On Borrowed Crime Page 5

  But Mother had succeeded in planting a seed of doubt. I traveled down the path of thinking maybe something was wrong with me. The notion fueled my desire to study psychology. My need to understand the human mind was derivative of needing to understand myself.

  Quinn Daniels, our chief of police, and I were close at the time. If anyone could understand my need to find answers regarding the criminal psyche, I believed he would. Wrong. It got ugly; our breakup really messed with my head, and I neglected my studies.

  I began working in retail and reading a lot. Books became my escape—my saving grace. Our book club started shortly after, and the idea that I was the town freak no longer dominated my thoughts.

  Goose bumps erupted on my skin, and I succumbed to a full-body shiver as I thought of Carol. What kind of monster had done that to her? Had she cried out and hoped for rescue? Had she suffered? Too painful to focus on, so I shoved it from my mind and concentrated on why she ended up at my house. Perhaps the police had some leads. I should call Quinn. I had a reason to now. We’d given each other a wide berth around town—nothing official or unfriendly. But I still expected Chief Quinn Daniels to have shown up when he heard the address of the crime scene. His absence stung a little.

  The clock read nearly three AM now. I put my earbuds in and turned on “Weightless,” by Marconi Union, from my music app, with the hope that it would fulfill its promise to lower my heart rate and help me drift off to a peaceful slumber. But that didn’t happen.

  Chapter Six

  That morning at seven, I snuck down the back steps. I smoothed out my high, sleek ponytail. I’d taken my time applying my makeup and fixing my hair. Despite what I’d said to Mother last night about the foolishness of worrying about superficial things, the ritual gave me a sense of normalcy—something I desperately needed. Not only because of the loss of my friend, but because I’d begun to believe, before sleep claimed me, I might’ve actually seen the killer.

  I took one of Daddy’s travel mugs from the cabinet and made myself a giant cup of black coffee to combat the exhaustion that had settled deep in my bones. Then took the dome off the beautiful platter of pastries mother bought and popped a couple of chocolate croissants into a brown paper bag. A sugar rush wouldn’t hurt.

  When I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass of the cabinet, I frowned and used my fingers to pat under my eyes. I’d tried my best to cover my dark circles. I applied a little extra highlighter for good measure.

  “Lyla,” Mother called over the intercom, “are you down there?”

  “No!” I called up the stairs, and with a smirk, I opened the back door and escaped.

  The sun dominated the bright blue sky and shone through the canopy of limbs overhead as I drove up the scenic road toward historic downtown. In a few weeks, the view would be breathtaking. Gorgeous hues—reds, golds, and burnt orange—would cover the landscape. Sweet Mountain would be gearing up for our annual fall festival. Venders and food trucks would line the square. The scent of hot chocolate, popcorn, and caramel-covered apples would permeate the air. Life would go on. It always had and always would. The notion that the world continued to turn despite our troubles insulted yet comforted. The dichotomy gave one perspective.

  I rounded the vacant square that housed a mixture of brick and concrete storefronts that came alive around ten. The businesses here had signs alerting tourists, as well as residents of Sweet Mountain, they weren’t open for business until late morning. Quite literally, the signs read “Open around 10ish.” We didn’t have a single chain establishment in our downtown district, and the city council planned to keep it that way. To quote Daddy, it was one of the things that kept our town Mayberry-esque.

  When our sleepy town woke, there were dozens of delightful shops to discover and delicious restaurants, ranging from Mexican to fine Southern dining, to enjoy. We also had a couple of fun bars, coffee shops, the Smart family cookie shop, wine and spice shops, and a theater where local talent performed musicals, and concerts. Sweet Mountain embodied the sense of small-town living, and everyone here valued our community. Homicides were something we read about in our papers—the reason most folks chose to stay put and not venture into the city of Atlanta except for business or to catch a game.

