Everything she had told Rick was true.
But truth on her side didn’t change the fact that no one believed her. A hysterical-sounding laugh rose from her throat. Not true. Everyone who believed ended up dead or missing.
It seemed logical to assume that she would be next.
What should she do? How could she go up against the Horned Flower alone? She didn’t even own a gun-let alone know how to fire one.
Rick’s desertion had drained the fight out of her. She needed his cool head. The logical way he looked at things. His strength and the comfort she gleaned from simply knowing he stood with her.
But he didn’t stand with her, she reminded herself. Not anymore. So what did she do next? She felt as if she had exhausted her options. She couldn’t go to the police. She had neither friends nor allies to turn to. Mark and Heather had both disappeared, victims, she feared, of the Horned Flower. She could seek help from law enforcement agencies on the mainland, but without proof, they were more likely to take her for a psychiatric evaluation than to accompany her to Key West to bust up a group of murdering satanists whose ranks included members of the local clergy and law enforcement.
There had to be something she could do, she thought fiercely, stopping and dragging her hands through her hair. Something besides wait for the next body to turn up or for the killer to decide it was her turn to die.
Liz dropped her hands, made a move toward the living room, then stopped, realizing she was staring at the front page of the Island News, partially obscured by a copy of the Sunday edition of the Miami Herald.
She drew her eyebrows together. The weekly was out-of-date, an edition she had picked up her first few days on the island. She had glanced at it, then tossed it in a basket she reserved for catalogs, magazines and the like.
She tilted her head.
Heather Ferguson named-
Liz crossed to the basket and removed the Herald. The entire headline jumped out at her.
Heather Ferguson named Key West Businesswoman of the Year.
Liz lifted the folded paper and opened it. Heather smiled out at her from the large photo, her diamond-studded monogram necklace sparkling at her throat. The one Liz remembered noticing the afternoon she and Heather had drinks.
Liz stared at the necklace, seeing it as if for the first time.
H.F. Heather Ferguson.
H.F. Horned Flower.
Her hands began to shake. A coincidence, she told herself. The matching initials were simply one of those weird coincidences that life occasionally offered up. Any number of people on Key West could have the same.
It couldn’t be Heather. Heather was her friend. She had been Rachel’s friend. Someone had been following her.
Or so she had said. Liz had no proof of either of those. Just as she had no proof Heather had actually gone missing.
Perhaps she had gone into hiding, instead.
Feeling ill, Liz whirled around and crossed to the sink. She laid the weekly on the counter, turned on the cold water, bent and splashed her face. She twisted the faucet off and lifted her head, the cold water running down her neck and under the collar of her shirt.
Rick was right about her, she thought, glaring at her own reflection in the window above the sink. Who hadn’t she accused of being part of this conspiracy of evil? A pastor? A ranking police detective? Now a woman who had never been anything but nice to her, one who may have become a victim.
Liz snatched a paper towel from the roll hanging beside the sink. She dried her face and tossed the towel in the trash.
Her anger faded. She hadn’t imagined her sister’s disappearance or the two murdered women. She hadn’t conjured up Mark’s experience with the Horned Flower, her sister’s drawings or the rat left in her kitchen.
Heather probably wasn’t the one. But at this point, she would follow any lead, even a flimsy one. Heather was beautiful and charismatic. Her shop afforded her access to a great number of teenagers. She had known at least one of the victims.
Liz began to pace once more, working to remember the things Heather had told her about herself and her past. Very little, Liz realized. She had grown up in Miami, had given college a try and dropped out in favor of a stab at modeling. That had gone nowhere and she had drifted into retailing. Three or four years back, Heather had opened her own store here on Key West.
Liz frowned. Had Heather mentioned family? Siblings? Father or mother-
Liz snapped her fingers, remembering. Her mother. It had been a passing mention. When Heather had been talking about her abortive attempt at modeling. She had inherited her mother’s bone structure, she’d said. Which the camera flattened. Liz had then asked about the woman, if she was still alive and where she lived. Heather had replied that she was indeed alive and that she lived on Islamorada.
Liz ran to the drawer where she kept the phone book, one with listings for the entire keys. She yanked it out, flipped it open to the section for Islamorada, praying the woman was listed. She found two Fergusons-a J. A. and a Martha.
Liz dialed J. A. Ferguson first. A young woman answered. She sounded harried and Liz heard an infant crying. Though certain this was not Heather’s mother’s number, she asked anyway. A moment later, she dialed Martha Ferguson.
“Hi, is this Mrs. Ferguson?”
“It is,” the woman replied, tone reticent. “I’m not buying anything, if that’s what you’re-”
“I’m not. Actually, I’m looking for Heather Ferguson’s mother. Would that be-”
The phone went dead. “Hello?” she said.
The woman had hung up on her!
Excited, Liz dialed the woman again-and got the same results. Which to her mind meant she had, indeed, located Heather’s mother. But if that was true, why had she hung up on her?
Liz tried one last time. Although she let it ring for a full minute, the woman didn’t pick up.
Frowning, Liz glanced at her watch. If her memory served, Islamorada was located just more than halfway between Key West and Key Largo, she would guess about a two-hour-and-forty-five-minute drive. Probably longer, considering the weather.
Liz ran to her bedroom, changed into a pair of comfortable white capri pants and slipped into her canvas deck shoes. She didn’t know exactly what she wanted the woman to tell her about her daughter or how she would obtain the information, she just knew she had to do this.
She ripped the page from the phone book, grabbed her purse and umbrella and ran out into the storm.
CHAPTER 52
Wednesday, November 21
3:30 p.m.
“Is this Detective Carla Chapman?”
The voice was a man’s, one she didn’t recognize. “Yes,” she answered. “How can I help you?”
“It’s Jonathan Bell. The Sunset Key ferryboat captain. I ferried you across-”
“To Larry Bernhardt’s place,” she filled in, that afternoon seeming a lifetime ago now. “I remember.”
“You told me to call if I remembered anything about that night, anything I’d forgotten to tell the police.”
“Go on.”
“That night, I ferried over a mother and her two daughters, real attractive, all of them. They said they were going to the restaurant…you know, Latitudes. But I remembered this morning that when they got off the boat they headed toward the other side of the island. Toward Bernhardt’s place.”
Carla digested that. “You think they were hookers?”
“No way. They looked real…fresh-scrubbed. The mother was real classy. Gorgeous.”
Carla narrowed her eyes. Bernhardt’s housekeeper had claimed he had liked young girls. She had found photographs of them performing sexual acts with him. Carla thought of the man’s bedroom, of the mirrors placed strategically on all sides of the bed.