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“This is Detective Caleb Lyons with the Levy County Sheriff’s Office,” Caleb spoke into the phone, his voice all cool professionalism.
Detective? Caleb? She figured he’d be a preacher or something equally righteous.
He continued with the same somber tone. “We have a homicide.”
Several gasps sounded around them. “He was murdered?”
Amber looked up at the former cheerleader who’d spoken. “Any suspicious death is investigated as a homicide until foul play is ruled out.”
Alex had apparently fallen. Or been pushed. Her gaze followed the side of the stucco building to a curved balcony, its wrought-iron railing thirteen or fourteen feet up. Situated halfway between Chiefland and Bronson, the Mediterranean Revival-style structure had likely been someone’s home. But during her lifetime, it had been a venue for weddings and other events. Tonight, Amber hadn’t gone upstairs. Their group had booked only the bottom floor.
So what had Alex been doing up there?
She straightened and draped her arm across Liv’s shoulders. The wails had quieted to sniffles, but shivers still shook her body.
“Did you see what happened?”
Liv shook her head. “I hadn’t been here long.”
Amber nodded. That would explain why they hadn’t seen each other.
Liv continued. “It was so crowded inside, I came out here to be alone. That’s when I found him.”
Amber scanned those gathered. Other classmates were now filing out of the building. The police would need to talk to all of them. Of course, almost everyone had been inside, like her, and probably hadn’t seen anything.
As she studied the faces around her, one man snagged her gaze. He was standing to the side. The glow of the garden lights didn’t reach his face, but she didn’t need to see him to know he was watching her. She could feel it. The hostility rolling toward her was almost palpable.
Logan Cleary. Anytime she came back to Chiefland, she tried to avoid him. Although she hadn’t been ready to leave her friends, moving to Ocala right after graduation had been a relief.
“He blames us, you know.”
Amber started at hearing a new voice close to her ear and frowned at Vince Mahoney. “He blames me.”
“He blames all of us.”
She crossed her arms, warding off a sudden chill in spite of the balmy June night. Vince and the others were part of the gang, but she was the one who’d sent the texts, inviting Logan’s brother to join them at their hangout in the woods. Landon Cleary had been a class-A jerk. But even after she’d learned the truth, she hadn’t wanted him dead.
She dropped her arm from Liv’s shoulders and cast a glance at Alex. Caleb was doing a good job of preserving the scene. No one had ventured near the body. She started to turn away then hesitated. Something white was caught in the branches of a shrub a few feet from where Alex lay. Paper? She pressed her purse against her side, unease chewing at the edges of her mind.
When she’d been in the bathroom earlier, someone had slid a sheet of paper, folded in quarters, under the stall door. Black sequined ballet slippers and a hand covered by a black silk glove were all she’d seen. No one at the reunion was wearing either.
She put a hand on Vince’s arm. “Did someone give you a sheet of paper tonight?”
His eyes widened, providing the answer before he opened his mouth. “I was standing at the bar talking to someone. When I went to pick up my drink, a sheet of paper was sitting next to it.”
Raymond Ellis staggered up to join them. Not much had changed. He was as wasted as he’d been when they’d hung out in high school.
She turned her attention to Vince. “What did the paper say?”
“‘All of life’s pleasures surround you.’” He studied her. “You got one, too.”
She nodded. “‘A sworn public servant, you’ve answered the call.’”
“You’re a cop.”
It wasn’t a secret. When she’d first arrived, she’d caught up with everyone except Liv, and they’d filled each other in on their lives. Raymond worked as a mechanic in a tire-and-lube place, and Alex was a trim carpenter. Vince had scored big. He’d married into money and had a cushy management job in his father-in-law’s manufacturing business. He was probably enjoying some of those pleasures mentioned in his note.
Ray squinted at them. “What are you talking about?”
“Someone slipped us notes,” Amber said. “One line about each of our lives.”
“I didn’t get anything.” After patting his back pockets, Ray produced a piece of paper. His brows drew together. “I didn’t know I had this.” After unfolding the single page, he read it aloud. “‘Once you were bound, but now you’re free.’”
Vince wrinkled his nose. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ray had suddenly sobered up. “I did a couple years for drug charges. Not many people know about it. I was living in Georgia.”
Amber turned. “Liv?”
Liv spun around, eyes filled with panic. “My purse. I had it when I came into the garden.”
Amber put a hand on her shoulder. “You probably dropped it when you found Alex. I’m sure it’s here somewhere.”
