During the ninety-minute drive to Barter Ridge, Emory kept the conversation focused on Wayne – asking about everything from his daughter’s school grades to the renovations on their house, but listening to none of the answers. In Bachman’s office, he had said he didn’t know the reason behind the sheriff’s request and left it at that.
A few miles from Barter Ridge, the dispirited shades of hibernating flora gave way to landscapes brightened by fallen snow – the result, Emory figured, of the same storm front that had dropped an inch of rain on Knoxville two days earlier. To his relief, the roads had already been cleared, along with many of the driveways. With each mile added to the odometer, his grip on the steering wheel tightened, as did his breathing.
He hated Barter Ridge, and he hoped all the emotions regurgitating inside him wouldn’t cloud his thinking. He needed to solve this case in a day or two and get the hell out again. After all, it was one murder in a small town. How many suspects could there be? He brushed a hand against his jacket pocket to ensure he had indeed brought his pill bottle and relaxed when he felt the bulge on his chest.
Almost as soon as Emory’s white crossover passed a sign welcoming visitors to town, they arrived at the short driveway to the sheriff’s station, which was nothing more than a double-wide trailer on a foundation of cinder blocks. Instead of turning into the driveway, Emory pulled the car to the side of the road. He looked at Wayne as if he were dropping him off at home.
“Aren’t you getting out?” Wayne lifted his eyebrows at his partner, his hand on the door handle.
Emory shook his head once. “We’d make better time if we split up.”
“What’s the rush?”
“I don’t like the cold. I’ll interview the parents while you talk to the sheriff.”
Wayne snarled at the change in plans, pulled his body from the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. He stamped toward the station but slipped on the slushy driveway.
Once out of sight of the sheriff’s station, Emory pulled over to the side of the road long enough to take a pill and wash it down with a gulp from his bottled water.
A town of eight thousand people, Barter Ridge offered a secluded retreat for non-fussy tourists and the occasional black bear. The town poured from the eponymous ridge connecting two Smoky Mountains, as if it had spilled over from the valley on the other side. Its least elevated border was outlined by a tributary of the Little Tennessee River, where Crescent Lake used to be.
If there were a rich section of Barter Ridge, the Algarotti family would’ve had the right side of the tracks all to themselves. The only local residence that could be deemed a mansion, their twenty-one-room house was fronted by six Doric columns, and it offered an unrivaled view of the town, as well as a peek at the valley beyond the ridge.
Emory parked in front of the house, beside a red sports coupe. As he turned off the ignition, he saw a tall man exit the front door and hurry off the porch. With a brown messenger bag draped from his shoulder, the man wore black jeans and a blue, slim-fit pea coat with the hood resting between his shoulder blades.
The man – who was about the same age as Emory, give or take a year – walked around the front of the red car and dipped his head to make eye contact with the special agent. Raising his eyebrows into his thick, wavy brown hair, the stranger offered a smirk that made Emory’s eyes ping-pong about before settling on him again. The man nodded and continued to the coupe, plopping himself into the driver seat.
Emory kept his eyes forward as he pulled on his parking brake. Why hasn’t he started his car yet? He cranked his head to the right so he could peer through his passenger window at the other driver. The man seemed to sense it because he shot his eyes toward Emory and flashed a cocky smile.
Emory’s eyes retreated to the windshield once more. He clenched the door handle and waited until the coupe’s engine purred to life. Finally! Emory emerged from his car. As he walked in front of the coupe, he could feel the stranger’s eyes on him, but he refused to look back.
Emory ascended the seven steps to a front porch furnished with a wrought-iron dinette set and a veranda sofa glider, behind which was parked a blue bicycle. Once he stood before the green door, he pressed the button at its side, eliciting an elaborate tolling of bells within the house. Half a minute later, a woman dressed in a maid’s uniform with a grey face and no muscle or fat to keep the skin from gnarling over her bones, answered the door. Her red eyes rolled up to him as she asked in a meek voice, “Could I help you?”
