her head. “She was found murdered in her backyard New Year’s Day 2007.”
“Murdered?” she demanded in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
“Her throat was slit.”
Bernadine swayed, grasping the back of Lynne’s chair. Obviously, the older woman had the same stunned reaction as Lynne. “My God. Just like here,” the older woman muttered. “How did it happen?”
With an effort, Lynne forced herself to lean forward and reread the article. It was high on drama and sketchy on details. “There isn’t much information,” she said. “Just that the body of Merrill Rucker was found naked in her backyard with her throat slit.”
“Did they find the killer?”
Lynne skimmed to the end of the article. “They arrested her husband, but they eventually released him due to a lack of evidence.”
“Where is he now?”
There was no further information in the article. Lynne clicked back to the search engine and typed in the name Ernie Rucker. She found a dozen links to the trial, and one that connected to his high school graduation. But there was nothing after 2007.
At least no public information.
“There’s no record of him. As if he disappeared.” A chill spread through her, an icy dread that was intense enough to make her teeth chatter. “I need to tell Kir.”
She was reaching for her phone when the sharp ring of a bell echoed down the hallway. The front door had just opened.
“Sounds like your next appointment is here,” Bernadine said, hustling out of the office to greet the client.
Lynne glanced at her watch. She had two more appointments and then she was free for lunch. She’d wait until then to call.
* * *
Kir drove toward Rita’s house with a prickling sense of foreboding.
He tried to tell himself he should be relieved. The task force that Kathy Hancock promised was going to arrive in a few hours and they would surely be capable of tracking down the murderer. Pike was too small to hide a serial killer.
But he couldn’t shake the sensation that the clock was ticking. And that they couldn’t wait for anyone to ride to the rescue.
It didn’t matter if his sense of impending doom came from his frustration with the sheriff and his certainty that her incompetence had put Lynne in danger. He had to keep moving, keep trying to track down the killer before he could strike again.
Circling the town square, he was headed toward Rita’s house when he glimpsed the steeple in the distance. The sight abruptly reminded him that he wanted to speak to Pastor Ron Bradshaw.
He angled toward the church, his mind still sorting through his encounter with the sheriff. Someday he was going to have to deal with her confession that she should have been on duty the night his dad was shot, and the fact that her wounded pride had allowed her to ignore Rudolf’s belief a monster was writing him letters.
Not that he was going to place all the blame on the woman’s shoulders. She couldn’t have known what would happen when she called in sick. And she’d been right when she claimed no one had believed Rudolf’s drunk ramblings, including Kir himself.
Still, he needed to find some sort of peace with the past.
A worry for another day, he acknowledged as he parked in the graveled lot next to the church. He was just switching off the engine when he caught sight of a figure darting out of the front door and scurrying down the street.
Was that Chelsea Gallen? It was hard to tell since she’d been bundled in a heavy parka with a stocking cap pulled over her hair. But he could have sworn it was Lynne’s ex-receptionist.
After climbing out of his SUV, he moved up the steps and entered the church. Instantly he was surrounded by the humid warmth that only came from an old-fashioned boiler. It drove away the chill in his bones but left behind a moist layer of heat on his skin. Not the most pleasant sensation.
Glancing around the shadowed pews, he noticed the altar that had once been decorated with Randi’s flower arrangements. Now it looked . . . barren. As if it were mourning the passing of the woman.
Kir frowned at his odd musing, wondering if stress was affecting his brain. He was a tediously logical person. Not someone who believed in omens or spirits or premonitions.
Thankfully, his thoughts were interrupted by Bradshaw. The pastor stepped into the nave, a smile pasted on his face.
“Welcome to. . .” His words stumbled to a halt, his expression becoming hostile as