Texas Ranger Emily O’Connell glanced at the old-money mansion, then the white commercial van parked in front and inwardly groaned. How was she going to get past Stone Spencer? His aftermath recovery and trauma services van might as well have been a blaring beacon declaring the horrific event that had recently happened inside, and the week before Christmas. She’d hoped to beat him to the punch and avoid him and the million questions he was no doubt going to ask.
Ignoring the cluster of media vans, hordes of journalists and camera crews filming the home, she focused on the house. Windows facing the circular drive were decked with evergreen wreaths and dotted in the center with red velvet bows. Windowsills were adorned with white taper candles. Probably battery-operated ones that would automatically kick on at sunset. Classic Christmas decor.
Only hours ago, socialite Tiffany Williford had ended her life by suicide. Holidays were, sadly, one of the highest times of the year for suicides.
But Emily wasn’t so sure it had been a suicide at all, and that’s why she was here.
Tiffany’s much older husband, the Honorable Charles Williford—known by friends as Judge—had found her at eight this morning in her private salon. Emily had passed the CSI vehicles on the long stretch of road leaving the home. With the Cedar Springs PD gone and the forensics processed, it was now up to the Spencer Aftermath Recovery Team to clean it up, but Emily wanted a peek at the crime scene before the process began. Leave it to Stone to be prompt.
Emily had firsthand experience with his timeliness when one of her cases in the Public Integrity Unit had intersected with his, back when he’d also been a Texas Ranger in the Unsolved Homicide Unit. The man was organized, efficient, tough at times but kind, and had a nose like a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out criminals. He’d been sorely missed when he’d resigned his position a few years ago.
He’d also asked her out twice to dinner.
And twice she’d declined.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, she tucked one of her long bangs that had come out of her low bun back where it belonged, then frowned at her freckles. She didn’t mind being a redhead. She detested the freckles that covered her body, but she refused to use makeup or concealer to hide them. They were simply her.
Donning her extra wide sunglasses, she reached for her white cattleman hat from the passenger seat out of habit, but it was empty. Today she was in her own vehicle and plain clothes so as not to alert the reporters at the house that a Texas Ranger from the PIU was on the scene. Her Texas star badge was inside her jeans pocket. This was a covert mission.
She exited the vehicle to a balmy sixty-four degrees. Per usual, it didn’t look like snow for the Texas Hill Country this Christmas, but anything could happen in a week. A myriad of reporters demanded her identity, but she kept her head down to avoid being caught on camera, being sure not to act too inconspicuous. Her cowgirl boots clicked along the asphalt as she approached the front door. She ignored the reporters’ questions and kept her back to the hungry cameras.
Cedar Springs PD might be calling this a suicide—and maybe it was—and the autopsy report might read the same, but she and her director, George Baldwin, needed to know for sure. Judge Williford had ties to Governor Paul Henderson. And Paul Henderson was why she was here. No one could know. Not yet.
Not even Stone Spencer.
Emily wasn’t going to lie—she did work in the Public Integrity Unit after all—but she also wasn’t going to share confidential information with the judge or anyone else. Her father used to say one only had their good word. Once that was broken, one could kiss integrity goodbye. Emily had adhered to that philosophy her entire life. It’s why she chose the PIU. She and three other Texas Rangers worked full time on cases against public officials and state employees.
Too bad Dad hadn’t lived up to his own good counsel.
But her maternal grandfather had. He’d been a Texas Ranger too. Emily only wished he had been alive to see her own silver star.
She rang the doorbell, her spiel on the tip of her tongue. A woman in a uniform opened the door, and the scent of holiday candles and cinnamon wafted toward her.
“No reporters!” the woman barked. “You’ve been warned already.”
Emily fished out her Texas Ranger star and discreetly held it out. “Is the judge home? I’d like to talk to him about his wife.”
The housekeeper eyed her attire, or lack of. No light-colored cattleman, no white dress shirt with a crossover tie, black blazer and khaki pants. “I’m trying to be discreet for the judge’s sake.”
