Page 8 of Tell Me (Savannah 3)

“Seems to me you’ve got plenty.” His razor-thin lips had twisted into a bit of a smile, that same self-mocking grin she’d found so intriguing when she’d first met him.

Infuriating, that’s what it was, she thought now, as she knew she’d get no further with him than any other reporter on the street. “Reed’s on lockdown, too,” she said and headed for the cubicle she shared with Trina Boudine, who worked with human-interest stories and was her best friend at the office.

The two desks inside the cubicle faced each other and were separated by a thin panel with a few shelves. Trina’s was neat as a pin, the desk clean, even her trash can empty.

Nikki’s area was more cluttered and, as she called it, “lived-in,” even though she worked only part-time. Pictures of her and Reed were pushed into a corner, along with a framed photograph of her niece Ophelia, known as “Phee,” who Nikki could barely believe had started kindergarten two months earlier.

Plopping down, she unbuttoned her raincoat and let it drape behind her on the back of the chair as she logged onto her desktop computer and checked her e-mail. Sure enough, there was a quick memo from Tom Fink asking her

to handle the Blondell O’Henry case as Metzger wasn’t available.

“Yes,” she said under her breath, happy that her name would finally appear in a crime-story byline again. It still bugged the living hell out of her that she was the second go-to for the crime beat, even after nearly being killed by the Grave Robber. It just went to show that, as far as editor in chief Tom Fink and the owners of the newspaper were concerned, it was still a “good ol’ boys” network. Such a load of garbage, she thought, but she intended, once again, to prove herself and get paid while researching her next blockbuster. Smiling to herself, she started perusing the feeds.

The trouble was, she thought, as she scanned the bits of news that came through, Bob Swan was right. No doubt Reed had a lot more information on Blondell’s release. “Bother and blood,” she muttered under her breath, repeating a phrase she’d often heard from her late father, Judge Ronald, “Big Daddy” or “Big Ron,” Gillette. Known for his sometimes salty phrases of exasperation in the courtroom, he’d been held in high esteem by both prosecution and defense teams. Big Daddy had been a fair judge who put up with little nonsense in his courtroom.

So maybe there was a way to get information out of her fiancé, she thought, as she searched through the press releases. She was certainly going to try. All he could say was no, which he was pretty good at, but for now she was stuck with the wire services.

And then she saw it. The reason for Blondell’s immediate release: the recanting of key prosecution testimony from none other than one of the victims himself. Niall O’Henry, Blondell’s son, now a grown man, was changing his story and saying that he was mistaken when he pointed a finger at his mother in the courtroom and, with tears streaming from his eyes and his tiny chin wobbling, had sobbed and whispered, “Mommy had a gun.” Across the screen of her memory, Nikki saw him as he’d been: a scared boy, blinking in surprise, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just said. Then as the courtroom grew silent, every ear straining, he’d forced himself to say more, his little lips moving awkwardly as he struggled with the horrid words. He’d looked at the prosecutor and caught the slight nod; closing his eyes, he’d added, “Mommy shot Amity.”

“I can’t believe it!” Sylvie Morrisette raged as she took a corner a little too fast and the police cruiser’s tires chirped. They were heading back to the station, and she was doing a good ten miles over the limit on Victory Drive. “That bitch should be locked up for the rest of her life!” She slid a glance at Reed and eased up on the accelerator. “Even that would be too good for her. I say, fire up old Sparky again and let her fry.”

“Nice,” Reed commented as they sped along the tree-lined street. Giant palms rose in the median of the boulevard, and large antebellum homes and live oaks draped with Spanish moss graced the sides of the street. “Were you on the force when she was convicted?”

“Hell no! That was twenty years ago.” She buzzed around a green pickup that was loaded with landscaping tools and lumbering slowly. “How old do you think I am? I was still in Texas, probably mooning over Bart or some damned thing,” she said, mentioning her ex-husband, with whom she had a contentious relationship. “But I remember it—boy, oh, boy, do I.” Her West Texas drawl was becoming more pronounced, just as it always did when she was agitated. “She’s an abomination to women, that one. Beautiful. Smart. And deadly as a cottonmouth, I’m tellin’ ya.” Reluctantly Morrisette slowed for a light, but her fingers held the wheel in a death grip.

