9:30 p.m.
Mitch Burns had gone over it a million times in his head, examined the choices from every possible angle. But it didn’t matter. He was still at a complete loss when it came to the final decision.
Should he stay until Friday, follow through on the commitment he’d made to Jonathan and the kids in the camp? Or should he get the first flight back to New Jersey in the morning and take the lead on the Daltry murder investigation?
“I understand if you need to go, Mitch. These kids seem to be a really attentive bunch, which’ll make covering things by myself a whole lot easier.” Jonathan Moore moved the small rectangular cloth back and forth across his work boot, adding an occasional drop of spit when necessary. “I’m sure I can get one of the young guys to come over in the morning and help with P.T., and I can handle the investigative sections.”
Mitch stared unseeingly at the coffee table beneath his feet, his mind processing Jonathan’s offer. It was true. One of the rookies from Jonathan’s old department could surely handle the physical training exercises. And Jonathan had way more experience in police work than Mitch. But it was about more than who could cover which aspect. In the past two days, he’d clicked with the kids in this group, admired the drive they had to learn more about law enforcement. Sure, his leaving unexpectedly to lead an investigation would give them a taste of how life-encompassing police work could be, but sticking it out and seeing the camp through would teach them something equally important.
He glanced at the clock on the mantel and pulled his cell phone from his waistband. “I’ve got to call Elise, see how she’s doing. Maybe hearing her voice will give me the kick I need to decide what to do—one way or the other.”
Jonathan nodded, a smile pulling at the right side of his mouth. “That’s what a good woman will do for you.” He set his right shoe down, picked up the left. “Send my love and tell her I’ll be seeing her soon.”
“Seeing her soon? What are you talking about?”
The cloth ceased its back-and-forth motion momentarily. “Uhh,” Jonathan cleared his throat, “you are getting married in October, aren’t you?”
Mitch flipped the phone open, his gaze fixed on the brunette smiling back at him from her place on the tiny screen. “We sure are. And it can’t come soon enough for me.” He studied Elise’s almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, and whole-face smile. “Hey, mind if I sit in the kitchen to make this call?”
Jonathan waved away the question with a boot-clad hand. “Not at all. I wouldn’t want to talk to my girlfriend with some old goat listening either.”
“You’re not a goat.” Mitch waited in the doorway, certain his response would elicit a comment.
“I said old goat.” Jonathan stopped shining his boot again, cocked a salt-and-pepper eyebrow toward the ceiling.
“I’m aware of that, sir.” He tried to duck out of the way in time, but Jonathan was a precision shot—whether he was using a rifle or a pack of gum. “Jesus, what’s in that stuff?”
“Old goat power, that’s what.”
“Point noted.” Mitch tossed the gum back across the room and ducked into the dimly lit kitchen, eager to hear Elise’s voice in his ear. He missed her. A lot.
He clicked on her name in his address book, waited as the line connected and the ringing started. One . . . two . . . three . . . Double-checking his wristwatch, his hand instinctively tightened on the phone as two more rings passed. Had she forgotten to tell him about a meeting she needed to cover or an interview she’d lined up? Or was there something wrong?
It amazed him how fast his mind jumped to the teacher’s murder and the fact that he was too far away to look after Elise himself. Even though it appeared to be a classic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, a killer was still out there, free.
He was debating on whether to call the department and ask them to keep an eye out for Elise’s car, when he heard her warm, sweet voice in his ear.
“Hi, Mitch.”
He closed his eyes, relief chasing away the tension that had begun to grip his body. “Hey, ’Lise. You okay?”
“I am now.”
She was so sweet, so candid with her feelings. He’d never known anyone like Elise Jenkins, doubted he ever would again. She was one of a kind.
His one of a kind.
He leaned against the countertop, tried to imagine her in his arms. God, how he missed that feeling. “I assume you know what’s going on at the college?”
She sighed softly in his ear, her voice tired and hushed when she answered. “I do. Mindy gave me a heads-up. It’s so sad, so horribly sad. She was such a vivacious, passionate woman.”
His stomach lurched. “You knew the victim?”
“Hannah Daltry was my creative writing teacher.”
Mitch ran his free hand across his face and through his hair. “Ah, geez, baby, I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”
“Reality is I knew very little about her. It’s hard to truly know someone in the span of about twenty minutes. But she was so enthusiastic about writing, so passionate about what she did.” Elise paused for a moment, her hitched breath audible through the phone. “She gave us a writing example when we left on Saturday. Something she wrote about an experience from her childhood. It was amazing from the very first sentence.”
He pushed at an empty spoon cradle with his hand. “Chief Maynard was in touch within moments of the initial reports, filling me in on what they knew. I know I’m far away right now, but you need to know I’m on top of this.”
