a woman chose for the long haul.
Her heart missed a beat, but before she could panic at the direction of her thoughts, Lynne was distracted by a red flash across the room. “What’s that blinking light?”
Kir glanced around. “Where?”
“Next to the television.”
Kir dropped his arms and turned to discover what she was talking about. “Oh.” He shrugged. “It’s my dad’s answering machine. I thought I deleted all the messages.”
“Maybe someone was trying to get ahold of you.”
“Why not call my cell?”
“They might not have your number.”
“True.” With obvious reluctance he crossed the carpet and bent over the stand that held the old-fashioned phone and machine along with the usual pad and pencil to jot down notes. Her own father had kept a phone just like it until he moved to Florida. Some things you just couldn’t change. Kir pushed a button, then another one when nothing happened. “I always forget how to operate this thing. I’m pretty sure it was invented in the Stone Age.”
Lynne was about to move and help him when the sound of Rudolf’s voice stopped her in her tracks. He sounded as if he was standing in the room with them as the older man told the caller to leave a message after the beep. She closed her eyes, but even as she struggled against the wave of pain, a breathless female voice echoed through the room.
“Hi . . . um . . . Kir . . . this is Rita. Rita King,” the woman said. “I just found something at your father’s grave you should see. I think they’re from the killer.” There was the sound of rough breathing, as if Rita was walking as she was talking. “Okay. I’m going home, so when you get this come by. Or we can meet at the bar tonight.” There was an awkward pause, as if the woman wasn’t used to talking on the phone. “Yeah, so talk to you later.”
There was a long beep as the message came to an end and Lynne released a shaky breath. “Rita.”
Kir glanced down at the machine. “The message was recorded at eleven thirty. She must have called right before she died.”
Lynne pressed a hand against her stomach, trying to imagine what had happened.
Obviously, Rita had her old friend on her mind. Whether it was because of Kir or some other reason, they would never know, but she’d decided to visit his grave. Once she was there, she’d found something—or rather some things—that had alarmed her. She’d called Kir and . . .
What?
Gone to the café and randomly been run over?
No. Lynne didn’t believe it. Granted, Rita had probably been distracted by what she’d found. But the chances that she’d wandered in front of a moving car were astronomical. Not when she’d just discovered evidence that might unmask the serial killer.
“You were right,” she told Kir. “Rita’s death wasn’t an accident.”
Kir frowned, pacing the small living room with short, jerky steps. “What the hell did she find?”
“She said ‘they’re’ from the killer,” Lynne reminded him. “Which means more than one thing.”
He came to an abrupt halt. “Letters.”
Lynne nodded. It was the first thing that came to her mind. “It’s possible.”
“Why would they be at the grave?”
“Because the killer is still writing them, and in his mind, that’s where your father is.”
Kir paled, his hands clenching into tight fists. “So he writes them and leaves them in the cemetery? The sick bastard.” There was fury in his voice. “Why can’t he let my dad rest in peace?”
Lynne considered the question. She tried to imagine why any killer would write letters to an ex-sheriff. Was it to taunt him? To prove he was superior to the local authorities? But why choose Rudolf? Why not send them to the new sheriff? Maybe he had a grudge against the older man? That didn’t seem right either.
Actually, the only thing that made sense was that the killer felt some need to reach out to Rudolf.
“It must have stolen his pleasure to have your father so unexpectedly die,” she said. “He obviously considered Rudolf his confidant in a sad, twisted way.”
Kir nodded. “Yes.”
A silence filled the room as they both considered the possibility that letters had been left at Rudolf’s grave and what could have been in them. A couple minutes later Kir was crossing the room to stand at the base of the staircase.
“What’s wrong?” Lynne moved to stand at his side.
Kir was pale, his gaze locked on the wooden steps. “I was thinking about