Jill Elizabeth Nelson (2 page)

He cruised the SUV to the nonexistent curb, grabbed his interview notebook and got out. She gazed at him, brow furrowed above deep brown eyes. He glanced down at his jeans and Minnesota Vikings T-shirt.

“Sorry.” He sent her a muted smile. “This caught me off duty at home. You must be Nicole, Jan's granddaughter. I'm Police Chief Rich Hendricks.” He held out his hand.

She took it with a surprisingly firm grip for such a delicate hand and petite frame. Her brown eyes held equal parts sorrow and strength. Nothing squeamish about her, but then she'd been a cop's wife, and her dad, Jan and Frank's son, had been a cop, as well. At least, he wouldn't have to deal with feminine hysterics. He liked her already, though she hadn't said a word.

“This is what I found.” She pointed toward the bundle at her feet. “I dug it out of there.” She motioned toward a gap in the soil near the bottom of the trench.

Rich narrowed his gaze. The remains hadn't been buried very deep—only about three feet. He made a note in his book, and then squatted beside the dirt-crusted bundle. A plastic object lay on the fabric. He nudged it with the end of his pen, and it rattled. A baby's toy. It looked like the
rattle had once been blue and white. The bits of clothing that survived might possibly have been red.

“The remains were wound tightly in the yard goods,” Nicole volunteered. “I unwrapped it having no idea I'd find something like
this!
”

Rich nodded her direction. “You did fine. How could you guess?”

Nicole squatted beside him. “What's that?” She pointed to another object in the bundle, partially covered by cloth.

Rich nudged the item into view—a small metal cross. That and the careful shroudlike wrapping sent a message: whoever buried the child either felt remorse or actually cared for the infant.

A tag on the fabric caught his eye. He leaned close and made out the store label. His gaze met Nicole's, but she looked away quickly. Not fast enough to hide the confusion and fear playing across her face. She was afraid her grandmother had something to do with this. A logical conclusion, given the circumstances. He needed to talk to Jan Keller right away.

He rose, Nicole beside him, and swiveled toward the sound of approaching vehicles. A police sedan, followed by the VW Jetta driven by one of their local doctors, pulled up behind his SUV. Rich's lanky deputy, Terry Bender, climbed out of the sedan, cowboy boots first, beneath uniform slacks.

“Bring the yellow tape,” Rich called to him. “We'll have to cordon off the area.”

The deputy shot him a thumbs-up and ducked back inside his car. Dr. Sharla Mead approached, carrying her kit. The pear-shaped woman around Rich's own age of thirty-nine was the county medical examiner, as well as chief of staff at the small Ellington hospital.

The doctor gazed down at the bundle and shook her
head. “I'll do my best with COD, but you'll need a forensics specialist out here to examine the whole package.”

Rich nodded. “Do what you can. Terry will give you a hand. I'll call someone in from the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. This kind of case ought to be right up their alley.” Sharla nodded, and Rich turned toward Nicole. “Is your grandmother around? We need to visit.”

White-faced, Nicole nodded. “She's in the house. Come with me.”

He'd follow her graceful form anywhere, any day, but interviewing a local senior citizen about a long-dead infant in her yard was not on his list of fun things to do, especially with an attractive woman around. They entered the back door into the kitchen. Jan Keller was seated at the table with her face in her hands. A full meal lay before her—meat congealing in its own grease, mashed potatoes, salad—but the dinner plates were clean and empty. Not surprising that no one had an appetite.

Jan looked up, her craggy face set in stone, though a suspicion of wetness smeared her cheeks. “I know you've gotta do your duty and ask all sorts of questions, Rich, but you could just as well save your breath. I can't tell you one thing that will help.”

Rich opened his notebook. Did she mean
can't
because she had no idea how the infant ended up buried beneath the rose garden, or
can't
because she
won't
spill what she knows? His gaze bored into hers, and color gradually seeped from her face. Her stare hid fear, or he'd eat his badge.

He groaned inwardly. If Jan Keller had been involved in what could well be the Elling infant's kidnapping and murder, he'd have to arrest a pillar of the community, and she'd spend her waning years in the penitentiary.

