The Mill Creek Alliance was one of several organizations making its home in the rectory of Northside’s decommissioned Saint Patrick’s Church. The front door opened to a wide hall featuring kitchen cabinets and a coffee bar stocked with exotic herbal teas. Pale art faded into the walls.
In a room on the left, a man in baggy pants led a group of women through a tai chi form. Beyond an open door on the right, a frizzy-haired woman in soothing colors frowned at a laptop. A desktop fountain gurgled somewhere in the room.
Peter poked his head in the office, knocked on the jamb.
“Mill Creek Alliance?”
The woman looked up, the reflection on her glasses giving her an empty-eyed, Little Orphan Annie look. “End of the hall, turn right. You’ll see the stairs.”
The steps creaked as he ascended, which was likely why Bruce Koehler met him on the landing.
“That’s some advance warning system you have,” Peter said.
“It works for us. Come on back.”
Bruce led him to an office cluttered with maps and literature, and much more comfortable than the determinedly tranquil decor of the first floor.
“Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’m fine. Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”
Peter sat on an old, sturdy couch, one he imagined to be the site of many naps.
“I was surprised to hear from you. Last time I saw you, you said your attachment to our find was temporary.”
“The National Enquirer changed that. How did they get your name?”
Bruce frowned. “Shame about the article. I supposed the person who sent them the photos gave it to them.”
You old pirate. I bet my pension it was you. “You have any idea who that was?”
Bruce made a mistake liars often made, holding eye contact a beat too long while resisting the urge to look away.
Yep, you were the source.
“I’m sure it wasn’t Terry or Steve.”
Smart, because I wouldn’t believe you.
“Lot of young folks on that trip. Impossible to monitor all of them.”
Peter sighed, deliberately. “Water under the tree.”
“Literally. How can I help you today?”
“We believe Heenan’s killer knew the creek.”
“A reasonable assumption. I can’t see a man with a body in the trunk of his car getting a sudden urge to pull over behind Bengal’s field.”
“Everyone says you know Mill Creek better than anyone.”
Bruce shrugged. “I don’t know about better. Maybe longer. What would you like to know?”
“I wonder if you ran into our man on the creek.”
Bruce leaned forward, eyes lit with interest. “You don’t say?”
“Andrew Heenan went missing in 1987.”
Bruce shook his head. “Before my time. I started exploring the creek in the nineties.”
“We think he might have been hanging around.”
“Returning to the scene of the crime? Interesting thought.”
“Can you think of anyone from back then? He would have been strong enough to move a body—”
“Down that gully and across the creek? Quite a feat, even when the water is low.”
“Exactly.”
“I met plenty of people on the creek. I rarely got their names. I suppose some of them were strong enough, but there’s no one who sticks out. I can’t even remember their faces.”
“What about your old timers? Any of them around in the eighties?”
Bruce rubbed his chin, thinking. “I can check the rosters, but I doubt I’ll find anything. Terry was in Alaska back then, and Dick—Dick Brewer, you met him—was in the Army, career military. He retired here and started his business.” Commodore rubbing his chin, thinking. “2004, 2005?”
“He put in his full twenty?”
“I’m sure he did. No pension if you leave early, at least back then. I understand that’s changing. Steve Reams grew up here. I imagine he was in better shape thirty years ago.”
“You think Steve might have done this?”
“No, I think Steve was working for the sewer district in the eighties and he was probably fit enough back then to haul a dead body. That’s what you asked. I also think he’s constitutionally incapable of killing.”
“He doesn’t seem like the type, does he?”
“I may have seen your guy, but I can’t think of anyone who registered on my creep-o-meter. I think it’s a real long shot that your guy is still around.”
“You have a creep-o-meter?”
“Every paddler who saw Deliverance has a creep-o-meter.”
The X-files theme drifted over from the phone on Lia’s drafting table, signaling a call from Bailey. Peter had set the ring tone as a joke. She’d left it because it served its purpose.
“What’s up?”
“Promise not to shoot the messenger?”
Gypsy’s teeth sank into Lia’s foot, an increasingly common occurrence. She picked up Susan’s scarf, dangled it to distract the little demon. “Will I want to?”
“You might. But you’ll hear about this anyway.”
“Someone put naked pictures of me on the internet?”
“Not you. Peter.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“At least he’s not naked. Susan posted her first video. I’m texting you a link.”
“Do I want to see this?”
“Probably not.”
“Hang on.” Lia checked her messages and found the YouTube link. “I’ve got it.”
