Lily said, “I guess we can call off the quarantine,” before pouring more cream into her cup and adding a teaspoon of sugar. She tasted her brew again and sighed contentedly. “That’s better. Why don’t you get out of here?” she suggested to Nikki. “I know you’re going bat-sh … er, crazy cooped up here when you could be out, poking around and getting into trouble.”
“You make my job sound so glamorous. You sure?”
“Yeah. I’m keeping Phee home one more day, just to play it safe, but she’s feeling better, too, and caught up on her homework. Isn’t the Internet wonderful?”
“A lifesaver,” Nikki said and didn’t argue any longer as she was pulling at the bit to get out of the house. While packing her tote, she said, “The dogs and cat have been fed. Don’t believe them if they tell you differently. They lie.”
“I’ve heard that about dogs,” Lily said, “but cats?”
“Slyer. Much more duplicitous.”
“There you go with your big words again.” She saw Nikki hesitate at the back door. “So go, already. We’re good here. If there’s an emergency, I’ll call you. Promise.”
“Okay. Oh, wait! Did you know that Kyle has emerged?” She realized that between all the sniffles and coughs and cleaning up, she hadn’t given Lily the news about their brother.
“What?”
“Yeah. I forgot to mention. I’ll fill you in later, but suffice it to say that he seems to have decided to join the living, or maybe the family, or maybe just connect with Mom, but he’s communicating with her.”
Lily’s lips twisted. “Will wonders never cease?”
“I know. Gotta run.”
And, with that, Nikki was out the door. Nearly a week cooped up in the house with two unsolved murders to dig into had totally frustratedher. She’d submitted a couple of stories to the paper, all Pierce-approved, and spent hours on her computer or the phone. She had called everyone on her list, people associated with either Mavis Greenlee or Billy Huber. She seemed to be failing to connect with any of them. They’d either been away from their phones, not answering, or in some way or another unavailable. Worse, Fink was demanding a more “in depth” story about the crimes, and then there was Ina, who had gotten wind of the two murders and the possibility of a new book in the works. “This would be perfect,” she’d enthused the day before in a Zoom call. “Two murders within days of each other in Savannah … such a beautiful, historic city and … well, if the crimes are connected, you know, by a serial killer, so much the better. You could expose the dark underbelly of the city.” Lighting a cigarette, she’d added, “And by the way, serial killers are hot.”
“Yeah, right,” Nikki said now as she drove through the glistening streets. It had rained during the night, but the morning sun was finally daring to peek through thin clouds overhead to reflect on the pavement. As for Ina’s suggestion, it was ridiculous. Nikki was a long way from writing a book about the recent murders. First, the homicides needed to be solved, then positively linked; then the killer had to be revealed, arrested, and convicted. It could take years, and that wasifthe crimes were solved.
That thought had occurred to Ina as well. “So, you keep notes on those, but in the meantime, we need something fresh, something you can deliver in the next six months.”
Impossible! Nikki had actually laughed. “Let me call all my serial-killer friends. I’m sure they’ll sit down and fill me in.”
“Make fun all you like,” Ina had replied, “but I’m serious. Your editor and your fans are eager for another book. You should be flattered.”
“I am,” Nikki agreed, “but everyone will just have to wait a little longer.” Or a lot longer, if her new book was to be about whomever was behind the Billy Huber and Mavis Greenlee murders.
To that end, she was about to interview Mavis’s mother, Blanche Crawford, and hopefully get a little insight into the dead woman’s life. She figured Blanche’s perspective could add a human element to her story and maybe give Nikki some insight into Mavis’s character, and why anyone would want her dead.
As for Billy Huber, she’d learned his relatives had little social-media presence and few friends. While spending most of the week at home, she’d left messages for his brothers, Robert and Terence. Then there was Calvin Smith, aka Smitty, the man with whom Billy had been in a bar fight years before, after the death of his son. She’d found out that Calvin had been in and out of jail, an angry man who had lived in the area years before but now was in the wind. She made a mental note to find him, and surely Pierce could help with that. She had left a message for Smith’s parole officer, but again was waiting for a call back.
She was starting to get irritated.
Didn’t anyone use a cell as an actual telephone these days?
Now, as she drove down the shaded street to Blanche Crawford’s home, her thoughts returned to Mavis Greenlee, and Nikki wondered about the dead woman’s finances. Who inherited? Most likely her husband, who was currently holed up on Tybee Island. Were there any life-insurance policies? If so, who were the beneficiaries?
Follow the moneywas the axiom, but that was only if financial gain was the ultimate goal of the killer. That seemed unlikely, considering the fact that she believed, as the police did, that the murderer of Mavis and Billy was one and the same. If monetary reward was the objective, then Billy Huber was a poor choice of a victim.
What was the link?
She slid her Subaru into an open spot on the street in front of a single-level ranch-style home straight out of the fifties. A silver Lexus was parked in the drive, nose to bumper behind an older, dented Honda minivan, white but dirty, withWash Mewritten into the grime by an unsteady finger.
Getting out of the car, Nikki noticed that the curtains were drawn around the large bay window of the house, but the front door was wide open, and a heavy-set man in khakis and a polo shirt was pushing a frail-appearing woman in a wheelchair. With some trouble, he was attempting to circumvent a crack on the cement ramp that had been built near the three stairs leading to a leaf-strewn porch, but the wheels of the chair kept catching in the uneven surface, wet leaves collecting in the spokes.
The man, sunlight glinting off his bald head, caught a glimpse of her walking toward him, and a perturbed expression crossed hisfleshy features. “Can I help you?” he asked, continuing to maneuver the wheelchair to the bottom of the ramp, where a brick path wound toward the drive. The walkway was covered in leaves and twigs, and once more, he had trouble pushing the chair.
“I’m looking for Blanche Crawford.”
“You found her,” the woman said with a wry, thin-lipped smile. Her papery skin stretched tightly over sharp cheekbones and a pointed chin. She appeared to be in her eighties, her fingers clutched tightly around a small, well-worn Bible. An apricot-colored pantsuit hung loosely over her thin body, and a lap blanket covered her legs. Her puff of white hair was tamed by tortoiseshell barrettes, while rimless glasses covered sharp blue eyes that narrowed as she assessed Nikki. “You’re Charlene Gillette’s daughter,” she guessed and pointed a gnarled finger in Nikki’s direction. “The younger one. A reporter.”