Nodding, the petite woman allowed Emily inside. “He’s here. In his study. Hasn’t come out to even eat a sandwich for lunch.”
Emily glanced at her watch. It was nearing one o’clock. She scanned the pristine home. The marble flooring gleamed, a shiny mahogany banister lined a spiral staircase, an ostentatious foyer chandelier glittered over an equally ostentatious Christmas tree. She skimmed the premises for any sign of Stone or his brothers, who worked with him in the family business. Thankfully, she saw no one.
The housekeeper knocked on a door. “Your Honor, Texas Ranger...” She looked at Emily.
“Emily O’Connell.”
“Emily O’Connell from...”
“The Public Integrity Unit,” she offered.
She repeated Emily’s words. “She’s here to talk with you.”
Emily heard stirring behind the door, and then it opened to the Honorable Charles Williford. His hair was thick and white, matching his tidy full mustache. He had a Sam Elliott vibe going for him. When he spoke, he sounded like the famous actor too. “Why is the Integrity Unit here?” He eyeballed Emily and her lack of uniform.
“I didn’t wear my uniform for discretion.” She held up her badge. “You can call my supervisor if you’d like. I’m not a reporter trying to be sneaky.”
“It was...suicide,” he said, choking on his words. His dark eyes were bloodshot, and the room smelled of pipe tobacco and grief.
“Yes, Your Honor, I heard.” She laid a hand on his bicep, feeling his pain in her chest. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m just here to do my job. I’ll make it quick and then leave you.”
“Did someone report foul play?” He sighed. “I don’t understand why you’d be here otherwise.”
They hadn’t been tipped off about this particular incident; there’d been no formal complaint or evidence. But a Texas Ranger who had been assigned protective duty to the governor had come to George Baldwin two weeks ago with allegations, several photos he’d pulled from the iCloud, and his written and recorded statement saying he believed Governor Paul Henderson had directly murdered or indirectly had three women killed in the past four years.
All three women had been related to men who were fraternity brothers with Paul Henderson, and all three women had been in the governor’s presence within days of their deaths.
Tiffany Williford brought the count up to four.
Granted, the photos had only proved the women had been in contact with the governor, but according to Ranger Gil McElroy, their deaths had not been suicides or accidents. The man’s word was strong, but there was no proof. But a week after Ranger McElroy came to see George in the PIU, he too died by an accident.
Emily didn’t believe that was any accident. So she was in the preliminary stage of investigating. Gathering information that would substantiate Ranger McElroy’s allegation or refute it.
“We both know I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”
His eyebrow raised at her vagueness, but he nodded and allowed her inside his study. This wasn’t exactly normal protocol, but the scope of this mission was highly confidential. Lives were at stake. Possibly even Emily’s and her supervisor’s.
Four women were now dead and one Texas Ranger.
If it turned out that the governor was responsible, then it meant he had a string of important and powerful people on his payroll, like law enforcement and even the ME’s office. Who knew how far and wide it reached. No one could be trusted.
“Can you answer a few questions for me? I’m sure you’ve already answered them for the local detectives.”
“Sure. Have a seat.” He swept his hand out for her to sit in one of the burgundy leather chairs in front of his desk.
Emily retrieved a notepad and pen from her purse. “When was the last time you saw your wife?”
“Two days ago. I was at a speaking engagement in Dallas that ended yesterday afternoon. I had planned to stay on and fly in later today in order to visit with a few old friends, but I changed my mind and got an earlier flight, which put me home a little before eight this morning.”
“Anyone know you were coming home early?” she asked and jotted a few notes.
“No. I was going to surprise Tiff and take her to brunch.”
“Anyone know about you leaving?”
“Of course. Friends. Family. Colleagues.”
She’d verify the travel information. She’d thought her own father was the epitome of integrity, but three months ago when he passed away, she discovered he’d lived a double life complete with a whole new family in Oklahoma, which included a daughter and son only a few years younger than Emily. Her entire life and her mom’s entire married life, and they’d never known it. How stupid were they?
“What did you do when you returned home?”
