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  This was an apology? “All that groveling, Cullen. It really isn’t becoming.”

  He cut her a wry glance. “Maybe I should just get to the point.”

  “I think that’s probably best,” she agreed.

  “The police department here in town has very limited resources. I’m the only detective in the Criminal Investigations Unit, and I was promoted mainly because none of the other cops wanted the extra paperwork. It had nothing to do with my ability, but just for the record, I’m a damn good detective.”

  “I never doubted it.”

  He shrugged off her endorsement. “But the equipment we have at our disposal, the computer system—” He shook his head in disgust. “You wouldn’t believe the antiquated stuff we have to put up with. Most of the officers on the force are good men, but their training, and frankly their experience, is limited. The state police lab in Sudbury is helping us out, and they’d probably be willing to send an investigator if we requested one. But I don’t think Chief Redfern would agree to that. He’s a stickler for jurisdiction. In other words—”

  “I’m all you’ve got.”

  He drew a long breath, gazing down at her. “That’s why I’m here. You have an advanced degree in criminology. That’s more than anyone in the department has, including me.” He paused. “In spite of the impression I may have given you last night, I’m not about to let a killer go free because I’m too proud to ask for help.”

  Elizabeth had a feeling it had taken a lot for him to admit that. “What do you want me to do?”

  “For starters,” he said grimly, “I think we’d better take another look at that body.”

  “That’s what—” She’d been about to say that was what she’d wanted to do all along, but for once in her life, Elizabeth thought before she spoke. Swallowing her own pride, she muttered, “That sounds like a good idea to me.”

  Chapter Nine

  “It looks like an incision.” Elizabeth bent over the body, examining the tiny slit on Bethany’s throat, the only visible mark they’d found so far. The body was still at the funeral home, awaiting transport to the county hospital for the autopsy. She glanced up. “You found this last night?”

  “Dr. Vogel spotted it,” Cullen told her.

  “What did he make of it?”

  “He said it looks like it may have been made to expose the carotid artery.”

  Elizabeth’s heart jumped. She looked at Cullen, startled. Horrified. “You mean he bled her?”

  “We won’t know that until the autopsy.”

  Elizabeth returned her gaze to the body. “I can see what appears to be needle tracks on the inside of her left arm.”

  Cullen nodded. “I saw those, too. Hear any rumors on campus about her being into drugs?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. She wore latex gloves, as did Cullen, and she reached out now to gently position Bethany’s arm for a better look at the marks. “Even if these are needle tracks, as we suspect, I doubt they were self-inflicted.”

  “I agree. They were carefully camouflaged, just like the incision, to avoid obvious detection. But why go to all that trouble, and then hang her?”

  “The hanging is probably symbolic of something.”

  “What?”

  “Witches?” Elizabeth shrugged. “I don’t know. But I did hear today that she may have been involved with a cult.”

  Cullen’s voice sharpened. “Who told you that?”

  “Paul Fortier. Do you know him?” Elizabeth looked up, and when Cullen shook his head, she said, “He’s head of the Biology Department at Heathrow. Bethany was in one of his classes.”

  Cullen lifted a brow. “And?”

  “And he said he’d heard rumors that Bethany may have been seduced into a cult.” Elizabeth straightened, gazing at Cullen over the metal tray that held Bethany’s body. Cold air circulated into the room from the open cooler, and she shivered.

  Cullen frowned. “You heard anything on campus about a cult?”

  She shook her head. “Not a word.”

  He thought for a moment. “What do you know about Fortier? I get the feeling you’re holding something back.”

  Elizabeth hesitated, reluctant to convey her feelings to Cullen. They were just feelings, after all, and it didn’t seem right to plant seeds of doubt in his head because she didn’t like Fortier. Because she found him creepy. She thought again about the tear in his lab coat, the stains that might have been blood…. Experiments can get a bit messy at times. “It’s nothing concrete. He’s just a bit strange, that’s all. When I went by the lab today, he was working on an experiment. I startled him when I came in, and he dropped a test tube of blood. It made me think of the test tube we found in here last night.”

