Roses from My Killer Page 18

  That was interesting. Miranda turned the book so Mrs. Yearwood could see it.

  The woman’s lips turned up affectionately. “Oh, I remember that. Josie was Homecoming Queen her senior year. She did love all that attention.”

  Miranda pointed to the flower in her hand. “What’s up with the purple roses?”

  Mrs. Yearwood frowned. “What do you mean, Ms. Steele?”

  Tremblay hadn’t released that information in her news reports. Time to let this woman know about it. “Purple roses were found at the crime scene where Josie’s body was discovered.”

  Mrs. Yearwood sucked in a breath and pressed a hand to her heart. “I didn’t know that.”

  “We chose not to reveal some details to the public. I’m sorry to have to tell you now. Was there anyone in Josie’s past who sent her purple roses?”

  She seemed surprised at the question. “Everyone did. Everybody knew they were her favorite flower.”

  Like her ex had. “But she didn’t get flowers all the time. Do you know who gave her this one?” Miranda pointed to the Homecoming picture again.

  Mrs. Yearwood cocked her head as she studied the photo. “The boy who was Homecoming King, I suppose. I can’t remember who that was. She had so many boyfriends. She was a popular girl.”

  Miranda turned the page and found the photo of the Homecoming King. He was a good-looking young man with a flashy smile. His name wasn’t under the picture. They’d have to find him among the class photos.

  He’d be a senior, too, right? She didn’t know the protocol.

  “I just remembered something.” Mrs. Yearwood’s voice took on an ominous tone.

  Miranda sat up. “What?”

  “It was the night of Josie’s senior prom. Let’s see. I can’t remember who she went out with. But it was so strange…”

  “What was strange, Louella?” Parker prompted.

  “The boy who was her prom date brought her a corsage of pink carnations. Josie wore a rainbow colored gown she’d designed herself that night, so any color of flowers would have gone with it. It was so beautiful. But I remember her being disappointed because the boy hadn’t remembered purple roses were her favorite. In fact, she was very upset and almost didn’t go, but I talked her into it. I told her the boy had meant well, and she should go and have a good time. It was her senior prom, after all. And so she did.”

  Josie sounded a little spoiled, but Miranda wasn’t getting the connection. “Did Josie and the boy have a fight over the corsage at the dance or something?”

  Mrs. Yearwood shook her head. “No, it wasn’t that. After Josie and the boy left, I found another corsage in the trash.”

  “Another corsage?”

  “It had been delivered earlier. That’s what Josie told me when I questioned her the next day. She said it was from ‘some creep at school,’ some boy she didn’t like for some reason, I gathered. She never would say any more about it. And then there was graduation and parties and she started at the community college and I forgot about that corsage.”

  Until now.

  Miranda let out the breath she’d been holding. “And the corsage was—?”

  “Yes, Ms. Steele. It was the purple roses she’d wanted.”

  But they weren’t from her date that night, whoever he was. “You don’t know who sent it?”

  She shook her head. “I never could keep up with Josie’s boyfriends. She seemed to have a new one every week. I suppose I should have.”

  Miranda sat back and closed the book. A florist wouldn’t have records going back that far.

  She glanced over at Parker. He looked as frustrated as she felt.

  She put the book on the coffee table and got to her feet. “Mrs. Yearwood, we—”

  Just then the doorbell rang.

  “Now who could that be?” The woman got up and went to the door.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Hearing voices in the hall, Miranda turned in time to see Wesson and Smith come into the room.

  “We were just headed back to the station,” she told them.

  “We couldn’t wait,” Wesson said. “We had to talk to you now, Steele. At least, Cindy does.” She nudged Smith. “Go ahead. Tell her what you told me.”

  This didn’t sound good. “What is it?”

  Hanging her blond head as if she’d just committed a felony, Smith stepped toward Miranda. “This is all my fault.”

  Nerves began to swim in Miranda’s stomach. “What’s all your fault?”

  “This investigation. The way it’s been going.”

