Page 7 of Bringing Chelsea Home

Ms. Prescott said. They were sitting in the convent’s private parlor as Grant Miller took her statement. Griff was amazed by her calm demeanor. Most of the women of his acquaintance would be rattled to downright hysterical after being attacked-or nearly so-in three days.

But none of those women could have fought off her attacker with a hatpin.

“Caucasian, pale blue eyes, no tattoos on his hands or face, no beard, heavy set,” Ms. Prescott described to the sketch artist seated next to Miller. “His nose was bit misshapen like someone had punched him in the past, but it didn’t look swollen today. Not sure of his age, but I’d say well over twenty-one, but certainly not as old as fifty. And it’s the same man who killed Bernie.”

“You reported he was wearing ski goggles when he attacked you and Sister Bernadette,” Miller commented. “How can you be certain it was the same man?”

“His voice,” she explained. “It was raspy, like he had a cold or sore throat. No obvious accent but not the kind of voice you’re likely to forget. Especially the way he said ‘bitch.’”

“And you stopped him with the hatpin?” Griff could still not quite believe what had gone down. If she’d not been almost killed, it might be funny.

A smile erased some of the tension from her face. “I belong to a local fencing club,” she explained. “I used the pin like a foil, which is my weapon of choice.”

“I wish I’d seen that,” Mother Winnifred declared. “No way he was expecting that.”

“Ms. Prescott, are you sure we don’t need to take you to an ER?” Griff asked. “Just in case?”

“He didn’t hurt me,” Ms. Prescott said. “Scared the hell out of me–sorry, Mother Winnifred–but that’s all. And it’s Elaine, Lieutenant Tyler.”

“Griff.” He bowed from his place by the bookcases lining the wall.

“Is this what he looked like?” The artist, a young woman in a police uniform turned the pad and held it up. To Griff’s surprise, the man’s face was unremarkable, like one you would pass on the street and never notice. But she’d included the gash Elaine Prescott’s pin put on the left side of his face and he committed the man’s face to memory.

“That’s him,” she said. “That’s the man who attacked me.”

“We’ll send it out to all the precincts,” Miller announced. “And I’ll take the clothes whenever you’re ready.” Then he chuckled. “Used a hat pin like a fencing foil. The guys at the station will love this.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” suggested Mother Winnifred, going to the closet and retrieving Elaine’s clothing. “We’ll use the bathroom in the dormitory.”

The women left, the sketch artist following, and Griff gave his attention to Miller. “How well do you know this Big Daddy?”

“Well enough,” Miller admitted with a frown. “The bastard is a genius at keeping his illegal enterprises hidden, making all of his many businesses appear legit. I’ve been trying to put his ass behind bars for years.”

“You got a picture of this upstanding citizen?” Griff asked. “If he’s coming after Elaine, I want to know what the bastard looks like.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Miller took out his phone and opened the photo page. He scrolled over the screen and then handed the phone to Griff. “That’s him.”

Big Daddy indeed. The man in the photo was taller than Griff by at least three inches, but even his well-cut suit couldn’t hide his sizable bulk. Tanned skin-the kind you get from too much time under a sunlamp–small, hazel eyes and a thin-lipped mouth gave Obadiah ‘Big Daddy’ Collins the look of a man who usually got what he wanted by one method or another.

“I’d hate to meet him in a dark alley.” Griff sent the photo to his own phone and gave Miller’s back to him. “Someone to be afraid of.”

“You should,” Miller said. “Big Daddy is one of the most dangerous criminals in East Tennessee and will come after Elaine again. It’s just a matter of time.”

Griff swallowed his anger–more at himself than Big Daddy. He should have followed Elaine and waited outside Mother Winnifred’s office for her to change clothes. Now her attacker was gone, and Griff had no idea of where to look for him. Not the way he wanted to start this case.

“All her clothes are in here,” Mother Winnifred announced as the women re-joined them. She handed Miller a large, plastic garbage bag. “Some of the blood spatter even seeped through that corset-bustier thing as well.”

“A necessary item for the well-dressed Edwardian women,” Griff said, trying not to stare at his client. Her simple navy-blue sheath dress skimmed her body and set off her hair, while her incredible legs, clad in silky stockings, and low heels were doing a number on Griff’s heart rate.

“I’m just glad to be out of it.” Elaine raised her arms over her head, stretched and then took a black tunic from the back of Mother Winnifred’s desk chair. “No wonder women back then fainted so often. They could barely breathe. And mine wasn’t even that tight.”

“Don’t forget the hat,” Griff said. He walked to the corner where Elaine had apparently thrown it and using a pencil from his coat pocket, lifted it and gave it to the now gloved Miller.

“Thanks,” Elaine said ruefully. “It looks okay, but I think the rest of my costume is ruined.”

“Be grateful that’s the worst of the damage.” For the first time, Miller sounded stern. “Big Daddy isn’t going to stop coming after you, Elaine. His man may have already reported to him that he’s failed again. Tyler, what are your plans for keeping her safe?”

“I’m taking her to BP’s safehouse,” Griff said. “The sooner the better.” He looked at Mother Winnifred. “I’m sorry this spoiled Sister Bernadette’s memorial,” he said regretfully.

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