Reunited By Danger. Carol J. Post
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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.
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