Something Buried, Something Blue Page 29

She turns to see Parker watching her. “Excuse me?”

  “Why are you staring at the flowers?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive.”

  Of course he had nothing to do with the poison.

  The jarring thought seems to come out of nowhere. But it was there in front of her all along, fuzzy as a distant horizon trained in a binocular’s crosshairs, suddenly brought into sharp focus.

  She turns away, her heart pounding. “I’m going to go call a plumber.”

  “I thought the hot water heater was fixed.”

  “It is, but . . . I don’t trust it.”

  Nor does she trust him. She doesn’t trust anyone right now.

  Bella goes into the study. Maybe she can check the browsing history to see when that water hemlock search was conducted and what other sites were visited. Somewhere in there, there might be a clue to the searcher’s identity.

  She closes the French door behind her, then, after a moment’s hesitation, locks it.

  She steps around Pandora’s keyboard and sits at the desk.

  Pandora Feeney is many things—busybody, know-it-all, snob, trespasser. But is she a cold-blooded killer?

  Back in July, the idea didn’t seem particularly preposterous, though in the end, it wasn’t her. She hadn’t murdered Leona Gatto.

  That doesn’t mean she’s innocent this time. It doesn’t mean she hasn’t been creeping around the house again. But was it out of some misplaced sense of belonging or malicious intent?

  Bella reaches for the mouse and finds that it’s well beyond her grasp.

  Frowning, she leans over and pulls it closer.

  Clicking on the browser’s history, she finds . . .

  It’s empty.

  The entire search history has evaporated.

  Did someone erase the history from the computer?

  Did someone delete the photos from her phone?

  Why? They seemed innocuous.

  But the one of Parker and Virginia . . .

  She opens her e-mail and finds her way back to that shot, looking again at the window in the background. This time, she isn’t so sure she sees a figure there. It might just be the folds of the curtains.

  She shifts her gaze to the foreground. The faces. Virginia is smiling, Parker merely squinting. He wasn’t pleased at the prospect of her taking his photo, she recalls, especially without his sunglasses.

  At last, giving in to suspicion, she types his name into a search engine.

  Nothing relevant comes up. There are several Parker Langleys in this world, and at least one in the next. Sadly, a teenage boy by that name died in a car accident a few years ago.

  The others bear no resemblance to the man she’s looking for.

  That doesn’t mean anything . . . does it?

  He lives in Canada. She adds that to the search.

  Nope.

  She adds photographer.

  Still nothing.

  How can he not be here?

  What if Parker Langley isn’t his real name?

  If it isn’t . . . then what else is he hiding? And how the heck is she supposed to find out who he really is with nothing more to go on than a picture?

  A picture—

  Remembering her image search for the perfect shade of yellow, she jerks the cursor back to the photo of Parker with Virginia.

  She’s about to crop it on his smiling face when a floorboard creaks somewhere on the first floor beyond the study.

  Bella freezes.

  It sounds as if someone is nearby, poised, spying . . .

  Of course no one is spying. The glass panes looking into the parlor are covered in maroon drapes.

  Bella whirls around, almost expecting to see a face pressed up against the window behind her. There’s nothing but a snowy shrub border.

  Radiant frost . . .

  She jerks the blinds closed.

  Having lost the patience to crop the photo, she hurriedly pastes the entire image into a facial-recognition search engine and hits Enter.

  It doesn’t take long to produce results.

  Clicking on the first hit, an engagement announcement from a Florida newspaper, she sees that she was right about his name.

  It isn’t Parker Langley.

  It’s Thad Driscoll.

  Or is it?

  The hair is different. A little longer, parted on the side. And Thad Driscoll wears glasses.

  You have to pay close attention to the details!

  She zooms in on his face. It really does look like him.

  Opening a new search engine tab, she quickly types “Thad Driscoll” and again hits Enter.

