Chapter 15
Morning light washed over the hills as Whitlock and I drove along the coastal highway.
Waves rolled against the shoreline below, a slow rhythm that fed into the theories running through my mind.
We’d stayed up late the night before, going over Anne’s cold case.
In the end, we felt we were both heading in a direction that would lead us to Audrey’s killer.
Beside me, Whitlock drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “So, we had a lot to talk about last night, didn’t we? Chasing clues is like piecing together a shattered mirror, each shard reflecting a sliver of the bigger picture. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Nice metaphor, and yes, I agree.”
He smoothed a hand over his floral tie, adjusting it.
“It was interesting, going through the evidence box from Anne’s cold case.
I remember the scarf was found not too far from her aunt’s house.
Anne’s mother swore the scarf belonged to her daughter.
She even showed me a photo of her wearing it to prove her point. ”
“Back then, DNA wasn’t what it is now.”
“It sure wasn’t, which is why I dropped the scarf off to Silas this morning. DNA, hair and fibers, body fluids, skin oils, gunshot residue … old threads hold on to them longer than people expect sometimes.”
“It reminds me of Catherine Eddowes, Jack the Ripper’s fourth victim. It’s been over 130 years since her death, and yet reexamined DNA evidence of the semen on her shawl matched the descendants of Polish barber Aaron Kosminski, one of the suspects back then. What do you think of that?”
Whitlock shrugged. “I don’t know what to make of it. What about you?”
“I’m not sure either. Among scientists, it seems to be up for debate.”
“Yeah, well, I’m hopeful Silas finds something we didn’t have the ability to find before.”
“Me too.”
Morro Bay came into view, the harbor sitting calm, boats bobbing in the soft shine of morning. A gull swooped low and cruised alongside us for a few seconds before changing paths and veering toward the water.
Though Anne and Audrey’s stories had been separated by decades, I got the feeling they shared a similar spine, perhaps a shared secret even.
We turned onto a quiet residential street, and Whitlock slowed down as he scanned the house numbers. The Fontaine home sat near the end of the block. It was a small one-story wood home with blue shutters and a garden that looked like it hadn’t been tended to for some time.
Whitlock parked in the driveway and turned toward me. “Before we go inside, I’ll tell you what I remember about Anne’s parents. I recall Violet being a sweet, kindhearted woman, easy to talk to, and the kind of person who wears her heart on her sleeve.”
“Good to know. And Eugene?”
“Eugene is … well, much different. He sometimes answers questions or responds to things without a lot of tact. That’s the way I remember him, anyway. He could have changed, I suppose, but I imagine he hasn’t. Oh, and one more thing,” he said, lifting a finger. “Eugene is Anne’s stepfather.”
“Who’s her biological father?”
“A man who died when Anne was a child, though I don’t remember the specifics.”
We walked up the path toward the house, and Whitlock knocked on the door. A moment later, it opened.
A stout woman with soft silver hair that was curled at the ends blinked at us and smiled. She wore a pale pink cardigan over a white T-shirt and jeans, and as the morning chill kicked up, she pulled the cardigan tighter around her waist.
“Goodness gracious, it’s been too long,” she said to Whitlock, moving a hand to her hip. “You haven’t changed one bit. It’s as if you’re aging in reverse.”
Whitlock smiled. “I was just about to say the same thing to you.”
She laughed and pressed a hand to her chest. “Come in. Please. Both of you.”
We followed her into the house, a cozy little place that smelled of newspapers and old books. In the living room, a wall dedicated to Anne was filled with photos of her from birth all the way up to when she went missing.
It wasn’t long before Eugene entered from the kitchen. He was tall and thin and had a weathered face that suggested he’d been through a lot in life. He wore a loose white shirt with red suspenders that did a poor job of holding up his pants.
“What brings you two here?” he asked.
His tone, while not hostile, was one of worry.
Whitlock clasped his hands together. “Eugene, it’s a pleasure to see you after so much time has passed. Allow me to introduce Georgiana Germaine, a private investigator working with the department on one of our cases.”
“You reopen Anne’s case or something? Is that why you’re here?”
“In a way. That’s what we want to talk to you about.”
Eugene crossed his arms. “I’ll tell you now what I told you then. Anne didn’t run away, as one of the other detectives you worked with back then suggested. Someone took her, and we’ve made peace with the fact that she’s not coming back.”
Violet reached for Eugene’s arm. “We don’t even know what they’re here to talk to us about yet, honey. We should hear them out first, don’t you think?”
Eugene nodded. “Let’s all take a seat. I’ve just brewed up a pot of coffee, if anyone is interested.”
We passed on the coffee and sat down.
“We’re here because we’re working on a case that may be linked to Anne’s disappearance,” I said.
Violet gasped, raising a hand to her mouth. “After all this time? Has another young woman gone missing?”
“Not missing,” Whitlock said. “She was murdered.”
Eugene and Violet exchanged concerned glances.
“Then how …” Violet started. “How could they be connected? I don’t understand.”
Whitlock leaned toward her, his voice gentle. “We believe the young woman who was murdered spent some time at a cabin just outside of the Harvest Creek subdivision. We’ve found some interesting things there.”
“Like what?” Eugene asked.
Whitlock tipped his head toward me, as if suggesting I do the honors.
“The young woman’s name is Audrey Ashford. She was walking through the woods not far from the cabin on the night she was murdered. I searched the cabin and found what I believe to have been your daughter’s initials carved into a wood beam.”
“Tell her about the locket,” Whitlock said.
“When Audrey died, she was dating a boy named Logan. In one of his sketchbooks, I found a drawing of a locket. It was silver and oval in shape. Along the outer edge was a delicate ring of hearts, and in the center was Anne’s name.”
Violet’s eyes filled with tears. “She never took that locket off. Not once. It was a gift from her aunt. Will you excuse me for a moment?”
We nodded, and Violet pushed her chair back and left the room.
She returned with a framed photo, which she handed to me. “Is this the locket the young man drew?”
I stared at the picture for some time, even though I recognized the locket in an instant.
“It is the one he drew, yes.”
“But how … after all this time?”
“I have a theory, which I haven’t proven yet.
My gut tells me Anne and Audrey had both been to the cabin before, even though it was decades apart.
I was there yesterday, and it looked like someone had tried to tidy it up in recent months.
I think Audrey found the locket inside the cabin, and she got curious and decided to try and find out who Anne was and what happened to her. ”
“Georgiana’s theories are almost always right,” Whitlock said.
Violet lowered herself into a chair and drifted into silence, the air seeming to tighten around us as we waited to hear what she’d say next. When she spoke again, the words landed like a sharp blow. “I believe your theory about Anne visiting the cabin, and I know who built it.”