and Brenda slid into a back pew to let them pass.

The service began, the sound of sobbing echoing through the room as prayers, scripture, and music honored the man’s death. The coffin at the front was draped with a blanket of red roses, every space available filled with sprays of fresh flowers.

Ron’s father stood to give the eulogy. “I don’t know if I can get through this,” he said, “but unfortunately Martin Laddermilk, my assistant, had a last-minute emergency and couldn’t be here.” The senator wiped at his eyes, and grief laced his voice as he began.

Brenda scanned the chapel for Nick but didn’t see him or Jake. Odd.

The senator’s speech was eloquent, emotional, touching. There wasn’t a dry eye in the chapel.

The service finally ended, the pallbearers lifted the coffin, and the Stowes rose and followed behind, hands clasped, heads bowed in grief. Brenda’s parents went next, obviously hovering close for support. Her father’s eyebrows narrowed into a frown as he passed her.

A pang of regret sliced at her, but she swallowed back the guilt, determined to remain alert and study the crowd for Seven.

Would she recognize her if she saw her?

Fellow mourners rose, and the chapel emptied, hushed voices and sniffles trailing outside. Car doors slammed as people departed, a small crowd gathering in the cemetery for the graveside service.

Senator Stowe cradled his wife’s arm and helped her into one of the lawn chairs set up beneath the funeral home tent, a few close friends taking seats while another small cluster of the senator’s constituents stood respectfully by.

Brenda remained on the periphery, once again scrutinizing the women. Driven by the wind, a cluster of faded plastic flowers from another grave skittered across the grass, and tree limbs bowed as if a ghost had just passed.

Brenda turned to search the trees in case Seven was hiding there, but shadows flickered, the skies casting a dismal gray across the woods and making it difficult to see through the dense copse.

Brenda’s phone buzzed, and people turned to glare at her. Instantly hitting the button to mute it, she walked a few feet away to check the message.

If you want my story, meet me at the old 4-H camp. Seven
.

She scanned the crowd to see if anyone was using a cell phone, but all heads were bowed in prayer. Gathering her coat around her, she headed to her car, walking slowly, as her heels kept sinking into the soft, wet ground.

As she climbed into the driver’s seat, Brenda punched Nick’s number to tell him about the message, but his phone rang a half dozen times with no answer. She left him a voice mail asking him to call her, then sped from the parking lot.

If she could convince Seven to turn herself in, maybe the Stowes and her parents could forgive her for Ron’s death.

Nick studied the layout of Martin Laddermilk’s house as he got out of his sedan and climbed the steps to the Georgian home. Panicking when he couldn’t reach Laddermilk before his son’s funeral, Stowe had called Jake.

But Amelia was also missing, and Sadie was frantic, so Jake was searching for her, leaving him to check out this call.

He rang the doorbell a dozen times, scanning the immaculately kept grounds in case a gardener or worker was around. The security gate and location of the estate provided privacy and spoke of old money, just as the statuesque Georgian home did.

But Nick was unimpressed. He’d watched Laddermilk’s interviews during the senator’s campaign, and he thought something about the man was seedy. Maybe it was that pencil-thin mustache, or the glint of deception in his eyes.

Satisfied no one was going to answer, he turned the doorknob, but it was locked. He took out his tiny lock-picking device and pried open the door, surprised that the house’s alarm system didn’t launch into a pealing tirade.

Because someone had already disarmed it?

The scent of an expensive cigar filled the air, mixed with the odor of some kind of cleaner, and he drew his gun and inched inside.

“TBI—Mr. Laddermilk?” Nick called. “If you’re here, please show yourself.”

Silence met his voice, his words echoing through the two-story foyer. The place was decorated like a showcase, with glistening marble floors, expensive artwork, vases, and antique gilded mirrors.

Nick swept from room to room, identifying himself and calling the man’s name. Photographs of a family adorned one wall in a study overflowing with books, several photographs of Laddermilk with the senator at various functions arranged on a bookcase.

One in particular drew his eye, three men smiling at the camera—Laddermilk, the senator, and Mayor Banks.

They had all chosen the political route, and obviously ran in the same circles.

Of the three, Stowe looked the most distinguished, with his charismatic Kennedyesque face. Laddermilk was short and stocky with small round wire-rimmed glasses. Definitely the sidekick, not the star of the show.

