Her Last Goodbye

“But you told him—”

“I said maybe we didn’t need to call the sheriff.” She set her bag at her feet. “I don’t want him to run. I want him to think he’s safe.”

“Well played.”

“I’ve had lots of experience not showing my utter contempt and disgust in the face of criminals.” Morgan fished her phone from her purse and called the sheriff. The receptionist patched her through to his office.

“Yes, Ms. Dane?” Sheriff King sounded irritated.

“Hello, Sheriff. We just left the auto shop where Chelsea Clark had her vehicle serviced last month. The mechanic who worked on her car is a registered sex offender.” She gave him the information on Harold Burns. “I wanted to call you right away in case you wanted to interview him.”

“I’ll send a deputy out to talk to him today,” King said, then spit out a grudging, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She ended the call.

The sheriff could pressure Harold in a way Morgan and Lance couldn’t. But would he?

“Do you want to stop for lunch before we drive to Grey’s Hollow?” Lance pulled back onto the road and drove toward the interstate.

Morgan plugged the GPS coordinates for the Grey’s Hollow train station into her phone. “Let’s grab something we can eat on the way. I don’t want to waste time. Looks like rain is coming.”

Storm clouds darkened the horizon.

They bought sandwiches at a coffee shop and ate them on the drive north. An hour later, Lance exited and threaded his way through the rural roads until they approached the tiny town of Grey’s Hollow. On the narrow country road leading up to the station, they passed a smattering of homes. Lance slowed the car as they neared the station. The Grey’s Hollow station was basically a platform and parking area. There was no ticket booth, no shelter, no restroom. Nothing except a tiny deli that butted against the platform. Riders bought tickets online or on the train. The small gravel parking lot held six cars.

“She didn’t get on the train?” Lance asked.

“No,” Morgan answered.

Lance accelerated, and they left the station behind. Chelsea’s car had been found a quarter of a mile down the country road. The Jeep came to a stop in the approximate location. Morgan slipped off her heels and put on the cheap flats she kept in her bag for traipsing around in the mud.

She and Lance got out of the vehicle. The wind that whipped Morgan’s coat around her legs smelled of rain, and she buttoned her coat. She leaned back inside the Jeep, took her umbrella from her tote, and tucked it into the deep side pocket of her trench coat.

Lance had his camera in hand as they walked to the side of the road.

“This is pretty isolated.” Lance stared over a broken fence that ran along the side of the road, separating it from a cornfield. Past harvest, the dry stalks were cut and smashed on the ground. Random stalks that had escaped the tractor blades waved in the wind. “Why leave her car here? Why not in the train station parking lot?”

“Maybe someone didn’t want Chelsea’s car to appear on the parking lot security cameras.”

“Did you look up the weather report for last Friday night?” he asked.

“I did. It was clear, cold, and breezy. The temperature hovered just above freezing.”

“So she wouldn’t have gone walking if she didn’t have to.”

“No.”

Lance snapped pictures of the surrounding landscape then lowered the camera. They walked along the roadside. Morgan stepped ten feet off the pavement. Lance walked a parallel line ten feet farther away. Eyes on the ground, they continued their trek, their eyes sweeping the ground for anything out of the ordinary. After a hundred yards, they turned around, crossed the road, and went back to the Jeep. Wind stirred dead leaves and dirt into a mini tornado. Morgan’s hair blew into her face. She pulled an elastic band from her pocket and secured her hair in a ponytail. They repeated the process in the other direction, not rushing despite the approach of the storm.

Twenty-five yards from the Jeep, thunder boomed. As the first fat raindrops plopped onto the pavement, Morgan opened her umbrella and lifted it high. “You can walk under this too.”

“I might miss something.” Lance shook his head. “But you can take the camera.”

He brought it to her then went back to the line he was searching.

Morgan hung the strap around her neck. The rain turned into a downpour. Lightning flashed, and she startled. The wind caught her umbrella. She bent forward and angled it to keep it from turning inside out.

Ten feet from the Jeep’s bumper, in the weeds at the very edge of the pavement, something crunched under her foot. She stopped, squatted, and brushed her fingers through the tall grass. The gleam of wet metal caught her attention. Lifting the camera in a one-handed grip, she snapped pictures from varying angles.

“What is it?” Lance shouted over the rush of rain.

“I’m not sure. A piece of jewelry, I think. Do you have gloves?” She’d left her tote in the Jeep. Setting the camera back on her chest, she searched her pockets but came up empty.

Lance went back to the Jeep and then returned to her. He handed her a purple nitrile glove and a tape measure. She moved the weeds to fully expose a small silver pendant.

“Let me hold the umbrella for you.” He crouched next to her so she could take more photos.

As private investigators, they followed the same rules of evidence collection as the police. Collecting evidence in a downpour presented challenges. Lance blocked the rain and wind with his body as best he could. Morgan took additional pictures from varying angles and distances. She measured the distance between the necklace and multiple points of reference. Then she used her phone to pinpoint the exact GPS coordinates. When she’d recorded the necklace’s position adequately, she picked it up by the chain. They went back to the Jeep.

Lance held the umbrella over Morgan while she got into the passenger seat. Holding the chain, she shivered as he rounded the front of the Jeep. Then the driver’s door opened with a gush of wet wind. Lance slid into the seat and tossed the closed umbrella behind him. Rain plastered his hair to his skull and molded his clothes to his body. Below the midthigh hem of her trench coat, Morgan’s slacks were soaked. The insoles of her shoes squished.

He wiped water from his face with a hand. “Let’s see it.”

Morgan lifted the chain. The pendant dangled.

“The sheriff said his deputies searched this area,” Lance said.

“It was under the weeds. If I hadn’t stepped on it, I wouldn’t have noticed it.”

The pendant was a bird. Morgan twirled the chain and the pendant rotated. Three letters were carved into the silver on the back: CJC.

“What is Chelsea’s middle name?” she asked.

Lance took a Ziploc bag from his glove box, wrote the date and time on it with permanent market, and handed the baggie over the console. “Jessica. Her full name is Chelsea Jessica Clark.”

CJC.

Morgan lowered the necklace into the Ziploc bag but left the bag open so the pendant could dry. “We need to take this to the sheriff’s office.”

“Oh joy,” Lance said. “He’s going to be thrilled that we found something his men didn’t.”

She studied the necklace. “The chain is broken and there are a few long blonde hairs stuck in the clasp.” She unzipped her tote bag and took out her mini magnifying lens. “The roots are attached.”