“I need to be certain she’s Sue Ann for starters,” I’d murmured drowsily into my pillow. It didn’t take long before I’d slid into the dream, into the place of nightmares where the crows had been waiting for me.
ALTHEA HAD NO more wisdom to impart as she drove me to Novel Idea the following morning. My head throbbed, I had bags under my eyes, and copious amounts of my mother’s bitter coffee had failed to dispel the images of my nightmare.
I couldn’t wait to order Makayla’s biggest, most potent espresso drink, but when I stepped into Espresso Yourself, she immediately waved me out of line, indicating that I should wait by the pick-up counter.
A man grumbled about my cutting ahead, but Makayla smiled at him with such radiance that he immediately apologized.
“Don’t give it another thought, Mr. Peterson. We all get a little crabby without a caffeinated kick in the pants. Why don’t you treat yourself and have a croissant with your coffee? You look like you could do with something flaky and buttery. I’ll even pop it in the microwave for you so it’s nice and warm.”
Mr. Peterson nodded gratefully. “The wife’s got me on fiber bars for breakfast. They’re not very satisfying.”
“I reckon not,” Makayla said and winked at me.
I shifted impatiently while she whittled down the line. Finally, there was only one customer left, a woman who had no idea what to order. She squinted at the chalkboard over Makayla’s head and began to read every line aloud. Makayla told the indecisive woman to take her time and then seized the opportunity to make me a cinnamon dolce latte. After she placed my drink on the counter and I paid her, she handed me a takeout bag.
“But I didn’t—” I began to protest.
“Order any food,” she quickly interrupted and then lowered her voice. “Girl, this is no chocolate chip scone. I was jawing with a customer yesterday after you left, and after we both agreed that the last James Patterson book wasn’t his best, we got to talking about Marlette. This gentleman, one of my regular customers, spends an awful lot of time hanging out at the bookstore, and he told me about another of Marlette’s hiding places. So this morning before I came to work, before the birds were even up and singing, I decided to see if anything was inside.”
Wishing she hadn’t mentioned birds, I glanced down at the bag. “And you found something.”
She beamed. “Broke a nail prying out a loose brick in the alley side of the bookstore’s wall, thank you very much. But if it helps you”—her smile disappeared and her lovely green eyes grew serious—“and it helps put this whole sad mystery to rest, then it’s worth an acrylic tip.”
I wanted to reach over the counter and hug her, but at that moment the woman studying the menu came to a decision and started calling out an extremely complicated order without bothering to see whether Makayla was ready.
“Thank you,” I mouthed and, leaving my coffee on the counter for the time being, headed for the restroom. I didn’t dare examine the find in my office and didn’t want to chance having another agent enter the coffee shop and spy whatever it was that Makayla had removed from a hollow behind a loose brick.
I locked myself in a stall, hung my purse on the hook, and opened the brown bag. I pulled out a transparent photo sleeve and held it to the light. Inside was an eight-by-ten image of a group of teenagers seated in a row of chairs. The students were all wearing shorts and T-shirts bearing the Woodside Creative Camp logo (a paintbrush, pen, and the masks of comedy and tragedy over a roaring campfire), while the three adults in the photo wore polo shirts embroidered with the same crest. The hairstyles of both the campers and counselors were dated. The men had pronounced sideburns, and both they and the boys had shaggy, unkempt hair while the females wore theirs long, straight, and parted down the middle. The room where they’d gathered looked like a rustic lodge and featured an enormous stone hearth and handwoven rag rugs on the floor.
My eyes were immediately drawn to the girl seated in the middle of the group of campers. After seeing Marlette’s drawings, I’d recognize her anywhere. Sue Ann’s dark, calculating gaze was unmistakable, but the way she held her body was also familiar. With one hand placed saucily on her hip and her bust pushed forward, she was striking a pose I’d seen Luella perform a dozen times, especially when a man was present.
Scrutinizing the adults, who stood at the end of the rows of campers, I picked out Marlette with more difficulty. Though his hair was as bushy and wild as it had been the day he died, the man captured in this photograph seemed utterly carefree. With one foot up on a rock, Marlette had his chin propped on his hand and his elbow resting on his elevated thigh as he gave the photographer an easy smile. The other adults, a woman and an older man, had been caught laughing out loud, and I wondered if Marlette had said something amusing a second before the photographer snapped this picture.