And Brenda’s father—he was slimmer in the photo, his round face and pudgy body less astute looking, signs of early baldness already evident in his thinning hair.

“Laddermilk?” he shouted as he cleared the kitchen and living area, then started up the winding staircase to the second floor. Storm clouds darkened the sky outside, but a faint stream of sunlight bled through the ten-foot window, illuminating Nick’s path as he checked the first bedroom suite. It appeared unlived-in. No clothes in the bedroom, no toiletries in the bath. Judging from the photos downstairs, Laddermilk’s children were grown and must be living on their own. He’d read that the man’s wife died of a heart attack two years ago.

Nick’s boots melted into the thick, plush carpet as he inched down the hall to the master suite.

He halted in the doorway, his gut clenching at the sight before him.

Laddermilk’s naked body was tied to the bed, just as they’d found Jim Logger’s, a piece of piano wire wound around his neck, his eyes gaping wide in death.

Seven had struck again.

And now it seemed she was targeting people close to the senator. Would he be next?

Brenda Googled directions for the old 4-H camp, then programmed it into her GPS. A faint memory of attending one of the summer sessions when she’d won first place for her potato-head doll surfaced, making her smile as she wound through the dark mountain roads.

She was eight and had cut and hand-sewn a dress for the doll, which she’d fashioned by attaching the head to a paper cup. She’d been in that wonderful stage of childhood where she still had an imagination and an openness to friends of all types. And for once, Geraldine had convinced William and Agnes to allow her to attend the camp.

Had Seven been there?

She racked her brain for specifics. A little girl with red pigtails who’d made a Christmas tree skirt out of fabric scraps from her granny’s closet. A skinny, quiet girl who’d baked cookies, then decorated them like faces of famous African American women.

A troll of a teenage girl who’d made fun of them, then got her due when fellow campers had fixed a paint can above a doorway and lured her beneath it. It had taken the girl days to wash the orange paint from her blond strands.

The road leading to the camp was long and winding, surrounded by thick rows of pines, oaks, and cypresses. The buildings that housed the 4-H’ers were nestled into the side of the mountain to offer seclusion as well as camping, hiking, swimming, and other nature-related activities.

Brenda retrieved a copy of the sketch Amelia had given her, her rendition of Seven, and mentally tried to match the face of the lonely-looking child in the drawing to girls she’d met at the 4-H camp, but nothing fit.

The forest folded her into its depths as she climbed the hills to the peak where the main part of the camp had been built. Her nerves vibrated with hope that she was finally going to meet the girl she’d left behind at the hospital.

Somehow she had to convince her to stop taking lives.

Slivers of light fought their way through the leaves, dappling the inky darkness as she rolled into the center of the camp. She searched for a car and finally spotted a dark blue Jeep perched at the overhang of the ridge, teetering there as if one wheel had already slid over the edge.

She checked her purse for her weapon, praying she wouldn’t need it, but knowing she’d use it if necessary to protect herself. The car door screeched open as she swung her feet around to get out. Gravel crunched beneath her shoes. The last remnants of snowdrifts were beginning to melt, creating a muddy sludge, the scent of spring blending with the smell of damp earth.

She scanned the perimeter, praying Seven didn’t jump from the shadows and attack her. There were at least twenty bunkhouses for campers and acres of land donated to the camp for activities, acres where Seven could hide.

Somewhere in the woods animals skittered, and the sound of a gunshot blasted. A hunter?

Was it hunting season?

Jittery with anticipation, Brenda checked her phone again, suddenly wishing she’d waited until Nick had returned her call. But he’d obviously written her off, now that she’d served her purpose.

Still, her text should have made him realize that she was still his best link to Seven.

Inhaling to fortify her courage, she had just decided to try Nick again when she heard piano music wafting from the main lodge at the top of the ridge. She froze.

Seven had killed her victims using piano wire.

She must have brought Brenda here to explain the reason.

Brenda’s shoes slipped in the icy sludge as she strode toward the lodge, and she wished she’d changed into boots. The bunkhouses looked run-down and in need of repairs, making her wonder when 4-H had stopped using the camp. Had they chosen another location for their summer retreats?

She stumbled over an uneven patch and slid, windmilling her arms to keep her balance and barely righting herself before she hit the ground. The music grew louder as she approached, the tune a macabre number that she recognized from
The Phantom of the Opera
.