Stop Me (17 page)

Once again cognizant of movement above her, she hurried toward the trapdoor, planning to beg for help, if need be. But halfway there, she stopped. She couldn’t leave the body exposed. If the person inside the house was the one who’d taken that life, and he or she knew Jasmine had found the remains, she’d be even less likely to survive the day.

She had to cover it up.

Struggling to collect her breath as well as her strength, she fought the dry heaves that made her body spasm and went back to the disturbed mud. She shook and shivered and gagged uncontrollably, but she managed to use her flashlight and her hands to begin the reburial. When she finished, no one would be able to tell she’d been digging. At least from the trapdoor. It was too dark.

Almost there…Nearly done…Keep at it….

Squeezing her eyes closed so she wouldn’t have to watch, she shoved the muddy earth over that white shirt and odd-looking torso, working her way toward the head. It was slow progress. She could barely make her arms obey the commands of her mind. She was too afraid her fingers might touch that flesh or bone or hair, didn’t want to think that this had once been a human being.

A slight swell remained in the earth when she was done. She patted it down the best she could and crawled to the trapdoor. She was getting muddier by the minute, but she couldn’t stand, couldn’t walk. Her legs wouldn’t support her weight.

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It felt as if every bone in her body had turned to jelly. She’d seen some gruesome spectacles in her life, but generally in a designated “crime scene” setting with police officers in attendance. In those situations, she could maintain a certain detachment.

Evaluate on a cognitive level. Analyze. Hypothesize.

Now, it was her life in danger.

“Hello?” Her fists felt like twenty-pound weights as she lifted them to bang against the trapdoor. “H-help me! Please! I’m locked in. Will you help me?” She began to knock with the butt of her flashlight and, eventually, she heard the creak of footsteps drawing closer.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it wasn’t the gentle face of the person who peered down at her.

“Where’d you come from?” she asked, blue eyes behind a pair of glasses widening in shock.

Jasmine nearly burst into tears. This woman wasn’t dangerous. With her soft white hair and the chain attached to her glasses, she reminded Jasmine of the average American grandmother.

“S-someone l-locked me in here,” Jasmine stammered.

“Who?” A second woman came into view, much younger than her counterpart and quite attractive.

“I d-don’t know.” It was difficult to quell the chattering of her teeth. “I d-didn’t see him.”

“I told you I heard something, Beverly!” the younger woman exclaimed.

So this was Mrs. Moreau. Jasmine had read her name in the papers as the witness that’d caused the case to be dropped.

“It’s fortunate you called me,” Beverly said, but there was a hint of resentment in her voice that made Jasmine pay particular attention. Especially since the second woman seemed so oblivious to the older woman’s true feelings.

“I hated to disturb you. I know you work at night and need your sleep during the day. But I didn’t want to intrude on your privacy by searching for the source of that noise without you.”

“No one likes a nosy neighbor,” she agreed. “Now, where’s that little ladder of mine?”

Jasmine hoped she could find it, and wasn’t disappointed. A moment later, both women handed the ladder down to her and, resisting a final glance at the grave in the corner, Jasmine climbed out.

“Look at you. You’re covered in mud!” Mrs. Moreau said. “What have you been doing down there?”

Jasmine had been about to sob out every gory detail and suggest they call the police. Surely these women had nothing to do with what lay buried in that cellar.

Surely they didn’t even know it existed, would be as shocked as she was. But Mrs.

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Moreau’s question gave her pause. Wouldn’t the average person be more concerned with how Jasmine had come to be in the cellar in the first place?

“I’ve been trying to get out.” She curled her fingers into her palms so they couldn’t see the dirt beneath her nails.

“You poor thing!” It was the younger woman again. “What happened?”

“I c-came to the house to speak with Mrs. Moreau and—”

“Why would you want to talk to me?” Beverly demanded. “I’ve never even met you.”

“We’ve never met. I’m Jasmine Stratford. I work for a victims’ charity. I wanted to ask if your son—”

“Phillip’s out of town.”

“He is?” The younger woman seemed surprised by this information. “I’m Tattie, by the way,” she said to Jasmine. “I live next door.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jasmine mumbled, but Tattie wasn’t listening. “Where’s Phillip?” she asked Mrs. Moreau again.

“He went to Lafayette to see that woman he met online.” She gave Jasmine a glass of water.