  “You think Fortier was here last night?”

  “No, not really. It’s just—”

  “Go on.”

  She glanced down at Bethany’s pale body. “I think it might be a good idea to talk to some of the girls who knew Bethany. Find out if she had a relationship with Fortier besides teacher/student.”

  “So that’s it.” Cullen’s features hardened in disgust. “He’s the kind of guy who hits on his students.”

  “I’ve heard rumors,” Elizabeth admitted.

  Cullen’s gaze narrowed on her. “Has he hit on you?”

  When Elizabeth hesitated again, Cullen muttered something under his breath.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just answer the question, Elizabeth. Has Fortier made a pass at you?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a pass, exactly,” she evaded. “He said something to me the other day, and it’s been bothering me.”

  “What did he say to you?” Something in Cullen’s tone made Elizabeth glance up in surprise. “Tell me.”

  “It was when I was sick,” she said. “I bumped into him at a faculty meeting, and I knew I was still contagious. Plus, I looked just awful. You know how you get after a bout with the flu, like death warmed over. Anyway, I stepped back from him, and I think I said, ‘Stay away. I’m dying.’ I had a high fever, so I may have gotten things confused, but I remember him telling me that I’d never looked lovelier, which was ridiculous. Then he said something like, ‘What is it they say? There’s nothing quite so beautiful or poetic as a dead or dying woman.’ I was too sick to think much about it at first, but now I can’t seem to get it out of my head.” She shuddered.

  “Sounds like Poe.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Cullen’s expression was slightly challenging. “I think he’s paraphrasing Edgar Allen Poe. ‘The death of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetic subject in the world.’” When Elizabeth continued to stare at him, he shrugged. “Don’t look so surprised. I do know how to read.”

  “It’s not that—” Although she couldn’t deny he had taken her by surprise. Here was a side of Cullen she’d never seen before. Thoughtful, insightful. Intellectual. “I should have made the connection myself.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he were amused by her self-recrimination. “I guess even geniuses slip up once in a while.”

  “I slip up all the time,” she said softly.

  Their gazes met and clung again, and for a moment, Elizabeth forgot where they were. Forgot that a beautiful dead girl literally lay between them.

  And that a murderer still went free.

  With an effort, she tore her gaze from Cullen and glanced down at Bethany. Even in death, she was still very lovely.

  “Poe had a fixation with beautiful dead women,” she mused. “It was a constant theme in his writing. Think of some of his most famous poems. ‘The Raven.’ ‘To Helen.’ ‘Annabel Lee.’ You don’t think—” Elizabeth stopped, reluctant to voice the horror going through her head.

  “No,” Cullen said grimly. “I don’t. Not yet at least. But without any other viable suspects, I’d say Fortier bears closer scrutiny, especially if it turns out he really was having a relationship with the deceased.”

  “Poor Bethan
y,” Elizabeth murmured. Had she been the obsession of a madman, or had she simply been caught at the wrong place at the wrong time?

  “There’s something about all this that’s bothering me,” Cullen said. “If the killer knows his victim, if his rage is something personal, he’ll go for the face. We don’t have that here.” He waved a gloved hand toward the body. “No sign of a sexual assault, either.” He shook his head. “It’s like you said. It looks as if he went out of his way to preserve her.”

  “It’s time.”

  They both whirled as a whispery voice spoke from behind them. Ned Krauter had entered the cooler room so quietly neither of them had heard him. He stood just inside the door, primly dressed in a somber black suit and starched shirt, the only adornment a single white carnation fastened to his lapel.

  He was a small man, not much taller than Elizabeth, but wiry. His hands were clasped beneath his chin, as if in deep prayer or meditation, and Elizabeth couldn’t help noticing that his fingers were very long and tapered, almost feminine-looking.

