Authors: Diana Dempsey
“It’s too late to stop
it now.”
Then she shook her
head.
“Besides, it’s fine.
They won’t find anything.
There’s nothing
to
find.
Then they’ll
leave me alone.”
Her tone bothered
him.
It sounded as if she were
trying to convince herself.
Nor was
he too keen on her logic.
Even if
Simpson and friends didn’t turn up a damn thing in her backyard, that didn’t
mean they’d stop considering her a suspect.
But she’d made her
decision in full understanding of her rights.
She was a big girl and that was her
prerogative.
He’d keep his
reservations to himself.
He was
glad he did when she turned to face him.
There was no mistaking the concern on her face.
For the first time he saw vulnerability
there.
And just like that, the rush
of protective feeling came back.
Maybe it was as natural to him as breathing.
He had to stop himself from reaching out
to touch her.
Before he could
gather himself to say something reassuring, she spoke again.
“I hope I didn’t make a
mistake.”
*
Had she?
She didn’t know anymore.
She returned her gaze to the street,
even though there was nothing there now to see.
Simpson and crew were all in the
backyard raising a ruckus.
And—it made no sense—but she had the craziest idea that she
and Reid Gardner were on one side and Simpson’s people were on the other.
With Reid Gardner so
close, she was hyperaware of him physically.
He was tall and broad across the
shoulders.
Muscular, without much
fat on him. He was wearing jeans again and a very faded LA Lakers tee
shirt.
His features were more rugged
than straight—especially his nose, which looked like it had been broken
at least once—but somehow they went together well.
His slightly curly blond hair was
cropped short, and his eyes were—well, they were killer.
Blue, really blue.
He smelled good, too, like soap and
clean cotton and sunny afternoons.
Altogether an impressive hunk of male, and more wholesome and reassuring
than she’d given him credit for the other day.
“Why are you worried
you made a mistake, Annette?” he asked.
She liked his voice, too:
deep, calm, never rushed.
“Annie,” she heard
herself say, “call me Annie.
Annette’s just my writing name.”
He smiled.
“Annie.”
She stared into his
eyes, enjoying the sound of his name on her lips.
Then she forced herself to look
away.
She had FBI agents and
sheriff’s deputies and K-9 units in her backyard searching for evidence to
incriminate her in a serial-murder investigation, so now was not the time to
re-enter The Dating Scene.
Nor was
Reid Gardner necessarily on her side.
He had an agenda, too, and she’d do well to remind herself of that.
So she stepped away from him and began
rebuilding her defenses.
First, by lying.
She waved her hand dismissively.
“I’m not really worried.”
He was silent.
She swung around to
face him and went on the offensive.
“Why did you come all the way up here?
Really?”
He meandered away from
the window and claimed the sofa.
“This search is happening because of a tip that came into
Crimewatch
.”
“So
you’re
the reason I have to go through
this?”
“Any tip that seems
credible, we feed to law enforcement.
This tip passed muster.”
“And this fabulous tip
said search Annette Rowell’s backyard?”
“It said you buried
something in your backyard.
And
that it seemed suspicious.”
She shook her head,
baffled and unnerved.
“That’s
preposterous.
Who would say such a
thing?”
“It was anonymous.”
“That really gives it
credibility.”
Then another thought
crashed into her brain.
“I wasn’t
even mentioned on your show.
Why
would somebody phone in a tip about me?”
“They had to have known
about you some other way.”
Maybe it was a
prank.
Someone who didn’t like her
and thought they were being clever by making sinister insinuations.
Maybe a fellow author who was jealous
that her book was landing on the bestseller lists.
Amazingly, the tip had
succeeded in bringing a team of experts to her backyard.
A team that was dead serious about
finding evidence against her.
Simpson had made clear
the other day that he believed she had motive and opportunity to commit these
murders.
All he needed now was
means.
That was why he was in
her backyard.
That was what he
thought he’d find.
She began to pace.
“You think I was wrong to let them
search, don’t you?”
He hesitated.
Then, “I understood your reasoning.”
She halted in the
middle of her living room as a new worry jolted her.
“I should have been watching them.
For all I know they could be planting
evidence.”
“They’re not gonna do
that.”
She didn’t really
believe they would, either.
But
paranoia was setting in.
“You have
more faith in cops than I do.”
“I used to be one
myself.
You don’t like cops, I take
it?”
“I wouldn’t go that
far.
Several have been very helpful
to me when I’ve been researching my books.”
“But it’s a different
matter when you’re on opposite sides.”
“I’d say so.”
She eyed him.
“So why aren’t you as suspicious of me
as they are?”
“Because I don’t think
you’re guilty of anything.”
“And you know that
how?”
His gaze never
wavered.
“I trust my judgment about
these things.”
She forced herself to
look away from him.
“Do me a favor
and share that with Simpson.”
She
headed for the kitchen, whose rear door let out into the backyard.
“I’m going to go keep an eye on them.”
