Dying to Kill (Angel Delaney Mysteries Book #2) Read online

  Angel took several slow, deep breaths, willing the scenes to fade out. She concentrated on her hands, forcing them to relax, flexing, then straightening her fingers.

  Oh, God, when will it stop? When will I stop thinking about it? The flashbacks ended as quickly as they’d begun, but her body took a bit longer to adjust. Heart still hammering, she continued the drive out to Camper’s Hideaway, a trailer resort that had been past its prime twenty years ago.

  She passed by Darryl’s place. His Harley, a fairly new model, was parked in the driveway. The bike was similar to one she’d ridden on patrol in Florida. The rundown trailer looked to be about a 1960 vintage, eight feet wide and maybe fifteen long.

  The flashbacks she’d just suffered had quickened her senses and knocked her trust level to a minus ten. Even so, she forced herself to drive back around and pull up in front of the place, then exit the car and walk up the wooden steps. After knocking several times Angel gave up, deciding she’d wait for a while and try again. Maybe Darryl had been out late. Maybe he’s hiding inside with a gun.

  You really shouldn’t be out here alone. Angel chided herself for being a coward as she retraced her steps to the car and folded herself in. She sat there a moment trying to decide what to do next. She still had that appointment with Barry Fitzgibbon. Unfortunately, she had two hours to kill before then.

  Angel drove over to her parents’ place. When she walked in, she almost wished she hadn’t. Her father was up and sitting in his chair, napkin around his neck, and her mother was helping him guide his left hand. Angel forced herself to greet them with a cheerful hello, forced herself to kiss his cheek and act like everything was normal and right.

  But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t right at all. How could this happen? He’s always been so healthy and strong.

  Angel avoided his watery eyes and glanced down the hallway. “Where are the kids?”

  “In school. Tim came by, and I asked him to take them.”

  Angel nodded. “You should have called.”

  “It worked out fine.”

  Noting the eggs and waffle on her father’s plate, Angel asked if there was more.

  “I can make you some. The waffle batter is in the fridge.”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll just get some coffee.”

  “You should eat.” Anna dabbed at a dribble of syrup as it escaped the corner of her husband’s mouth.

  Frank dropped his fork and leaned back.

  “You need to eat too,” she chided. “You need your strength.”

  Frank pulled the bib off and banged it on the tray.

  “All right. I get the point.” Anna picked up the dishes. After taking them to the kitchen, she grabbed a washcloth and took it back to him, waiting while he took it from her and clumsily washed his face.

  “Where is Tom?” Angel asked when her mother came back into the kitchen. How are you going to manage him by yourself? Frank was still in his pajamas. Her petite mother had somehow gotten him into his wheelchair.

  “He’s off the rest of today and tomorrow. Another aide is supposed to come, but he’s not here yet.”

  “You’re not lifting him, are you?”

  “Not too much. Tom has worked wonders with your father. He’s learning how to use his left hand more. He managed to get himself into the wheelchair. All I had to do was stand there and help guide him.”

  “Good.” Angel smiled, hopeful that her father might regain some of what he had lost.

  Anna poured a cup of coffee for herself and set it on the counter while she plugged in the waffle maker and settled a frying pan on the stove. “How do you want your eggs?”

  “Mom, you don’t have to . . .” Angel shook her head, knowing the objection wouldn’t wash. “Over easy.”

  Anna pulled the carton of eggs out of the refrigerator and cracked two in a bowl. “I got an interesting phone call this morning.”

  “Oh?” Angel set her cup down and went to the cupboard to retrieve two place settings.

  “Candace’s parents called. They flew into Portland yesterday. They’re renting a car and should be here around noon.”

  “Why did they call you?”

  “Actually, they called Candace first, and she told them we had the children.”

  “Hmm.” Angel wasn’t certain what to say.

  “Ester and George Michaels—they seem very nice. They, well, Ester, actually, thanked me for taking care of the children for them. She and George plan to take them out to the farm and care for them until Candace is released.”

  “That could be a while.”

  “They’re aware of all that.” She glanced at Angel.

  “How do you feel about the kids leaving? You seemed to be getting kind of attached.”

  “Oh, honey, relieved. Thankful. The children are wonderful, but they need to be with family.”

  “But you’re disappointed too. I can see it in your face.”

  Anna dropped batter onto the waffle iron. It sizzled briefly before she closed it. “Well, I have to admit it was nice having them here. Seemed like old times. But . . .” She shrugged and turned on the burner under the pan, then lowered the gas flame. “When you get to be my age, there are limitations. I’m not near as agile as I used to be. And your father . . .”

  I know how it is. “Taking care of kids is a big responsibility. I’m not even thirty yet, but I couldn’t begin to take care of three of them.”

  Anna laughed. “Motherhood is something you grow into. And besides, you do—”

  “What you have to do,” Angel finished the well-worn phrase.

  “And don’t forget it.”

  Minutes later Angel and her mother sat at the table enjoying breakfast together for the second time in two days. Angel took a sip of the fresh coffee her mother had poured, wondering what her next step should be regarding Candace.

  “What are you thinking, Angel?”

