Page 15 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

“You said you were lovers.” Sheriff Baldwin had been leaning over the coffin. His back popped as he straightened. Mist was rising around them, rain threatening, and the cold mountain air seeped into Reed’s bones.

“We had been. It was over.”

“When?”

“The last time I saw her was a couple of months ago. I broke it off.”

Baldwin was interested. He shifted from one foot to the other and in the eerie fake light from the kliegs his eyes narrowed.

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“Why’s that?” The sheriff cast another look into the coffin. “Good-lookin’ woman.”

Reed felt a muscle in his jaw jump. “Let’s just say it was because of her husband. Jerome Marx. A businessman in Savannah—import/export, I think. He didn’t approve.”

The sheriff drew air between his teeth. “She was married?”

“She didn’t think so. He did. Took offense to my being involved with his wife.”

“Don’t blame the man,” Baldwin muttered. “You didn’t know she was hitched?”

“She claimed she was separated, that the divorce was just a formality, was supposed to have been final any time.”

“You didn’t check? It’s all a matter of public record.” Those dark eyes drilled into him.

“No.”

“You trusted her.”

“I never trusted her.” But he hadn’t been able to resist her. Some men relied on booze to get them through. Others used drugs. Or cigarettes. Pierce Reed’s Achilles’ heel was women. Usually the wrong kind. Always had been, probably always would be. He glanced down at Bobbi and his stomach soured.

“Guess we’ll have to notify Marx. Have him come up and ID the body.”

“Let me talk to him.”

The sheriff hesitated, glanced at Detective McFee and Deputy Ray Ellis, all the while tugging thoughtfully on his lower lip. “Don’t see what that would hurt, especially since he’s already in Savannah. But you’d better take someone with you seein’ as you know the vic. McFee,” he said, nodding toward a huge man whose face was hidden by the brim of his hat. “You accompany the detective back home.”

“Fine.” Reed didn’t care who tagged along, but he sure as hell wanted to see the look on Jerome Marx’s face when he was handed the news that his wife had been buried alive.

“Hey!” a voice shouted from beyond the lights. “We’ve got company. The press is here.”

“Great,” Reed muttered under his breath as he noticed headlights through the trees. The last thing they needed was a media circus up here.

“Keep ’em away from the scene,” Baldwin ordered, his scowl as deep as Reed’s. To McFee, he said, “Let’s give Reed a look at the other body. The one below.”

Careful to disturb very little, the big man gently lifted Bobbi’s head with his gloved hands.

In the klieg’s glow, a partially decomposed face stared up at them, a macabre skull with features that were indistinguishable, only a layer of thin gray hair curled tight and what had once been a blue dress indicated that the body below had once been an elderly woman.

Reed shook his head and clenched his teeth. It wasn’t the rotting woman that bothered him; he’d seen bodies in all stages of decay, but the thought that Bobbi had been awake, aware that she was being buried alive along with a cadaver caused bile to rise up his throat. What kind of sicko would do this? Who knew that he and Bobbi had been lovers? Who cared enough and was twisted to the point that they would do this?

Jerome Marx.

Why else address the note to Reed and leave it in the coffin?

But why would he bury her atop the other woman—who the hell was she? And surely he would know if he put a note in the coffin addressed to Reed that he would become the prime suspect. Jerome Marx was many things, many bad things, but he wasn’t stupid.

The sheriff rubbed his jaw, scraping the stubble of his beard, while in the distance the dogs howled plaintively. “When we’re done here, I think we should go back to the office and you can give me a statement.”

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