  “What are you saying, Smith?”

  The officer looked at Wesson as if pleading for help.

  “Go ahead,” Wesson said firmly.

  Smith sucked in a breath and began. “After I found the body in that oceanfront house—after the fingerprints came back—actually, it was when I came here and saw that picture.” She gestured to the Beauty Queen photo on the mantelpiece. “I realized I knew her. I went to school with Josie.”

  “You went to the same high school?” Miranda moved to the coffee table and picked up the year book.

  Smith eyed it fearfully. “Yes. Where did you get that?”

  “Mrs. Yearwood had it.”

  Smith put a hand to her head.

  “Go on,” Wesson prompted again.

  “Anyway, I had an idea about who the killer might be.”

  Miranda was stunned. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  Smith raised her hands. “You and Mr. Parker came and took over. You found those dating sites of Josie’s with those pictures. Then that hair Fry analyzed pointed to the maintenance man. And then you learned Josie’s ex was in town.”

  “But we were on the wrong path.”

  Smith nodded. “When you found Angela this morning, I wondered if I could have been right. But it’s such a stupid idea.”

  “Stupid idea? Why did you think that?” The Cindy Smith Miranda knew back in training thought her ideas were pretty good.

  Her blue eyes started to tear up. “I’m not like you, Steele. I can’t do what you do. I realized that at the Agency. That’s why I left.” She gave Parker a guilt-ridden glance.

  Miranda was more confused than ever. “What are you saying? You’re a cop.”

  “A cop in coastal North Carolina. I do routine patrols and occasionally give out traffic tickets. I don’t go after serial killers.” A tear started rolling down one cheek. “I’m sorry, Steele. I’m sorry, Mr. Parker. Maybe I should find something else to do.” She sank down onto a nearby ottoman.

  Miranda gave Parker a look of helplessness. She didn’t know what to do with Smith.

  Parker returned a firm glare. She had to handle this.

  Okay, then. She snatched a tissue from a box on a side table and handed it to Smith. “Suck it up, Smith. There’s a killer on the loose. Tell us your hunch.”

  Smith stared up at Miranda like she was a judge who’d just remanded her sentence. She wiped her cheek.

  “Okay. So Josie dated a lot of guys in high school.”

  “So we’ve heard.”

  “She liked the cute ones, and the ones who had ‘potential,’ as she called it.” Smith made quote marks in the air.

  “The ones who were headed for lucrative careers.”

  “Right. She called them her ‘prospects.’ Anyway, all the guys wanted to date her. She was the most popular girl in school. But there were some guys—I guess they were jealous. They kind of hated Josie. Especially when she made fun of them.”

  “Officer Smith,” Mrs. Yearwood said. “My granddaughter did not make fun of people. She was a kind and generous person.”

  Her grandmother was. “Wesson?” Miranda said.

  “Yes, Steele?”

  “Mrs. Yearwood’s made a bunch of brownies for the guys at the station. They’re really good. Why don’t you go to the kitchen and help her get them wrapped up for us. Have one yourself while you’re at it.”

  Wesson’s face brightened with understanding.
“Sure thing. You really made us brownies? Can I try one?” She took Mrs. Yearwood by the arm.

  The woman melted like her own chocolate. “Why, certainly dear.”

  As the pair left the room, Parker gave Miranda an approving smile.

  Feeling exonerated, she turned back to Smith. “Okay. So there were guys Josie made fun of?”

  Smith nodded. “She and Angela and some of the other popular girls. Josie and Angie were friends back then.”

  Just as Ernest Price had told them.

  “This is so awful.” Smith pressed her hands to her face.

  “What’s awful?” Why was she making this like pulling teeth?

  “There was this one guy. He was awkward and kind of ugly. Josie and Angie used to call him names and make fun of him. They made him cry one time. I told them they had gone too far—”

  “Did you hang around those two?”

