Authors: Kylie Brant
Waking Evil 02 (35 page)
The sun was almost straight overhead by the time Dev made it back to Rose Thornton’s place. He gathered the equipment he’d need from the trunk of his car, and with a sense of déjà vu, headed off toward the woods fringing the old lady’s property.
All the while, he kept a wary eye on the door of her cabin. Although there were some experiences he wouldn’t mind repeating, having buckshot removed from his ass wasn’t one of them.
The late start was courtesy of his lack of sleep the night before. Dev was normally not a late riser, but once he’d returned Ramsey back to her place, he’d laid sleepless for a long time, wondering if he could have played it any differently.
The answer to that had been evasive, so he’d fallen into a restless sleep about the time the birds had started waking. And had woken surly and out of sorts as a result.
There was nothing that cured surliness like buckling down to work.
So he spent a couple hours setting up and getting those control measures to compare to last night’s readings. And then sat contemplating the results, his mind racing.
Because the readings today were well within the normal range.
The outdoor temperature would be expected to be warmer, of course. He’d need to take another reading tonight at the same time he and Ramsey had been here. But the EMF meter should read the same today as it did last night if the previous elevated reading were due to power lines. Trouble was, they were in the normal range, too.
Intrigued, Dev rocked back on his heels. He’d need to do a bit more investigation, but his attention was caught, no denying it.
He shot a considering look at Rose’s cabin. It looked quiet. If she were up and around, he hadn’t seen her. Hopefully his luck would continue to hold. Because come dark, he was going to be back here to see if the readings compared to last night’s.
In the meantime, he had some local history to bone up on. It would, he hoped, as he placed his equipment carefully back into their bags, take his mind off the woman who had hovered at the edge of it for most of the day.
He was slamming the lid of his car’s trunk when his cousin pulled up beside him in the department-issued Jeep. Rounding the car, he went to the passenger side of the other vehicle. Mark buzzed down the window.
“Hey.” Dev bent down to rest his forearms on the opened window, peering inside. “I’m gonna get me a job like this someday. Spend my days ridin’ ’round the county, duckin’ out of my responsibilities at the office.”
“Bite me,” Mark suggested pleasantly. “You haven’t punched a clock since you worked for old man Hanly at the soda fountain back in high school. And all you did then was give free ice cream to all the pretty girls that came in.”
The memory had Dev smiling. “Hanly took it out regular from my paycheck, too. Finally had to quit when it got to where I owed him more than he paid me.” He’d held other jobs since then, of course. But all had lacked the appeal that came from the research and writing he did now.
Mark looked past him toward Rose’s cabin. “You always did like to live dangerously. Does Rose know you’re out trompin’ ’round her property?”
“Haven’t seen her this mornin’, but Ramsey and I spoke to her last night.” He neatly sidestepped the question. “Can’t say that she’s changed much.”
“You talked to her? Well, that’s one thing off my list for today. I was gonna check on her. Folks have mentioned she hasn’t been to town lately.”
“She’ll probably outlast us all.”
Mark eyed him shrewdly. “What were you doin’ with Ramsey out here anyway?”
“She saw some lights near the woods night before last, and we came to check them out. Saw them again last night and went to follow them. Had a run-in with Ezra T.” Dev recounted the incident, finishing with, “Have to say, I was pretty surprised. Didn’t figure on him bein’ the violent sort.”
The sheriff frowned. “Can’t say as I like the sounds of that.” He appeared to mull it over for a few moments. “Makes me wonder if Duane and Mary are seein’ to it that he takes his medication regular. That’s one of the conditions of them keepin’ him at home, I know. I’ll make it up there sometime today and have a talk with them.”
“Probably wouldn’t hurt.” But Dev’s mind was somewhere else. “You get a lot of poachers in these parts?”
Mark gave a shrug. “Always have some. More trappers than anythin’ else. That might account for the lights you saw. Some guys settin’ or checkin’ their traps for the evenin’.”
“Probably was,” Dev agreed. He wasn’t near ready to discuss what he thought the lights could be. There was a lot more evidence to collect before then.
He knew his cousin. He wasn’t any more open than Ramsey to “evidence” he couldn’t see or hear or touch.
But Dev was beginning to believe that he just might have stumbled on a site of genuine paranormal activity.
“Sonofabitch.”
Catching the curious looks from nearby diners, Ramsey lowered her voice as she continued the cell phone conversation with Agent Powell. “How much is the policy worth?”
“A hundred grand. The insurance company in Memphis contacted the local police when they heard of Frost’s murder. We just got word. Looks like Sanders took the policy out on Frost a year ago last fall.”
