The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) (49 page)

“Who were the boys?”

“What boys?”

“The boys Savannah was riding with,” Sky prompted. “In the red Cadillac convertible?”

The question seemed to bump the librarian out of her nostalgic reverie. She peered at Sky with canny eyes. “You’re not local, are you?”

“No,” Sky shrugged. “I’m just here for the weekend, visiting relatives. And I’d rather be here than there, if you catch my drift.”

“Why the interest in Savannah Lane? If you don’t mind my asking?”

“Hollow Pond caught my eye.” Sky dropped her voice to a theatrical whisper. “Sounds so spooky. Like something right out of a Stephen King movie.”

“Hardly. Audubon members have sighted American Woodcocks and Pine Warblers there. Hollow Pond also boasts some of the oldest honey locusts in the county.”

“No kidding. Maybe I’ll go for a swim. Is it close?”

A deep sigh escaped the librarian’s lips. “It’s a good distance from here. Much too far for a bicycle.”

“I can drive, ma’am.” Sky offered the librarian a feckless grin. “I’m older than I look.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Sky left the library and headed for the Hope Chest but her mind was on Savannah Lane.

The girl had died at Hollow Pond, Nicolette at Bullough’s Pond. Different methods, but it could be a pattern.

Uncertainty made Sky anxious and the god awful heat wasn’t helping. Why hadn’t she driven back to the airport and exchanged the Impala the instant she’d discovered the faulty air conditioning?

Of course, she wouldn’t have stopped at the Dairy Queen to cool off. She wouldn’t have run into Butch Yost.

Something about the cowboy’s gentle manner made Sky feel vulnerable in a way she didn’t understand. By the time she reached the boutique, she’d convinced herself that a date with Butch was a bad idea.

A very bad idea.

But she pressed the buzzer anyway.

The door swung open and a woman in a spotless white sheath greeted Sky with an open stare.
‘Trailer trash
,’ the look said.

Sky flipped the Wayfarers up. She was in no mood for snotty retail mavens. “Can we make this quick?” she said, summoning a nasty Brahmin inflection. “I don’t have a great deal of time.”

Hope responded like Pavlov’s dog.

“Surely. Right this way.” Hope guided Sky to a rack of dresses. “Black, as you requested.”

Sky chose one at random. It had an asymmetrical neckline and an exposed zipper. She wondered, idly, what Francois Duquette would think. The hairdresser had wept at the sight of the Balenciaga gown. Sky doubted he’d shed any tears over this number. She really hated shopping.

“I’ll take it.”

“Wouldn’t you like to try it on? There’s no return on that item.”

Sky shook her head and pointed to a shoe display. “Throw in those Manolo Blahniks. And the pink Valentino clutch I saw in the front window. The one with the crystal birds.”

“You certainly know your accessories.” Hope scurried to fill Sky’s order. “Gwyneth Paltrow wore that particular dress on the red carpet. It is past season,” she cautioned.

“Not a problem. The last dress I wore was sixty years old.” Sky looked around. “I’ll take that outfit, too. All of it.” She pointed to a mannequin in a tasteful linen sundress and matching beige pumps. A plaid Burberry satchel hung from the mannequin’s outstretched arm and her face was obscured by a gold hat with an outrageously wide brim. “I’ll wear the outfit now.”

Sky changed in the dressing room and put the hat on. It had nearly a three foot spread. She studied herself in the full length mirror.

Modest, conservative, Old Money by way of Royal Ascot. Her reflection said all of these things. The outfit was perfect.

The bill came to just over ten thousand dollars.

Hope offered Sky a glass of Chardonnay and a peek at her fall line. “You’ll be the first customer to see it,” she promised with an oily smile. “I have a scrumptious red Bottega Veneta. You have the figure for it. Not many do.”

“I’m done.”

Sky carried her bags to the car. The knot above her left ear was starting to throb and her ankle hurt with every step.

Was she really wearing heels? She must be out of her mind.

She tossed everything in the back seat, plugged a TomTom into the cigarette lighter, and punched Pink Bud on the key pad. A map appeared on the screen. The nursing home was seven point two miles southwest. “Take a left,” TomTom ordered.

The Impala clock read four fifteen. Sky pulled out of the boutique parking lot and headed into a furnace of sun.

On impulse, she stopped at a Twin Liquors and grabbed splits of merlot and chilled Riesling. She put them on the counter and picked out four nips each of Beefeater and Chivas Regal from a large plastic tub next to the cash register.

“Hot out there, ain’t it?” The blonde behind the counter had black roots and a gold nose ring. She couldn’t have been much past twenty-one.