  She’s instantly rewarded by a series of hits. Some include photos. Most are of a centenarian named Thaddeus Driscoll, honored at a Founder’s Day celebration in the Deep South. But one of the Thad Driscolls, pictured on a couple of social media sites, is familiar.

  There’s no mistaking that it’s the same person she knows as Parker Langley.

  Clicking back to the engagement announcement, she looks more closely at the photo. This time, she notices that the bride is a beautiful, sophisticated-looking blonde. She isn’t identical to Johneen, but there’s a strong resemblance.

  According to the announcement, the bride graduated from a prestigious boarding school and an Ivy League college and lives in Palm Beach. There’s no mention of her parents. Her name is Charlotte Ackerly-Toombs . . .

  Charlotte.

  She’s an artist . . .

  There was a whirlwind courtship . . .

  A destination wedding is planned for August in Colorado . . .

  There are indeed coincidences.

  Destination wedding.

  Whirlwind courtship.

  Charlotte.

  Charlotte’s Web . . .

  Bella opens a new screen and swiftly types “Charlotte Ackerly-Toombs.”

  There’s the engagement announcement again, and . . .

  There’s an obituary.

  “No way,” she whispers, scanning it.

  Mrs. Charlotte Ackerly-Toombs Driscoll collapsed and died of natural causes at her wedding reception in Denver. Her mother died when she was an infant, her father more recently. Her husband, Thad, is her only listed survivor.

  Which possibly means he was her only heir—and, equally likely, the sole beneficiary to any life insurance policy.

  Bella is well aware that a widowed spouse would collect in the case of accidental death and illness. She had expected to do just that until she discovered that Sam, feeling immortal, had let his own meager policy lapse prior to his illness.

  Murder wouldn’t be considered accidental death or illness. But according to Luther, it could certainly be disguised as natural causes.

  Who stood to gain from Charlotte’s death?

  Who stands to gain from Johneen’s, if she doesn’t make it?

  The grieving widower.

  Drenched in a cold sweat, Bella reaches into her pocket for her phone. She has to text Luther right away. He might say it’s circumstantial evidence, but—

  Where is it? Where is her phone?

  How could he have—

  No, wait. He didn’t steal it. Not this time. She left it up in the bedroom. She pushes back her chair, then freezes.

  What if someone really is lurking on the other side of the glass door?

  Parker, who isn’t Parker.

  Chances are, he isn’t Thad either.

  So who is he?

  Bella grabs the mouse and clicks to the original image search results, hurriedly skimming the photo matches one by one. The pictures of Thad Driscoll don’t go back further than about eighteen months. It’s as if he didn’t even exist before that.

  Probably because he didn’t.

  Did he start using the identity when he met Charlotte?

  Did he borrow it from one of the other Thad Driscolls—perhaps the elderly Thaddeus? The Founder’s Day celebration was back in 2010. He may very w
ell have since passed away.

  And Parker Langley . . .

  Remembering the teenage boy who died in a car wreck, she shakes her head.

  It’s sick, but it happens all the time, just as that lawyer warned her after Sam died. Identity thieves are opportunists.

  Hands trembling now with more outrage than fear, she makes several attempts before she’s able to enter both “Parker Langley” and “Johneen Maynard” without typos.

  This time, she gets results.

  The bridal couple may not be active on social media accounts of their own, but they do appear in photographs on pages belonging to a couple of their wedding guests: Hellerman, Frankie, Amanda . . .

  Again, there’s no online record of this Parker Langley’s existence until about six months ago—right around the time he started dating Johneen.

  All right. Then who was he before he borrowed Parker Langley’s and Thad Driscoll’s identities?

  Bella returns to the facial-recognition search results, back to the photo of him with Virginia. As she glances down the page, she spots something that chills her in a cold sweat.

  It’s a wedding photo from a Houston newspaper published a few years ago.

  The groom’s name is Levi Joe Hicks, but he’s unmistakably familiar.

  So, this time, is the bride.

  Blonde, sophisticated, beautiful . . .