“Call me back after you watch it.”
Lia followed the link to a video clip with the white “play” arrow covering Susan’s mouth. She tapped the arrow, and tiny Susan spoke.
“Welcome to the premiere episode of Susan’s Snippets. I’m Susan Sweeney coming to you from Cincinnati, here to share with you the happenings of one of America’s most intriguing cities. Today, nothing is more fascinating than the discovery on Cincinnati’s Mill Creek, of a long-buried skeleton rumored to be the bones of Elvis Presley himself.”
Susan displayed a copy of the National Enquirer with the grisly cover photo.
“Heading the investigation into this mystery is Detective Peter Dourson of the Cincinnati Police Department.”
The scene switched to a clip of Peter standing in front of District Five. Peter did not appear to be aware of the camera.
“Few people know that Peter grew up next door to me in Cave City, Kentucky. We’ve been friends since we were in diapers. He’s smart, he’s dedicated, and girls, he’s single. I bet he’ll figure out how the King ended up on the muddy banks of an open sewer in no time.”
Lia paused the video and called Bailey. She did not wait for Bailey to speak.
“Tell me again about the Wicca Rule of Three.”
“Energy is an amped-up metaphysical boomerang. Whatever you put out, positive or negative, comes back to you, multiplied by three.”
“Is there a loophole that allows me to murder Susan as a public service?”
“Nope. You can kill her, but you won’t enjoy the fallout. Do I have to talk you down off a ledge?”
Lia sighed. “I’d like to throw something but I value my stuff too much to break any of it because of her.”
“There you go. Peter will probably get a few propositions out of it.”
“I can’t imagine he’ll like that any better than I do.”
“I wonder why she didn’t say they were engaged.”
“A failed engagement? Being a loser doesn’t suit her brand.”
“Love and light, Lia, love and light.”
Grizzled veteran detective Sam Robertson entered Peter’s office, wreathed in the seductive aroma of hot pork in all its manifestations. He set the extra-large Buddy Deluxe pizza on the edge of Peter’s desk, swiped the five-dollar bill waiting there, then curled his hand in the universal “gimme” sign. Cynth and Brent opened their wallets.
Peter flipped up the lid of the box. His hand hovered over the steaming pie when his extension rang. That same hand detoured to the receiver while his tastebuds mourned the first bite of hot-from-the-oven pizza.
Cynth slapped a bill on his desk. “Five dollars says it’s a fake tip.”
Brent laid a five on top of hers. “Nutcase confession.”
Sam grabbed a slice. “I’m in. Psychic.”
They could joke. They got a floorshow while his lunch turned into cement. Peter shook his head as he raised the receiver. “Dourson speaking.”
Susan’s voice, sweet as cotton candy. “My, don’t you sound professional.”
“Hold a minute.” He punched the hold button, swiping bills off his desk. “Ex-fiancée. I win.”
“Hey! You can’t do that. You weren’t in on the bet,” Robertson said.
“My office, my rules. Scram.”
Nobody moved.
Robertson said, “We paid, we get to play.”
Peter gave Brent a pointed look.
“I’m not leaving when you’re about to have such an entertaining phone call.”
“Asshat.”
Cynth folded her arms. “They stay, I stay.”
Peter turned his back and took Susan’s call off hold. “Sorry, I wasn’t alone.”
“I guess I won’t be mad, then.”
“I’m busy, Susan.”
Susan huffed. “I just called to let you know I posted my first video.”
“I saw it. I’m not amused.”
“I know you said you wouldn’t interview with me—”
“Not happening. Not in this world. Not in the next.”
“I can help. People tell me things.”
Peter closed his eyes and imagined banging his head on the desk. He knew better than to let her hear him sigh. “If, as a public-spirited citizen, you care to share information relevant to this case you are welcome to call the homicide unit, and they will take a report.”
“Why must you make it so hard? Why won’t you talk to me?”
“I’m assuming this is police business, because otherwise you shouldn’t be on this line. We have a procedure. Homicide processes all tips about Andrew Heenan.”
“I’m on this line, Peter Dourson, because you don’t have the courtesy to give me your cell phone number.”
“You’re on this line because you couldn’t wheedle my number out of Abby.”
“I should call your captain and tell him you’re discriminating against a member of the press for personal reasons.”
“If she considers you a member of the press, which I doubt, she’ll say you’re welcome to attend press conferences like everyone else. If she sees your arrest report, she’ll be more likely to think you’re a stalker and ban you. Goodbye, Susan.”