  The Mayberry essence of Sweet Mountain also made it so difficult to wrap my head around what had happened to Carol. That someone among us could do something so wholly heinous baffled me. In our community, children rode their bikes in their neighborhoods without worry. Some walked to school, and most folks didn’t lock their doors. The winds of change blew.

  I parallel parked Mother’s Cadillac in front of the small brick office Cousins Investigative Services rented, located between Smart Cookie and the William Miles Salon, where my fabulous hairstylist and good friend rented a chair. The building, built in 1920, retained its old-world charm, even with the modern renovations from five years prior. The sweet smell of baked goods wafting over from my friend’s cookie shop made me grateful for the breakfast I had as I unlocked the glass door and flipped on the lights.

  The office was a fifteen-hundred-square-foot functional space. We had exposed brick walls with tan painted columns. The ceiling had been painted black to hide the exposed ductwork and beams. The floors were original hardwood, and I’d hung up some abstract art and added a couple of large floor plants to improve the feel of the space.

  After I restocked the coffee station, I sat down at my small, industrial, carruca office desk, opened the laptop, and put my cell on charge beside me.

  I’d received messages from each of the Jane Does. I didn’t know what to say yet, so I wouldn’t return any of the calls.

  I pulled up my news feed and searched “Carol Timms.”

  “Local Woman Found Dead at the Home of a Resident of Mountain View Commons Townhome Community.” I clicked the link.

  The police are searching for answers to how a local woman, Carol Timms, ended up dead in a resident’s townhome early Tuesday morning. Mrs. Timms had been reported missing several days ago, and her 2019 BMW 750i was found in the Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport parking lot. Judge David Timms is pressing the authorities for answers. Local law enforcement did not comment except to remind the community the investigation is ongoing.

  Meticulously scanning the article, I found no mention of the suitcase or Mel’s or my name. The door swung open, and as if summoned, in she breezed, wearing her pink apron tied at the waist, with her beautiful honey-blonde hair with those amazing highlights expertly blended throughout her curls. She’d bound them up in a high ponytail, and her mane trailed down to the middle of her back. The gods had gifted Mel with a perfectly proportioned frame and with a metabolism I’d dreamed of having.

  She adjusted the top of her apron strap, situating the giant cookie in the middle, embroidered in white with “Smart Cookie,” at the top of the apron. “You see the article on your feed this morning?”

  “I just Googled it.”

  “I’m still in shock.” She flung herself in one of the three chairs against the wall and crossed her legs. “I couldn’t sleep last night.” She scrubbed her face with her fingers. “I kept seeing her.”

  “Same.”

  She dropped her hands to her lap. “Who could’ve done that to her? It freaks me out the effort it’d take to crumple her up to fit in a suitcase. Does your uncle know anything?”

  “No, he doesn’t. And I have no idea about the significance of the suitcase. According to the article, her car was found at the airport. The BMW I saw her in belonged to her. She obviously bought a new car, one her husband didn’t know about.”

  Mel’s eye’s widened.

  I leaned forward. “I also know Daddy was treating her because Gran snooped in her file.”

  She sat up straighter, and her mouth gaped.

  “Don’t ask.” I shook my head. “From what I gathered, and bearing in mind this is completely reliant on Gran’s memory, Carol was experiencing bouts of paranoia and fear of dying. To add
to the drama, Gran heard from her friend at the senior center, a man closely related to the Timms, that Carol was having an affair. Someone spotted her coming out of the cheap motel right at the I-85 entrance.”

  “Rumors, huh.” Mel glanced off, looking thoughtful.

  “Rumors notwithstanding, it must hold some validity. Rumors usually do.”

  Mel nodded, chewing on her bottom lip. “I agree. “People do crazy things sometimes. And don’t forget about her research regarding the dumping grounds. Those bodies found up I-85. That guy in the car could have something to do with that.”

  Mel and I were so in sync it was spooky.

  “True.” I swallowed. “I think Carol would be dismayed if we didn’t at least point out the potential connection. And her fears could’ve easily stemmed from getting involved in all that.” My fingers got moving over the keyboard. I searched the keywords “dumping grounds.”