  “Some. Until my folks moved to Nags Head and I switched schools.” She drew in a breath. “All right, I made fun of the guy, too. I wish I could take that back now.” The tears began again and Smith held the tissue to her face.

  Miranda went to the fireplace, ready to give up.

  This time Parker came to the rescue.

  “Cindy,” he said in his calm steady voice. “Do you think this boy is the killer?”

  Smith looked up at him, her blue eyes watery. “Maybe. See? Doesn’t that sound stupid?”

  “Not at all.”

  “What was his name?” Miranda said.

  Smith lifted her hands and dropped them in her lap. “That’s just it. I’ve been racking my brain for days and I can’t remember.”

  Miranda marched back to where Smith sat on the ottoman and shoved the yearbook into her hands. “See if this helps your memory.”

  Smith opened the book and gazed at all the signatures, then at the photo of Josie as Homecoming Queen. “Wow. This does bring back memories. I wasn’t at Josie’s school this year, but I went to the homecoming.”

  Miranda glanced back at the kitchen and lowered her voice. “Mrs. Yearwood told us someone sent Josie a corsage of purple roses the night of her senior prom. It wasn’t the date she had that night. She threw them in the trash and said they were from ‘some creep.’ That could be the guy we’re looking for.”

  A guy with a long memory and a grudge to match.

  Smith bit her lip and turned a few more pages. “I don’t know, Steele.”

  “Turn to the class photos. See if you can recognize the guy you’re thinking of.”

  Obediently Smith opened the book to the pages of the students.

  Miranda watched over her shoulder, studying the dozens of photos of young men in suit coats and ties and young women in off-the-shoulder tops provided by the studio. Some guys were chubby, some skinny, others the broad-shouldered football player type. Some smiled, others looked cocky, many looked bored.

  There were a lot of signatures over the photos. “We’re finally free.” “Congrats to the most beautiful girl I know.” “You’re the best, Josie.”

  But some of the guys hadn’t been so nice with their messages. “To Josie Yearwood. One spoiled bitch.” This was written under the picture of an overweight boy. “I did Josie behind the bleachers,” wrote a young man with freckles and glasses.

  Miranda didn’t think so.

  Smith turned the page. “Too stuck up for your own good,” wrote a boy with a long nose and large ears.

  Smith sighed out loud. “I can’t do this, Steele. I don’t remember these people. I went to college in Raleigh after high school. I was away for years. It’s just too long ago.”

  “Okay.” Miranda folded her arms and looked at Parker.

  He was visibly disappointed. “We’ll have to take the book to the station and run background checks on the names of the male students.”

  They stood staring at each other for a long moment—until Smith’s cell phone broke the silence.

  She answered it. “Officer Smith.” She listened a moment, then said, “Oh, right. Let me put you on speaker, Miss Mae.”

  It was Marilyn Little—Miss Mae—from East Seaside Properties. The company that managed the house where Josie’s body was found.

  “How are you today, Officer?” said a musical Southern voice.

  “I’m all right, Miss Mae,” Smith told her. “I have Wade Parker and Miranda Steele with me here.”

  “Well now, that’s good. Then I won’t have to repeat myself.”

  “What do you have to tell us, ma’am?” Miranda didn’t have time for small talk.

  “I just got off the phone with a charming gentleman from Cardinal Mutual Trust Company.”

  The trust company that owned the property where Josie Yearwood was killed.

  “He told me one of you called and wanted to know who the original owner was.”

  That would have been Wesson, but Smith was looking into it, too.

  “Yes, ma’am. We did,” Smith said.

  “Cardinal Mutual Trust Company manages the trust set up by Charles York. Mr. York was the wealthy owner of a cloud-computing company in Charlotte. He owned several properties we manage.”

  “Owned?” Miranda said.

  “Why, yes. Mr. York passed away two years ago. His son inherited his estate. But his father set up the trust to make sure everything was handled properly and that there would be a steady income. The Cardinal Mutual man told me the trust pays annual stipends to the son. I assume that’s what you wanted to know.”

