CHAPTER 38
Imogene
She’d run. Sam had let her. He’d lost all desire to fight, and all Imogene could hear reverberating in her mind was “I loved her.” Sam had loved Hazel! Had it been reciprocated? If it had, then why had he killed her?
Imogene’s feet pounded the pavement. People came into view as she raced from the all-but-abandoned warehouse toward the populated area of the ammunition plant. Sam had driven her here. She’d seen his pickup truck as she’d raced from the building.
Within minutes, people were responding to her cries for help. Hands were ushering her into a chair, then onto a stretcher to take her to the state-of-the-art medical facility the government had built for the plant workers and their families.
She heard the faint sound of sirens.
“Chet . . .” she mumbled, but the word came out hazy.
Imogene squinted at the form bent over her. A woman, her dark hair pulled back in a ribbon. Her dress was dotted with pink flowers.
“Hazel?” Imogene lifted her hand to touch her sister. For some reason, she couldn’t reach her. “Hazel!”
Shhhh. Genie. It’s swell, all right? I’m swell. You shush now. Let Chet take care of you.
“Hazel!” Imogene cried, trying to sit up in the stretcher. Someone pushed her down firmly.
Hazel still leaned over her, blurry and almost luminescent.
Imogene tried to reach for her again. “Hazel, he killed you!”
Shhhh. Hazel smiled sadly. No. He didn’t. I loved him, Genie. But he was wrong—we were wrong. I had to stop it before people got hurt.
Imogene whimpered. Her head pounded. Voices echoed in the distance. Or maybe they were close. She couldn’t tell. All she could see was Hazel. Hazel. Hazel.
Rest now, Genie. I am resting. You should too.
“Hazel!” Imogene screamed as the vision of her sister faded and blackness enveloped her.
Imogene stared at the dollhouse. She loathed it and needed it at the same time. She sat in a chair, hugging her sweater around her torso, just staring into the abyss of the miniature attic bedroom. At the doll’s body. At the tilted picture frame she’d just remembered hadn’t been straight the day of the murder. Someone had lifted it off the nail, then rehung it. She could tell because there was a smudge on the frame’s glass. A red smudge. Someone with blood on their hands had held the framed cemetery photograph and stared at it, then replaced it on the wall. Imogene hadn’t the courage to replicate the smear of blood. She was finished painting Hazel’s blood. Instead, she would fine-tune the house, as Hazel would have. Adding the minute details of the day. It was easier to re-create a fake cup of tea than to paint more blood.
“What are you doing in here?” Chet’s low voice broke the eerie silence.
He stepped in and caught sight of the dollhouse. Imogene could tell the moment he did. There was a sharp intake of breath, followed by his hand coming down to rest on her shoulder.
“What have you done?” His whisper wasn’t accusing. It had a hint of admiration but was mostly sad. Resigned.
“I promised Hazel.” Imogene’s voice was flat. She didn’t feel anything now. She couldn’t feel.
Chet didn’t respond for a long moment. Finally, when he spoke, Imogene knew he’d never realize—never understand—how unsatisfactory his words were.
“It’s over, Genie.”
No, it isn’t.
Imogene heard Hazel’s soft whisper in her mind, yet she didn’t respond. Instead, she shifted a sorrow-filled smile to her brother. A small nod.
“Sam confessed. To the post office and the town hall.”
Imogene nodded again.
Chet’s hand remained on her shoulder. Squeezing. Affirming. “He’ll confess to Hazel’s death. It’s only a matter of time.”
Imogene reached up and patted her brother’s hand. She offered him another small smile. “And if he doesn’t?” Sam had insisted he hadn’t killed Hazel. Insisted instead that he’d loved her.
Imogene’s gaze drifted back to the dollhouse.
Chet cleared his throat. “He didn’t punch the time clock on the day of Hazel’s death, Genie. Sam was supposed to be at work, and he wasn’t there. He admitted that Hazel knew of his plans. He admitted she tried to stop him—tried to talk him into restraining himself. She threatened to turn him in, Genie. Our Hazel. She did what was right.”
