“You think it’s Sammie,” Emmylou said, her face going pink as if with suppressed tears. “Who else would be buried there, under Sammie’s own house? When did this happen? I saw her two weeks ago, and I’ve been up here nearly every day since, looking for her cats. Was she lying there all that time?”
Kathleen said, “You told Officer Brennan you had a key. I’m surprised you didn’t stay there in the house, as cold as it’s been. You’ve been living in your car?”
“She kept the key under the porch. I told the officers it wasn’t there, that it’s gone. Yes, I broke in but when I saw the mess I was afraid to stay there, someone’s been in there. Maybe only raccoons, maybe not. Someone has the key, and that scares me.”
Kathleen said, “If the body is Sammie Miller, did she have family, someone to be notified?”
“No one,” Emmylou said. “Just her brother, and Birely would be hard to find. He does have a cell phone, the number’s in Sammie’s Rolodex, you could try that. He doesn’t have a home, he calls himself a hobo, he comes to the village now and then and phones her, that’s why she bought him the prepaid phone. She meets him down near the river, the homeless camp there. Or up at the bridge where they all camp in bad weather.” She looked evenly at Kathleen. “There’s no one else who cares about Sammie. No friends I know of, only me.”
“Which bridge is that?” Kathleen said.
“The one on Valley Road, just off Highway One, just above the market where Sammie worked, where I used to work.” Her answer brought Joe Grey’s ears up. He rose, slipped down the hall where he could better watch Emmylou from the shadows.
Ryan said, “The bridge where Hesmerra’s daughter Greta died?”
Emmylou nodded. “That was a long time ago,” she said vaguely.
“Four years,” Ryan said. “Billy was eight when his mother’s car went off the bridge. I heard it was a really bad storm, driving rain, heavy winds, the kind of storm where you can’t see the road at all.”
Emmylou’s face colored, she busied herself with her bowl of apricots and the last of her soup; Joe studied her with interest. She wanted to tell them something, she was on the verge of it, was filled with an urgency that she found hard to conceal. The ghost of something hung in the room, as dark as a storm cloud, some new information, vital and unstated. Watching Emmylou, both Ryan and Kathleen tried to hide their intensity, but their curiosity was as keen as that of the gray tomcat.
“What happened that night?” Kathleen said softly. “What happened when Greta’s car went off the bridge?”
Emmylou rose, never taking her eyes from the detective. “I’ll come down with you now, to look at the body. Afterward, if you like, I’ll come into the station. I’ll tell you about the bridge. As soon as we . . . as soon as I’ve gotten through this, seeing . . . seeing Sammie. If that is Sammie, down there.”
But Joe Grey’s skin rippled with suspicion. You know that’s Sammie, don’t you? You’re already certain! What do you know, Emmylou, that you haven’t told?
28
Kathleen Ray’s office was half the size of the chief’s, just enough room for her desk crowded between file cabinets, a console that held her little coffeemaker, and a small leather armchair. The desk faced the door, neatly stacked with papers and reports, and carefully arranged bookshelves stood behind. On the adjoining walls Kathleen had hung well-framed photographs of the rugged Molena coast, close-ups of stone escarpments and tide pools and stormy skies, fine work done half a century earlier by the region’s famous photographers. The only place to hide was beneath the minicredenza, and quickly Joe and Dulcie slipped under, into the shadows against the wall.
By the time they’d left the crime scene, after watching Emmylou identify the body, which was indeed Sammie, after watching her turn away shaken and sick, the day was growing warmer, the snow starting to melt. The sun did its work quickly; even as they headed for the station, the rooftops and streets below were turning dark and glistening wet, and snowmelt dripped from every crevice and weighted branch.
With a new officer behind the desk, they had padded quickly past, slipping into the empty conference room as Kathleen came in the front door ushering in Emmylou. They’d watched from beneath the conference table as Kathleen snagged half a dozen fresh doughnuts from a tray by the coffeemaker, and herded Emmylou on to her office. Silently they’d followed.
Now, from the shadows beneath the console, they watched Kathleen make Emmylou comfortable in the small leather chair, easing her back into the rapport Kathleen had established at Alain’s table, before Emmylou went down to identify the body. Much of the identification was based on Sammie’s hair color, on her watch and little silver bracelets, on her silver locket that opened to pictures of her two black-and-white cats. Emmylou knew who Sammie’s dentist was, and Sammie’s dental records had been sent up to the lab. The CSI techs estimated the date of Sammie Miller’s death at two weeks; they would have more information once the lab had finished the autopsy. Kathleen poured two cups of coffee; Emmylou refused sugar or milk, took the cup from Kathleen along with two doughnuts on a little paper plate. The two were silent, sipping coffee.
Both women were tall and slim, Emmylou sinewy and bony with sun-leathered skin, Kathleen pale and smooth, her shining dark hair back carelessly at the nape of her neck, the grace that had made her a good model very much apparent, even in her severe uniform. Her dark eyes studied Emmylou kindly, without a cop’s closed shield of authority, and her voice was soft.
“What did happen, that night on the bridge, Emmylou? You told me, in the car, that Sammie’s murder could be connected to the death of Hesmerra’s daughter?”
“Her youngest daughter,” Emmylou said. She broke her doughnut in two, concentrating on that, and said no more.
“I have the accident report,” Kathleen said, picking up some papers from her desk. “There was heavy rain that night, a strong wind, hardly any traffic on the roads. The report shows one witness to the accident. He wouldn’t give his name, he claimed to have no address, no relatives.” She glanced at the report as she talked. “Says a car came up fast behind Greta’s car, pulled up beside her and swerved into her, forcing her off the road. The witness saw her car crash through the rail, land on its side on the concrete abutment below.” She looked up. “What do you know, Emmylou, that isn’t in the report? Was this man Sammie’s brother?”
Emmylou nodded. “She was with him that night, they saw it all. The car came up fast on Greta’s left, started to pass, then swerved over straight into her car. He had some kind of bright spotlight in his hand, he shone it in her face, the light must have blinded her. Sammie said Greta looked startled, like a deer in your headlights. She swerved hard, lost control, and rammed into the abutment. Crashed right through, right through that corrugated rail, Sammie said, as if it was made of paper. She said the two sections, where they were joined, broke away from the post.
“Sammie said the car rocked a moment, balanced there, then dropped straight down on the concrete and rolled. I guess Greta didn’t have her seat belt on, she was thrown around and then thrown out, and the car rolled on top of her. That’s how Sammie told me. She saw it, and Birely saw it, they were together at the foot of the bridge. Sammie called 911 while Birely ran to help her—but Greta was already dead, she was beyond help.
“When they heard the siren coming, Birely told Sammie to run, to get away, not let anyone know she was a witness. Even then, he was afraid for her, he thought the killer must have seen her face in the spotlight, and would come after her. Birely waited for the cops, gave them a statement. They told him to stay in town, but he disappeared. Left town, vanished.”