“Oh, sweetie, I know. In fact, I told a woman on campus that you guys would figure this out.”
He felt a smile spread across his face. Elise had that affect on him. With just a few simple words she could make him feel like Superman.
“And we will.” He exhaled slowly through pursed lips, the decision he’d been struggling to make becoming clearer with each passing moment. “I think I’m gonna head out of here tomorrow.”
“What? Why? You’ve been looking forward to helping Jonathan with this camp for weeks.”
He nodded to himself. “I was. And it’s been great. But the guys in the department aren’t ready for a murder investigation. I need to be there to make sure it’s done right.”
“Can’t you just get the reports faxed to you there—tell the guys here what to do in the meantime? It’s only three and a half more days.”
She always made so much sense. Made him slow down, think. One more quality that fit with him perfectly.
“You feel okay without me?” He crossed his ankles, leaned his head against the cabinet.
“I miss you like crazy, Mitch. But if you mean whether I feel safe—yeah, I do. I truly believe Ms. Daltry was murdered because whoever broke into the school to steal the computers wasn’t expecting anyone else to be in the building.”
“I think you’re probably right.”
“I just wish she’d managed to go unnoticed like she did thirty-five years ago.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll show you when you get home on Friday.” Her voice changed, the quiet sadness giving way to an almost teasing lilt. “Guess what’s in my hand right now?”
He laughed. “Saltwater taffy?”
“Mitch!”
“Like that’s out of the realm of possibility?”
Her sweet giggle made him laugh again. “You know me too well, Detective Burns.”
“Never too well.” He pushed off the counter and walked over to the window above the sink, looked out at the blackness of the night. “So, what are you holding?”
“I’m not sure I should tell you now,” she teased.
“Tell me.” He’d missed her the moment he’d said good-bye at the airport, thought about her countless times since, but suddenly the missing turned to pure ache.
“Invitation samples.”
“Awesome. Can’t wait to see them. Can’t wait to be your husband.”
• • •
Reluctantly, Elise placed the phone in its base and leaned her head against the back of the couch. Three days apart seemed like a lifetime . . .
Her watery gaze instinctively sought out the silver-framed photograph perched on the wicker end table. The snapshot had been taken at the end of their trip to Mackinac Island, her Uncle Ken capturing Mitch’s face just as she’d accepted his marriage proposal—the joy in his eyes frozen in time, the raw emotion forever embedded in her heart.
“Oh, Mitch, I miss you so much,” she whispered into the empty room. The words seemed to hang in the air, waiting for a response that wouldn’t come.
She’d have given anything to have him home early, to be in his arms by this time tomorrow. But Mitch had been so excited to help Jonathan, so eager to spend time with a man who’d become like a surrogate father to him ever since they’d worked together on the Mackinac Island killings in January. The last thing she would ever do was get in the way of their growing bond. Besides, it was only three and a half more days, right?
She closed her eyes, imagined Mitch as he’d been at the airport Friday afternoon. Locked in an embrace near the security line, his aftershave had smelled so good, so enticing. But she knew it wasn’t his smell that made passing women glance in Mitch’s direction, two and three times.
Mitch Burns was hard to miss. Close to six-feet-four, his athletic body had looked oh so fine in kaki dress pants and a white button-down shirt. His hazel eyes had searched her face lovingly as he bent down to kiss her, their golden flecks twinkling as he smiled. In return, she’d run her hands through his thick brown hair, enjoying the slight wave beneath her fingers.
He was so handsome, so strong . . .
Inhaling slowly, deliberately, she willed herself to get it together, to turn her spiraling mood around. Pouting wasn’t going to make Friday come any faster.
She pushed the tropical blue throw pillow off her lap and reached for the packet of invitation samples on the floor beside her feet. The selection was mind-blowing. Never in her wildest imagination could she have imagined how many different fonts, colors, details, graphics and borders there were to choose from in creating a wedding invitation. And depending on the combination chosen, the resulting effect could be flashy, overdone, delicately subtle, or just plain boring.
She ran the pad of her index finger across the lacelike embossing on a pale pink card. The color was all wrong, but the detail and the cursive font were attractive, memorable. Definitely one worth showing Mitch when he returned.
In just the eight weeks that had passed since he popped the question, they’d managed to accomplish a lot. The ceremony itself would be held at St. Theresa’s on October fifteenth, Father Leahy presiding.
The gymnasium of the school had been reserved for the reception and Mitch’s Aunt Betty was already in full-blown craft mode, determined to hand-make each and every centerpiece for the tables. Uncle Ken’s fiancée, Sophie, had even jumped in on the preparations by volunteering to make the wedding favors herself—tiny scrapbook albums documenting Elise and Mitch’s relationship since the beginning.
