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Dinner had been two hours going over notes and details of the day. Asa and Fiona had found another leather purse with the same Scripture on it and Tillie’s name sewn into it about three feet from where her body had been in the cave, tucked into a small crevice. The contents included mints, her car keys, pepper spray, tissues and tampons. Water had receded inside the cave, revealing it.
They’d batted around theories about the leather pouches. Were they in some kind of support group? Had they been given them as gifts or bought them all at the same time? Could someone they cleaned houses for have given them the purses? Tomorrow they’d get in touch with Amy, see what she knew of the purse, and if nothing, begin asking around.
Asa and Fiona had talked to Tillie’s sister. She knew nothing of the leather purse or the Scripture. Their parents had passed years ago, and she’d tried to get Tillie to move out of the holler. Tillie’s sister had left to go to the University of Kentucky at eighteen. Tillie had still been in high school. After she graduated, she went to Lexington, but after being there for three months, she was roofied at a club and assaulted by three men, according to DNA samples. She returned to the holler and started cleaning homes because it paid in cash and she needed the money. She had a few big houses in Louisville and Lexington. Worth the drive for the money. But that was the most she ever left the holler. Tillie’s sister believed she’d felt protected and safe in Night Hollow.
Turned out, she hadn’t been safe here either.
Tiberius had been perusing numerology books to see if he could find a solid lead on the numbers. To the killer, the numbers might have significant meaning. After they told him about the Song of Solomon Scripture, he’d searched the book hoping to solve the number riddle; as of now, it hadn’t panned out. But he planned to work later into the night.
Now, he was up in his room with Owen, who hadn’t found a clear pattern between where the victims were left and where they lived. It was hard to determine work locations when no one seemed to know where exactly they worked. He still needed addresses. But this one was tricky. Small holler. Tight vicinity. A geographic pattern may not emerge at all.
After dinner, they’d arrived a little after eight at the B and B. No sign of Aunt Hossie. Or Regis. The door had been unlocked, and Violet couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling in her chest when she walked inside. Like the walls were alive and watching her every move.
She’d changed into sweats and a hoodie and worked for about an hour, but her room was constricting and she needed air. She padded downstairs, the wooden joists creaking against her weight, the smell of vanilla and moth balls hanging in the stuffy air. An old Tiffany lamp glowed on a mahogany buffet against the wall, and Violet caught her reflection in the mirror hanging over it.
Her father’s eyes and chin stared back.
Shrugging off the ill feeling seeping into her lungs, she crept through the dimly lit living room and out onto the covered porch. The air had a bite to it, and the leaves sounded like ocean waves. She inhaled the scent of rain about to fall, earth and a hint of a rotting animal.
“Done working for the night?”
Violet’s heart lurched, but she didn’t jump. Turning to John’s voice, she found him sitting alone in the wicker rocking chair, a cup with steam rising in his hand. “What are you doing out here?”
“I like fall nights. October is my favorite month.” His voice was quiet. He hadn’t changed clothes, and he sipped his drink. “There was a silver carafe of cider on the buffet in the dining room. Figured it was fair game.”
“Or poisoned. This place... I sense something in this house.” She wrapped her arms around her middle and rubbed her forearms.
“Like?”
“I don’t know. It makes my skin crawl and my scalp prickle. Quite frankly, I feel this way about the entire hollow. It’s not the people. Granted, most of them don’t want us here, but I don’t dislike them per se. I can’t put my finger on it.”
John remained quiet, sipping his cider. She sank into the thick, soft cushions on the outdoor sofa.
“You see Aunt Hossie?” she asked.
He choked on his cider and coughed. “No,” he said through a sputtering laugh. “I wonder if she’s even real.”
“Wanna go check the fruit cellar?”
Now, he cackled. “You think she’ll be facing a wall, rotted?”
“You like the movie Psycho?” She was surprised and impressed he knew the movie based on her vague question.
“Who doesn’t? I like all of Hitchcock’s films.”
Now she was completely impressed. “Really? Something no one knows about me is I’m a movie buff. Old noir films, mysteries and thrillers. I don’t watch rom-coms or romances. I like British crime shows. They always have unseen twists, or at least mostly unpredictable.”
Leaning her head back against the sofa, she closed her eyes and listened to nature. She liked that John didn’t blab too much, as if he sensed she needed silence to think. Process. This killer wouldn’t be stupid enough to murder women who cleaned his house. He’d know police would be able to find a link. He’d have to at least suspect that if the bodies were discovered, the FBI would be called in. And even if he never dreamed they’d be detected, the local police still would have found the link.
Unless he was law enforcement and had them turning a blind eye.
After a few more minutes passed, John spoke. “Violet, why did you inquire about missing persons in Memphis with me? I’ve always wondered who you were looking for. A sister. Friend. Aunt Hossie.”
Violet appreciated John’s discretion when she’d gone to him. Mom had needed a colonoscopy, and Violet had taken her. In her waking from the anesthesia, she’d talked. Mostly incoherent but more than she’d ever heard as a child.
She heard names. Of other girls.
You have to get out of here, Eve. Polly and Debbie too. We have to find a way out of the baby basement. No more babies.
