A Merciful Secret (Mercy Kilpatrick #3)(21)

Hmmmm. “I’d be happy to take you.”

I want to satisfy my own curiosity.





NINE

The next morning the ping of Truman’s cell phone relaxed the knot of stress between his shoulder blades.

Mercy’s reply to his good-morning text had arrived two seconds after he sent it. He didn’t need a repeat of the anxiety of yesterday morning. His worry and subsequent search for her had disturbed his mind-set for the entire day. Not a good thing.

Or was it? His concern showed he cared deeply about her. Something he hadn’t experienced for a woman in a long time. If ever.

A good thing.

Now that he’d heard from Mercy this morning, he could focus on his day’s work and then do a little Internet digging about the judge whose death had been linked to Olivia Sabin. Truman scanned Ben Cooley’s incident report from a 3:00 a.m. call. A car wreck on Old Foster Road. One of two drag-racing teens had hit a slick patch and rolled his car. An ambulance had taken the teen to the hospital, where he had been diagnosed with a concussion and a broken arm. He was lucky.

Who races on snow-packed roads?

Truman had never been that stupid as a teen. Correction: Truman had been extremely lucky in his stupid moments as a teen. No one had died or broken any bones. A few trips to the local jail had been the worst he’d experienced.

The memory of Salome’s dark eyes and lush curves flashed in his brain.

Yes, that was one of my stupider moments.

Luckily he’d escaped unscathed.

The woman had frequently popped into his thoughts since yesterday. He hadn’t thought of her in two decades, but for the last twenty-four hours he’d struggled to get her out of his mind. The memories of her were like a serpent, slithering about his brain, refusing to be ignored.

Did she kill her mother?

He’d walked away from his long-ago encounter with Salome knowing she was dangerous. A woman to avoid. He’d dipped a foot in her murky waters and was thankful he’d broken off the encounter when he did. She’d unnerved him and rattled him to his soul.

Doesn’t mean she’d commit murder.

Morrigan’s charming smile pushed her mother out of Truman’s thoughts. He saw nothing of the mother in the daughter, but for her daughter’s sake he hoped Salome turned up soon. The girl shouldn’t be with living with strangers after watching her grandmother die.

A mother would never kill someone and leave her ten-year-old daughter to discover the body.

Right?

Ben Cooley rapped his knuckles on the frame of Truman’s office door. “Mornin’, Chief.”

“Did you get that wrecked car towed?” Truman asked, thankful for the interruption by the gray-haired officer.

“Yep. Took the tow truck long enough to get out there. Nearly froze my ass off.”

“The boy was lucky. He could have been killed or hurt someone.”

“You shoulda heard his father cuss him out. He won’t be driving again anytime soon, and once that broken arm heals, his dad said he’d be shoveling manure for the next six months.”

“Good.”

Ben hovered in the doorway, mangling a pair of gloves, his forehead wrinkled in concern.

“Something else on your mind, Ben?”

“I’ve been thinking about that Sabin murder. It’s all anyone in town can talk about.”

Truman gave him his full attention. “What about it?”

Ben glanced over his shoulder and then lowered his voice as he held Truman’s gaze. “They’re saying she was a witch.”

This rumor is getting old.

“Don’t tell me you believe in witches.”

“They say all three of them practiced magic . . . mother, daughter, and granddaughter. They make up their own coven, handing down secrets from generation to generation,” he whispered.

Enough malicious rumors. Truman exploded. “Fuck me, Ben! Are you seriously giving credence to that bullshit? I met that little girl. She’s an innocent child who doesn’t deserve to be gossiped about.”

Ben had the decency to duck his head, looking abashed. “It’s crazy talk. But I think some of the tales about Olivia might be true.”

Truman noted the familiar use of her first name. “Did you know her, Ben?” Augustus’s claim that Olivia had “known” many men ricocheted in Truman’s head, and acid filled his stomach.

Ben Cooley? The man who just celebrated fifty years of marriage? Tell me it isn’t so.

“I didn’t know her, but my older brother did.”

Truman exhaled. “Explain.”

Ben relayed a story that echoed Augustus McGee’s.

How many similar stories will the investigation uncover?

Truman was ready to hear something positive about the women who lived in the woods. “Why are you telling me this, Ben? That doesn’t shine any light on who might have killed her.”

Ben squirmed and twisted his gloves. “I know. But if the daughter is anything like the mother, there might be a lot of men with an ax to grind. I’m just theorizing.”

“Sounds more like vicious gossip.” Curves, soft flesh, welcoming eyes. “Let’s keep a lid on the chatter in town. Let people know it’s wrong to spread rumors and stories. It’s no help to the investigators. If someone can come forward with some facts, that’d be helpful.”