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But both came from Whiskey.
Monday, October 23
4:52 p.m.
Exhaustion added invisible weight to Violet’s limbs as she opened the door to the B and B. After another hour with Ruby, she’d concluded maybe she had the better life. No one forced her to make her choices or do things she didn’t want.
Whiskey.
He was at the crux of this whole holler. Calling shots. Running drugs and prostitution and no one would stand up to him for fear of disappearing like Bobby Lloyd and Earl Levine. You touched one of his girls—his possessions—and you vanished. The rules, however, didn’t apply to him. He could beat up on the girls and call in a doctor on the take to fix them up. Those who weren’t afraid and could do something about it stood by.
Regis Owsley. Was he paying for Ruby’s services? He called her a friend. Ruby hadn’t come out and admitted to prostitution, but it was pretty obvious. Anyone else cleaning houses was a prostitute—if Cecil Johnson was telling the truth. Why would he lie about that? And she had a purse. Violet had asked about clients of the victims, but Ruby kept her mouth shut—fear had her bound too.
Except she was leaving. Probably doing a major drug run, which could put her in greater danger, but Violet hadn’t been able to talk her out of it, and technically she had no idea what was in that duffel bag. Could have been gym clothes. No judge would give her a warrant to search it properly. She hadn’t been playing by the rules, but deep down she didn’t want to see her sister go to prison for drugs. Not when she wanted out and felt trapped. It had to be a big payoff to risk it all.
“Lord,” she whispered, “maybe You’re not real. But if You are, I get You don’t want me. Ruby...she’s not me. She’s a desperate woman who needs help. Please help her. Amen or something.”
As she entered the bedroom, she noticed the dolls hadn’t been turned faces out. Since the disappearance of her underwear, she’d been strategically packing her suitcase and keeping it tucked in the chifforobe for harder access.
Earlier, Asa had called from Charleston for a briefing and she’d refrained from sharing what she’d experienced personally about Adam, Ruby and the underwear. She did fill him in on the investigation and that the meth lab had blown but John was relatively unscathed.
He’d found out his wife had been unfaithful and with Greg. Violet had expected John to pummel him to a pulp, but he’d dropped his fist as if it wasn’t worth it. The man had taken his wife and taunted him with it.
Violet would have reacted differently. Pushed him off a dock.
They were entirely different. And according to John, the difference was God.
She didn’t have the energy to think about that. Right now she wanted to know why the killer was giving dolls to little children. The only other holler girl who had a child was Bella Dawn. Later, Violet would check in on little Mason and see if he’d been given any other trinkets or toys too.
She opened the chifforobe, grabbed her suitcase and noticed a draft of cool air on her hand. That was odd. She peeped around the sides and noticed the piece of furniture was flush against the wall. She pulled on it to scoot it forward, but it was anchored. Who anchored old clothes closets to the wall?
Tiny sharp chills scraped against her spine as she hauled her suitcase out and then felt around the back of the sturdy piece of furniture until she found a small moon-shaped groove on the upper right side. She slid her finger into the groove and pushed; the back of the chifforobe gave way.
“What fresh—” An icy draft chilled her skin as she inhaled the scents of damp earth, must and rot. She grabbed her gun, mini Maglite and cell phone from the dresser, turned on the light, then climbed through the chifforobe to a narrow hallway that ran inside the home. Wooden walls and flooring were covered in dirt, bugs and cobwebs.
Whoever had stolen her underwear and messed with the dolls had gotten into the room through the chifforobe. Someone who had knowledge of the passageways. Regis for one. Cecil was his brother; he’d have knowledge. Anyone in the holler might know about it.
A narrow hallway branched out to the left and opened up to a small room, which was backed up to Fiona’s room. She entered. The room was sparse. A few jars on shelves. Two chairs. Cobwebs, dust, wood shavings and rodent pellets. Holes in a few walls from termite damage.
Exiting the room, she shined her light down the dim hall, following it and batting away cobwebs. The place could have been used as part of the Underground Railroad or for bootlegging. Maybe both. Up ahead was a set of stairs that descended to the first floor, possibly to a basement. Violet hadn’t explored the house. She decided to start now. She descended the old wooden stairs, keeping light on each one in case they were rotted, until she came to a large rectangular door with a latch. She undid the latch and pushed on the door. It opened up into the formal living room, the covered porch beyond it. Stepping out, she turned and closed the door to see a large Civil War painting.
“What are you doing down here and why have you been rolling in spider webs?” John approached her and picked the sticky webbing from her hair, his nose scrunched. He’d showered and smelled clean and alluring. His hair was still damp, and his chin was bruised.
“I found a secret passageway.”
“Are we in the Clue movie now, Miss Scarlet?” John grinned then sobered when he realized she wasn’t messing around.
She pointed to the painting. “It’s a door. One of probably many in this creepy home. It leads upstairs into my chifforobe.”
“What?”
“Let me show you.”
“I just showered.” He picked another cobweb from her shirt and brushed the dirt from her shoulder.
“Well unless the water is out, you can take another.” She opened the painting. “You’d make a terrible Indiana Jones.” She stepped inside and heard him huff as he stepped in behind her. John had to walk sideways down the passage, his shoulders too broad.
“At least we didn’t find Aunt Hossie in here.”