His gaze shifted to Nicole, who leaned her back against the counter, arms crossed. The parted lips, pinched nostrils
and wide eyes telegraphed desperation. If he took from her life the last bit of family she possessed, he could kiss any dream of romance goodbye.

R
ich stood next to the trench and closed his cell phone, having finished speaking to a liaison at the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Janet Keller hadn't told him a thing, but maybe the physical evidence would. A forensics tech from the MBCA would be here in the morning. Dr. Mead was transporting the remains to the hospital where they would await the tech's arrival.

“Keep the crime-scene tape up and cover the trench with a tarp,” Rich told Terry. “The tech might want to collect soil or check for other evidence from the site.”

“Sure thing, Chief.” His deputy grinned. “Don't mind hangin' around a little longer. Maybe catch another glimpse of that Keller girl. I remember when this pint-size squirt in pigtails used to visit her grandparents. She sure did grow up into somethin' to look at.”

Rich frowned. “I didn't live in Ellington that long ago, and you must've been a grown man already back then.”

“You sayin' I'm too old for her?” The grin faded. “You're not much younger than me, and I can tell you're not immune to the lady's charms.”

Rich didn't bother to mention that he was more than half a decade younger than his deputy. The guy already had a hard time accepting him as boss without rubbing in the age
difference. “I'm saying you've been in law enforcement too long to let a pretty face distract you.”

Terry chuckled, but there was an edge to the sound. “A pretty face doesn't distract me but it always attracts me.”

Pressing his lips together, Rich waved to Terry and headed for his SUV. If Nicole fell for Terry's lines, she wasn't the woman he figured her for. Right now, he'd better concentrate on
his
duty. He climbed into his vehicle and checked his watch. Going on 8:00 p.m. But this set of interviews couldn't wait until tomorrow. By then, rumors would be running rampant and catching a fresh reaction would be impossible.

Rich turned his vehicle toward the west and the house on the hill. Perched on the highest bump on this stretch of prairie, the Elling mansion brooded over the town like a disapproving parent. Simon Elling, the current patriarch of the founding family, lived there with his wife and assorted relatives. A sparse and motley crew, far from their heyday as the landed gentry of the county, when Ellings occupied most farmhouses within a thirty-mile radius. But they hadn't lost a bit of their arrogance despite their dwindling numbers. This visit promised to be interesting.

He turned into the driveway that took him toward the circular drive in front of a three-story brick structure that rambled across half an acre of brown-patched lawn. The grass was faintly shaggy and the trees old and balding. The Ellings hadn't employed a yardman in years. He stopped the vehicle near the set of broad stone steps that led to the front doors.

Pressing the doorbell button brought no sound or response from inside, so Rich gave the door sharp raps. Soon a panel swung ajar, and a statuesque woman with a pale, cold face stared out at him. The pulled shape of her gray-blue eyes betrayed one too many face-lifts. He wasn't much of a judge
of clothing, but he was pretty certain her silky-looking blouse and form-fitting pants cost more than Daddy would be happy to pay—as soon as he saw the credit-card bill. As far as Rich knew, Simon's fiftysomething daughter hadn't worked a day in her life, but she always dressed as if she lived around the corner from a New York boutique.

“Hi, Melody. Is your father in?”

Her artificially plump lips thinned. “What's Mason done now?”

“This isn't about your son.”

Her eyes widened. “It's not?”

He didn't blame Melody for being surprised. “I need to talk to Simon regarding a matter that's just come up.”

“Can't this wait until tomorrow? The old man's locked himself in his study again.” One side of her mouth twisted into a sneer, a typical expression of this thrice-divorced former beauty queen.

“This isn't a social call. It's urgent.”

Melody shrugged one shoulder and motioned him inside. “Take your chances, then.”

He stepped into an enormous foyer with a vaulted ceiling. The westering sun poured a river of light through the stained glass in the fan window above the doors and sprinkled rainbow colors over a scuffed tile floor. A large Terry Redlin painting hung over an entry table along the wall, but it was a print. If they'd once owned the original, it had been sold long ago. Rich followed Melody's designer-clad form up a hallway, where another pair of double doors confronted him.