Well before their breakup. She thought of Sanders’s business and wondered if it was doing as well as the man would have them believe. “Smells like motive to me.”
“Damn straight. Since it’s the weekend, I had Jeffries contact a judge in Memphis. When I get there, I’ll swing by and pick up the signed warrant. I’ve already talked to Matthews and told him to wait for me.”
“I’m still here, too. I’ll stay until you . . .”
“No, I want you to head to Lisbon and check out Sanders’s story about the police report Frost made. See if you can line up any other verification. People she might have confided in. If this turns out to be another hole in his story, we can use it to nail him.”
More than a little deflated, Ramsey agreed. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“This doesn’t shake his alibi, of course.” Powell sounded as revved as she’d ever heard him. “But Sanders wouldn’t be the first to hire someone to off a loved one for that kind of money. We’ll know a lot more when we get hold of his financials.”
“Speaking of financials, can you check the log of Frost’s transactions? I’m looking for names that might be a landlord, salon, favorite restaurants.” She got a pen and paper from her purse and wrote down the information Powell read off for her on the back of her napkin.
The call ended moments later, and Ramsey put the list she’d made in her purse. Looking at the half-eaten sandwich on her plate without interest, she signaled the waitress for the check.
Her enthusiasm for the task ahead had waned considerably in light of the recent news. It would be cynical to think that the TBI agents were rushing to take control of what could only be construed as their best lead yet in the case.
But Ramsey had been born cynical. She’d also worked enough investigative teams to know how the politics worked. If there was a break in the case, the local law enforcement would close ranks. That way they could bask in the resulting glory of successful resolution of a high-profile investigation.
Being used to it, though, didn’t mean it didn’t suck.
When Dev arrived at the Historical Museum and found Shirley Pierson working as the day’s volunteer, he was tempted to skip this leg of the research and head straight to the library.
The woman hadn’t been friendly since he’d bloodied her son’s nose for him in the summer he’d been ten for calling him Killer’s Kid. In those days, he’d had more temper than restraint, and the woman had never forgotten it. There’d been a loud phone conversation with his granddaddy as a result, and then a lecture from Benjamin on the virtues of turning the other cheek.
He didn’t have enough cheeks to pacify Shirley. Based on a few things he’d heard over the years, Ira Pierson had only been repeating what he’d heard at home.
“Well, bless your heart, I can’t imagine what the likes of you would be wantin’ here, Devlin.” With the skill of a true southern gentlewoman, Shirley covered the insult with enough sugar to almost obscure the sting.
“Ms. Pierson.” Mindful to this day of his granddaddy’s lecture, he kept his tone pleasant. “How’s the family?”
“Fine. You might be interested to know that Ira is a writer, too. A real writer,” she stressed. “Just last month he had a short story published in
Country Home and Heart
magazine.”
Country Home and Heart
magazine.”
He offered a bland smile. “I’ll bet you’re real proud. Tell him I said hey.”
Her mouth pinched together tightly. “I’m afraid I’m terribly busy. Perhaps you could come back another day.”
Since the place was empty, and it didn’t look as though the woman had been doing anything more strenuous than dusting the exhibits, he knew he was getting the brush-off. And had a fleeting moment to understand how Ramsey had felt when Donnelle had treated her similarly.
Undeterred, he held his ground. Sending a glance around the place, he said, “That’s fine, I won’t be a bother. Just point me in the direction of any information regardin’ the town’s foundin’ father, and I’ll be out of your way.” If her lips tightened any further, he observed, they’d disappear completely.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Okay.” He headed into the next room. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just poke ’round on my own.”
“I really can’t have you touchin’ anythin’.” He heard her scurrying after him. “The guidelines here are quite strict. Visitors aren’t to handle any items without supervision.”
He halted and turned to face her, irritation bubbling. “What do the guidelines say about volunteers who refuse to help town residents when they come in here?”
Her tone went regal. “I swear, Devlin Stryker, you didn’t learn those manners from your mama.”
The inference was clear. “No, ma’am, I didn’t. Turns out I learned very little from her over the years.” He didn’t bother to keep the edge from his words. “Now ’bout that information . . .”
With a sniff, Shirley swept by him, leaving him awash in the unmistakable scent of Chanel No. 5. It’d be difficult to say which of them was more out of sorts over the exchange.
Two hours of poring over the cramped writing in century-old journals was enough to have his eyes burning. He hadn’t brought his glasses, and he really required them to read. As a result, his eyes felt like he’d spent the last couple hours in a sandstorm.
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