  “About my new job. I think I’m in over my head. I’m getting all sorts of information, but I’m not sure what to do with it. I haven’t found anything to prove she didn’t do it.”

  “Maybe you need to keep digging.” Anna cut her waffle in half and reached for the blackberry freezer jam. “Have you talked to the women at the shelter? If nothing else, they’d be good character witnesses. They’ve all called to see how they can help. One of them, Debra, even said that of all the women there, Candace was the least likely to resort to violence.”

  Angel smashed up her eggs and sprinkled on salt and pepper before taking a bite. “When Candace stayed here Tuesday night, did she say anything to you? Did she have any ideas about who might have killed her husband?”

  “I asked her if Phillip had any enemies—someone who’d want him dead.”

  Angel paused, her fork in midair. “You did?”

  Her mother gave Angel a knowing smile. “I haven’t been married to a police officer for forty years without having picked up something.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She couldn’t think of anyone but said he owed a lot of people money—the usual stuff that goes on with contractors. One couple was threatening to sue because Phillip didn’t tell them the cliff he’d built their house on was in danger of falling into the ocean. Apparently he didn’t know it either, so he was suing the previous owner and the realtor.”

  “Funny she didn’t mention that to Rachael and me. Losing a cliff house might be motive enough for murder. Those homes go for around half a million and up.”

  “I thought so too. I told her to come up with a list of people to check out. And to give it to you.”

  Angel took a sip of her now lukewarm coffee. “Well, she didn’t give us a list of any kind and said she couldn’t think of anyone. Of course, getting arrested may have thrown her off a little.”

  “You think so?” Anna’s voice held a light hint of sarcasm.

  Angel smiled and glanced at her watch. “I have some time before I meet Fitzgibbon. Do you have the names of the women from the shelter? I could start
calling them.”

  Eyeing the kitchen clock, Anna nodded. “I think they have a support group from 9:00 to 10:00 today. If you head over there now, you might be able to sit in on the meeting. Do you want me to call and ask?”

  “Sure.” Angel took her empty cup and plate to the sink and rinsed them off. “Do you think they’ll let me come even if I’m not being abused by anyone?”

  “They let me come.”

  “Well, you work there.”

  “Go. I’ll call them. They’ll welcome you with open arms—especially when I tell them you’re there to help Candace.”

  Angel tiptoed past her sleeping father and several minutes later pulled into the gravel parking lot adjacent to the women’s shelter. There were only three cars there, and one belonged to Janet Campbell. Angel’s watch indicated she was three minutes late.

  The shelter was a large older boardinghouse that had been remodeled. The grounds weren’t immaculate but adequate, seeing as how the women themselves did most of the work. Various churches and businesses in town donated funds that allowed the shelter to house women who needed to take advantage of the temporary respite. The shelter was clean and neat with lots of space. There were ten bedrooms, a super-sized kitchen, a dining room, and a large living room in which they held their meetings. The building housed up to ten women and their children, and each room held three or four bunk beds. The home had the kind of eclectic decor you’d expect to find in a place furnished with donations.

  Angel went in the side door and was directed down the hall into the living room. The living room held two sofas and three armchairs, all in mismatched fabrics. Three faux fur beanbag chairs lay in misshapen pods. She recognized three of the five women.

  Janet stood when she came in and greeted her with a friendly smile. “Hi, Angel. Your mother called, and we’ve already voted to let you stay. Ordinarily we don’t let people just walk in without some preliminary counseling, but for you, we’ll make an exception. All we ask is that you keep what we say confidential.”

  “Sure—unless someone confesses to a murder or something.”

  The women laughed. “Like that’s going to happen,” one of them said.

  Janet turned back to the group. “Everybody, this is Angel.” Pointing to the woman closest, she said, “This is Lorraine.”

  “Hi.” Angel offered her hand. “Lorraine and I have met. Sorry I didn’t call you back last night.” Angel was surprised to see Lorraine in the group. Her mother hadn’t said anything about Barry Fitzgibbon being an abuser.

  “No problem. I wasn’t really looking for a call back, just wanted to let you know what I was thinking.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  She glanced down at her hands. “I’m really not a member of the support group,” she said, answering Angel’s question. “I’m a volunteer, but . . . well, since you’re here about Candace, I asked Janet if I could sit in.”

  Janet gestured toward the youngest and thinnest of the group. “This is Heather.”

  Angel greeted her, thinking the woman looked anorexic. Heather couldn’t have been much older than twenty; she had streaked blonde hair and was rail thin and holding an unlit cigarette. She had a black eye and bruised cheek, not quite obscured by her makeup.

  “And Debra.” Angel guessed Debra to be in her midforties. She had long burgundy hair secured loosely at the back of her head with a scrunchie and was dressed in an expensive-looking top and slacks.

  “You’ve met my assistant, Claire.” Janet nodded toward one of two remaining beanbags. “Have a seat.”

  Angel settled onto the one nearest the counselor.

  “What can we do for you?” Lorraine asked.

  “Um . . . are you sure you don’t mind? I hate to interrupt your group.”

  “Nonsense,” Debra said. “We’re all yours this morning. Janet told us you’d want to question us about Candace and Phillip.”