“I came in, looked at the mail and poured a glass of OJ then went into Tiffany’s dressing room and bathroom. I found her...on the floor...” He shook his head. “I have no idea why she’d do this. Didn’t seem real. I even mentioned to Detective Lang, the lead from Cedar Springs, that this might be a homicide, though there was no forced entry. I looked myself.”
Sometimes the signs of suicidal tendencies weren’t obvious. And in this case, there may not have been any signs. Not if it was a homicide. She’d know more once she saw the scene—if Stone hadn’t already cleaned it up. Even the judge thought it might be foul play.
Women didn’t typically use their husbands’ guns to end their lives. They took pills and drank them down with alcohol or sat in a running car in a garage. Even jumped. But guns were not on the top of the list, and Tiffany Williford didn’t seem the type to do it that way. Once they’d heard that she had supposedly killed herself with one shot to the head, Emily and George had been suspicious. Not to mention Tiffany had recently been at a Christmas charity event with the governor, and she’d had a meeting with him only days before her death.
“Can I see the salon?” A fancy word for a big bathroom. Emily’s bath had one vanity, one toilet and a cracker box standup shower with no tub.
“Of course. Marlene will show you.” He pressed a button on his phone, and a few moments later, the housekeeper arrived, a sandwich in hand.
“You must eat, Judge. Even half. Please.”
He sighed and motioned for her to put the plate on his desk. “Thank you. I’ll...I’ll try.”
Emily followed Marlene up the winding staircase to the west wing of the home.
“This is the primary bedroom, and her private salon is through there, but we’ve been asked to stay out so the company can...clean.” Marlene’s chin wobbled and she shook her head.
Emily heard voices from inside the bedroom, a mix of male timbres, and recognized the deep, rich, commanding voice of Stone Spencer himself. Her stomach dipped against her will, and she stepped across the threshold into the bedroom, noticing another Christmas tree in blush pink, white and silver by the bedside. The soft white lights still glowed.
Stone’s two brothers stood near the foot of the bed in white hazmat suits, but without head gear, which meant they hadn’t begun the cleaning process. Both were over six feet. One had jet-black hair and eyes to match—and a cocky grin that wasn’t going to win him any points from her. The other brother had lighter brown hair and eyes, and he wore no smile.
Where was Stone?
“I think you may be lost,” the brother with midnight hair said, his tone buttery.
“Doubtful,” she said.
Stone stepped into the door frame of the salon—hazmat suit and a scowl pulling his eyebrows together. Stone was the best looking of the three, in her opinion, and probably the most irritated at being interrupted. At first, he didn’t seem to recognize her, then it hit him and his sharp green eyes narrowed. “Emily? Out!” He pointed for her to exit the way she entered.
“Hello, Stone. Nice to see you too. Crime’s not in here and the scene’s been processed. I think I’ll stay. But I appreciate you commanding me like a dog.”
He huffed. “Sorry, it’s just... Why are you here? This is a suicide.” But his eyes betrayed him. He didn’t buy that. He pointed to the hallway. “Can we speak in private please?” he asked and waited while she acquiesced. He wasn’t usually this abrupt, but it was clear something was flustering him. She ventured into the hall with him, the smell of chemicals and gunpowder still lingering on the air. “I’m sorry for the barking. It’s just... I’ll get you some protective wear so you don’t step in anything.”
Guess it wasn’t pretty.
Death never was.
Stone Spencer clomped down the spiral staircase and out to his van, where he retrieved a spare hazmat suit, bristling at the media gawking and cawing like ravens ready to pick at a meal. It wasn’t that long ago they were outside his family ranch, filming and asking about his own sister’s suicide.
Four years had passed but the ache felt like yesterday. Stone hadn’t seen a single sign, and he’d borne that guilt every hour of the day since. He felt it even more today. Every suicide brought back the grief from Paisley’s death. Mom had never been the same, especially since they’d lost his father to a heart attack six months prior to Pai’s death.
But right now, Stone didn’t have time to think about his pain or his mom’s vacant eyes when she’d asked who would clean up the aftermath Paisley had left behind. That’s when Stone had recognized a great need among families. He’d resigned from the Texas Rangers and moved back to their ailing family ranch to start his aftermath recovery company. His sister Sissy, a therapist, had joined to handle the grief counseling services they offered. There was always more than physical aftermath to a tragedy.