  She imagined those hands administering to the dead, carefully applying rouge and lip gloss to create a more lifelike appearance. And her thoughts reminded her of the close encounter with the undertaker the night before, how he’d come into the viewing room to speak to Mrs. Presco’s corpse.

  Perhaps Paul Fortier wasn’t the only one who found poetry in death.

  Slowly, Mr. Krauter walked across the room to join them at the cooler. He gazed down at the body, his pale countenance almost rapt. “So young,” he said tragically. “So beautiful.” He reached out a hand, as if to stroke her cheek, but instead he merely clung to the tray for a moment, caressing the cold metal with his thumb. “It’s time,” he repeated, his tone so hushed and deferential he appeared to be speaking to no one but Bethany.

  “Time for what?” Cullen asked.

  “What?” Krauter glanced up, his eyes unfocused for a moment. “Oh, the…autopsy. The ambulance from the county hospital is here.” He returned his gaze to the body, his expression softening. “But not to worry,” he whispered. “It will all be over soon.”

  THAT NIGHT Cullen went by the Beachway Diner to have a bite to eat before heading back to the station to put in a few more hours on the case. He’d already been working nearly twenty-four hours straight, but he still had witness interviews he needed to go over, and he wanted to have another look at the evidence log, meager as it was.

  As it had been the previous evening, the diner was almost deserted, but Cullen suspected news of the murder had kept would-be customers indoors tonight. He took a booth in the corner and noticed that the two patrons besides himself were the same as last night, as well. Shamus McManus and Marley Glasglow. They were seated at the bar, several stools apart, each appearing lost in his own thoughts.

  Cullen was glad he’d chosen a booth. He didn’t feel much like conversation tonight, especially when he knew what the subject would be.

  Brie was on duty again, and when she came to take his order, Cullen thought she looked tired. The sparkle in her green eyes—the first thing he usually noticed about her—was missing.

  When she came back with his clam chowder a few minutes later, he said sympathetically, “Don’t they ever give you time off from this place?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve been working some odd hours now that I’m back in school, and I have to accommodate my class schedule.”

  “That doesn’t give you much time for a social life,” he commented.

  “Nicole is my social life. Any spare time I have I spend with her.”

  When he gave her a blank stare, she smiled and like magic, the sparkle popped back into her eyes. “My daughter. The most beautiful three-year-old you ever saw.”

  “I can believe that,” Cullen said, paying her a subtle compliment.

  She blushed with pleasure. “You’re a nice man, Cullen.” Then added playfully, “I don’t care what anyone says.”

  “Thanks.” It was strange to think of someone younger than he already having a kid. Cullen couldn’t imagine himself as a father, maybe because he didn’t want to. Maybe because he was afraid he’d see himself being the kind of parent his old man had been.

  “You’ve been putting in some long hours yourself, haven’t you?” Brie asked sympathetically.

  “Yeah.”

  “That murder.” She shook her head. “What a terrible thing.”

  “It’s bad,” he agreed.

  “I heard Elizabeth Douglas found the body at the Pierce mansion.”

  Cullen stared up at her curiously, watching the play of emotions across her features. “You and Elizabeth are friends, aren’t you?”

  “We used to be. We kind of lost touch after I dropped out of school.” She smiled sadly. “We all get caught up in our own lives, I guess. You know how it is.”

  He nodded. “So what are the local gossips making of the murder?”

  Brie glanced over her shoulder, then lowered her voice. “They’re saying McFarland Leary rose from his grave last night and killed that poor girl. He hanged her just like they hanged him. They say he killed all those women twenty years ago, too, including Kat Ridgemont’s mother.”

  “That may be what some are saying,” Cullen said grimly. “The other half is certain David Bryson is the killer. We’ve even heard rumblings of a vigilante group forming.” He could picture it now. A mob of outraged citizens traipsing up Old Mountain Road with torches and ropes, maybe a few crosses thrown in for good measure. A scene straight from a horror flick. Just what they needed.

