A Merciful Secret Page 4

  “Don’t most pillows get saliva on them?” asked Truman, thinking of nighttime drooling.

  “Yes, but this was a decorative pillow. Usually people don’t sleep on them. A regular pillow was still under her head.”

  “Was the pillow on the floor dark green?” Mercy asked. “The sofa has a dark-green throw pillow.”

  “It was.” Natasha nodded. “Possibly someone brought it in from the living room.”

  “With the intention to suffocate her,” added Truman, looking at Bolton. “What are your ideas on motive? Any sign of theft?”

  “No indication of a break-in,” said Bolton. “And Morrigan’s mom is probably the only one who can tell if something is missing.”

  “Who would want to murder an old woman?” asked Mercy. “I got the feeling from Morrigan that she rarely leaves the house.”

  “Perhaps she wasn’t the target,” suggested Truman.

  “All those cuts weren’t made by accident,” said Natasha.

  “It would take a lot of rage to do the damage I saw,” Mercy said slowly. “Our suspect might have been angry that his intended victim wasn’t here. Perhaps the mother was the intended victim.”

  “We plan to take a hard look at the mother,” said Bolton. “And neither you nor Chief Daly have any role in this case.” He pointed at Mercy. “You’re a witness, nothing else.”

  Truman recognized the stubborn tilt of Mercy’s head and pitied Detective Bolton.

  FIVE

  Mercy held the detective’s gaze. Like hell I’m stepping away from this case.

  “Excuse me, Detective Bolton?” came a voice from behind them.

  Mercy turned in unison with the detective.

  It was the deputy who’d gone to look at Morrigan’s animals. The girl was nowhere in sight.

  “Where’s Morrigan?” Mercy immediately asked.

  “She’s feeding the goats. Cute little things.” The deputy gave a half smile. “I know the barn was initially searched for a suspect, but has anyone taken a close look at what’s in there?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Bolton.

  “There’s a room at the far end that I assumed was for supplies, but it’s packed full of . . . stuff. It looks like a miniature village in there. There’s another workbench like in the house with some knives and other sharp tools.”

  “Morrigan said her mom has a craft room in the barn,” said Mercy.

  The deputy nodded. “It’s definitely a craft room. My wife would live in there if she had one like it.”

  “I’ll take a look,” said Bolton, moving toward the barn with the deputy.

  “I need to leave,” Natasha said to Mercy. “I’ll get to your victim tomorrow morning. I have a full schedule today.”

  See? Even Natasha thinks I should be involved. Mercy said her good-bye to the medical examiner and then exchanged a look with Truman. They simultaneously headed to the barn.

  “Not your case,” Truman said under his breath.

  “Tough beans. Until I know Morrigan is safe, I’m keeping my nose in. What is taking the CPS agent so long?”

  “Other kids who need her, six inches of snow, the long drive.”

  She side-eyed him. “I didn’t mean literally.”

  His grin warmed her to her cold toes. “Where do you think her mother is?” he asked.

  “Good question.” Her shoulders sagged. “Can you imagine coming home to learn your mother has been murdered?” The second the words left her mouth, she wanted to take them back. Truman had found his uncle’s murdered body.

  “In a way, I can.”

  “Oh, Truman. I wasn’t thinking.” She took his hand as they walked, squeezing tightly. Jefferson Biggs had been more than an uncle to Truman; he’d been a surrogate father. His death was part of the FBI’s domestic terrorism case that had brought Mercy back to Eagle’s Nest after fifteen years away.

  “It’s all right.” He didn’t look at her, his jaw tight. “I miss him sometimes. He would have loved this hidden property in the middle of the woods.”

  “Yes, he would.” Jefferson had subscribed to Mercy’s bone-deep philosophy about being prepared for disaster. Any disaster.

  Mercy stepped through the open door of the barn and breathed deep. Hay, grain, dirt floors, warm animals. The scents triggered warm memories of her youth. Morrigan was in a pen with three pygmy goats, holding one on her lap, scratching its horn nubs as it rubbed its head on her coat. The goat was in ecstasy.

  Nothing heals a broken heart like an animal.

