The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,59
some insight.
Really? Even though the police have already combed the place—detectives, deputies, crime scene techs, all with more equipment than you? You think they might have missed something you’ll just happen to stumble over?
Her fingers were sweaty on the steering wheel. It was unnerving to drive out to the place again, but she felt in her gut that she needed to actually feel the aura of the old, decrepit mansion that had once been so grand and where so much tragedy had occurred. Nell Beaumont had drowned in the river, Holly and Poppy Duval had been sealed in their tomb and Sylvie Morrisette had lost her life trying to save Nikki. Even the loss of Nikki’s own unborn child could be tied to the place, she thought sadly.
What other secrets did that old graying mansion hold?
She slowed as she passed Channing Vineyards and the rows upon rows of vines gracing the rolling hills, and made a final turn where the two huge pieces of property were separated by a moldering fence. A quarter of a mile later, she turned into the lane leading to the heart of the Beaumont estate. Today, she thought, she wouldn’t have to sneak in the back way through the woods and along the edge of the river.
But she was wrong. As she pulled into the lane, she spied another SUV, a white Lexus, parked near the open gate, the driver’s side door hanging open. Tyson Beaumont, in jeans and a faded T-shirt, was behind the wheel, a cell phone pressed to his ear. She wouldn’t be able to get into the grounds without him knowing, so she’d have to wait, but she’d hoped to talk to him anyway and now seemed as good a time as any.
Nikki pulled into a spot next to his Lexus, cut the engine and slipped out of her sling before she got out of her car. Approaching his vehicle, she overheard his end of the conversation. “I’m handling it now . . . what? Yeah, I’m putting up the last sign, and the security company should be finished by the end of next week . . . I know, I know, but they’re all jammed up because of the hurricane . . . it’ll happen. They promised we’re at the top of the list. I’ve got something going for now, not all that great, but it’ll have to do . . . What? . . . Okay. Do that.” Glancing up, he spied Nikki. He held up a finger and nodded, as if whoever he was talking to could see him. “Yeah. Right. . . I know. Tell Mom I’ll be by soon . . . what?”
A pause in his side of the conversation, then he rolled his eyes.
“I don’t know, Dad. Probably a couple of days . . . sure . . . okay, I’ve got to go.” And he hit a button on his phone before sliding it into the pocket of his jeans. “Nikki?” he asked. “What’re you doing here? I heard you nearly drowned, that you were prowling around or something when the cops were here.”
What could she say? “You know me, I can’t ever resist a story.”
“Your brother used to say that you were just nosy.”
“That’s right.” She smiled, remembering her oldest sibling as a gust of wind scattered dry leaves across the sparse gravel and past a toolbox lying open near the gate. “You knew Andrew.”
“Played ball with him.” He swatted at a yellow jacket that hovered near his head. “Damned bees.” Then, he added, “We’re closing up the place.” For the first time she noticed the NO TRESPASSING signs that warned that violators would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. “Too many lookie-loos and people trying to break in while we’re trying to sell the place. Now, since the bodies were found here, it’s gotten crazy.” He rubbed his upper lip where it seemed he was starting to grow a blond moustache. “You’re not the first reporter to come poking around, you know.”
Oh, she knew. She thought of Metzger from her own paper and the news stations and their teams of reporters.
“I was just talking to Dad about it,” Tyson went on. “We’ve been trying to sell the place for years, as is, but now with all this bad publicity and the fact that the old house is literally crumbling down, maybe we should tear the old house down.”
“Oh.”
“I know. The historical society is already making noise about it. Dad