“Just give a knock and see what happens.” Melody snickered and walked away.

Rich tapped with his knuckles. “Simon. It's Chief Hendricks. I need to talk to you.”

Seconds later, a lock rattled and the door flung wide. A
tall, sharp-faced man in his late seventies glared out at him. He cradled a brandy snifter a quarter full of dark liquid in one hand. “What's that worthless grandson of mine done now?”

Rich stifled a sigh. “Whatever he's up to, we'll catch him, but this visit isn't about him. The remains of an infant have been found buried in a shallow grave.”

“Where?” The snifter froze halfway to Simon's mouth.

“In town.”

“A recent burial?”

“Old.”

Simon's Adam's apple bobbed. “Come in.”

The study sprawled in faded elegance. Spacious dimensions, a long wet bar and a coffered ceiling clamored privilege and power, but thin spots on the carpet and the worn chairs angled toward the cold fireplace betrayed tight times. Simon led the way to a massive mahogany desk and plopped into a leather chair behind it, motioning for his guest to sit in the chair on the other side. Rich remained standing, the better to observe the man at the desk. Simon's free hand gripped the arm of his chair is if he thought it might suddenly buck like a bronco.

“Details,” the senior Elling barked.

“Not many yet. The body was buried beneath Janet Keller's rose garden.” That much would be common knowledge in less than a day around this small town. He withheld the information that the bones had been wrapped in yard goods from Jan's Sewing Room.

Simon sat up stiff. “You don't suppose Jan or Frank had anything to do with the kidnapping?”

“It's too soon to suppose anything. We don't even know for sure whose remains those bones are. Do you have any
reason to think either of the Kellers might have taken your child? Bad blood of any kind? Raw business dealings?”

Simon croaked a laugh. “Those two do-gooders? Frank and I cordially disliked each other. No run-ins, just a different way of seeing the world. One reason we never did business together, and I kept our money at the other bank.”

“All right.” Rich opened his notebook. “I need to ask you a few questions to help identify the remains.”

“Go ahead.” The words held a note of caution.

The man sounded reluctant. Why? Shouldn't a bereaved father be eager to identify the remains of his only son?

 

Nicole guided her car aimlessly through the streets of Ellington, gradually drifting toward the western edge of town. She couldn't stay in the house with her stubbornly silent grandmother one more moment. And a step outside meant viewing yellow crime-scene tape flapping in the breeze. That lovely rose garden had masked a clandestine burial site all these years. Did Grandpa Frank know? How could he?
How could he not?
Maybe the patch of ground had been precious to him because of what lay beneath, not what was planted on top.

On her right, the town graveyard slid past. The baby's remains should have been buried there in dignity. Maybe now the little body would find a proper resting place. But what name would be chiseled on the headstone?

Ahead loomed the fortresslike Elling home. Many folks thought the place grand. Nicole begged to differ. The brick structure resembled a prison more than a home. Even as a child, when her family visited Grandma and Grandpa, and she ran free with the town children, she'd sensed the place wasn't built to welcome folks. It seemed fashioned to hide whatever went on within those thick walls.

The sun dipping toward the horizon picked a glint of red
from the top of a black-and-white SUV parked in front of the massive entrance doors at the end of the long driveway. What brought the police chief straight from the bones found at the Keller property to the imposing Elling mansion?

Rich Hendrick's tall, solid frame and bold features appeared in her mind's eye. His green-gold gaze had peered into her soul, seen everything and revealed nothing. Or that's the impression the cop look gave. Nicole knew better, but she'd felt exposed all the same. What if he discerned something that would prove one or both of her grandparents a baby killer? A tiny squeak escaped her tight throat. That was nonsense. Somebody other than Frank or Jan Keller had buried that child. Surely, Rich could see that. Anyone who knew her grandparents would laugh the notion to scorn. Wouldn't they?

While she'd knelt next to him near the grave wrappings, his clean scent and gentle tone had touched an empty, aching place in Nicole's heart. And the silver at the temples of his close-cut sandy hair had begged to be touched. He hadn't been wearing a wedding ring.