  “They’re down there.” Morrigan pointed at the far end of the barn. “I’m not allowed in that room.”

  “How come?” asked Truman.

  “I might break something.” She looked down and rubbed under the goat’s chin. “But sometimes I go in and look. I’m very careful not to touch,” she confessed in a softer voice. “Mom doesn’t want me getting sick either.”

  “Why would you get sick?” Mercy asked.

  The girl frowned as she considered the question. “Some of the stuff in there is bad. Like in the knife room. But I would never touch or taste anything. I know better.”

  Mercy turned to Truman. What the hell? she asked with her gaze.

  He shrugged.

  They approached the room, Mercy feeling curiosity along with a strong sense of caution. “Detective Bolton?”

  “Yeah?” he said from around the corner.

  Exasperation rang in his tone. No doubt he’d thought she’d leave after his directive.

  “Don’t touch anything,” she said as she stepped through the entrance. “Morrigan said she’s been warned she could get sick from . . .” She and Truman stopped and gaped.

  Mercy hadn’t believed anything could surprise her more than the knife room. If the knife room was from a horror movie, this room was from a hobbit fantasy world.

  The small work space was wider than the tight knife closet in the house, but it had a similar workbench, and shelves lined all sides of the room. Most were packed with tiny houses and buildings. Bolton and the deputy stood in the center, hands on their hips, scanning the fairy world.

  “Do elves live in here?” Truman asked as he stared.

  “Haven’t seen any yet,” answered Bolton. “But what in here could make someone sick?”

  “Maybe it’s in those.” Mercy pointed. A dozen large glass jars of powders and dried herbs sat on a shelf below a metal strip holding two dozen knives, awls, and other carving tools. A wooden box with small satin drawstring bags sat under the shelf on the workbench. Next to the box was a stack of tiny cards, each one covered with elaborate cursive handwriting. Mercy peered at one. “Burn one tablespoon of the physic at midnight for five nights in a row,” she read aloud. “Any left over after five nights must be buried two feet deep.” A satin ribbon was threaded through a small hole in the corner of the card. Easy to fasten to a small satin bag. Spells?

  “What the hell?” Bolton said. “These might be poisonous, but she’s giving them to people?”

  “I suspect she’s selling them,” said Mercy. She stepped back and studied the shelves behind her, stunned and delighted by the sight. The wall was full of eight-inch-high houses made out of hollow logs, with decorative windows and doors, sitting on beds of dried moss. She spotted one tiny building that appeared to be a miniature greenhouse made of small glass panels. Carefully carved flowers blossomed inside. Some of the buildings had straw roofs; others had roofs carved to look like mushroom caps. A lower shelf held tiny homes covered in seashells sitting on beds of sand.

  “These are amazing,” she whispered. “Can you imagine the work that went into each one?”

  “She must sell the homes online,” Truman stated. “You think she sells spells there too?” he asked, pointing at the satin bags and handwritten cards.

  Mercy nodded, but didn’t take her gaze from the rows of fairy homes. Two had been made out of old china teapots. The child in her wanted to open their tiny wood doors and peek inside. Christmas-themed homes fil
led one corner of the room. Reds and greens and snow decorated the houses hollowed out of logs. She grinned at one log that stood upright, a grumpy face carved into the bark. Someone had seen the potential in the pattern of the bark and brought it to life. A cranky wood nymph.

  Bolton moved one of the note cards with his pen to look at another. “For two weeks, rub salve into bottoms of feet and immediately put on socks,” he read. “What kind of garbage is she selling?”

  “Hopes and dreams,” answered Mercy. “Desperate people will try anything. But these homes are incredibly detailed . . . and very well done. I’d pay money for one if I was into that sort of thing.”

  She noticed a face peek around the corner of the entrance. “It’s okay, Morrigan. We’re just looking.”

  The girl moved to stand in the doorway. “My mom isn’t going to like this.” Her worried glance bounced among the four of them as she nervously flexed her fingers.

  “I think she’ll understand that we’re looking for any clues to who hurt your grandmother.” Mercy set one hand on her shoulder. “And I think we’re done in here.” She raised a brow in question to Bolton, who nodded.