“Wicked hot,” Sky agreed.

“Y’all have ID?” The girl leaned forward. “Sorry. The boss’ll have my hide if I don’t ask.”

Sky flashed her driver’s license. Something about the girl appealed to her. “Do you know Butch Yost?” she asked.

“Sure. Everybody knows Butch. He’s kinda’ hard to miss.”

“I’ve got a date with him,” Sky confided. “Tonight.”

“No kiddin’?” The girl’s eyes widened with interest. “Lucky you. Tempest’s most eligible bachelor, hands down. Movie-star looks, plus his grandmama owns half this county and most of the next. An’ Butch has skills. Mad skills. I used to watch him at the rodeo, he could rope and tie a calf so fast …” The girl hesitated. “Just so you know? He’s comin’ off a bad engagement.”

“Nadine?”

“Yeah.” The girl wrinkled her small nose. “Nadine comes in regular. Favors Southern Comfort.” The girl bagged Sky’s purchases and ran her card. “A storm’s comin’. Just heard on the radio.”

Sky glanced out the window. “I don’t see a single cloud.”

“The last storm rolled in real fast,” the girl assured her. “Knocked fifty power generators off-line. I have a feelin’ this one is gonna be worse.” She gave Sky the bag. “Nadine’s real pretty,” she added, “but not near as pretty as you.”

Sky tipped her a twenty and left.

The Tudor facade of Pink Bud looked out over a vast lawn crisped by drought.

Sky pulled off the highway and parked in a side lot.

After concealing the liquor inside the Burberry satchel, she got out of the Impala, wiped sweat from her forehead, and put on the hat. She adjusted the brim at a fashionable angle and marched past a fleet of wheelchair vans into the nursing home’s air conditioned lobby.

Chandeliers and a deep-buttoned Chesterfield sofa gave the room a quiet elegance. A pink-faced man in a double breasted suit walked briskly across the lobby.

“Archibald Tibbits,” he announced with a pompous flourish. “May I help you?”

“I’m here to visit my uncle.” Sky offered a demure smile. “Dr. R.C. Wooten?”

Surprise registered on Tibbet’s porcine features. “I was unaware that Reggie had close relatives.”

“Uncle Reggie and my mama are second cousins once removed. Spent summers at Cape Cod, growing up. Truro.” Sky shook her head with an earnest expression. “They exchanged Christmas letters every year. And then suddenly, nothing. Mama said it was like Uncle Reggie dropped off the face of the earth. That was nearly thirty years ago. About the time I was born. Mama recently discovered his whereabouts online. She’s tracing the family genealogy.”

“How fortuitous.” Tibbits appeared doubtful.

“Mama instructed me to inquire about donating assets to a Pink Bud Foundation?” Sky shrugged. “I’m not sure exactly what she meant. I do know she’s deeply guilt ridden about Uncle Reggie.”

Tibbits perked up at the mention of money, as Sky knew he would.

“I’ll notify staff of your arrival. I must apologize for the condition of our lawn. Our sprinkler is on the fritz. Please have a seat, Miss –”

“Stone. Skylar Winthrop Stone. Might Uncle Reggie and I have some privacy, Mr. Tibbits? So we can catch up? And could I bother you for a glass of water?”

“Certainly. I believe Reggie is in the TV room.” Tibbits hesitated. “I must warn you, Miss Stone. Your uncle suffers periods of confusion.”

“Of course he does, poor thing. I brought pictures to refresh his memory.” Sky collapsed in a lounge chair and began rummaging through the tote. “They’re in here somewhere.”

Tibbits left. Fifteen minutes later, a female aide in green scrubs showed up with a pitcher of water and two plastic tumblers on a tray. She escorted Sky to a small sunroom where an elderly man slumped alone in a chair.

Liver spots dotted his bald cranium and a wattle of skin sagged from his thin neck. Glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose as he stared vacantly across the yellowed lawn.

“Uncle Reggie!” Sky swooped in and enveloped him in an embrace. He smelled of sour milk and liniment. “I’m Jenny’s girl,” Sky said for the benefit of the aide. “You remember Cousin Jenny?”

R. C. Wooten’s eyes registered nothing of the kind.

Sky took the tray from the aide and set it on a side table next to Wooten. “You can leave us now. Go on. We’ll have us a nice visit.”

The aide left and Sky shut the door. She drew up a chair and faced Wooten.

“I do not have a cousin named Jenny.” Wooten’s voice was surprisingly strong and crisp. “Who are you?”

Sky offered her business card.