Jasmine accepted the water, but she was too uneasy to drink, even though the house was neat as a pin. Scrubbed and polished—if a little cluttered—it was an extreme contrast to the pile of garbage sitting right outside the back door and the general sense of neglect in the yard. The kitchen smelled mildly of cats, which was no wonder because there were three in the kitchen alone, but everything was in its place. There wasn’t a dirty dish on the counter, a magazine or newspaper cast aside on the table, or a cupboard left standing open. “I was talking about Francis.” A slight tensing around the mouth contradicted Mrs. Moreau’s otherwise genial appearance. “Francis is dead.”

Jasmine wondered if Mrs. Moreau blamed her son, society, herself or Fornier for that harsh reality. She definitely blamed someone. “I read about that.” Jasmine couldn’t bring herself to say she was sorry. Not after what she’d found in the cellar.

“I was hoping you could tell me if he ever traveled to Cleveland.”

“He traveled all over the place,” Tattie interrupted. “He was a truck driver and made deliveries for a lighting company. Didn’t he, Bev?”

“Yes, just like his father used to.” A second later “Bev” turned back to close the cellar door and replace the things that’d been disarranged in the pantry.

“How long ago did he start doing that?” Jasmine asked the neighbor.

“Why do you care about the details of a man’s life when you didn’t even know him, a man who’s already dead?” Joining them again, Bev spoke before Tattie could answer. “Not after what you’ve just been through.” It was a smart dodge, if it was a dodge, because it got Tattie pressing Jasmine for details. “Why would anyone lock you in the cellar?” 103

“I have no idea.”

“Should we call the police? Are you hurt? How do we find the person who did this to you?”

These questions came from the neighbor and not Mrs. Moreau. Francis’s mother didn’t seem too concerned, which added to Jasmine’s discomfort. But she decided to untangle all of that later. For now, she wanted to get out of the house.

“The police won’t be able to do anything.” They wouldn’t even be able to enter the cellar without a warrant, not unless Mrs. Moreau allowed them to search and, as cagey as she was, Jasmine knew she wasn’t likely to do that.

“Are you sure?” Tattie asked.

“I’m sure. It happened too fast. I didn’t even see his face.” Just his cigarette butts.

Tattie shook her head. “That had to be terrifying.”

“At least you weren’t hurt,” Mrs. Moreau inserted.

Jasmine put her glass of water on the table as a way of breaking eye contact.

Maybe Mrs. Moreau hadn’t been the one to lock Jasmine in—Jasmine already knew the older woman didn’t have the strength for it—but Francis’s mother had known about it. She hadn’t answered the front door when Jasmine had initially knocked, although she was apparently home at the time. And she hadn’t responded to Jasmine’s pleas for help from the cellar, although she must’ve heard them.

It was the neighbor’s intervention that had, possibly, saved Jasmine’s life.

“Yes, at least I’m not hurt,” she repeated. “But he got away with my purse.”

“So it was a purse-snatching,” Tattie said. “Are you sure you don’t want to call the police? I know chances are slim that you’ll get your stuff back, but it’s worth reporting.”

“I’ll do that later. The only thing I need right now is a ride to the car rental place so I can get a second set of keys.”

“I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.” Mrs. Moreau patted her hand and it was all Jasmine could do not to flinch away from those hardworking, callused fingers. She was about to say she’d rather walk when Tattie came up with an alternate plan.

“No, Bev. You stay here with Dustin.”

Who was Dustin? Fortunately, Jasmine didn’t need to ask. Tattie barely took a breath before volunteering the information. “Beverly’s other son has special needs,” she explained. “I’ll take you.”

Jasmine hadn’t heard about a third Moreau son. She wanted to ask what was wrong with him, but that was far too indelicate a question. “I hate to trouble you,” she told Tattie. “If you’d rather lend me forty dollars for a cab, I promise I’ll get it back to you as soon as I have access to my own money.” 104

Tattie consulted her watch. “It’s no trouble. My youngest doesn’t have to be picked up from preschool for another hour. I’ve got time.” She stood. “Why don’t you call the car rental company and tell them what happened while I go grab my purse?”

Jasmine was directly behind her. No way was she letting the neighbor leave without her. “I’ll talk to them when I get there.” Tattie shrugged. “If that’s how you want to do it.” It was exactly how Jasmine wanted to do it. “Thank you.”