As Peter lowered the receiver to the cradle, the words, “You’re positively evil, Peter Dourson” sputtered from the handset. He reached for his abandoned slice. The cheese, thank God, retained heat, pulling in strings as he lifted it from the box.
Brent tossed the crust of the slice he’d consumed while Peter was on the phone. “Rude, Dourson, after she was kind enough to pimp you out to the ladies of Cincinnati.”
Robertson snickered.
“Brent, You’re such an ass,” Cynth said. “She did that to cause trouble with Lia.”
Peter continued to chew, then swallowed. “Lia’s not like that.”
“Every woman is like that,” Robertson said.
Peter stood in front of Heenan’s Clifton Hills home, a Tudor style, half-timbered bungalow with mullioned windows, a steeply pitched slate roof, and fieldstone masonry covered with ivy that was likely well-established when Andrew lived there.
The property featured neat brick walkways and a spreading oak in the front yard. Pansies spilled from concrete urns while lilac bushes scented the air. The Tudor influence was strong on the quiet street, with no two houses alike. Peter suspected the original residents would not have stood for it.
Nice house. Way above a cop’s salary. That was the Gaslight district: one mile and a world away from the street crimes that plagued Northside. Hard to imagine anything bad happening here, though Peter knew better.
Lia found the combination of academia, culture, and discreet old money stuffy, with ladies who never left the house without their face on, filling their days with charity obligations and their evenings hosting dinner parties enlivened with elevated conversation.
Susan would adopt the wardrobe and mannerisms. After a suitable period, she’d deny she’d ever heard of Cave City.
The Johnsons took possession of the house seven months after Heenan died. How had that happened? If someone had power of attorney to sell the house, why didn’t they follow up with the missing person case? So far, the current owners were his best bet for finding a thread to pull that might take him somewhere. He wondered if they knew their house was connected with the Enquirer article, and how long they’d be able to maintain their privacy.
No one answered the bell. No sound of activity inside. He scribbled a note on a business card and stuck it in the door, then scanned the street for signs of life.
A woman wearing a broad-brimmed hat and espadrilles knelt on a rubber pad, tending a bed of iris next door. Peter thought about the ancient T-shirts and stained jeans Bailey wore for her gardening jobs. This woman was no laborer. The owner, then, who’d occupied the house a dozen years according to property records. She wouldn’t have known Andrew, but he had to start somewhere.
Peter called out as he approached. The woman looked up with an expression of polite inquiry. She was attractive, as any woman in this neighborhood would be. If she didn’t come by it naturally, she’d patronize the pricier salons on the east side of town to get the desired effect. In her case, the mandatory matron bob had been given a discreet boost to maintain a rich mink brown.
Her gardening clothes—and likely the tools scattered on the grass—came from L.L. Bean. Peter knew because he’d sent the same shirt to his mother for Christmas. But his mother didn’t muck around with weeds when she wore it.
Peter handed her a business card. “Detective Dourson, from District Five.”
“You must be here about poor Mr. Heenan. I’m Donna Merrill.” She removed a glove and held out a manicured hand to shake. “I’ve been expecting someone since I saw the story on Channel 7. That was you in the interview, wasn’t it?”
“You knew Andrew Heenan?”
“Oh, my, yes. This was my grandmother’s house. My husband and I moved in after she went into assisted living, but you don’t care about that. I was six when he went missing. I overheard my grandparents talking about it. It fascinated me, a magician disappearing like one of his rabbits. So sad he’s been dead all this time.”
Peter pulled out his notebook and flipped through the most recent items. “Your grandmother is Peggy Redfern? She made the missing person report?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Is she still in the facility? I’d like to talk to her.”
“Talking to her won’t help you. Alzheimer’s. Nana doesn’t know me anymore, though she still cheats the same way when we play Scrabble.”
Just my luck. “Is there anyone who remembers him?”
“There’s Marilyn Edling across the street.” She nodded at the opposite house. “But I don’t think you’ll get much sense from her.”
“Alzheimers?”
“Her brain is fine. It’s what she thinks with it. The woman has a deplorable worldview.”
Peter’s only witness had been a child with an active imagination when Heenan vanished. He looked back at the former Heenan residence, calculating his next step.
“It was the most exciting thing that ever happened during my childhood. I grew up with the stories.”
Hope rose.
“I imagine you want to hear the gossip. I could use a cup of coffee. Will you join me?”
Peter did not care for coffee but it would be unproductive to refuse. Enough milk and sugar and he’d deal.