  The door swung open, and Melanie’s cousin popped her head inside. “Mel, you about done?”

  Melanie leaped to her feet and checked her watch. “Sorry. I just meant to sit for a second. I’m coming now.”

  “Hey, Lyla. You okay? Awful about poor Carol.”

  I glanced up at the shorter woman, about ten years older than Melanie and myself. She had dishwater-brown hair and a round face with rosy cheeks. “Hey, Teresa. It’s kinda hit me hard, you know?”

  Teresa furrowed her brows, “I bet. It’s crazy how you and Melanie found her.”

  “Terrifying, actually.” Mel readjusted her apron.

  “You’re telling me. With some nutcase on the loose, I’m not letting my kids play in the backyard by themselves until they catch this guy. And I bet you my next two paychecks that when they catch the guy, he’s one of those released from Fulton County Corrections because of overcrowding.” Her brows furrowed even more tightly. “It just makes me sick. I’m even thinking about investing in one of those trained watchdogs and having Tommy keep his shotguns loaded.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  She shivered and tapped her wrist where a watch would be. “I’ve gotta run.”

  Mel took the hint. “Two secs.”

  “Okay. Take care, Lyla.”

  The door closed.

  “She doesn’t know about the suitcase or any of the specifics. I found myself choking over the words and couldn’t share it.” Melanie moved to the door. “I guess we better decide if we’re going to let the others in on the gritty details. Maybe we should call an emergency meeting of the Jane Does.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But I’m not sure the police would want us to share everything. The journalist kept the specifics out of the paper.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. They should’ve said something. Besides, if the club keeps it quiet, it shouldn’t pose a problem to the investigation.”

  “Have you spoken to anyone in the group?”

  She shook her head. “See ya. Let me know what else you find.”

  Chapter Seven

  I’d just hit “Save” when Uncle Calvin came in. I’d collated all the documents Carol had shared, plus a few more detailed reports, and compiled them into one file. It surprised me, the amount of information the authorities were releasing to the public, complete with images and old police reports. The call for help from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, asking the general public to identify the victims of the dumping grounds, told me resources were scarce. No wonder since some of the cases spanned years. The victims were found a short drive from Sweet Mountain. A plea was on a local news Facebook page entitled, “Do You Know This Jane Doe?” And I applauded the GBI’s efforts to seek help in the identification process. Using the public could prove advantageous.

  I set my tablet on the desk as my uncle made himself a cup of coffee.

  “How was it after I left?”

  I shrugged. “It was fine. Hopefully, I won’t be at home for long.” I gently shook the paper bag. “The perks are pretty great. I have two chocolate croissants. Want one?”

  He waved off my offer; his mannerisms were remarkably similar to Mother’s. He and Mother favored each other considerably. He had the same-shaped emerald eyes that shone like gemstones, big round orbs that reminded me of those paintings of big-eyed dolls. I’d never known my maternal side of the family other than my much-younger aunt Elizabeth, born when Mother and Calvin were teenagers, my grandmother’s only child with her second husband. I’d only seen my grandmother on major holidays. It’d been obvious she hadn’t cared much for children. The only thing I had from my late grandmother was a custom necklace she’d had made for me. She’d had one made for Ellen as well, and had given them to us one Christmas when we were very young, about a year before she passed away.

  “You never told me how the meeting went in Atlanta.”

  “We got the job. It’ll mean some travel, but it’s well worth it.”

  “That’s terrific.” I tried to sound upbeat. Great news for the company was always welcome.

  Calvin nodded. “Sit down for a minute, Lyla.” He stirred the creamer into his coffee, and I began to get butterflies when he wouldn’t meet my gaze. “I’ve been in touch with Chief Daniels already this morning.”

  Chief Daniels sounds so formal, I thought.

  “They’re planning to perform an autopsy on the victim.”

  The victim. A lump formed in my throat.