  Brie leaned slightly toward him. “I don’t think the killer is Leary or David Bryson.”

  Cullen lifted a brow. “You have a theory?”

  She angled her head ever so slightly toward the counter, where Marley Glasglow sat hunched over his coffee. “If I were you, I’d find out where he went after he left here last night.”

  Actually, Cullen had already checked, and, as it turned out, Glasglow didn’t have an alibi. But there wasn’t any physical evidence or eyewitness accounts tying him to the murder, either. Not yet, at least.

  Cullen thought about Elizabeth’s “flash of yellow” on the terrace outside the solarium, and he remembered that Glasglow had been wearing a yellow rain slicker last night. So had Shamus McManus for that matter, but for the life of him, Cullen couldn’t picture that old geezer a killer.

  Although…Shamus had made some rather strange claims. What the hell had he been rambling on about? Something about Leary rising from his grave to look for his offspring and the offspring of their offspring?

  Was it possible Shamus knew something, perhaps inadvertently, about the murder?

  Now you’re grasping at straws, Cullen warned himself. That’s what exhaustion and lack of any real leads will do for you.

  He doubted Shamus could be of much help, and as strongly as Cullen believed Glasglow capable of such a heinous crime, the man wasn’t going to be convicted because he owned a yellow rain slicker. If that were the case, three-quarters of the town would end up behind bars.

  But even as that thought entered his head, Glasglow slowly swiveled on his stool until he was facing Cullen. And for just a moment, for that one split second when their gazes met, Cullen could have sworn he was staring into the eyes of a killer.

  Chapter Ten

  On Monday afternoon, Cullen found himself once again at Heathrow College, looking for Elizabeth. It was becoming a habit, and probably not a very smart one. She wasn’t at all the type of woman he needed to get involved with. For one thing, he still had a hard time thinking of her as a woman. At twenty, she wasn’t much more than a kid.

  She’s only four years younger than you.

  And she has a body that won’t quit.

  Okay, granted she wasn’t that much younger than he was, and granted she’d done a lot of maturing since he’d left town six years ago. The way she’d looked in that sexy costume the other night had been evidence of that. The low-cut neckline had revealed plenty of her…maturity. C
ullen’s testosterone levels had shot through the roof when he’d seen her. He hadn’t felt an attraction that intense in a long time.

  But the problem was, he also still had images of the way she’d been in high school, a brainy, snooty little geek whose air of superiority had rubbed people the wrong way. To be fair, her attitude had probably been a defense against the way the older kids picked on her, but she’d still been as annoying as hell back then.

  Even so, Cullen had always found himself coming to her rescue, which, come to think of it, really hadn’t been that much of a hardship, considering how he’d liked a good fight. But there’d been something about her even then that had touched a chord inside him, that had made him want to defend her. Made him want to be her hero.

  Which was stupid. The two of them couldn’t have been more unalike. They came from two very different worlds. But even more of a chasm than their social status was Elizabeth’s intelligence. She was a Ph.D. at the age of twenty; he’d quit school his senior year and hitchhiked out of town. He’d later earned his diploma and had distinguished himself at the police academy. But the stigma of being a dropout still clung to him, especially in Moriah’s Landing.

  All his life, Cullen had been ashamed of something—his mother running off the way she had, his father’s drinking, Cullen’s own weaknesses and temptations. He’d gotten into a lot of trouble as a kid because of those temptations. He’d hung out with thugs until he’d become one himself, and he still wore that stigma, too. He was a product of his parents, but that was no excuse. There was a time when he’d been no better than they.

  Being a cop was the first thing in his life he’d ever had to be proud of. What if he lost that?

  Are you afraid to let me see the body, Cullen?

  Why would I be afraid?

  Maybe you think I’ll find something you didn’t.

  He drew a breath, remembering his conversation with Elizabeth. What if she had seen something on the body that he hadn’t? What if she could solve this case when he couldn’t? What if she were to take away the only thing in his life he’d ever been any good at?