The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,64

backyard, was aging, showing a few bones, his appetite fading. She stroked his head gently and he purred a bit before finally settling down to his meal. “There you go.” The cat had been with her since college, a friend and confidant all of her adult life, longer than she’d known Reed.

Back in the kitchen she snapped on the small television on the counter, found a news station and while she was portioning out some of the ribs, cornbread and slaw onto a plate, she kept one eye on the screen, listening through the weather report—More sunshine on the way!, an update on the city’s cleanup efforts, and Good news! Saint Andrews School would open on schedule, though PE classes would have to be relegated to outdoor activities due to damage to the gym—until the solemn-faced reporter turned to the Duval case. Thirtyish and blonde, with big brown eyes, white teeth and flawless skin, she stared into the camera and reported that two of the missing Duval girls had been located, their bodies discovered in the basement of the Beaumont mansion.

A montage of pictures of the Beaumont estate ensued as the anchor described how the bodies were located by an anonymous tip to the police department. No mention of Bronco Cravens. Yet. Surely his name would come up. Nikki ate as she watched. Most of the information in the report Nikki already knew firsthand and steeled herself for the inevitable that came within minutes. She watched as old film of the Beaumont estate rolled onto the screen, the huge house, rose garden and terraced lawns, Beulah Beaumont with her son, Baxter, as a young man, and his daughter, Nell. There was mention of tragedy being associated with the place and then pictures from a few days ago of the gates guarding the grounds with police cruisers’ lights flashing. Also included were the same pictures of the Duval girls that had been circulating for years, individual school pictures that showed blond, blue-eyed Holly staring into the camera with a shy smile and a similar shot of Poppy, her light hair pulled back in a ponytail, her teeth not quite straight and a little large for her face. Then there were a few seconds of the three girls caught on film, in front of a brightly lit Christmas tree, little Rose, at five still a towhead, her white-blond hair in wild ringlets, her face still baby chubby, her smile infectious.

Nikki’s heart broke for the family all over again as the screen changed to show a picture of Detective Sylvie Morrisette and the reporter, off camera, explaining that she’d died in the line of duty while trying to rescue Nikki Gillette, a reporter for the Savannah Sentinel and local true-crime author. “Oh, no,” she mouthed.

The story only got worse as the anchor mentioned that Nikki was married to Detective Pierce Reed, lead investigator on the case who had been partnered with Morrisette. Mention was made that the funeral for the fallen policewoman was slated for early next week.

“Crap.” Nikki dropped her half-eaten rib onto her plate as the screen switched and Abbey Marlow, in full uniform, her red hair pulled back from her face, gave a quick update to the press about the case, mentioning that the police were looking for the third Duval girl in this so-far double homicide. Abbey was succinct and short, not offering up any more information and asking for the public’s help in finding the missing daughter, now twenty-five. A computer-generated image of what Rose Duval might look like came onto the screen, along with the number of the police department.

Nikki found herself staring at the flat image of a pretty woman with high cheekbones, light hair and blue eyes, a small scar near her hairline at her left temple.

For half a beat, she thought she recognized the woman on the screen but couldn’t place her. A second image of the woman in profile appeared, and Nikki decided she was wrong, grasping at straws, hoping beyond hope that little Rose Duval had somehow survived.

She finished what was left of her meal, then stuffed Reed’s portion, still in the takeout bag from Wilda’s Ribs, into the refrigerator. Her shoulder was starting to bother her as she climbed up to the third floor and settled into her chair at her computer where she wrote notes about the case. She had more people to interview and would like to look into the history of the Beaumont estate. Why had the killer