She swallowed. Hard.
Idiot!
What was the matter with her?

Nicole turned the car onto a road at right angles to the Elling property and puffed out a long breath. Glen had been gone only six months. Wasn't it too soon to feel attraction for someone else? Besides, she'd vowed never again to get involved with a cop…or any man with a high-risk occupation. Nicole shook herself and squeezed the steering wheel. The shock of her discovery must have made her a little loony.

A thick planting of trees screened the side of the Elling mansion from view. Nicole turned onto a narrow, paved county road that skirted the rear of the large property. The tree line thinned here, and she glimpsed patches of flower-
garden colors contrasted against the weathered red brick of the building. A weed-edged approach beckoned between a gap in the trees. Nicole wheeled her small car into the dirt track and stopped, facing the Elling home.

Crossing her arms over the steering wheel, Nicole leaned her chin on one forearm and squinted toward the garden that looked as if it had been left to grow wild. Weed-green poked up amidst the white heads of Shasta daisies and orange tiger lilies. Ivy groped along the face of the building, tendrils drooping over windowpanes like shaggy lashes above dark, brooding eyes. With its location next to the graveyard and unkempt appearance, no wonder the town kids made up stories about this place.

What had she been told one moonlit night when she hung out in a neighboring kid's tree house? They sat in a tight circle, five of them, foreheads nearly touching, warm breath mingling, as ghost stories whispered from lip to lip. “There's a boogeyman in the Ellings' basement,” lisped one sharp, eager face. “He steals babies and eats them!”

A remembered shiver passed down Nicole's spine. So deliciously frightening then, so silly now. Or maybe not. Her pulse stalled as images of an infant's remains flashed through her mind. Only the child hadn't been found here. Yet the police chief shot straight to the boogeyman's lair. Was there some nugget of truth in the small-town legend?

Her gaze swept the property. In the midst of the garden, a slumped figure caught her eye, and she stared. A person, yes, but limp and still on a bench. The head hung low, face covered by what looked like a dark shroud. The figure's shoulders drooped, arms flopped to the sides, as if some life-size rag doll had been flung onto the bench.

Swallowing a sour taste, Nicole eased out of her car and shut the door. The sound drew no movement from the hunched form on the bench. Was the person all right? Did
they need help? Nicole's legs carried her without conscious command toward the garden. Breath labored in and out of tight lungs. She prayed she wasn't about to discover another dead body.

 

Rich held his expression deadpan. “Do you recall what your boy was wearing when he disappeared?”

A blank stare answered him. “Can't say that I do.” Simon pursed his lips.

Rich nodded and made a notation. Of course, a guy not remembering what someone was wearing didn't strike him as too surprising.

“How about if any object went missing with him?” Rich held his pen poised.

The man's forehead wound into a knot of wrinkles. “I seem to remember something about an item, but can't recall what it was.” He polished off his drink then surged to his feet and stalked toward the wet bar. “Can I get you anything?”

“Sorry. I'm on duty.”

Simon snickered. “You wouldn't drink with me anyway.”

Rich let silence speak for him.

Simon lifted a decanter and brown liquid glugged into the snifter. “We paid the ransom, and do you know what we got in return?” A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Bubkes!” Simon charged toward the desk, flesh a mottled red. “When a man sinks his whole world into an heir, he ought to get him back, don't you think?”

Rich held himself motionless as Simon ground to a halt inches from his position. The man was almost as tall as Rich, but all bone and sinew, as if his almost eighty years of life had drained the juices from him.

“An heir to carry on the name may not mean much to most people.”

Rich's skin tightened. Simon may as well have said
peons
instead of
people.
No wonder this whole family set his teeth on edge.

“But the Ellings
must
have a namesake!” Simon's hiss blew a waft of booze-breath, and Rich took a step back.

The words sounded like a litany Simon rehearsed often in his head, probably passed down from male heir to male heir. Rich made a note on his pad. He hated to break it to the guy, but there weren't any namesakes running around this mausoleum. Nicole Keller may have unearthed the last of the line in her grandparents' backyard.