The Abduction of Mary Rose (25 page)

"They fought a lot," he said. "Edna suspected him of cheating on her, and she was miserable, crying a lot. That was it. I know your mother was relieved when they stopped seeing each other."

"When did they, Frank? When did they stop seeing each other? Was it after Mary Rose was attacked?"

"I don't know, honey. So long ago. I'm surprised I remembered as much as I did."

She let it go, instead asked about the dinner, and he told her the chicken was rubbery, otherwise it was a good evening. Naomi heard a soft bark in the background.

"There's a pigeon on the window-sill," he said by way of explanation.

* * *

There were just five auto body shops listed in the phone book. She wrote the names down in her notebook. She'd changed her mind about phoning and decided she would visit each one and ask for him. Someone asking for him on the phone, then hanging up before he could answer might make him suspicious. Or he might answer himself, for that matter.

After writing down the addresses of the body shops, she looked up Marcus Leeland's name in the phone book. No Marcus but there was an M. Leeland listed. - 632 Watson Street. She glanced at her list of body shops and saw there was one maybe a block away. Mac's Auto Body Shop. Mac? Marcus?

Better than a good chance it was he who owned the place. So he worked close to where he lived, down near the docks. If she remembered correctly, not that far from Fisher Wharf where Norman Banks' body was found. That he would arrange to meet his old pal so close to where he lived showed his boldness, his arrogance. His belief that he was smarter than everyone else. He'd been laughing at the police for years. And why not? He'd gotten away with murder. Three that she knew of, if indeed he did kill Marie Davis. How many more?

Marcus Leeland was a cold-blooded sociopath. Of course he'd be listed in the phone book.

She opened the yearbook at the bookmarked page, and looked long and hard at Marcus Leeland's photo, memorized his features. There was not a doubt in her mind that this was the person who gave Mary Rose's pendant to Edna. Maybe he didn't even know it was hers, since he apparently slept with a number of women, but found it in his car sometime later and wanted to make up after some fight they'd had. It didn't really matter. Edna had to at least suspect her boyfriend's predatory nature. She would have seen the photo of Mary Rose in the paper and recognized the pendant. Maybe that's what finally woke her up and got her away from Leeland. Fear for herself. And to hell with anyone else.

So no one stopped him.
I will,
she thought.
I will stop him.

Naomi had already found the crucial piece to her plan at the back of her closet shelf where'd she stowed it more than a year ago. Her mother had brought the gadget back from New York during some down time at a nurse's conference. Naomi had never found a use for it, until now. She read the instructions, ran a few test runs, and it worked great. A very special remote control that could allow her to operate her audio system from outside the studio. Everything was set.

First, I need to look in his face
. Exorcise the boogeyman that had crept inside her psyche, and see him for the lowlife he is.

She dressed in jeans and a rust suede blazer, low heels, wore her hair loose. Free. It was important she appear undaunted, cool. Let him see she wasn't afraid of him.
What if it's not him?
a small voice asked.
It's him
, she answered.

Finding the pet centre closed due to an outbreak of what was termed doggie-flu on the sign in the window, Naomi drove guiltily to Lisa's. Lisa was so sweet and obliging, taking Molly in as if she were a long lost friend, asking no questions as to why she was cat-sitting again. She didn't even question that Naomi had no time for even a cup of tea. I'm going to owe her a lot more than a dinner, she thought. "I'll tell you everything when I get back, Lisa," she said, and thanked her profusely before getting in her car and heading for the body shop on Watson.

The weather man had been right. It was a beautiful day. Blue skies, warm temperatures, a few scattered clouds, just the lightest of breezes. The perfect day to go looking for a killer. She had missed the entire spring in a way, instead travelling through the coldest and darkest of winters. At least that's how it felt. 

With a little luck, it would be over soon.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Eric Grant wasn't the one to do the write-up on the girl who was murdered, but when he read it he thought at once of Naomi Waters and what had happened to her birth mother. One woman dumped on the side of the road, the other in a field, twenty-eight years separating the murders. Mary Rose Francis just took longer to die. River's End was hardly the murder capital of the world. It was a quiet town, mostly. Was it possible? Was this the same guy?

He knew, of course, that had he not met Naomi Waters and heard her story, he wouldn't have made any connection between the murders at all. Marie Davis would simply be an unfortunate victim of the high-risk life she lived. And maybe that's all it was.

He thought about calling Naomi, but was afraid she'd hang up on him. What a wimp he was. Yet he had written, had apologized for acting like a jerk, for offending her, given her his email address and phone number, which she chose to ignore. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out she wasn't interested.
Let it go, man.

But he couldn't get her out of his mind.

He wandered over to the office window, looked out on the front steps of the building, saw her as she'd been that day, as she was leaving the building. Standing out there on the steps in the bright sunlight that had turned her hair to black satin, looking frightened, confused as a lost child. He was sure he himself had worn the expression a time or two. And why wouldn't she be frightened? Her life, which was already ripped out from under her, had been about to be an open book for the residents of River's End to read at their leisure. And that included her mother's killer, who very possibly was still walking the streets of River's End. Maybe still preying on innocent women.