  “I’ll get a tech to check the blades,” he said.

  Morrigan still looked upset.

  “Can you introduce me to your goats?” Mercy asked. “We had pygmy goats when I was a kid. They’re the best.”

  She nodded and reluctantly turned away.

  Mercy glanced over her shoulder at the three men. “We need to find her mother.”

  Could she be our killer?

  For Morrigan’s sake, she prayed it wasn’t true.

  As Mercy left with Morrigan, Truman turned to Bolton. “What’s been done to find the mother?”

  “I have someone filling out a request to her cellular provider to get her phone records and last location. No one answers at her number, and the voice mail is full. I also put out a BOLO on her vehicle.”

  “What is it?”

  “A green Subaru Forester. Eight years old.”

  “Morrigan wasn’t any help with location?”

  Bolton grimaced. “Sounds like the mother travels quite a bit and leaves her home alone with the grandmother. She doesn’t know where she goes or when she’ll be back.”

  “Poor kid. What’s her mother’s name?”

  “Salome Sabin.”

  The hair stood up on Truman’s arms. “Salome?” he said softly.

  Interest lit in Bolton’s eyes. “Know her?”

  “No. Well, maybe . . . It was two decades ago . . . if it’s her. That’s not a name you hear very often.”

  “I Googled it,” Bolton said. “It’s a Bible name. Salome demanded the head of John the Baptist and had a reputation for being dangerously seductive. Who names their kid after someone like that?”

  “Good question,” Truman muttered. Tiny pricks of pain sparked in the two-month-old burns on his neck and he rubbed them, careful not to scratch. Although the burns from an arsonist’s barn explosion looked healed, he knew from experience they might bug him for a year.

  It can’t be the same woman.

  But in his lifetime, how many women had he met with that name? One. And he’d met her in Deschutes County.

  He’d never known her last name. He’d been nineteen, drunk, and high on adrenaline as he and his friends crashed a party at a farmhouse outside of town. He hadn’t known whose house it was, but the rumor that the owners were out of town for the weekend and the son had a few kegs of beer was enough to bring in partiers from twenty miles away.

  Salome had dark, sexy eyes and a voluptuous body that drew the attention of every person in the room—even the girls. But their looks were catty and dismissive, and they turned their backs as Salome walked—no, glided—by. She oozed sex and danger as she prowled the room. She was older, he would learn later. Twenty-one. To him she seemed untouchable and out of his league.

  A challenge.

  “Stay away from that one,” Mike Bevins had said to Truman in a low voice, but his fierce gaze hung on her every move, claiming he wanted to do the opposite.

  “Who is she?” Truman asked, keeping an air of disinterest in his voice, though his gaze was glued to her like Mike’s. Along with every other guy’s.

  “Trouble.”

  “That doesn’t tell me anything.”

  “The last guy who dated her got in a bad car wreck the night he dumped her.”

  “So?” Truman took a sip of beer from his red plastic cup.

  “They say you shouldn’t cross her.”

  Mike was talking in circles.

  “She seeing anyone now?”

  “Jesus, Truman. Aren’t you listening?”

  “You aren’t making sense. Why should I stay away?”

  Mike took a long draw on his beer, wiped his lips, and turned unsteady eyes on Truman. “It’s not good for your health if you make her mad. Sooner or later everyone breaks it off. You want to stay on her good side.”

  He’s still talking bullshit.

  “You just don’t want me to try,” Truman said. “Afraid I’ll succeed?” He took another drink and searched for her. Heavily lined brown eyes met his. She smiled and heat raced through his veins.

  “Keep it in your pants,” ordered Mike. “Really, dude. She’s bad news.” He glanced from side to side and then leaned closer to Truman. “They say she’s a witch. Her mother was a witch and her grandmother was a witch.”

  “That’s a bunch of bullshit.” Promises and pleasure filled her eyes. Truman couldn’t look away.

  He took a gulp of liquid courage. “I gotta give it shot.” He left Mike protesting in his wake as he crossed the room.

  “Truman. Truman.” Bolton stared at him.