Imogene turned to face her brother, the dollhouse to her back. “And you think Sam killed her before she could ruin his plans?”
Chet tipped his head, studying her. “And you don’t?”
Imogene blinked, seeing the silhouette of her eyelashes as they brushed her lower lids. She didn’t know. All she could hear was Hazel’s voice whispering in her mind.
It’s not over. It’s not over.
But maybe it would never be over. Maybe, when all the evidence came in, when the clues aligned, when Sam confessed, Hazel’s death would still pound with the reality of its very existence. She was dead. She was gone. That soul-splitting grief could never be over.
Aggie
Aggie hadn’t slept until Collin had half lifted her onto her bed. She was physically and mentally exhausted. Her eyes hurt from weeping, and even as Collin shook out a blanket and laid it over her, she’d continued to have tears seep from her eyes and wet the pillowcase.
Collin had leaned over. Pressed a light, comforting kiss against her temple. “Sleep, Love.”
His whisper created a deeper need for him. Not a physical one, not one that had any hints of sensuality. Just a need to be cared for. To not be alone. To soak in the essence that was Collin’s peace in the middle of a raging storm.
He’d moved to leave when Aggie reached out and grabbed his hand. Their eyes connected, and Collin’s thumb rubbed hers.
“Stay,” she pleaded.
His eyes narrowed with emotion and maybe something else. “I can’t, Love. I’ll just be downstairs.”
“Please.” She’d squeezed his hand tighter. “Just sit with me?”
So he had. He’d lowered himself, and the bed sank beneath his weight. Reaching out, Collin brushed back her silky hair from her face. His touch was reassuring. Safe. Aggie’s eyes had closed then, and she’d slept.
She didn’t know when Collin left her room. She’d found him in the kitchen that morning, looking the most rumpled she’d ever seen him. Ginger hair askew, his cotton oxford shirt untucked over his jeans, which were now less pressed and more wrinkled.
He’d given her coffee with cinnamon sprinkled on top of whipped foam. A poached egg cupped in the middle of a piece of hollowed-out toast. A slice of cheese. Bacon.
Aggie couldn’t really say anything. Her throat still felt tight. Her eyes ready to release more tears at any given moment.
When she announced she needed to see Mumsie, Collin had offered to stay and clean up the kitchen. Before she’d exited, he covered the floor in three steps and combed his fingers through the sides of her loose, straight hair. His thumb stroked her cheek, brushing her freckles.
“The answers will come.”
Aggie nodded, raising questioning eyes. “And the woman in the grave? With Hazel’s ring and shoes?”
Collin’s face reflected her own doubts. “We may never know. But we’ll do our best to find out.”
She’d taken assurance in his confidence, and confidence in his assurance.
Now Aggie opened the door of her car and climbed out, looking across the parking lot at the hospital. Noting Mumsie’s window. The light was on. She must be awake. Aggie had so many questions, and she wanted to pepper Mumsie with them.
If Samuel Pickett had killed Hazel, why did Mumsie still treat Hazel’s death as unsolved?
If Samuel Pickett had killed Hazel, why on earth had Mumsie given permission for him to be buried in the family cemetery? More pressing, if Samuel Pickett had killed Hazel, then why was there another dead woman only a few graves over, buried with Hazel’s belongings, and why was someone threatening them with bone fragments and notes and roses that insisted it was not over?
Aggie shut the car door.
“Miss Dunkirk?”
Aggie yelped at the deep, gravelly baritone behind her. She spun, her eyes taking in the old man from Mumsie’s room. His green wool sweater. His shepherd’s-crook cane. His blue eyes and gray hair. It was a nondescript face, and he wore brown glasses. He was clean-shaven. His shoes were black orthopedics. There was nothing threatening about him at all and yet, deep inside, something made Aggie take a step back, her legs pressing against her car.
“Who are you?” Her question came out hesitant. She swallowed and tried again, infusing more confidence. Summoning the inherited spit and vinegar that Mumsie had perfected. “Tell me who you are.”