Choosing the invitations, hiring a caterer, and finding the perfect wedding dress were the only major tasks left.
She rubbed her eyes and yawned, the stress of the day finally taking its toll. Setting the invitation samples on top of the manila envelope, Elise stretched her arms above her head and squinted at the microwave clock through the pass-through.
10:54.
She grabbed the remote off the armrest and pointed it at the television. Another ten minutes wouldn’t kill her. Besides, she was curious about the Daltry murder segment.
The closing credits for some cop show were pushed to the left side of the screen as Doug Fox, the channel five anchor, appeared on the right.
“Less than one year after a string of murders rocked the quiet town of Ocean Point, another victim is found. Stay with us, News 5 at eleven starts in thirty seconds.”
“Ugggh.” Shaking her head, she grabbed for her purse and extracted a small blue notebook and ballpoint pen. She flipped the cover open and made a notation across the first empty page.
*Constant need to drag up the fortune-teller murders even when the current crime has nothing whatsoever to do with it.
Was it any wonder why Jacob Brown was still so bitter? Healing was difficult when reminders were constant.
As she waited for Doug’s overly made-up face to reappear on the screen, she said a silent prayer of thanks for Sam.
Her one hesitation about journalism had always been the sensationalism aspect of the profession. It was against everything she believed. But the drive to write, the drive to report had been so strong, so overpowering, she’d finally decided to see it through . . . under one condition. She’d never compromise her principles to get a story. Even if it meant losing job after job.
Fortunately, she’d met Sam. Who believed what she believed.
“Good evening. The beachside town of Ocean Point, New Jersey, was the scene of yet another murder this morning.”
Hannah Daltry’s face filled the screen as the anchor’s voice continued. “The body of Hannah Daltry, a tenured professor at Ocean Point Community College, was discovered in an empty classroom this morning by two of her students.”
The camera switched to a field reporter stationed in front of the building where the teacher’s body had been discovered, nothing visible at this late hour except a few sidewalk lights.
“Good evening, Doug. I’m here outside the Flora Building at Ocean Point Community College. Quiet now, this campus was teaming with police officers and bewildered students just twelve hours ago.”
She kept her eyes on the screen as one student after the other appeared, eager to recount their relationship with the victim.
“Everyone wants their fifteen seconds of fame.” The words escaped her mouth as she pushed the red button on the remote and watched the picture fade to blackness. It never ceased to amaze her how the news shows could reduce a crime like murder to an event worthy of front-page status on a supermarket tabloid.
Her gaze fell on the writing sample Ms. Daltry had handed her just two days earlier. Without thinking, she picked it up and reread it for what had to be the twelfth time, the words just as gripping as ever.
“I’ll figure out who did this to you, Ms. Daltry.” She heard the determination in her voice, felt it in her chest. Journalism provided a unique platform for a lot of things, finding the truth at the very top. In her eyes anyway.
The ringing of the telephone snapped her thoughts into the present and she grabbed for the receiver.
“Hello?” She glanced at the clock in the kitchen again. It was a little late for a phone call. Except when there was bad news . . .
“Elise?”
“Yes?”
“Elise, it’s Madelyn. Madelyn Conner. From class.”
She felt her shoulders relax. “Hi, Madelyn.”
“I just saw the news! Did you hear about Ms. Daltry?”
Elise pulled the throw pillow back on her lap, tucked her legs underneath her body. “I did. It’s so sad.”
“It’s awful. That poor woman.” Madelyn made a clucking noise in her ear, her voice taking on a higher, more screechy pitch as she continued. “I’ve been sitting here thinking what we can do. You know, to honor her.”
Elise nodded, her thoughts half on the phone call, half on the background information she needed to piece together on the victim.
“Elise, are you still there?”
“What? Oh, I’m sorry. Did you come up with anything?”
“I think we need to keep our get-together for Wednesday evening.”
Elise dropped her feet back to the ground. “What?”
“Ms. Daltry was passionate about writing. She wanted to make us think, reach inside ourselves. Like she did with her sample. I think we need to keep going.”
Elise looked at Ms. Daltry’s words once again, her gaze riveted on the opening paragraph.
The black metal cave was cool against my tears, the carpeted floor a buffer for the tremors in my body. I bit down harder on my lower lip, the pain a constant reminder of my need to stay quiet . . . to fight the urge to scream for help.
Maybe Madelyn was right. But even if she wasn’t, what harm could there be in getting together?
“Okay. I’ll be there. Six o’clock at Mia’s, right?”
Madelyn’s pitch softened, her smile audible through the phone. “Six o’clock at Mia’s.”
Elise set the phone down and stood. Sleep would have to wait a little longer. She had an assignment to write.