Wooten adjusted his glasses and peered briefly at the card. “Go away,” he said.

A newspaper lay folded across the old man’s lap and Sky could see a crossword puzzle, nearly finished. R. C. Wooten had a lonely, small life.

Sky hated herself for what she was about to do.

“Name your poison, Doctor. Wine, gin or whiskey?” Sky pulled a bottle of each from the tote and held them up for Wooten’s inspection.

“Whiskey,” he said without hesitation. “Neat.”

Sky emptied two Chivas bottles into a tumbler. “I have questions,” she said, handing him the drink.

Wooten brought the whiskey to his nose and sniffed. “Ask away,” he said, taking a swig.

“How many years were you county coroner?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Do you remember this girl?” Sky held up the picture of Savannah Lane.

Wooten shrank into his clothes. “I’m not at liberty to discuss my cases.” He grasped the tumbler in both hands and guzzled the rest.

Sky pulled another Chivas miniature from the tote and rested it in her lap. “Tell me about Savannah Lane.”

Wooten eyed the whiskey. “I need another drink.”

Sky poured more Chivas in his tumbler. Then she pressed the record icon on her cell and laid the phone in her lap.

Wooten sipped slowly this time around. His body slackened as the whiskey took effect.

“Savannah Lane died so long ago,” Sky prompted. “You’d be forgiven for not remembering her.”

A bitter smile creased Wooten’s face. “Savannah was my last autopsy. I’ve gone over every detail a thousand times since.”

“How did she die?”

“Savannah drowned.” Wooten’s withered lips closed in a stubborn line.

Sky decided to try a different approach. “Where did you go to medical school?”

“Johns Hopkins. Residency at Raleigh Porter.”

“Twenty-three years as county coroner,” Sky mused. “You must’ve performed a lot of autopsies.”

“Hundreds,” he said with a note of pride.

Sky slipped the Homecoming picture of Savannah Lane on Wooten’s lap and said, “What’s the first step in an autopsy?”

“Photographs. Then evidence collection.” Wooten’s gaze drifted to the girl’s picture. “Swabs of nasal, oral, vaginal areas, rectum.” He sipped the whiskey with a contemplative air. “Nail scrapings. Then I looked at her hands. Once the trace evidence was taken, she was clean for more pictures.”

Wooten paused to adjust the photo on his lap. “There were hemorrhages on the lower eyelids. Sometimes seen with drowning, or CPR, or …” He left the sentence unfinished. “Irregular lacerations on the lips. An incision revealed hemorrhaging on the front of the trachea. Due to compression. Could be a result of CPR, but there was no hemorrhaging in the soft tissue of the chest.”

Sky wasn’t sure what he meant and she wanted badly to ask questions. But she held back.

“Dissection of the brain revealed no abnormalities. No hemorrhaging, no aneurysm, no tumor, no evidence of seizures. Nothing in her medical history supports that possibility.” Wooten shook his head, as though arguing with some invisible entity. “Toxicology gives no evidence of impairment. What about the – how can I – ” He took another gulp of whiskey.

“Doctor Wooten,” Sky leaned forward in her chair. “Was Savannah pregnant?”

Surprise animated his features. “Eight weeks, give or take.”

“Was anything missing from Savannah’s body? Something removed?”

An expression of profound relief appeared on the old man’s face, as though he’d been waiting a lifetime for this particular question. “A patch of scalp, two centimeters by three.” Wooten tucked his chin and tapped a bony finger to the center back of his skull. “Cut off here, above the Lambdoid suture.” He settled back in his chair and stared at Savannah’s photograph. “Cause of death was drowning. Manner of death? Homicide.”

Sky poured more Chivas in the tumbler. “Why wasn’t there a murder investigation?”

Wooten threw back the drink and grimaced. “She showed up before the body did, threatened me, told me I’d disappear if I didn’t do as she asked.”

“Who threatened you?”

“Olivia Porter. I signed the death certificate, I filed the autopsy report.” Wooten’s tone was caustic. “Savannah’s mother was poor. Olivia paid for everything. Cremation of the body, the funeral. I’m quite certain she paid Savannah’s mother to leave town. No body, no evidence, no family. She ruined me anyway.”

“Why did Olivia Porter go to all that trouble? Who was she protecting?”

“I have my suspicions,” Wooten said. “Nothing concrete. But she was always getting her boy out of trouble.”

“Her boy?”

“Bo Manville.”

“You mean her nephew? Porter Manville?”

Wooten nodded. “No one around here called him that. It was always Bo.”

“How did he get the nickname?”