Rhode, his youngest brother, had joined the team out of no choice, and Bridge, only two years younger than Stone, had never given a reason for leaving the FBI and coming on board. Stone had never asked. Everyone had their private motives.
The media hounding him reminded him that everyone felt entitled to information that was none of their business. He ignored their cameras and questions and returned upstairs to Emily.
She was a striking woman with fiery hair that matched her spicy personality. He admired her moxie—not many women became Texas Rangers, which was a shame, but her hard work and shattering of glass ceilings were quite admirable to Stone. While working a case together, he’d asked her to dinner, and she’d turned him down. When the case was finished, he asked again, assuming she didn’t date coworkers and that was the reason behind her previous rejection. But she turned him down again. He never figured out why. After all, who said no to tacos and guac? He wasn’t a stalker, so he let bygones be bygones, then Pai died.
He handed Emily the hazmat suit. “Here. Just slip it on over your clothes, which by the way, why aren’t you in uniform?” She was dressed casual in jeans, a pretty shirt and cowboy boots. She looked Texan through and through, and he had a sudden urge to try one more time for the tacos.
Instead he waited on her answer.
She slipped into the hazmat suit and turned up her nose. She might not think it the most flattering attire, but she looked good to him.
His brothers had already brought up the industrial supplies and biohazard waste container. They cast a few glances his way, but he ignored them too.
“So why aren’t you in uniform?” he asked again.
“I’m here in a less formal capacity,” she said in a no-nonsense tone. “May I see the scene now? I’m asking out of courtesy.”
He was well aware she had authority here as a Texas Ranger and he was a civilian. Some days he missed his job, but he didn’t regret his present occupation. He still helped people.
Stone pointed to the bath and dressing room. Emily strode across the white carpet, glanced toward his brothers, and then she entered.
Her lips pursed as she surveyed the vanity littered with cosmetics, perfumes and lotions. The stool had been knocked over, and blood spatter dotted the floor and the garden tub behind her. The spatter was consistent with someone shooting themselves in the forehead, but something felt off to him.
Emily studied the spatter on the floor, the way the blood pooled. “You see the body before they took her?”
“No. We aren’t allowed in until after the CSI is finished and the victim’s taken and the scene is released. Do you not have access to the crime scene photos?”
Her jaw twitched, and she stood in front of the vanity, then squatted as if she were sitting on the toppled stool, staring into the mirror. The array of LED lights lit up the freckles rolling over her nose and cheeks, providing her a younger appearance than her midthirties. Soft brown eyes met his and his gut felt like it’d been punched.
“She shot herself right between the eyes while sitting on that stool,” she said, waiting on him to respond.
He’d heard that was the case, but it didn’t feel right. Blood spatter often told the tale, and in this case, while there was spatter, it didn’t seem there was enough of it on the bathtub and wall behind it, and there wasn’t as much on the floor as he’d expected. If he had to make a conclusion, he’d say that she was shot after she died but before livor mortis began, which was a tight window of twenty to thirty minutes. He’d be interested in the photos of the victim. If she shot herself, there would be blowback on her hands and a specific pattern. He wondered if Emily had seen the photos or got some kind of tip, and that’s why she was here to investigate.
“Did you get a tip that Judge killed his wife? Why else would you be here?” he asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say why I’m here, Stone, and you know how irritating it is when people ignore that statement. So maybe let me think for half a second.” She huffed and took a few photos with her cell phone camera.
It was irritating when the tables were turned. “I’ll give you space, but I can keep confidences.”
“Bully for you,” she muttered, and instead of frustrating him, he found her amusing.
He’d offer her an olive branch. “We don’t think this was a suicide, Emily.” He explained why and pointed out the blood spatter patterns on the floor and tub and tiled wall behind the tub.
Finally she glared at him. “You talk well and a lot. But you listen terribly and too little.”