She was a little bit of a thing, tough as nails, not an ounce of fat on her, mother of two and always, it seemed, pissed off at the male population as a whole. With spiky platinum hair, little makeup, and a quick temper, she was a definite force to be reckoned with. She’d given up her eyebrow studs and toned down her bad language as her two kids had gotten older, but she was still, as Kathy Okano, the assistant district attorney, had said often enough, “a pistol” in her ever-present snakeskin boots and bad attitude.

“You have to remember the case,” she said, sliding him another glance. “You’re a Georgia boy.”

“I was in San Francisco at the time.”

“It was freakin’ national! All over the news, for Christ sakes. What were you, hiding under a damned rock?”

He didn’t honor the question with an answer. “So refresh my memory.”

She stepped on the gas and made short work of a Volkswagen Beetle that wasn’t as quick on the draw. Whipping around the smaller car, she said, “The long and the short of it is that Blondell took her three kids up to a cabin for the weekend or something. Two younger kids up in a loft, Amity, the teenager downstairs, I think. Blondell claimed that an intruder with a gun came in, a struggle ensued as she confronted him, and everyone, including Blondell, ended up wounded. Of course, there was no phone in the cabin, and it was twenty years ago, before everyone and their toddler had a cell, so she tried to get the kids to a hospital, almost wrecked the car, and the girl died on the way.”

“And the others?”

“Not good.” Sylvie had turned grim. “The son, Niall, wounded in the throat, I think, and the little girl . . . what was her name?” Her eyebrows drew together as she checked over her shoulder and switched lanes. “Bella, I think; no, no . . . Blythe!” Snapping a finger, she said, “That’s right. There was all kind of mention of Blythe’s bravery because she took a bullet in the spine, ended up in a wheelchair.”

“Sounds a lot like the Diane Downs case in Oregon years ago.”

“That’s the hell of it. People think Blondell purposely copied Downs. Saw a way to get rid of her kids and used it. Who knows? Reach into the glove box and see if there’s any more gum, will ya?” She slowed and cranked the wheel, guiding the car into the parking lot near the station house on Habersham, a brick edifice that had originally been built nearly a century and a half before, as Reed found the pack of Nicorette and handed it to her. With the agility of a twenty-year smoker, she retrieved a piece and tossed it into her mouth. “I hate this crap,” she muttered, and he didn’t know if she was talking about the gum or Blondell O’Henry’s impending release from jail. Probably both.

Morrisette pulled into a narrow spot and slammed the cruiser into park. “Here’s the hell of it. Blondell had just recently miscarried when she shot her own pregnant daughter. How about that? It all came out in her hospital exam.”

Now that she brought it up, Reed remembered something about it.

“She never said who the father was,” Morrisette went on. “Was it her ex, Calvin? That might’ve proved messy as he was already involved with wife number two, who also was probably pregnant about that time. He would have been a busy boy. Holy crap, there must’ve been something in the water that year. Blondell, her daughter, and Calvin’s religious nut of a wife, June, all knocked up, well, at least until Blondell lost hers.”

“You’re saying Calvin was the father of his wife’s baby and Blondell’s, before she miscarried?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“You’re not suggesting he was with his own daughter too.”

“That never came up, thank God. Even though Amity was his adopted daughter. But no, I don’t think so. I’m sure they would’ve been able to tell from the blood work. But he could’ve fathered his own daughter with June, wife number dos, and maybe the baby Blondell lost. Stranger things have happened.” Morrisette shot him a look. “Then again, Roland Camp could have been the father. He was Blondell’s most recent boyfriend. He’s another winner, let me tell you. Not that it matters, as the kid was never born.” She glanced out the window as a couple of uniformed officers walked past her car and into the building. “Or there’s a good chance that Blondell’s baby’s daddy was some other lucky stiff entirely. Enough men around this town stared at her with their damned tongues dragging to the ground. She was smokin’ hot. But who knows? I’m not sure the guy who knocked her up ever found out he was a papa, and since the kid was never born, the point’s moot. It only matters because Blondell said in her testimony that s

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