The Last of the Moon Girls(20)

But progress hadn’t halted completely. There was a new farm-to-table café on the corner of Elm Street, and a bookstore where the dry cleaners used to be. The library had a brand-new addition, and a tattoo parlor named Inky’s had taken over the old Cut & Dry Salon.

She turned onto Third Street, lined with a sprawl of redbrick buildings that housed Salem Creek’s public safety complex. As expected, the lot in front of the police station was nearly empty. Aside from the odd double homicide, Salem Creek enjoyed a fairly low crime rate.

The desk sergeant glanced up as she pushed through the tinted glass doors. “Can I help you?”

“I was hoping to speak with Chief Summers.”

Lizzy glanced at his name badge. Sergeant Oberlin. He was rake thin, all but swimming in his crisp black uniform, his cheeks pocked with recent acne scars. He ran his tongue over his teeth, surveying her with a comical air of self-importance. “Is it regarding a police matter, ma’am?”

“This is the police station, isn’t it?”

The sergeant colored slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. And yes, it is a police matter. It’s regarding a murder. Well, two murders, actually.”

Oberlin’s eyes shot wide. “Murders?”

Lizzy smiled blandly, satisfied that she had his full attention. “It’s about an old case—the Gilman murders.”

“Can you spell that?”

Lizzy fought the urge to roll her eyes. Before she could respond, a beefy captain with hair the color of steel wool appeared behind the counter. “I’ve got this, Todd. I’m sorry, Miss . . .”

“Moon,” Lizzy supplied. “Elzibeth Moon.”

“Yes, of course. Miss Moon. Did I hear you inquiring about the Gilman murders?”

“You did. I’m here to speak with Chief Summers about the investigation.”

“The . . . investigation?”

The blank look on the captain’s face confirmed what Lizzy already suspected. There was no investigation. “Is the police chief in?”

The sergeant cleared his throat, managing a tight smile. “I’m afraid the chief is tied up right now, but if you’ll share the nature of your inquiry with me, I’d be happy to pass it along.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Lizzy told him, strolling to the row of plastic chairs along the wall and dropping into one. “I’ll wait.”

This clearly wasn’t the hoped-for response. “But Miss . . . ?”

“Moon,” she repeated coolly. “I’m Althea Moon’s granddaughter, and I’d appreciate it if you’d tell the chief I’m here to see him at his earliest convenience.”

The captain seemed to sense defeat. Lizzy watched him disappear through the same door he’d used to enter, wondering how long he’d be gone before returning with a new excuse. Instead, Randall Summers appeared.

Lizzy stiffened instinctively. He was tall and square, but no longer the well-cut figure he’d been when she left. He was thicker through the middle now, his navy blazer snug across the chest, his khaki slacks worn low, to compensate for a budding paunch. And his hair was a peculiar shade of blond, no doubt straight out of a box purchased at the drugstore. He reminded her of an aging game show host.

“Miss Moon,” he said, offering a nicotine-stained smile as he pumped her hand. “No one told me you were back.”

She looked up at him, unsmiling. “Should someone have told you?”

“No, I just meant . . . with your grandmother dying, we sort of expected you to turn up. Then when you didn’t, we assumed . . .”

He let his words trail, leaving Lizzy to wonder exactly who we might be, and what they had assumed. “I only arrived two days ago. I’m here because I have some questions about where the Gilman case stands.”

Summers shot her an oily grin. He reeked of breath mints and last night’s merlot. “Let’s step outside, shall we? I need a smoke, and you can’t do that indoors these days.”

Lizzy followed him out onto the front walkway. He fished a pack of Marlboro menthols from his jacket pocket, along with a heavy silver lighter, then held the pack out to her.

“No. Thank you. I don’t smoke. The Gilman investigation,” she prompted when he had taken his first long drag. “Where do things stand?”

Summers looked faintly annoyed as he pushed out a column of smoke. “They don’t stand at all, Miss Moon. There is no investigation, as such.”

“But you never found the killer.”

He threw her a sidelong glance as he took another pull from his cigarette. “No one was ever charged, that’s true.”

Summers’s inference was clear. As far as he was concerned, he had found the killer; he just hadn’t been able to make the case. Now, with Althea dead, he considered the matter put to bed.

“So that’s it? You’re done looking?”

He narrowed his eyes on her, his ruddy cheeks more florid than they’d been a moment ago. “It’s been eight years since those girls came up out of your grandmother’s pond, Miss Moon. Eight years, an anonymous tip, a pair of voodoo dolls, and an empty vial from your grandmother’s shop in one of the girl’s pockets. That’s where we are. No prints, no murder weapon. Just two dead girls and your grandmother’s pond. Where else do you suggest we look? Or maybe you have a crystal ball we could borrow.”