“I can’t believe someone stole your purse and locked you in a cellar,” Tattie said as they walked to the front door. “It’s broad daylight. You’d think you’d be safe.

For the most part, this is a good neighborhood.” And yet, a man who was, at the very least, a child molester had once called this “good neighborhood” home. Jasmine wondered how long Tattie had lived next door, and if she knew about Francis Moreau. But she didn’t comment. Tattie’s questions were mostly rhetorical, anyway.

“It’s just as well I had to run to the library and happened to hear you,” she went on. “You could’ve been down there for hours! Maybe all night. Beverly couldn’t hear a thing above the TV. Isn’t it lucky I came out when I did, Bev?” Mrs. Moreau, who was following them to the door, said it was lucky indeed.

But Jasmine doubted she truly felt that way. She was lying about the TV. Jasmine had knocked, gone around the house and spent the past hour or more in the cellar. If the TV was so loud, why hadn’t she heard it?

What had this elderly woman planned for her? Was it Mrs. Moreau who’d killed the man buried in that muddy corner? Or was she covering up for the person who did?

“Thank you for coming to my rescue,” Jasmine said to Beverly as she stepped outside. She knew Mrs. Moreau wouldn’t have done anything without Tattie’s interference, but she wanted to spark a reaction.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” she said, her smile unwavering. “It could’ve ended so differently.”

Like it had for the poor man wearing the white button-down shirt. “If not for Tattie,” Jasmine murmured.

“If not for Tattie.” She nodded and held the door open for them. “You might want to be more careful in the future. I don’t think it’s safe to go poking around other people’s houses, do you?”

Jasmine froze where she was. “I thought you didn’t know I was here.”

“I didn’t,” she said. “That’s just general advice.” Tempted to pursue it, Jasmine hesitated. But someone shouted from upstairs, distracting everyone. “Mom? Are you coming? Mom? What’s going on?” 105

Beverly’s eyebrows knotted in concern. “I’d better go,” she said abruptly and pulled the door shut.

“That family’s gone through so much,” Tattie confided as they walked to the blue house next door.

Jasmine was anxious to lead the police to the body in that cellar, to see what Mrs. Moreau had to say then. She could scarcely think of anything else. But she was also interested in what Tattie could tell her, so she forced herself to listen.

“What’s wrong with Dustin?” she asked.

“He has some neurological disorder. The doctors can’t figure out what it is.

They thought it was multiple sclerosis, but he doesn’t have the telltale lesions on his brain. Then they thought it was lupus. Now I don’t know what they’re calling it.”

“So he’s an invalid?”

“Basically.”

“And Phillip?”

They passed two wire reindeer in the yard. “He’s fine, thank goodness. He’s actually the only normal boy of the three.”

“Then you know about Francis.”

“Of course. Thanks to the media, everyone does.” They’d reached Tattie’s porch. Jasmine held the screen while the other woman unlocked the front door. “Did you know him?”

“Not very well.”

“Do you think he killed Adele Fornier?”

“Probably. On the surface, he was as mild-mannered as they come. But he wasn’t right in the head. You didn’t have to be around him very long to realize that.” Tattie motioned for Jasmine to precede her inside. “Can you imagine what it’d be like for a mother to have a child murderer for a son? That’s got to be harder than anything.”

Under other circumstances, Jasmine would agree. But Beverly Moreau wasn’t an ordinary mother.

Beverly Moreau stood near the recently disturbed earth under her house and used her cell phone to call a man she’d been taught to call Peccavi. She knew the word was Latin, knew from past church attendance that it had something to do with sin, but she didn’t know the exact meaning. She’d asked him once and received no answer—just the barest hint of a smile.

“I’m coming,” he snapped without a greeting. “Do you know how hard it was for me to get away this time of year? I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Beverly examined the camera she’d discovered near the door. It was covered in mud but it still worked. “We’re in trouble,” she said as she went through the pictures Jasmine Stratford had taken.

“Don’t panic. Everything will be fine.”

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As usual, impatience rang through his voice. “It’s not going to be fine!” she snapped, responding aggressively for a change. “She found Jack while she was here.” Beverly almost used Peccavi’s real name but caught herself at the last second. He’d decided it was safer if he went by a nickname. It wouldn’t have pleased him had she slipped up, especially on the phone. But it was difficult to remember such an odd name when she was this upset.