Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(42)

The shed door opened a few more inches. He caught a glimpse of gray hair.

Morgan grabbed the carton of eggs that had fallen to the ground when Lance tackled her. Golden yolks dripped from the cardboard. She waved the eggs over the top of the bench. “Elijah Jackson sent us with eggs for you.”

The shed door opened, and a small, gray-haired woman stepped out. She wore khaki slacks and rubber boots. Leather gloves, a wide-brimmed hat, and a neat bun finished off her outfit. She could have been headed for a garden club meeting, except for the shotgun in her hands.

“Why didn’t you say so?” She tucked the shotgun into the crook of her arm and walked toward them.

“Please set the gun down, Ms. Wright.” Lance got to his feet.

“This is my property, so you put your gun away first, young man.” She chuckled. “I won’t shoot you. You can calm down.”

Lance debated. She didn’t look like a threat. But his pulse was hammering like the bass drum at an Iron Maiden concert. His body remembered what it felt like to be shot, and it wanted no part of a repeat.

Still holding the egg carton, Morgan raised her hands, palms out in the traditional surrender gesture. A glob of egg yolk dripped to the ground.

“Call me Abigail,” Ms. Wright said.

Lance tensed as she walked closer.

She shot him an exasperated look. “Put the gun away.”

Though his instincts screamed otherwise, Lance slid his handgun into his holster.

Abigail approved with a nod. “Now, who are you and what do you want?”

Morgan slowly slid a business card from the side pocket of her tote bag and introduced them. “Mr. Jackson said you could tell us more about Crystal Fox.”

The muzzle of the shotgun tipped to the ground as Abigail reached for the card and inspected it. “I heard Crystal hanged herself.”

In rural areas, gossip spread like fire through straw.

“We’re not sure what happened,” Morgan said. “Did you know her well?”

Abigail turned and headed for the rear porch of the house. “Let’s go inside.”

They followed her into the cottage. The back door opened into a mudroom. She stood her shotgun in the corner and hung her jacket on a hook by the door, then removed her gloves. Abigail led them into what Lance was sure she called the parlor. Flowers covered every surface. They filled vases, dotted the wallpaper, patterned the throw rugs. Flowers were even carved into the wood of the ornate furniture. The room was crowded with knickknacks and fancy, uncomfortable-looking furniture. Lance leaned on the wall, eyeing the fussy camelback sofa as if it would attack. The cluttered decor was claustrophobic.

“Your home is lovely.” Morgan perched on the edge of a blue velvet chair.

“I love flowers.” Abigail sat on the sofa. Her body was nearly hidden by an enormous orange arrangement on the coffee table. “Sorry about the shotgun. I’m a little paranoid since that good-for-nothing grandson of Elijah’s broke in here last month. Caught him halfway out the window with my silver candlesticks in his hand. I sent that little creep running. He was a dozen feet away from a load of birdshot in his butt.”

“That’s awful.” Morgan unbuttoned her coat, set her bag at her feet, and took out her notebook.

“It’s a damned shame. He used to be a cute little kid. You can’t trust anybody once heroin gets its claws into them.” Abigail shook her head and clucked in disgust. “Now what do you want to know about Crystal?”

“How long did she work for you?” Lance stifled a sneeze. The clashing scents of different flowers clogged this throat.

“She cleaned motel rooms for me on and off for more than twenty years.” Abigail folded her hands in her lap. “She’d get better jobs, but she couldn’t hold on to them. She always came back. It’s a dirty job. I have no illusions about my business or my clients.”

What kind of motel does Abigail own?

“Was Crystal a good worker?” Morgan plucked a leaf from her hair and discreetly tucked it into the side pocket of her bag.

Abigail laughed. “Not in the least. But she showed up more often than not. I used to pay her at the end of every day. If I gave her a full week’s pay, she’d spend the next three days in a bar.”

Warm, Lance opened his jacket. “Do you remember her daughter, Mary?”

“I do.” Abigail nodded. “Crystal tried to get her to work at the motel, but Mary wanted no part of it. She was a lazy girl, and she turned up her nose at the idea of cleaning up after other people. She preferred to work on her back.”

“I thought she was a waitress.” Morgan crossed her ankles.

“She worked part time at PJ’s,” Abigail said. “But she used the waitressing job to troll for clients in her more lucrative enterprise.”

“How do you know she was a prostitute?” Lance pulled at the neck of his shirt. With adrenaline still sliding through his veins, the heat in the cottage was suffocating him.

“She brought clients to my motel on a regular basis. I was never sure if she did it because I had the cheapest rooms in the area or to spite her mother.” Abigail pointed a slim, dainty finger at him. “Mary was a nasty girl.”

“Would you recognize one of these clients after all these years?” Lance’s chest went tight.

Will Abigail verify that my father was sleeping with Mary?