  Miranda pursed her lips. She didn’t see that any of that information was relevant now. “Thank you for your help, Miss Mae. If you think of—”

  “That’s just the thing, Ms. Steele.”

  “What is?”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t make the connection. I’ve been so befuddled lately after what happened over there.”

  “Make what connection?”

  “Mr. York’s son stops by the office every so often. Oh, maybe two or three times a year. He likes to check our records on his properties—to make sure the trust company isn’t holding back any funds, I think.”

  Miranda’s stomach began to quiver. “O—kay.”

  “The thing is, he stopped by early last week. It was—”

  “It was what?”

  “It was the day Grover Ulman reported those keys missing.”

  Miranda’s heart nearly stopped. “Do you think Mr. York’s son is the one who took those keys?”

  “If he did, it must have been a mistake.”

  Miranda reached out for the mantelpiece to steady herself. “Are you sure about that, Miss Mae?”

  “As sure as I can be. I don’t know. I don’t want to accuse anyone falsely. I don’t think Jay would hurt anyone. He probably just borrowed the keys. He did put them back. I just thought I should let you know.”

  “What’s the son’s name?” Miranda said.

  “His middle name is the same as his father, but his given name is Jay. Jay Charles York.”

  “Thank you, Miss Mae. You’ve been very helpful. We’ll get back to you if we need anything else.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Smith disconnected and looked up at Miranda.

  Miranda snatched the yearbook out of her hands and turned to the photos of seniors. “W, X, Y,” she muttered as she turned pages.

  Then she stopped. Her heart nearly burst as her eyes focused on the pictures. There was one of Josie, full of life with a radiant smile, looking her lovely self. But it was the one beside it that was making it difficult to breathe.

  Smith looked over her shoulder and gasped. “That’s him. That’s the guy I remember.”

  Next to Josie was a photo of a boy who would never be a Homecoming King. His last name started with Y. He must have sat next to her in every class they’d shared. Lots of time to develop an obsession.

  He had a large, misshapen nose, an overbite, and a face full of acne. His eyes were sunken and his expression sour. But what made those antsy feelings of Miranda’s start, the
insects crawling over her skin, was what he had written over the picture.

  Did you like my roses?

  He’d signed the words with a heart. Inside the heart, he’d written the letters, “JY.”

  The room began to spin. Miranda reached out for Parker’s arm as she struggled to breathe.

  Jay Charles York.

  “Those weren’t Josie’s initials he carved into her,” she said. “They were his.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  He stared at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. He was beautiful.

  He had a chiseled face. His hair had amber-chestnut highlights and was cut in one of the latest styles. His skin was smooth as a baby’s. And contact lenses made his eyes a vivid blue.

  Fifty thousand dollars of plastic surgery and daily workouts had turned him from an ugly duckling into a swan. Or more precisely, into a hot guy. A stud, as some women had told him.

  But all the money from his father’s estate couldn’t make him feel beautiful inside.

  In his heart, he was still “Chucky.” The doll monster from the movie. The name kids at school used to call the boy with the knobby nose and crooked teeth and acne covered skin.

  Sickened by his own artificial image, he turned away from the mirror and ambled into his bedroom. On the dresser sat an old record player. Alongside it were his mother’s 45s, the records she used to play when he was little. Her favorite song was “Red Roses for a Blue Lady.”

  Gently he picked up the record and put it on the player. He closed his eyes as the notes of the song rang in his ears.

  He could almost see her. His beautiful mother with her long dark brown hair and sad eyes. She’d loved him so much. She’d always told him he was beautiful on the inside. And that he was so much smarter than the other children. She was proud of him. And she tried to keep his father away from him, but she couldn’t stop him.

  She couldn’t stop him from beating him or her.

  The rich and powerful Charles York was not to be questioned or talked back to. He could still feel the sharp blows of his father’s belt across his back when he failed some trivial test of his. The only way he and his mother had survived was that his father hadn’t been around very much after he started his company in Charlotte.