Sirens sounded in the distance, gradually increasing in volume. When the police arrived, the contents of those notes were going into the report, regardless of what her friends wanted.
Caleb approached and handed Liv a black clutch. “It was under a bush.”
She snapped open the small bag and looked inside. “I have no idea who put this in here.”
“Wait.” Amber held up a hand. “Maybe they can get prints.” Vince, Raymond and she had already handled their notes. But Liv, and possibly Alex, hadn’t.
Ray frowned. “Someone knows a lot about us.”
“You know what’s really creepy?” Vincent lowered his voice, his tone ominous. “A month ago, someone pretending to be Mona messaged me on Facebook, begging me to come here.”
Ray’s eyes widened. “Me, too.”
Liv nodded and Amber sighed. “I think we all received the same messages.”
Flashes of blue and red tugged her gaze to the shaded drive, where two emergency vehicles moved toward them.
Someone had lured them all here. Now they each had a piece of paper bearing a single line of print.
And one of them had died tonight. Whatever had happened to Alex, the notes tied the five of them together. Monday morning, she’d ask some questions.
First would be how did Ramona Freeborn die?
* * *
Caleb opened the door to the white RAV4 and watched Amber slide into the driver’s seat. “Thanks for your help tonight.”
She gave him a tired smile. “No problem. I figured you guys could use an extra body.”
Yeah, they could have used two or three. But he and Amber, plus the four other law enforcement personnel who’d arrived, had managed to talk to everyone and get whatever information they could. Which wasn’t much. No one had seen anyone go up or down the stairs, and no one had witnessed O’Dell fall.
Now, at a few minutes past eleven, the remaining guests were back inside, a shocked sense of loss overshadowing their earlier revelry. The body had been removed, but Crime Scene was still there, combing the area for evidence.
And he was officially on the clock. After four years with Levy County, he’d finally made his goal of being assigned to the Criminal Investigations Division. But being the low guy on the totem pole, he was stuck with the night shift. He was getting used to it. Strong coffee helped.
He pulled a pen and pad from his shirt pocket. He’d retrieved both from his glove box earlier. “I can reach you through Cedar Key, but how about giving me your cell number?” When he’d finished jotting it down, he scrawled his own number and tore the sheet from the pad. “Call me with any updates.”
“I will. Please keep me in the loop.”
“You’re there whether you want to be or not. Though you and Ramona didn’t keep in touch with the old gang, you were all pretty tight in high school. These notes tie you together again. Five of you, anyway.”
She pulled her lower lip between her teeth. The soft glow of the parking lot light illuminated the concern in her eyes. She fastened the seat belt across her lap before tugging loose the blond locks trapped by the shoulder harness. Her dress rested a few inches above her knees, the fabric a shade his designer sister would call teal. Both the hem and the neckline were more modest than ninety percent of the attire he’d seen tonight. At least on the women. She apparently wasn’t trying to draw male attention.
She’d gotten it, anyway, until she’d escaped to an empty table at the back of the room. She’d been pretty as long as he’d known her. In high school, he hadn’t been interested. He’d stayed away from girls who were bad news. And Amber Kingston had been bad news in capital letters.
Now she was an upstanding citizen. But he still wasn’t interested, for entirely different reasons.
“Be careful driving home.” He stepped aside and closed her door.
As she moved away, her taillights disappeared into the trees lining the curved drive. A minute later he was in his vehicle, following the same path. He was a little overdressed in his suit, but his plans to cut out around ten and go home to change clothes hadn’t materialized. Shedding the jacket would help.
He turned onto US 27 and released a sigh. It’d be easy to chalk up tonight’s death to another drunk being careless. They didn’t have O’Dell’s blood alcohol levels yet, but according to several people, the guy hadn’t taken it easy on the booze. People did stupid stuff when drunk. Things like sitting on balcony railings, tempting fate. Except based on the way O’Dell landed, he’d been facing outward when he began his plunge. Had he leaned too far over the railing and lost his balance?
But that didn’t explain what he was doing up there to begin with. Everyone’s testimony backed up what he remembered—O’Dell was gregarious and loud, not the type to seek out solitude. Which meant someone was lying about not being with him.
That wasn’t all that was fishy. He didn’t know about Alex, but the other former comrades in crime had all received Facebook messages from someone posing as Ramona, claiming to have cancer. Was that what had killed the real Ramona or had it been something more sinister?
By the time he reached the sheriff’s office in Bronson fifteen minutes later, he’d come up with a dozen questions and zero answers. On his way to his office, he poked his head into a doorway.
“Learn anything yet?”