He wasted no time
following her through the kitchen and out the door onto the slanted,
half-broken concrete stoop that served as the step down to the backyard’s
uneven rock-hard terrain.
A lot of
it had been torn up.
Mounds of dirt
littered the half dozen areas where shallow holes had been dug.
Two shovels lay abandoned.
Both German Shepherds were relaxing by one
of the trainers; the larger of the two was munching a treat as if in reward for
a job well done.
And Higuchi … she
frowned, watching.
Higuchi was
holding open a plastic bag into which the other trainer was dropping something
he’d pulled from a hole.
Something
the size of a rat, dark and encrusted with dirt.
They found something
.
It was hard to believe, but they had.
She stepped closer, trying not to
panic.
Whatever they’d dug up
reeked.
The wind carried toward her
nostrils the whiff of decaying flesh.
She realized then that there were several plastic bags lying on the
ground filled with similar corpses.
In the fading light it was hard to make out what they were.
She moved still closer, squinting at
them.
Simpson held up a
warning hand.
“Hold it there, Ms.
Rowell.”
She ignored him and
walked still deeper into the yard.
He repeated the order, louder, and this time she did stop in her
tracks.
But it wasn’t because of
Simpson’s command.
At her feet lay
one of the bags.
She knelt to
examine it more closely.
The shape
of the creature inside took her back to high school science class, where she
and her fellow students had screwed up their courage and dissected … frogs.
Her mind whirled.
Something she’d read when she was
researching one of her books came back to her.
A piece of knowledge possessed by many
mystery writers but few others, and which hit her at that moment with blinding
force.
Frogs.
Curare.
Frogs.
Oh, my God
.
She rose to
her feet.
Her hand flew to her
throat as her breath caught there.
She could feel
Simpson’s laser stare on her face.
“Did you bury these, Ms. Rowell?
They were buried recently.
By you?”
She shook her head no,
though she did not expect him to believe her.
Reid was seriously
baffled.
He stopped behind Annie’s
left shoulder and peered down at the clear plastic bag lying at her feet.
“What’s in there?”
She was as pale as he’d
ever seen a woman who was still breathing.
“A frog.”
“A
frog
?”
Her right hand clutched
her throat; her mouth hung open.
She
gave every sign of being in shock.
“Annie?”
“I’m going back
inside.”
She turned and made for
the house, half stumbling on a rock jutting out of the ground.
She clutched the doorjamb as she
reentered the kitchen.
He watched
her weave across the linoleum and then lost sight of her.
He turned to find
Simpson’s eyes on him.
The men
stared at each other.
Reid knew
that was quite a transformation they’d seen: from calm and controlled to
basketcase
.
And
it had been caused by dead frogs.
He pointed at the small plastic-shrouded corpse.
“What’s the importance of this?”
Simpson shook his
head.
“I don’t know.”
Reid counted the bags
lying on the ground.
“You found
four of them?”
Simpson didn’t respond.
“Buried recently, you
said,” Reid went on.
Simpson didn’t respond
to that, either.
He looked as
confounded as Reid felt.
After a
moment Simpson turned to his team and waved his arm as if to say,
All right, let’s pack up and move out.
Everyone bent to their task, as silent
as their chief.
Reid rubbed his forehead.
He recognized the mood.
It was the somber muteness that took
over an investigative team when every member knew they’d found a critical piece
of evidence.
A smoking gun, for
lack of a better phrase.
But … dead frogs?
Then Simpson spoke, in
a low volume meant only for Reid’s ears.
“I don’t want to see this broadcast on your show, Gardner.”
“We didn’t stipulate
that before.”
Simpson edged closer, a
big man using his size to make his point.
His face came within inches of Reid’s.
“I don’t know what this means but I
don’t want it to become public knowledge.
It could hamper the investigation.”
Even as he prepared a
rebuttal, Reid knew full well that this new development was safe with him.
He knew that it was damaging to
Annie.
He knew, already, that he
would not take any action that would damage her further.
He wondered how that had happened so
damn fast.
“I won’t move on it
until I understand what it means,” he said.
“I want more than that
from you.
You don’t go with it
until you and I talk.
Don’t forget,
the murder investigation is priority one.”
Simpson lowered his voice.
“Usually I don’t have to remind you of that.”
“You don’t have to
now.”
Simpson shook his head,
doubt written on his features.
“Just keep your head on straight, Gardner.”
The unspoken subtext
was clear.
Don’t get mixed up with a woman who could be a murderer
.
That was where they differed.
Reid didn’t believe Annie was.
When the plastic
evidence bags were gathered and the yard returned to a semblance of normalcy,
Simpson’s team of men and dogs returned to the street via the alley.
Reid and Simpson himself reentered the
house through the rear screen door.
They found Annie cross-legged on the sofa in her living room with what
appeared to be a manuscript on her lap.
Lamp lit at her side, tortoiseshell eyeglasses sliding down her nose,
she was marking up the pages with a red pen.
And in what was probably a bid for
comfort, she was barefoot, and had changed into a gray Middlebury College
sweatshirt and black leggings.