blew in the wind and she clutched her microphone in her gloved hands. Looking into the camera’s eye, she said, “The Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department has released a statement saying that the death of Jocelyn Wallis, a schoolteacher at Evergreen Elementary School in Grizzly Falls, may have been foul play. The authorities are not ruling Jocelyn Wallis’s death a homicide at this time, but they are continuing their investigation.”
Trace, stunned, stood rooted to the kitchen floor as he saw Jocelyn Wallis’s face appear on the screen. His guts twisted as he watched images of Jocelyn smiling into the camera, then a shot of the long brick building of his kid’s school.
Once again the camera was on the reporter standing on the crest of Boxer Bluff, near the park. The camera’s focus moved from her to pan over the raging falls and the snow-crusted ledge above the river, where Jocelyn’s fate had been decided.
“The Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department is asking for anyone who may have seen Jocelyn Wallis jogging in the park or anything the least bit suspicious on the day of her death to contact them. That number will be posted on our Web site.” The screen split suddenly. The reporter out in the elements on one side, the two anchors sitting side by side behind a desk in the studio. “This is Nia Del Ray with KMJC News,” the reporter said. “Back to you, Drake.”
“Jesus,” Trace whispered, disbelieving, as he stared at his small TV. What had the reporter said?
The split screen returned to one image of the news set, and the story was quickly segued into another about a fire in a small town to the south.
Trace thought of his son and how he’d been close to Jocelyn. It had been bad enough to tell him that she’d died, but now to try and explain murder to a seven-year-old when he didn’t understand it himself. .
The weather report forgotten, he poured some milk over the Cheerios, then left the kitchen to climb the stairs to Eli’s room.
Another thought struck him as he reached the top of the stairs. If Jocelyn had truly been murdered, Trace’s name would come up as a potential suspect. There was no way around that. He’d dated her. The damned school had called him when she hadn’t shown up for work. He had been in her place, knew where she kept a spare key, had identified her in the hospital.
Yeah, he thought as he pushed open the door to Eli’s room and found his son lying on his back, covers bunched, hair sticking out at all angles, casted arm resting on his chest while he slept soundly. Trace O’Halleran’s name would be on the suspect short list.
For a while.
He watched his boy’s even breathing as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Too bad that was all about to change.
By the time she left for work Monday morning, Kacey couldn’t imagine not having adopted the dog. And she intended, at least at first, to drive home for her lunch and play with him for a half hour or so to break up her, and his, day.
As for Bonzi being a guard dog, that was yet to be seen, but he was company and she felt safer with him in the house. She had allowed his dog bed in her room and had found comfort in his soft snores throughout the night.
“A good decision,” she told herself as she nosed her car through the drive-thru coffee kiosk on the outside of town, then headed to the office.
The weekend hadn’t passed without her thinking of Trace O’Halleran and his son. In fact, she’d caught herself daydreaming about him more than a couple times. She’d found him easy to talk to and sexy as the devil last Friday, but she’d attempted not to let her thoughts get ahead of her. She’d tried to keep herself busy with household chores, playing with the dog, and finding out everything she could about Shelly Bonaventure, Jocelyn Wallis, and, lastly, Elle Alexander.
Elle had claimed to have been born and raised in Boise. Kacey had checked and found no mention in any birth records of her being born in Helena, Montana, so maybe Elle’s claim had been true and all Kacey’s suspicions were for naught.
A couple of women who looked like her had died. And they’d been born near her. That was all it was. What had she expected? That they could all be related? Unlikely, and even if it were true, was that really so odd? She could have lots of shirttail relatives around these parts.
Ten minutes after picking up her latte, with the eastern sky just starting to lighten, she pulled into the parking lot of the clinic. She told herself to forget trying to find a link.
Holding her still-steaming cup with one hand and grabbing her laptop with the other, she did a juggling routine as she locked her car, then headed inside. Her first patient wasn’t scheduled until eight, and she still had time to check her e-mail and get ready for the day.
But as she was stepping into her office, Heather sprinted down the hallway from the reception area. “Did you hear?” she asked, her eyes round.
“Hear what?”
“That one of our patients died over the weekend!”
“Oh, God, no.” Kacey’s heart nearly missed a beat.
“I never met her, but she came in on Saturday. I was just going to check with the lab about her schedule.”
Kacey froze. “Who?” But she knew. Instantly.
“Elle Alexander. Remember?” she asked, clearly shaken.
Kacey felt as if she’d been hit by a shotgun blast. Elle? The woman had been so full of life. Married, a mother worried more about her children than her own health, even with her nagging cough, she had been so vibrant. “What happened?”
“She slid off the road. Up by the North Fork Bridge and into the river. Coming home from Spokane, where she’d been Christmas shopping, the news said. I saw a report this morning, while I was working out on my stair stepper!” Heather shuddered theatrically. “Can you imagine?”
“No,” Kacey admitted, her heart squeezing. “Were her kids with her?”
“Don’t think so. But there’s a story in the newspaper. I put it on your desk.”
“Thanks.” Shaken, Kacey hurried into her office and sat in her desk chair. She read the article once, then again, all the while remembering Elle’s expressive face and quick smile.
As a physician, she dealt with death regularly. A person lived and died. It was all part of the circle of life. She knew it and accepted it, though she’d never become inured when a person passed from this life to the next. But with a woman so young, in the prime of her life, with two kids… it just wasn’t right.
And something else bothered her. A vague intuition that skimmed along her body, just under her skin, and caused her a deep unease. Elle, like Shelly Bonaventure before her and Jocelyn Wallis just last week, resembled her.
She thought of the swab she’d taken of the woman’s saliva and the fact that she was checking Elle’s DNA. She was glad she’d done it. Maybe there wasn’t a conspiracy going on, per se, but there was something there… something strange.
“You can listen to the nine-one-one tape yourself,” Alvarez said as she walked with Pescoli into the lunchroom, which had been totally Joelle-ized from top to bottom. Christmas lights, garlands of fake pine boughs decorated with gold beads, and red ribbons were draped around the room. Silver snowflakes dangled and twisted from the overhead lights like fishing lures on forgotten reels.
“For the love of God, is this even allowed in a public building?” Pescoli groused, noticing the coffeepot had a red bow tied to its plastic handle. “This is just too much.”
Alvarez ripped off the bow and poured a long stream of coffee into a mug she’d pulled down from the shelf. She took a big gulp from her cup, then turned the conversation back to the single-car accident near the North Fork