Donna showed him to a sunny breakfast nook overlooking the back yard.
At some point her kitchen had acquired aftermarket granite countertops and an assortment of chi chi appliances, including a thermal beverage dispenser, the kind you saw at gas stations and seminars. She pumped coffee into a pair of hand-thrown mugs and handed one to Peter. He doctored his cup and tasted. Better than decent, a different animal than the burnt sludge that stank up District Five.
She seated herself across from him, pushing a plate of oatmeal cookies in his direction. “What would you like to know?”
Peter took a cookie and bit in, tasting cranberries and walnuts. “What do you remember about the days before Andrew Heenan disappeared?”
Donna folded her lips inward, pressing them together as she thought.
“We weren’t paying attention at that point. No one knew he was missing until he didn’t return from his trip.”
“I understand. How much were you around back then?”
“Both my parents worked, so I stayed here after school every day. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing I noticed, nothing anyone talked about later.”
“He was last seen at a birthday party,” Peter primed.
“I saw him leave that morning. I was in the yard, and I was pouting because I wanted to see his tricks. He promised he’d put on a show just for me after he got back from Europe.”
“Did he say where in Europe?”
“No. At that age, I didn’t think to ask. I thought Europe was its own country.”
Peter felt his eyebrows raise.
Donna broke off a corner of cookie, nibbled. “I was only six.”
“Did anything unusual happen while he was gone? Did you see anyone coming and going?”
“There was a chubby boy looking for lawns to mow. I don’t think he had any takers. Nana wouldn’t hire him because he charged too much. Besides him there was only Jenny. She came every day to pick up the mail.”
“Jenny?” No mention of a Jenny in the reports.
“She kept house for him. She’d come over and push me on my tire swing sometimes.”
“Do you remember her last name?”
Donna shook her head. “She was just Jenny. She worked for him after school. If she saw me in the yard, she always stopped to talk to me.”
“What happened to her?”
“I never knew. We never saw her after Nana reported Andrew missing.”
“How did your grandmother find out he was missing?”
“Jenny told her, said he’d been due back a week earlier and she was worried. She asked Nana to make the report because she didn’t think the police would take her seriously.”
“Your grandmother didn’t mention Jenny in her report.”
“Jenny left a key with Nana and asked her to pretend she’d been watching the house. She gave Nana the name of Mr. Heenan’s lawyer so she could call him.”
“Didn’t your grandmother think this was unusual?”
“In later years, yes. But Jenny was so sweet. It was impossible to imagine she had anything to do with his disappearance, and grandma couldn’t see putting her through a police interrogation.”
“How old was Jenny?”
“I don’t know. She talked about wanting to go to college, so she was still in high school. Sixteen? Eighteen?”
“One of the neighbors mentioned a prostitute who came and went.”
Donna huffed. “That would be Marilyn and her charitable view of mankind.”
“Oh?”
“She thought my parents were unfit because my mother worked. Used to drive Granddad crazy. He said there was nothing wrong with Marilyn a lobotomy wouldn’t fix. Nana said tolerance meant being tolerant of intolerant people. But she never invited Marilyn over for coffee.”
“Why would Marilyn think Jenny was a prostitute? Was it the way she dressed?”
Donna sighed. “That woman sees evil everywhere. Jenny was sweet enough for a Doris Day movie. She mostly wore jeans—not tight ones—and polo shirts.”
“Do you remember anything else about her?”
“I wish I could help. She had such long, pretty hair. I wanted to be her when I grew up.”
Peter jotted “housekeeper Jenny high school long hair” in his notebook. “How about your parents? Would they know anything about Jenny?”
“Doubtful. They’re RVing in Oregon right now. I can ask them for you.”
“Thank you. I’d appreciate that.” Peter glanced at his notes. “I have one more question for you.”
“Sure.”
“The house sold months after Andrew Heenan disappeared. I’m trying to figure out how a missing person could sell a house.”
“That was the lawyer, and it scandalized Nana. She said she wished she’d never called him.”
The front door opened, then closed. Peter was home. Lia stepped back from her canvas and gave the iris a critical look. It had been perfectly fine before, but after showing it to Zoe and David, she’d decided it needed more layers. She wiped her brush and her hands, then headed for the living room with Chewy and the oh-so-innocent Gypsy trailing behind her.
Peter sprawled on the mission couch, head back, eyes closed, Viola curled on the floor beside him. Unaware she was in the room, he yelled, “Why are your shoes in the bookcase?”