  Truman focused on the detective. “Sorry. Was trying to remember . . . where I might have met her. I was just a kid,” he hastily added.

  “Remember anything useful that could help us find her today?” Bolton looked skeptical.

  “No. Sorry.”

  Truman noticed the Deschutes deputy bent over with his face close to one of the Christmas houses, his finger an inch away from a dangling wreath on the tiny door.

  “Don’t touch anything,” ordered Bolton.

  The deputy jerked upright. “I wasn’t going to.” Guilt flushed his face. “Anyone else feel light-headed in here? There’s a smell of dried moss or something weird that’s getting to me. It’s like I took a hit off a joint. Or maybe it’s the tight quarters.”

  Truman suddenly felt the same. He scanned the childlike homes. What else are they made of?

  “I feel it,” said Bolton. “Everyone out.”

  Outside the room Truman welcomed the healthy animal scents, and Bolton rubbed his eyes. “Think there’s something hallucinogenic in there?” Bolton asked. “Did you feel that?”

  “I felt something. Could just be stale air or maybe an allergy,” suggested Truman.

  “Something all of us are allergic to?” Bolton was unconvinced. “Something is in there. I’ll warn the crime scene techs.” He glanced at Truman. “Probably time for you to get back to work. Tell Mercy to head home too. She’s been up all night.”

  “She won’t leave until CPS gets here.” Truman spotted her in a pen with Morrigan, who was tying a pink bow around a black goat’s ear. Three tiny goats pushed and shoved one another to reach the handful of feed on Mercy’s palm, delighting her. Her laughter bounced off the dusty rafters.

  The sound stripped his soul bare, warming him. He’d burn bridges and trudge across a desert for her. He was blessed to have her in his life. Was it love? Hell yes.

  Truman turned back to the detective, who eyed him with a touch of envy.

  Outside, the crackle of tires on packed snow announced the arrival of another vehicle.

  “Maybe we got lucky and that’ll be the CPS agent,” Bolton stated.

  I’ve been lucky for the last four months.

  SIX

  The arriving car had belonged to the CPS agent. Mercy had grilled the ple
asant woman before allowing her to take Morrigan. Truman had given props to the agent, who’d smiled all through Mercy’s interrogation. Morrigan liked the woman and was interested in meeting a ten-year-old girl who lived in the home where she’d wait until her mother turned up. After they left, Mercy drove home to shower and nap. Truman went back to work.

  “Augustus McGee wants you to meet him at the diner,” Lucas announced as Truman entered the Eagle’s Nest police station.

  Truman stopped, his cowboy hat in hand, halfway to its hook. Augustus was a town busybody. “Why doesn’t he come here?”

  “You know why.”

  “Really? He won’t step foot in the office?”

  “It’s a government building. That’s enough reason for the old coot.”

  “Sheesh. What’s he want?”

  “He was all secretive and wouldn’t say, but he claims it’s related to your case from this morning.”

  Olivia Sabin’s death was the only case. It wasn’t his case, but he couldn’t imagine what else Augustus could be referring to.

  “I’ll be back in half an hour.” Truman put his hat back on and zipped his coat. He’d planned to research Olivia and Salome Sabin at his desk, but it’d have to wait. At least he could grab a late lunch.

  “Half hour. Right. If you’re fortunate.” Lucas’s grin nearly split his face. “Have fun, boss.”

  The bright sun in the intense blue sky lied to him about the temperature as Truman strode toward the diner, two blocks down the street. The sun promised eighty degrees, not the actual frigid twenty-one. Summer wouldn’t be here for another five months.

  Through the diner’s window he spotted a balding head with crazy gray tufts of hair above its ears. Augustus was waiting. Truman sighed and decided to tell Augustus up front that he had only a half hour for lunch. When Augustus had parked in a fire zone, their conversation had lasted nearly two hours. Augustus claimed he was a freeman. Several times the sovereign citizen had told Truman the police department didn’t have jurisdiction over his person. Truman had an image of Augustus walking around in a huge bubble where no government agency had any authority, but apparently if Augustus had information to share, he’d deign to speak with a cop.