  “Don’t worry. There wasn’t any evidence recovered from your house other than the body. There are a lot of prints on the suitcase. They’re running what they can through the database.” He shrugged as if the process was futile. “Your alibi and timeline check out.”

  “My alibi?” I mumbled numbly. Of course, they’d need to check my alibi. Being completely caught up in the tragedy of the event, I’d neglected to see how it all appeared to the police. I willed my brain to catch up.

  “It’s standard procedure.”

  I nodded. “Yes, I understand. It just sounds strange to hear it out loud in regard to me.”

  “Understandable.” He cleared his throat.

  My pulse quickened. “What?”

  “You will be questioned again about Melanie.”

  I squinted at him, struggling to process what he was explaining.

  “There’s some discrepancy with her timeline.” He shook his head. “I don’t have all the details, and mind you the chief only gave me a heads-up out of professional curtesy. To protect you, I believe.”

  “Hold on.” I waved my hands in a warding-off motion. “What are you telling me?”

  “Don’t withhold information. Not even for your friend. I’m not saying I believe Melanie had anything to do with Carol’s death. I’m just saying—”

  “Whoa! Mel was out of town when the bag was delivered.”

  “Her plane got in the morning before.”

  “That can’t be! She took a cab from the airport to my house.” Didn’t she?

  “I’m afraid not. Not all her movements are accounted for, but on this we’re certain. There was no mix-up. Her departure from the plane is recorded.

  I raised my eyebrows. “How?” Hartsfield was ginormous, and I had a hard time believing they could track Melanie in the masses.

  Calvin nodded as the corner of his mouth turned up. “She’s on tape arguing with the flight attendant for ten minutes, and it’s time stamped.”

  I could imagine that clearly. When Mel got worked up, she tended to gesticulate wildly. Her explosive personality lent itself to making a scene. “Okay.” I racked my brain to try to unravel the mystery as to why Mel would withhold that information from me and where she’d gone after leaving the airport.

  “They’re searching footage to see if they were able to make a positive ID on Mrs. Timms and see if she may have crossed paths with Melanie. Anyone could’ve dropped her car off at the parking lot.”

  And by “anyone,” I took that to mean the killer. “They’ll talk to Mel again. Maybe she was just thrown by discovering Carol, and left something out.”
But why would she neglect to confide in me? “Did you speak with the judge?”

  Calvin shook his head. “Are you sure Melanie didn’t tell you more? You aren’t keeping anything from me out of loyalty, right?’

  I swallowed. “No. I’m telling you there is some mix-up. Mel will straighten it out. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”

  “Let’s hope so. What worries me is why someone left her outside your door. Have you thought any more about her passenger and perhaps recalled more?”

  “I’ve thought of little else.” I rubbed between my neck and shoulder. “But no, nothing more has come to mind concerning the identity of the person. And that person certainly wasn’t Melanie.”

  “I’m not saying it was. I’ve known Melanie all her life. I don’t believe she’s involved. All I’m cautioning is for neither one of you to hide anything. I’m sure the judge will put pressure on the police force to work speedily.” He sipped from his mug. “He obviously believes someone abducted her.”

  I nodded. “Did Quinn mention anything else?”

  “They’re running a multitude of leads at this point. One of special interest was an inheritance Carol was to receive. Money is a powerful motivator for murder.”

  “An inheritance? From?”

  Calvin shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “So,” I said, studying him, “the abduction could have something to do with money? Was there a ransom call?”

  “I don’t have the answers to those questions. I highly doubt there was a ransom call. The police would’ve been prepared for the discovery then.”

  I fiddled with my hands in my lap as I digested this new information.

  “When you arrived home, are you sure you didn’t see anything out of the ordinary before you went inside?”

  “Other than Kevin and Ellen, you mean?” I wrinkled my nose in distaste. “I certainly didn’t spot anyone skulking around my house when I got home, but I’ll admit, after being blindsided by those two, I was preoccupied. I would’ve checked the luggage tag if I hadn’t been.”