“How well did you know Crystal?” Morgan asked.
“She lived up the road as long as I can remember.” Mr. Jackson shrugged. “We were neighbors, but I wouldn’t say we were close. Crystal had her problems.”
“Do you remember when her daughter disappeared?” Morgan asked.
“I do. Mary wasn’t any better than her mother.” Mr. Jackson attacked the next carrot. “My Gracie, God rest her soul, was a hell of a woman. A lot of people go to church, but my Gracie, she walked the good walk.” Sadness wrinkled his tanned face. “Anyway, I remember this one time that Gracie heard Crystal had lost her job at the five-and-dime. Knowing Crystal had a teenager to feed, Gracie took her some eggs and a casserole. Crystal told her to mind her own you-know-what business and shut the door in her face.” His wrinkles hardened. “After that, I had no time for Crystal. No one should’ve treated my Gracie that way. She was only trying to help.”
“So you haven’t seen Crystal lately?” Morgan asked.
“I’ve seen her long enough to wave as she drove by. We didn’t talk. Grace would be disappointed in me, but polite distance was all I could muster for Crystal.” He paused. “If you want to know what Crystal was doing lately, you should talk to Abigail Wright. She plays the organ for the church. She also owns the Roadside Motel out on Route 99. Crystal worked there.”
“Do you have Ms. Wright’s phone number or address?” Lance asked.
Something outside the window caught Mr. Jackson’s attention. He dropped his peeler and carrot, grabbed his cane, and moved toward the back door as fast as he could shuffle.
“What is it?” Lance was on his feet, his body shifting back into ready.
“Damned fox is after my chickens.” Mr. Jackson flung open the back door and rushed out. Tripping on a loose floorboard, he nearly fell on his face.
Lance caught him and set him on his feet. “Let me.”
Morgan followed the men onto the back porch. A flash of orange disappeared into the tall weeds around the property.
“I’m down to twelve hens. A hawk took one last week. She was one of my best layers.” Mr. Jackson leaned on his cane. “I trade with some of my other neighbors. Eggs and vegetables for bread and bacon.”
Morgan couldn’t imagine how he managed to tend his garden and care for his chickens when he could barely walk.
“Your fence is broken. Do you have more chicken wire?” Lance called from the yard.
Mr. Jackson waved toward a shed. Lance crossed the yard and disappeared inside the outbuilding. A few minutes later, he emerged with a roll of chicken wire under one arm and a toolbox in the other. In ten minutes, he’d repaired the break in the fence and checked the rest of the enclosure.
“I used to be strong like that.” Mr. Jackson sighed. “It’s an insult the way your body turns on you as you get old.”
When Lance had finished securing the chickens, he returned to the porch.
“Thank you.” Mr. Jackson went back into the kitchen. He filled a carton with eggs.
“I don’t need payment,” Lance said.
“Give them to Abigail.” Mr. Jackson put the carton in Morgan’s hands. Then he took a piece of paper from a drawer and wrote on it. “This is her address. Tell her I sent you. She’ll be able to tell you more about Crystal.”
“Do you have a phone number?” Lance accepted the paper. “We could call first.”
Mr. Jackson shook his head. “Won’t matter. At this time of day, she’ll be outside working in her garden.” He walked them back to the front door.
Lance and Morgan returned to the Jeep, and Lance headed for the driver’s side. “I’m perfectly calm now. I can drive.”
“All right, but why do you need to drive?” She dropped the keys into his hand.
“I like to be in control,” he admitted.
Which no doubt sprang from having so little of it over his life.
He drove to the address Mr. Jackson had given them. Abigail Wright’s cottage was as perfect as Elijah Jackson’s was dilapidated. A white picket fence enclosed a neat garden rioting with fall blooms. Blue clapboards and white gingerbread trim shone with fresh paint. Purple cabbages lined a brick walkway. Morgan led the way up three wooden steps to the front porch. The wind rocked a white wicker swing on the opposite end of the porch. Two cats ignored them from a sun patch next to the swing.
Holding the carton of eggs, Morgan pressed the doorbell. Standing back, she admired the deep purple of some daisy-type flowers that crowded a flower bed in front of the porch. “These are gorgeous.”
Lance barely glanced at the flowers, but he’d relaxed somewhat since they’d left Mr. Jackson’s house.
No one answered the door, but a red sedan was parked in front of the cottage.
“Let’s try out back. Mr. Jackson said she’d be working outside.” Morgan followed a brick path around the side of the cottage, calling out, “Ms. Wright?”
Lance fell into step beside her.
The late-morning sun took the bite out of the raw wind, warming Morgan’s head and shoulders.
They walked under a trellis. Blue jays splashed in a birdbath next to a stone bench. After the dark and depressing news of the past couple of days, Morgan suppressed the desire to stop, sit, and enjoy the sun on her face for two minutes. They rounded the side of the house and scanned the rear yard for a little old lady.
“Hold it right there!” a voice yelled from a shed fifteen feet away.
Morgan lifted her hands, raising the egg carton in the air. The shed door stood ajar. From the three-inch opening, the double barrel of a shotgun stared them down.
Lance caught Morgan around the waist in a tackle. She hit the ground hard, Lance on top of her, covering her with his larger body. He rolled them behind the stone bench and slid his handgun from its holster.
Chapter Twenty
“Put down the gun!” Lance shouted. He lifted his head, scanning the yard over the bench. He couldn’t see who was inside the shed. The bench was solid and would provide good cover.
Unless the shooter moved . . .
Underneath him, Morgan wheezed. He slid off her body, and she took a deep breath.
The shooting that had ended his police career and almost killed him rushed into his head. Sweat poured from his back and chest, and his heart jumped as if he’d been defibrillated.
Gun in hand, he peered over the stone bench again, his free hand on Morgan’s shoulder, pinning her to the ground. “Keep your head down.”
The sun glinted on the dark metal of the barrel poking out from the slightly open door of the shed.
“Ms. Wright!” Lance shouted. “We just want to talk.”
The shed door opened a few more inches. He caught a glimpse of gray hair.
Morgan grabbed the carton of eggs that had fallen to the ground when Lance tackled her. Golden yolks dripped from the cardboard. She waved the eggs over the top of the bench. “Elijah Jackson sent us with eggs for you.”
The shed door opened, and a small, gray-haired woman stepped out. She wore khaki slacks and rubber boots. Leather gloves, a wide-brimmed hat, and a neat bun finished off her outfit. She could have been headed for a garden club meeting, except for the shotgun in her hands.
“Why didn’t you say so?” She tucked the shotgun into the crook of her arm and walked toward them.
“Please set the gun down, Ms. Wright.” Lance got to his feet.
“This is my property, so you put your gun away first, young man.” She chuckled. “I won’t shoot you. You can calm down.”
Lance debated. She didn’t look like a threat. But his pulse was hammering like the bass drum at an Iron Maiden concert. His body remembered what it felt like to be shot, and it wanted no part of a repeat.
Still holding the egg carton, Morgan raised her hands, palms out in the traditional surrender gesture. A glob of egg yolk dripped to the ground.
“Call me Abigail,” Ms. Wright said.
Lance tensed as she walked closer.
She shot him an exasperated look. “Put the gun away.”
Though his instincts screamed otherwise, Lance slid his handgun into his holster.
Abigail approved with a nod. “Now, who are you and what do you want?”