Lia sat next to him, leaned in and pressed her lips to his for a substantial hello kiss. His mouth curved, smiling under hers.
“You’re a detective and you can’t figure that one out?”
He opened his eyes, toyed with a lock of hair that had slipped the bun she always wore when painting. “What did she get into?”
She sighed. “I stepped out to get the mail and came back to find the entrails of Honey’s bed everywhere.” She’d cried over that. “You’d have fluffy white stuff all over your apartment if she knew how to climb stairs.”
“Busy girl.”
“Then the furry piranha decided my shoes and ankles are high-value prey. Did you know they make kevlar socks for hockey players?”
“Sounds uncomfortable.”
“I’m saving it as a last resort.”
Peter sat up, wrinkled his nose. “What’s that I smell?”
“Bitter apple chewing deterrent. I sprayed it on my feet.”
His eyebrows raised. “Does it work?”
Lia scowled. “She is now licking my feet instead of biting them. I suppose it’s an improvement.”
“Regrets?”
Lia held Gypsy up, eye to eye. She whispered, “Don’t listen to the bad man.” Gypsy wriggled out of Lia’s hands and pounced on Peter’s feet, worrying his laces. Viola gave Gypsy the evil eye while Peter removed his shoes, holding them out of reach. Gypsy tugged a sock.
“I see what you mean.”
“I left you space on the shelf.”
“You are a ruby among women.”
Lia rescued Gypsy and imprisoned the little demon on her lap. “Only for you. How was your day? You look tired.”
“Got a confession.”
“That was fast. They must be calling you uber cop at the station.”
Peter snorted. “The only one calling me uber cop is Susan. Did you see the video?”
“Between Facebook, text messages, and phone calls, seventeen people tagged me about it.”
Peter winced. “Sorry.”
Lia rubbed noses with Gypsy. Gypsy would never be Honey, but girlfriend was a great distraction from unpleasant realities. “In my happy little world, your former fiancée doesn’t exist. You are welcome to join me in my happy little world. Tell me why getting a confession doesn’t make you an uber cop.”
“It was a false confession, which I knew before I went in. I had to waste ninety minutes interviewing him and writing it up.”
“Why interview him if you knew he was bogus?”
“Most people who walk in off the street to make fake confessions are nutcases and it goes no further. This guy is an artist who self-publishes graphic novels about zombies. According to his bio he wasn’t even in the area when Heenan died. He wants publicity.”
“Someone like that deserves less of your time than some poor guy who’s mentally ill.”
“Pure CYA. I’m sure he was hoping I’d arrest him so he could have his very own Twitterstorm. But you can lay money on him having a backup social media campaign ready to—” Peter made air quotes. “—leak if I blew him off. So I made him go over every stinking detail, backwards, forwards, and sideways. His story was full of holes. If he paid attention while I took it apart, he realized any attempt to capitalize on Heenan will only make him look stupid. Repairing the damage and explaining things to the powers that be after he went ahead with his publicity stunt would take a lot longer.”
Lia shook her head. “First Susan, then this jerk. I hope the rest of your day went better.”
“I talked to Commodore. I hoped he might remember seeing our guy on the creek back when.”
“Any luck?”
“If you consider Steve a viable suspect.”
“That bad?”
“Pretty much. I took a field trip to Heenan’s house and lucked out. One of the neighbors bought the house from her grandmother and remembers Heenan.”
Peter summed up his visit to the neighborhood.
“So the lawyer had power of attorney and sold the house? That’s cold. Probably stole all his money, too.”
“Could be.”
“Do you think he had anything to do with Heenan’s disappearance?”
“I can’t rule it out.”
Lia pulled Susan’s mangled scarf out of her pocket and dangled it in front of Gypsy’s muzzle. Gypsy snarled and snapped at it. “Good girl,” Lia crooned.
“I wish you’d stop that.”
“Certainly.” She jerked the scarf. It quivered like a small, desperate creature. “As soon as the woman who doesn’t exist in my happy little world leaves town.”
“Lia—”
“Peter, I’m trying. I know you have no control over anything she does, but I have to deal with this in my own way. I imagine the statute of limitations has expired on anything illegal the lawyer did.”
Peter was silent for a beat, then pulled her into a hug, apparently deciding to join her in the happy little world where Susan did not exist. “Which is to my advantage.”
Lia dropped the scarf. Gypsy pawed at it, then snorted and walked away. “How so?”
“If the lawyer is still alive, he has no reason not to talk to me. Not unless he killed Heenan. No statute of limitations on murder.”