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“Mother?” John asked.
“Imogene Boyd. Old lady in the holler. Everyone calls her Mother. He said Atta had stopped by to pick up a casserole for a girl named Betty Jane Dwyer. New mom. He was there to discuss the fall coat drive with Mother. Imogene. Whatever. Whoever. I’ll want to talk to Betty Jane and Imogene Boyd.”
“The cave is long, and the surrounding area is dense. I’d like to have another look,” Fiona said. “Something might have been missed.”
“Okay,” Asa said. “Violet, you and John—if that’s okay, John—work the victimology. Owen, keep doing what you’re doing, and if you see a pattern, let us know. Once we get the IDs, we’ll call you. Fiona and I will go over the cave again. See if we can get a few deputies to help. Even bring back the ERT for a second look. Ty, work on those numbers.”
Ty saluted. “Six-two-zero-one-two-three-four-five-six. Bizarre, but I’m working on it. Be patient.” Beside him, holy books from several religions were stacked, and a notebook with a few pencils and pens lay next to them. A laptop was open in front of him.
“Let’s meet for lunch at one at the Meat and Three Veg. I saw it was meatloaf today.” Asa grinned. “We’ll rally and trade notes then go from there.”
They broke and Violet sidled up to John. “You good working with me?”
“Why, are you bossy?” he teased and collected his phone and wallet from the table. He wasn’t technically on duty, so he wore casual jeans and a cream-colored sweater with his Timberlands in case they ended up in the woods again. But Violet was dressed in a black pantsuit with a light green shirt underneath that made her eyes a smoky green color.
“I am, as a matter of fact,” she said coolly, but he caught the amusement in her eyes. She wasn’t easy to read, but maybe if he spent enough time with her, he’d catch on to her nuances. Not that he needed to be spending time with her—other than work of course.
“Well, good. I like bossy women.”
A laugh escaped her nose. “Then I’m driving.”
The sheriff’s office had two unmarked units that they allowed the team to use while working the case. But John preferred his own car. Asa had told him to save the miles. Still. He didn’t mind Violet driving it.
Directions in the holler were all about landmarks since there weren’t road signs. They didn’t go as far back as the cave but drove over a small bridge and a road that forked west of the crime scene. Passing a smattering of houses with kids playing and women on porches gawking, they finally wound into the mountains, where a cabin nestled into the pines.
The yard wasn’t overgrown. The porch was clean, and two pots of mums flanked the front door. A welcome wreath hung on the screen door. Two rockers sat on opposite ends. According to the lead detective, Regis Owsley, Atta had lived alone. He guessed her brother would deal with the place now.
Violet grabbed the crime-scene kit from the back seat and unzipped it then handed John a pair of latex gloves and booties to cover his shoes. “We’re about fifteen minutes from the cave. And no other houses are in view. If he wanted to watch her, study her patterns, he had the time and the space to do it. Or he may have already known everything he needed to—if she knew her killer.”
John agreed then turned the knob. Door was unlocked. “Well, there goes me breaking and entering. I always liked that part when we had to search a house.”
Violet raised her eyebrows and went inside.
The cabin was small but tidy and full of mismatched furniture. The living space and kitchen were all open and to the right was a hall with two bedrooms and a bathroom.
Violet moved into the kitchen. Opened the fridge. “She likes wine. Not much else in here to drink. Basics.” She found a stack of mail on the counter and rifled through it. “Mostly junk.”
John studied the living room, looked in baskets, bins and the entertainment cabinet. “This is the brother.” He held up a picture of the two of them outside a little church by the creek. He was wearing a clerical collar. They had similar features. Atta had been pretty, with long dark hair, big blue eyes and apple cheeks. Tall and slender. Her smile and her teeth were crooked, but it added character to her face.
Violet gazed at the photo. “Keep it. If we canvass the town, we could use it. Brother’s nice looking.”
She amused him. “You think?”
“He’s no Cary Grant, but yeah. In a conventional way.”
He mused on the photo again. Didn’t see it, but he was a guy so... “I’ll check the primary bedroom.”
“I’ll take the other one.”
John combed through Atta’s room. Her nightstand held a few Cosmopolitan magazines and a gun. Her top drawers had lacy nightgowns and fuzzy handcuffs. “Definitely involved with at least one man,” he called. The coroner said she’d had intercourse prior to her death, but he couldn’t rule it a rape.
Violet entered the room. He held up the cuffs.
“Why are they always red or pink?” She frowned and held up a suede purse, the size of a small makeup bag. Atta’s name had been sewn on it along with the phrase I am dark but lovely. “This is strange.”
“That’s Song of Solomon.”
“Say again?” Her brow creased and she cocked her head.