He held up his hands. He was supposed to be giving her space. Slowly, holding in his smirk, he backed out of the bathroom and gave her room to assess the situation herself. She was fully capable and fully feisty, the kind of woman who gave a man heartburn he didn’t want or need.
Finally, she exited the bathroom. His brothers, who had been wondering why she was here and who she was, moseyed into the hall, giving them privacy. They’d hit him up after for the scoop.
“Well?” he asked.
Emily graced him with a resolute nod. “Well, thank you for the privacy. It was good to see you, Stone. The work you’re doing is good. I’ll see myself out.” She marched past him, leaving him gawking at an empty room.
That was it? No answers? No thoughts or theories? He’d given her an olive branch!
“Gentlemen,” she said in the hall, and then his brothers reentered the room.
“She’s fun,” Rhode said with a smug grin.
Bridge elbowed Rhode. “I don’t know about fun,” he said as he pointed to Stone, “but your face matches her hair.”
“It’s a good color on you, bro,” Rhode added and laughed as he pulled on his headgear.
Stone didn’t have time to race after her. Besides, she was doing her job, but it rankled him for the entire two hours it took to clean up the aftermath of Tiffany Williford’s death. By the time they finished, no one would know that only hours ago, a life was lost in a brutal way and that people were grieving her. The cleanup gave loved ones relief, but it never cleaned up the brokenness.
The Spencer family could attest to that.
Stone glanced at his GPS monitor. Emily O’Connell lived about thirty miles outside Austin in a little town called Golden Creek. His GPS had him going straight down the main street of the historical downtown. It reminded him of those small towns in the romantic movies his sister Sissy used to watch before she was widowed. At ten o’clock it was late to be paying an unannounced visit, but Tiffany Williford’s manner of death wouldn’t give Stone any peace. The past four years he’d done this job had practically turned him into a forensic expert in blood spatter.
Something wasn’t adding up.
He’d called his cousin, Detective Dom DeMarco, in Cedar Springs and talked with him, but he wasn’t on the case. Detective Neil Lang was the lead. Dom had gone to pull the photos to see if Stone’s hunch was right, but the photos hadn’t been in the case files. Dom said he’d look into it. But the ME had ruled it suicide. It was done. He’d told Stone to move on. He wasn’t an investigator anymore. That was true. He wasn’t. He had zero authority to run off on a gut instinct.
But Emily had shown up at the Williford house, and she might have seen the photos prior to them vanishing. Was she investigating Judge? He had been a longtime family friend. They’d even known his first wife before she passed of cancer eight years ago. Stone’s father had gone to college on a scholarship and worked his behind off for everything he had, but his fraternity brothers were old money and had become powerful people. Many had offered to help with his ranch debts that occurred when he’d gotten sick, but Dad was a prideful man and wouldn’t take the handout. He’d dug himself out of debt and held on to the ranch by a thread. It was still hanging by a thread.
Why was Emily at the scene if not in conjunction with Judge? When she’d walked out of that bathroom, she’d been stoic, but he’d caught the truth for a moment in her eyes. She’d seen what Stone had seen.
The sloppy cover-up.
Surely it wasn’t at Judge’s hands.
The GPS announced his arrival on the right. He parked behind a white car with government tags. Probably Emily’s. A string of shops, boutiques and restaurants lined the sleepy street. At her address, the storefront quilt shop was dark, but the window on the third floor glowed with colored Christmas lights. He guessed Emily lived in an apartment above the business.
Stone clambered out and strode between the narrow alley connecting the quilt shop to a candle store. The air was stilted and dry. Around back was a black iron staircase spiraling up to the third floor. How did she make this climb every day? He imagined her legs were a lovely product of the daily workout. Stone began the ascent, his boots clicking quietly against the iron, until he reached the small stoop with a modest herb garden and a pair of rubber boots by the door. He raised his knuckles to knock but noticed the door was cracked open.
A shriek rang out and the sound of heavy furniture crashing sent his heart into a skitter.
He pulled his gun and barged into Emily’s home.
Glass shattered.
A gun fired.
Copyright © 2023 by Jessica R. Patch