  Virginia.

  The shocking truth slams into Bella.

  She isn’t his cousin. She isn’t a cop. She’s his wife. His first wife, his real wife . . .

  His accomplice.

  For a moment, she’s too stunned to read on. She just sits with her eyes closed, her mind racing through the horrible implications.

  That front porch conversation she overheard between Parker and Virginia was staged for her benefit. They were manipulating her all along, feeding her information. Lies.

  But—the gun she’d found under the mattress, and the badge . . .

  How on earth do you do it all? Virginia had asked on that first day. You must have housekeeping help . . .

  They knew I’d be the one cleaning the guest room. They left the evidence where I could find it. She isn’t a cop, and he . . .

  Bella forces herself to look again at the photo, just to be sure.

  That’s definitely him. He’s unshaven, his hair is longer, and he’s wearing a cheap-looking suit without a tie. But it’s him.

  And it’s her. Her name, according to the wedding announcement, is Brooke Marshall. She’s wearing a smile so smug that she might as well have given the camera the finger.

  After quickly searching the name “Brooke Marshall,” Bella grasps that she was indeed gloating. She was flaunting her Mr. Wrong husband to the world—or at least to the billionaire father who’d shunned her.

  A quick search reveals that she’s the illegitimate daughter of a stripper and a wealthy Texas oil baron. Her father embraced her when she found her way to him as an adolescent following her mother’s fatal overdose, then disinherited her a few years later in a public scandal after she was arrested for violent assault on household staff. It wasn’t the first time she was in trouble with the law, but most of her prior offenses were relatively minor. Traffic violations, shoplifting, trespassing. Apparently, assault was the last straw for her rich daddy.

  Reading between the lines, Bella discerns that Brooke Marshall appears to have a long history of mental illness. She hasn’t exactly kept a low profile—social media or otherwise. She freely shared the details of a pampered existence in the lap of luxury and a romance with Levi Joe, all accompanied by the hashtag #lovemylife.

  Cut off from her father’s money, she and Levi had apparently come up with a scheme. It’s unclear how they crossed Charlotte’s path. He married and murdered her, inherited her fortune, spent it recklessly—then sought another conquest.

  Johneen Maynard fit the bill. She was wealthy, lonely, estranged from her family, and—added bonus?—Levi’s physical type.

  So with Brooke’s blessing, he seduced her, got her to marry him, and then tried to murder her? Only she’s still alive.

  Brooke’s earlier comments echo in Bella’s head.

  He wants to change and get a few things he’ll need at the hospital . . .

  I don’t want him there alone . . .

  What were the “things” he needed to retrieve? More deadly blooms? Is he heading back to the hospital to keep a vigil at Johneen’s bedside or to finish her off, with Virginia’s help?

  Bella needs to call Luther right now.

  She grabs the desk phone.

  No dial tone.

  Did the storm take down the telephone wires, or did someone cut them?

  Does she dare leave the room to get her cell phone upstairs?

  She pushes back her chair and starts to rise.

  Hearing, or perhaps just sensing, almost imperceptible movement on the other side of the door, she plops back down in the seat.

  She’s trapped.

  He’s out there. Maybe they both are. Parker and Virginia.

  Levi and Brooke.

  She opens a blank e-mail. In the subject line, she writes, “Urgent.”

  But people always write urgent. Grant does.

  This isn’t about business.

  She changes it to “SOS.”

  In the address box, she types the first few letters: L-U-T . . .

  The computer autofills the rest.

  She’ll have to hope Luther sees this message right away.

  What if he doesn’t?

  She adds another name to the Send list.

  D-R-E . . .

  drewbailey@lakeviewanimalhospitalandrescue.com

  Luther’s words echo in her head. Drew Bailey is a rock. He’s one of the best men I know.

  “He is,” Bella whispers. “And I need him.”

  Then, hating herself for her earlier misgivings, she adds a third name: O-D-E . . .