“Emory Rome from the TBI. I’m here to talk to the parents of Britt Algarotti.”
“Mr. Algarotti isn’t home.”
“And his wife?”
The maid opened the door wider. “Come inside.”
Emory glanced over his shoulder to see the red car had not yet moved. What’s he waiting for? He walked into the foyer, and the maid closed the door behind him.
“She’s in the parlor,” the maid informed him. She waved toward a doorway to the left of the stairs and led him there.
They had yet to reach the room when a woman’s voice from inside beckoned, “Margaret, where’s my protein drink?” The maid quickened her pace.
When Emory entered the parlor, he was struck by a shock of long platinum hair against the wood-toned room, bathed in amber lighting. The thirty-something, athletic and attractive – thanks to experienced makeup application – woman lounged on an antique fainting couch, reading something on her computer tablet.
Every piece of furniture looked to be antique except for a leather-padded bar in one corner. Hung at random spots along the paneled walls were a few family pictures featuring the blonde woman with whom Emory assumed to be Mr. Algarotti, Britt and her little brother. A rather macabre painting of the foursome in a hunting lodge watched over the room from above the fireplace, and it looked like a colorized version of a mid-nineteenth century photograph with serious expressions focused on the artist. A single frame hanging above a roll-top desk was covered with a black cloth. Emory assumed it to be a portrait of Britt.
“I’m sorry,” the maid replied. “I had to answer the door.” She hurried to the bar to mix one scoop of protein powder from a ceramic bucket, ice, a little water from a reusable glass bottle and a shot of Tennessee honey whiskey into a blender.
The blonde looked up from her tablet. “Who the hell are you?”
Emory had never been comfortable shouting, but the sound of the blender gave him no choice. “Emory Rome!” he yelled as he handed her a business card. “I’m a special agent with the TBI!”
“Do you have a badge?” she asked, as if perturbed at having to tell him how to do his job. Emory showed it to her, and she barely glanced at it before yelling at Margaret, “It’s blended enough!”
Margaret turned off the blender, poured its contents into a crystal goblet and stabbed it with a pink straw.
“I’m here to talk to you about your daughter.” Emory pulled out his phone to type notes of the conversation.
She sneered. “I thought you were a detective.” Margaret placed her drink on a ceramic coaster atop the nearby Pembroke table before leaving the room. “Do I look old enough to be her mama?”
“You’re not Mrs. Algarotti?”
She siphoned a generous amount of the protein drink through the straw. “Just call me Pristine, and for god’s sake, have a seat and stop hovering over me. I feel like I’m taking a quiz.”
“My apologies.” Emory sat on the nearest available option – a burgundy-upholstered, giltwood settee. The illogical positioning of the ill-padded piece forced him to crane his neck to the left to face her.
“I’m the second Mrs. Algarotti.” Pristine’s face hardened, but her eyes belied fragility. “A ranking they never let me forget.”
Emory noted the information on his phone. “Okay. Christine—”
“No!” She slammed the goblet onto the coaster so hard that Emory was surprised neither broke. “Pris-tine, as in ‘pure.’ I hate when people do that. It’s not a difficult name.”
Emory masked a snarl with a polite half-smile. “My apologies. Where is your husband?”
“He was going crazy sitting around the house, so he went in to the office.”
“He’s working the day after his daughter’s death?”
In between sips, she told him, “He’s a multitasker. He can work and grieve. He’s done it before.” Watching Emory type on his phone, her face twisted in anger. “Are you actually texting while I’m talking to you?”
“I’m taking notes.” He nodded toward the family portrait. “And your so…stepson?”
“Now him, I wouldn’t mind you calling my son. Ian’s a great kid. He’s probably upstairs studying, if you need to talk to him.” She glanced at the wall clock. “Actually, he should be down in a few minutes.”
“Your maid, is she a live-in?”
“She lives in the little servant’s house out back.”
“Anyone else live here or stay here recently?”
Pristine glared at him. “This isn’t a shelter, detective.”