Naomi had guts. In the face of her fear, she was resolved to see this thing through to the end, no matter the consequences, and he admired that. In his own defense, he'd tried to talk her out of including her phone number and email address in the write-up.
Yeah, you're all heart, Grant. Freakhead's a fitting name for you. Harold Barkley had good judgment. No, he didn't
, he debated with himself.
You're better than that. Just socially awkward.

Twice he'd managed to upset her, make himself an irritation, and she cut him out like cutting out of a shirt a starchy label that rubbed your skin raw. She'd likely hang up the second she recognized his voice, and who could blame her. First he tells her how lucky she is to have Lillian Waters adopt her when it's clear she's going through a major crisis in her life. Hell, the woman had been lied to her entire life, understandable or not.
And then I run into her, at the police station and instead of trying to redeem myself, I treat her like a child. Worse, a hysterical, gullible woman.

Hell, he'd hang up on himself.

And you can't blame it all on Harold Barkley.
When he was a kid living at Greyland's Home for Boys, Barkley, two years his senior, never let up on him. The residue of all that, the names and taunts, the bullying, clung like vile-smelling fungi. Crazily enough, Harold later became one of his biggest fans, had stood in line at his first book signing, grinning from ear-to-ear proudly because he knew the author. He told everyone in line he inspired the title, "Freakhead", which he had. Nothing but pride. Life was nuts. Ya just never knew. To paraphrase Forrest Gump who said it far better than he ever could have, '… a box of chocolates'.

But Harold was the least of the hell of Greyland's Home for Boys, which they finally closed down two years ago, after his book came out. There were some things he would never put in a book. Anyway, who'd believe it.

Writing the book had helped a lot, diluted the power of the memories, though not entirely. Sometimes he regressed, and occasionally still had nightmares. Now that he was working on the novel, though, he found he was more at peace, doing what he was supposed to be doing with his life. What he'd always told himself he would do. Even on the darkest days, he'd held to his dream.

A new dream shimmered now, like a mirage, beckoning him. He picked up the phone to call her, then re-cradled the receiver like a teenager chickening out on asking a girl out on a date. But he refused to let her get away just because he was a scared chump. It wasn't in his DNA to do that. Besides, he was genuinely worried about her.

He knew he gave the appearance of being self-confident, but it was mostly sham. A cover. Oh, he knew he was a pretty decent writer; hadn't he won a couple of awards for his work? But sometimes that old insecurity he tried so hard to hide could come across as cockiness, betraying what was really in his heart. When you start out with sand under your feet for a foundation, things never really do feel solid under them, no matter how much time passes or how successful you get. And no one could tell him different.

 
He dialed her number. Got the machine, and left a message. He was still rambling when the machine cut him off.
Shit!

He hung up, staring at the phone as if it had set out to conspire against him. He could send flowers, he thought, roses, but something told him his timing would be off by a mile. And also that roses weren't her favourite flower. Something smaller, more exquisite … a wildflower of some sort.

She needs help right now, not flowers. He remembered that she'd had an appointment with Sergeant Graham Nelson the day he ran into her at the police department. He could give Nelson a call, use his reporter status to fish out any fresh leads in the Mary Rose Francis' case. He didn't know him well, but they'd talked. He seemed like a decent enough guy, and had a reputation as a good cop. Grant dialed the police department. He'd check out this latest killing, too. See what information he could pick up. Maybe enough for a follow-up story.
A Killer Among Us
. Not that bad. If not original.

He identified himself to the officer who answered, but when he asked to speak with Sergeant Nelson he was told the Sergeant had suffered a mild heart attack and had taken an early retirement. Had he not been out of town, he would have known that.

No one else seemed to want to talk to him about any case, cold or otherwise, except to say that the investigation into the Marie Davis case was ongoing. But he got a sense there wasn't a whole lot of activity being given to either case.

"You got a number where I can reach Sergeant Nelson?" he asked, without much hope of getting one. But surprisingly, the cop on the phone told him Nelson was recuperating at his. "He's in the book," he said. "A.J. Nelson. And speaking of books, you wrote a damn good one, there, Mr. Grant. I got a cousin spent some time at Greyland's…."

Grant listened, was pleasant. But, anxious to talk to Sergeant Nelson, he cut the call short, agreeing cheerfully to drop by the station and autograph the guy's book. Good friends in the right places were necessary in his business. Besides, he appreciated his readers and couldn't afford to alienate one of them.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Eric ascended the brick walk and rang the bell of the small, white house, with its profusion of greenery growing in white-painted window-boxes. The man who answered wore grey cords and a dark blue striped shirt, and looked like you'd expect a man to look whose body had turned on him. Physically fragile, a tad jowly with the loss of weight. But his steely-blue eyes were sharp and clear, and his colour was good, and he seemed genuinely glad for the company.

The retired cop gave him an easy grin and opened the door wider. "I'm glad you called. C'mon in, Eric. My sister Angie is out doing a few errands. I practically had to arm-wrestle her to take her fingers off my pulse and get on with her life. Angie's a dietitian. What'll you have? Vegetable-ginger juice? Herbal tea…? Angie grows her own herbs and spices. You probably noticed some of them in the window boxes. Anytime you'd like a slip. I noticed a helicopter buzzing around over the house this morning, probably thinking she's growing weed." He grinned fondly.