  Her most trusted friend in the Dale is right next door. If Bella is in trouble, Odelia will come running.

  But I don’t want her to do that. It could be dangerous. I just want her to call the police.

  Bella quickly types the e-mail, fingers fumbling at the keys.

  Parker and Virginia poisoned Johneen. Guests unaware and asleep. I’m locked into first-floor study. Send police immediately.

  About to hit Send, she hears a knock on the door.

  “Bella?” someone calls.

  It isn’t Parker.

  Nor is it Virginia.

  It’s Calla—the one person under this roof she’s willing to trust.

  “Yes?”

  “Max is on the phone.”

  “What?” Her eyes dart to the phone on the desk.

  Is this some kind of trick? Is Calla in on it, too?

  “Your cell phone . . . Max.”

  Oh—Calla was in her room playing with the kittens. Her phone must have rung, and Calla answered it.

  Bella opens the door.

  Calla is standing there . . . with a gun pressed to her temple.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I’m so sorry,” Calla says in a miserable rush. “He was going to—”

  “Shut up!” Parker, holding the gun, nods at Bella. “Let’s go. Both of you.”

  A hard lump of fear rises in her throat. For a brief, frantic moment, she considers slamming the door closed in his face.

  But if she does, she has no doubt that he’ll press the trigger. He’ll shoot Calla, then he’ll shoot through the glass, reach in to open the door, and shoot her.

  “Come on! I said let’s go!”

  “Where are we going?” Bella asks with a dangerous burst of defiance. He can’t just . . . do this. He can’t—

  He nudges her with the gun.

  Yes. He can.

  “Walk. Not a sound.”

  Bella walks. Out of the study, into the parlor. She can hear kittens scampering in the upstairs hall and on the stairs. The Rose Room door must be open, she realizes dully. They
’ve escaped.

  Escape—I need to escape.

  Parker—Levi—propels her and Calla into the foyer. Through the window in the front door, Bella sees his car parked at the curb. The engine is running.

  Virginia—Brooke—is in the driver’s seat.

  “All right. Here we go.” He opens the interior door. A blast of wet, frigid air blows through the screen door.

  The Dale is shrouded in early-morning light and blanketed in white. A single set of black tire tracks mark the road. Sugary white crystals dust the porch floor that only yesterday was dappled in warm sunlight.

  Bella’s gaze falls on the pot of lavender mums beside the purple welcome mat.

  “Y’all are gonna walk straight to that car and get into the back seat. Take one step in the wrong direction, and I shoot you both. Say one word, and I shoot you both.”

  Gone is the refined accent that had rivaled his bride’s. His third bride’s. His drawl has emerged loud and clear. He pronounces shoot you as shootcha and adds that if anyone happens to be out there and anyone tries anything, he’ll shootch’all.

  “Got it?” he asks.

  Bella nods. Got it. If she or Calla hint that something is amiss, he’ll kill them along with any innocent person who crosses their path.

  If this were a sunny summer day, someone might actually be out there, even at this hour. Someone might witness the scene from afar and realize that this is an abduction. A bystander might at least get the plate number and call for help.

  But at this time of year, especially at this hour and in this weather, the Dale is deserted. The only person out there is Brooke Marshall at the wheel of what is essentially a getaway car.

  If she drives us out of here, we’re never coming back.

  Bella sneaks a glance at Calla. Her eyes are wide with fear and uncertainty, but she’s calm.

  Just a few days ago, Bella was convinced of her mind-reading capabilities. Now she tries desperately to send her a message: As soon as we step over that threshold, you run!

  Calla steadily meets her gaze. It’s impossible to tell whether she got the message.

  Only one way to find out.

  Bella swallows hard, conscious of Levi behind them, holding the gun. He pushes the screen door open.

  “Ready? Let’s go.”

  She steps out onto the purple welcome mat. The mums are beside her, just inches from the fingertips of her right hand. All she has to do is reach, and . . .