The man couldn’t be as old as Mumsie. If Aggie had to guess, he was in his early seventies.
“I’m sorry.” His voice shook. He stepped closer to her. Aggie could smell tobacco. He ran the hand that didn’t grip the cane over his head. “I never meant for this to happen.”
Aggie frowned. She edged away from him, telling herself he was old. She had a physical advantage, and he’d done nothing threatening. Still. Something didn’t feel right. It was off. Especially since he wasn’t telling her his name.
“You were in my grandmother’s room last night, and she was obviously not fond of you. Was it you who called her the other night? Did you cause her stroke?” Aggie demanded.
“I just wanted . . .” His eyes shifted to his cane. His knuckles were white, and he teetered a bit, then repositioned the cane’s tip with its rubber stopper on the asphalt. When he brought his eyes up to meet hers, there was a dimness in them. A hollow gloom. “You don’t understand. You can’t understand.”
Aggie wasn’t going to stick around and humor an old man talking riddles. She started toward the hospital, but the man lifted the tip of his cane and pressed it against the side of her car. He tilted a little and then gained his footing. The cane was a flimsy but effective barrier as it pushed against the front of her thighs. There was something that went against Aggie’s instinct to kick the cane out of the way. It’d make the elderly man more unsteady on his feet. Even if he deserved it, striking back at someone in his condition seemed wrong.
She leveled an offended glare on him. “Pardon me, but you will let me go.”
He gave his head a vehement shake. His eyes were a bit magnified behind his glasses. Aggie could see the lines of his trifocals and the thick glass lenses that jutted out from their frames. He was not going to fall into the category of a cute old man. He wasn’t even grumpy. He looked distressed. She couldn’t tell if it was mental or emotional distress—perhaps it was both.
“It’s not over.” He pulled his cane back and rammed the tip against the car again to make his point.
“What’s not over? Hazel Grayson? Hazel’s death?” Aggie went straight to the point. He had to have been the one to leave the flowers with the handwriting on the petals. Had to be the one behind the cryptic note and bone fragments.
“You figured it out then?” he asked.
“It’s not hard to. You’re a stalker. A mean old stalker. Did you attack Collin too? With the shovel?”
The man’s lips thinned into a wry smile. “Sort of makes an old guy like me feel pretty good to take out a younger man.”
Aggie accused. “Why would you do that?”
“No.” The old man’s eyes widened. “No! It’s all just gotten so—so out of control. The story of what happened . . . you weren’t supposed to find it all.”
“Find it all?” She didn’t understand the emphasis on the word all.
“You’re talking about Hazel. But you’re not even old enough to remember her,” Aggie baited him.
His face darkened. Again he prodded her car with his cane. “Never say I’m not old enough to remember Hazel. Never.”
The fierceness in his voice stunned Aggie into silence. Before she could react, his cane cracked against her knees. Aggie cried out. The shocking pain against her kneecaps made her legs collapse. She fell to the parking lot. The old man stood over her, lifted his cane, and shoved the tip into the side of her knee.
Aggie bit her lip against the pain. She didn’t want to cry out and give the old man the satisfaction. Whoever he was, she didn’t want him feeding off her hurt.
He clicked his tongue and shuffled his feet to maintain his balance. “If you’d just left the grave alone . . .”
“Hazel’s?” Aggie bit out.
He gave a short laugh. “No. I wanted you to see Hazel’s grave. He didn’t deserve to die with her blood on his hands.”
He had to mean the mystery grave. Aggie moved her leg, but the man’s cane pressed harder into the soft flesh on the inside of her knee. She winced.
“Whose grave is it?” Aggie clenched her teeth. It wasn’t possible he’d broken her kneecap with his strike, but she could tell it was wickedly bruised.
“Whose grave?” He tucked his chin in surprise. “You haven’t figured that out?”
“No.” Aggie shook her head.
“Ida’s,” he choked out with a cynical laugh. “Ida’s grave.”
“Who’s Ida?” Aggie couldn’t hide her bewilderment.
“My aunt. My very, very dead aunt.”