“Special agent,” Emory corrected, growing flustered at her attitude. “I’m simply trying to get a handle on everyone with access to the victim’s home.”
“You think she was murdered here?”
“I didn’t say that.” Emory was unwilling to share too much information about the case with a potential suspect, so he redirected. “When did you last see Britt?”
“Night before last. I passed her on the stairs as she was going to bed.”
“Did you talk?”
“Just the usual. I said, ‘Good night,’ and she told me to fuck off.”
“Do you know who would want to harm her?” Emory asked, refraining from adding, besides you.
“I never pried in her life. Do you have kids?”
Uncertain why she would even ask that, he told her, “We should stick to relevant matters. Was Britt dating anyone?”
“I just told you I don’t pry in her life,” she growled. “Will you be asking me any questions you can’t get answered from someone else? My maid knew her better than I did. She could stand in for me.”
Emory could feel his face redden, and although he tried maintaining his composure, his voice rose when he told her, “I didn’t know your daughter—”
“Stepdaughter.”
“Stepdaughter.” Emory took a breath to calm himself. “Stepdaughter. That’s why I need to ask some basic questions to get a feel for what her life was like. Now how would you characterize your relationship with Britt?”
She laughed. “I’m her stepmother. How do you think she felt about me?” Drink in hand, Pristine walked to the covered frame and removed the black cloth. It wasn’t a portrait of Britt after all. “This is Meredith, the first Mrs. Algarotti. They buried her two years ago. Cancer.” She raised her glass to the portrait in a venomous toast.
Emory could see she was grieving too, even if it weren’t over the girl who had just died. “I understand. The kids resented you.”
“Not Ian. Maybe because he was younger when I met Victor. He sees me as… maybe not a mother, but at least someone who cares about him. Like an aunt maybe.”
“How does Mr. Algarotti see you?”
“What a strange question.” Pristine pointed the index finger of her goblet-clutching hand at him. “Oh, I see what you’re asking. Victor loves me, detective. And before you ask, I love him, too. I wouldn’t marry a man I didn’t love, I don’t care how much money he has.”
Emory surmised he’d get no more useful information from her, so he asked her a final question. “Where does Mr. Algarotti work?”
Pristine rolled her eyes. “Margaret!” She stomped toward the door, arriving there just as her maid appeared. She pointed with her thumb to Emory and told her, “Answer his questions.” With that, she left the room, and clopped up the stairs.
“Yes?” Margaret asked.
Emory met the maid in the doorway. “I just need to know where Mr. Algarotti works.”
Past the maid, he saw a boy engulfed in a large parka descend the stairs and head toward the front door.
“At the water bottling factory,” the maid answered, and she pointed her withered index finger. “It’s about three miles further down the road.”
Emory thanked her for her time and excused himself. Once he reached the front porch, he saw the Algarotti boy rolling his bike from behind the sofa glider. “Treacherous conditions for biking, don’t you think?”
The blond boy, somewhere around the age of thirteen, turned around to display a puzzled look. “Huh? I can handle it.”
Emory put his hand forward. “My name’s Emory Rome. I’m with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.”
“I’m Ian.” The boy shook his hand and looked up at him with tear-glistened eyes. “Are you going to find out what happened to my sister?”
Emory gave him a smile of assurance. “I promise you I’m going to do my best. You two were close, weren’t you?” Ian nodded. “Can I ask you something? Do you know anyone who maybe didn’t like your sister?”
Ian shook his head and shrugged. “Everyone loved her. She did have some haters, mostly online. Trolls who would say bad things about her skating. She always said that kind of talk just made her want to succeed even more. I think she might’ve even kept some comments for motivation. You want me to get her laptop for you?”
“Oh no, that’s okay. I’ll ask your dad for permission to look at it if I need to. Thank you anyway.”
Ian shrugged and rolled the bike down the steps.
Emory followed him down and noticed the red sports coupe was gone. As he approached his car, he saw a note under the windshield wiper. Emory pulled it out and saw it had a ten-digit number and the words, “You’re going to need this.”