Detective Frank Mason shifted his gaze from the computer screen. “Alex O’Dell apparently kept his nose clean. Nothing on his record but a couple of speeding tickets. He’s worked for Zanardi Construction since 2012. In the morning, we’ll talk to his neighbors, friends and family members to see if he had any enemies.”
“Have you checked out Ramona Freeborn yet?”
“Haven’t had a chance.” The desk chair squeaked as Mason shifted position. Built like a linebacker, his girth filled it. No one would mess with Frank Mason, even without the pistol at his side.
Caleb rested his palm on the doorjamb. “I’ll see what I can find.”
He moved down the hall toward his office. Amber had given him a middle name and date of birth. According to the fake Facebook profile, Ramona lived in Fort Lauderdale. That at least gave him a starting point.
He slid into the swivel chair and removed the notepad from his pocket. While waiting for his computer to boot up, he skimmed his notes, pausing to reread one line.
“The day is sunny and skies are blue.” The words were from the paper Crime Scene had retrieved from Olivia Chamberlain’s purse. If that was meant to describe Liv, the meaning was pretty obscure. Maybe she was naturally a cheerful person. He hadn’t seen it tonight.
The message found near Alex made more sense. Sort of. “The kids all adore you, their referee.” Alex was a coach, not a referee. Whoever had written it may have not known the difference.
He jumped to Vincent Mahoney’s line before flipping the page back. “The day is sunny and skies are blue. All of life’s pleasures surround you.” Did the five lines form a poem?
He grabbed a legal pad and scrawled what he’d read. Two other lines rhymed. After writing the fifth, he scanned the page.
The day is sunny and skies are blue.
All of life’s pleasures surround you.
Once you were bound, but now you’re free.
The kids all adore you, their referee.
A sworn public servant, you’ve answered the call.
His brow creased. A line was missing, the final word rhyming with call. But no one else had received a note. He and other law enforcement had asked the question of everyone at the reunion.
He reached for the mouse. Ramona Freeborn. The sixth friend. Had she received a mysterious message, making up the last line of the poem? He leaned forward and, after a couple of clicks, started typing.
During the next several minutes he found two Ramona Freeborns, one much older and the other slightly younger. When a third one came up, his pulse quickened. The date of birth matched. And she’d lived in Fort Lauderdale. As he read, a lead weight settled in his gut.
Ramona Freeborn had been murdered.
Investigative records provided details. Her body had been found in the woods five miles from where she’d lived. She’d disappeared late in the evening from her home, where she resided alone, having been divorced for nine months. There’d been no sign of forced entry. She’d either known the killer or had stepped outside and been abducted.
He moved on to the evidence list. Nothing of significance had been found at the house. In the woods, about ten feet from the body, lay a bloody wooden baseball bat. He’d seen some gruesome things in the line of duty, but the pictures that followed sent bile surging up his throat. Someone had beat Ramona to a bloody pulp.
More reports came after the initial one. Interviews with neighbors who’d seen nothing. Statements from coworkers saying they couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt her. Even her ex had nothing negative to say, claiming their divorce had been amicable, a fact supported by several of her friends.
There was another piece of evidence—a sheet of paper, apparently carried by the wind and lodged in some underbrush outside the initial crime scene perimeter. As he read the words, a cold blanket of dread covered him.
The missing line of the poem.
He reached for the phone but hesitated. Amber would be asleep. But first thing tomorrow, he’d make the call. He had to warn her and her friends.
Because this final line changed everything.
TWO (#u8da21117-890a-56f2-acf1-1ba5c400361a)
Amber poured dry cat food into a large mixing bowl, the sound of kibbles hitting metal echoing through the house. Two gray streaks zipped into the kitchen, followed by a yellow tabby and a solid black cat. It didn’t matter that they’d had their fill of moist food before she’d left for her morning run. Having spent too much of their lives perpetually hungry, they still acted as if each meal might be their last.
Except Tippy. She lay on the kitchen table, proud and regal, working on her after-breakfast bath. She resembled a chocolate point Siamese, but white tipped her feet, face and tail. A snowshoe, according to someone at Sheltering Hands, the Williston cat rescue. Amber had brought in pictures and gotten the official opinion shortly after Tippy had joined the Kingston household.
A ringtone interrupted her thoughts and she jogged into the living room, ponytail swishing against her neck. She retrieved her phone from the coffee table and frowned at the unfamiliar number before giving a tentative hello.
“Are you up?” It was Caleb.
“Just finished my morning run. I’m having breakfast then heading to Walmart in Chiefland.”