  “Okay.” Angel set her purse on the floor and pulled out a small pad and pen. “Is there anything you can tell me that will help Candace? Did any of you see her the day Phillip was killed?”

  No one had.

  Heather shook her head. “It’s just so sad. I can’t say I’m surprised, though. I just wish she’d called us.”

  Beans within the sealed bag shushed as Angel shifted. “Does that mean you think she did it?”

  Heather shrugged her shoulders and offered a lopsided smile. “Maybe when she gets out I can have her get rid of my old man.”

  Angel sat in stunned silence as the words sank in. She glanced around at the others. Claire had a pad and was taking notes, her glasses on, the beaded rope swaying slightly. Lorraine looked like she wanted to say something as her gaze swung from Janet to Angel.

  Heather laughed at Angel’s reaction. “I’m kidding. We do that sometimes, you know. Make jokes about it. Wasn’t more than a week ago we were all sitting here and Debra pipes up, ‘I have a solution to all our troubles. Why don’t we hire a hit man to get rid of all of them?’”

  Angel frowned and turned to Debra. “You actually said that?”

  “Yeah.” Debra rolled her eyes. “Like Heather said, it was a joke. We all had a good laugh, but we wouldn’t actually do anything.”

  Janet shook her head. “We have an open forum, Angel. The women can say anything they want. Expressing their anger is a way of letting off steam.”

  Heather waved her Virginia Slim cigarette in the air. “You won’t tell anyone I said anything, will you?”

  “I don’t intend to.” Angel hoped they wouldn’t be scared away.

  “Good, ’cause we weren’t serious,” Heather said.

  Angel nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind, but I hope you all have alibis for Tuesday afternoon.”

  “Whatever.” Heather waved her skinny arms again and stood up. “I gotta have a smoke. Be back in three minutes.”

  The other women seemed to take Heather’s personal break in stride, using the time to refill their coffee cups. Turning to Janet, Angel said, “I was surprised to hear you were counseling here. The last I heard, the counselor was a woman from Lincoln City.”

  “Yes. Marcia is dealing with some personal problems right now. She’s taking the next four months off, so I volunteered to step in.”

  “Is what Heather said true? Do they actually talk about killing their husbands or having someone kill them?”

  “Not usually, although the subject has come up a time or two. We talk about options and agree that murder isn’t one of them.”

  Angel nodded, not entirely convinced. “Has Candace been in any of your groups?”

  “She’s been coming on Monday nights,” Debra volunteered. She crossed her legs. “Candace is not a killer. In fact, when we were talking about it, she got really upset. Told us we shouldn’t be talking that way. She actually thought we meant it. She was pretty upset, but by the end of the session she was okay.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Mid-April,” Claire said. She flushed then as everyone’s gazes slid to her. “It’s my job to keep track of who comes and when and what we talk about.”

  “Has she been in group since?”

  “Yes,” Claire answered. “She’s one of our regulars.”

  “How did Candace seem to you last time she was with you?”

  “The same as always.” Debra tucked strands of chestnut hair behind her ear. “She told us she was glad she’d decided to stick it out with Phillip. Listening to her talk, I think she really believed he was improving. He was going to counseling.”

  “Do you know who he was seeing?”

  “Janet.” Debra glanced at the counselor. “Isn’t that right?”

  “I can’t really say.” Janet seemed hesitant to reveal that information, but Angel could tell it was true.

  “Well,” Debra went on, “she told us Phillip was seeing a counselor and that he wanted to make some changes.”

  “Humph.” Lorraine apparently disagreed. “Which means nothing to an abuser. They ca
n be all apologetic and sincere and sweet one minute and then the cycle starts again. They’re like Jekyll and Hyde.”

  Lorraine sounded as though she spoke from experience, yet she had said she wasn’t one of the group. Was Barry Fitzgibbon an abuser as well? She’d have to talk to Lorraine about that later. “Are you saying there’s no hope for these guys?” Angel asked.

  “There’s always hope.” Janet spoke in a tone so soft Angel barely heard her.

  Angel sensed a deep sadness in her answer. As though she didn’t really believe what she was saying. Something was definitely wrong here.

  “Phillip wanted to keep his family together,” Janet said. “I can’t give you any details, of course, but he was making progress.”

  “So, he was pretty up front with you?” Angel asked. “Did he talk about problems he was having?” When Janet didn’t answer, Angel said, “He’s dead. I don’t think confidentiality extends beyond the grave. Besides, maybe he told you something that could help Candace.”

  She folded her hands across her chest. “I suppose. Phillip Jenkins was like a lot of men who abuse. He came out of an abusive background with a poor father figure, if there was one at all. His father abused his mother. Phillip didn’t want to be like that.” She bit her lower lip. “Too bad he didn’t have a chance to prove himself.”

  Heather came back in and sat down in the beanbag she’d occupied earlier, noisily scooting herself into a comfortable position. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Tons,” Debra answered. “I’ll fill you in later.”

  “I wonder,” Angel said, thinking again of Jim Kelsey, “do any of you know Michelle Kelsey?”