Who Killed Kasey Hill Read online

  WHO KILLED KASEY HILL?

  An Evergreen & B.J. Mystery

  Charlotte Moore

  © 2019 Charlotte Moore

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  eBook designed by MC Writing

  WHO KILLED

  KASEY HILL?

  An Evergreen & B.J. Mystery

  CHARLOTTE MOORE

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Also by Charlotte Moore

  Chapter 1

  It was a rainy Saturday afternoon in early November, a perfect time for spiced tea and gingersnaps, conversation and procrastination. Nobody knew a tornado was coming.

  B.J. Bandry had the day off from work after a week in which nothing more than two drunk drivers, a few speeders and a noisy domestic dispute had disturbed the peace of the small town of Laurel Grove, Georgia.

  She had promised herself to bring some kind of order to the crowded apartment she shared with her husband of two months, but was happy when Evergreen Tinsley called.

  “I’d very much like to see you,” she’d said. “I want to hear how your house-hunting is going. Darby’s welcome, too.”

  “He’s out of town,” B.J. had answered, “And I’d just love to come over.”

  Unlikely friends by conventional standards, B.J. and Evergreen had met through Evergreen’s teenaged granddaughter, Meg, who had come to B.J.’s office one day to report a missing friend.

  Tall and slender, Evergreen was in her mid-seventies but had stubbornly held onto her flower child style from the late 1960s. She wore her white hair in a single braid down her back, and dressed a bit like a gypsy. She was a widow, and by Laurel Grove standards, from a Fine Old Family and rich as sin, which meant that she could get away with being a bit magical.

  In fact, there were people who called on her for help from time to time, though most made their requests quite privately, and some didn’t even realize they were sending out signals until Evergreen showed up with a small gift.

  B.J. was on the practical side and wore jeans and pullovers when she wasn’t in her running clothes or her gray and navy blue uniform. She was Laurel Grove’s unlikely Chief of Police—short and curvy with a mop of unruly red hair. She had given up trying to hide her freckles with make-up, and detested being called “cute”—which she was.

  Her husband, Detective Sylvester Darby of the Laurel County Sheriff’s Office, considered her beautiful.

  “So what’s Darby up to?” Evergreen asked as B.J. took off her damp windbreaker.

  “He’s at a funeral just about now,” B.J. said. “His great-uncle died and he left early this morning to drive up to Lawrenceville for the service. Then he’s going to help his cousins move some furniture. I guess I should have gone, but I just can’t stand funerals.”

  “Me, neither,” Evergreen said, getting up to look out her kitchen window. “I always take sandwiches and cookies to the house if there are children, but I haven’t been to a funeral service since Benton’s father died, and I don’t plan to. I just find death totally unacceptable. Now let’s talk about the house hunt.”

  B.J. sighed, thinking of the ups and downs they’d been through.

  “We were counting on closing on the Bradfords’ house right before we got married, and they decided not to get divorced after all. Then we just loved the Smarts’ house on Church Street, but we had it inspected and it’s crawling with termites. We’ve seen a few more that just weren’t right. Darby won’t budge on having a big back yard, and I won’t budge on being in one of the older neighborhoods. It may sound old-fashioned, but I want a sidewalk and trees.”

  “Well, both of you are right, of course. Better to take your time. Something will come up.”

  B.J. grinned and said, “But in the meantime, we can hardly move. We’re falling all over each other’s stuff. My apartment’s not that big, and we couldn’t move into his, since it’s part of my contract that I have to live in Laurel Grove. I just had no idea how much stuff that man has. Boxes and boxes! He’ll probably bring more from his great-uncle’s house. He’s got a recliner the size of my car and he says he can’t live without it, and the man has thousands of books, and all kinds of computer stuff.”

  Evergreen smiled and said, “You need a large house. He needs an office. Are you familiar with Willow Street?”

  “Oh, sure,” B.J. answered. “The one with all the oaks. It’s right down the street from where I live now. Why? Is there a house for sale on Willow?”

  “I think there will be,” Evergreen said. “I had an interesting dream last night. Now, should I make some more tea?”

  B.J. was never sure how to respond to Evergreen’s references to her dreams, but she was happy for more tea.

  “Don’t tempt me with any more cookies,” she said. “But I really need to watch the carbs. Running every morning doesn’t seem to be enough anymore, and I cannot outgrow my uniforms! It doesn’t help that there’s no work space in the kitchen and we keep giving up and getting take-out.”

  Evergreen nodded but didn’t respond. Her attention seemed to be fixed on the view through the sliding glass doors that led to the back deck.

  “Would you help me bring my herbs inside while we talk?” she asked. “Something’s coming.”

  B.J. followed Evergreen to the deck, helping her move two dozen pots of different herbs into the kitchen, where they wound up covering every surface.

  Picking up the last one, a pot labeled “Comfrey”, B.J. still wasn’t sure what the fuss was all about. The sky was gray, but the rain was barely a drizzle.

  “You think a storm’s coming?” she asked her friend.

  “See that purplish aura around the magnolia tree?” Evergreen said “And that greenish-yellowish tint over toward the river valley? I’d say Mother Nature is getting ready to pitch a hissy fit. You’d better get home if you’re going.”

  .

  Chapter 2

  The tornado touched down at 3:42 p.m. after a half hour of warnings and ten minutes of blaring civil defense sirens. It knocked down a billboard, tore up a pecan grove near the city limits, and swiped the northwest side of Laurel Grove, knocking a detached garage off its foundation, tearing down two utility poles, ripping branches off trees, and snapping some in two.

  One of those trees, a century-old loblolly pine, smashed into a blue and white mobile home that sat off to itself, on a
scrappy patch of land near the pecan grove.

  For people on the northwest side of town, the memories would be of howling and roaring winds and crashing sounds, and of the cleanup that followed. For most, who were out of the twister’s path, it had been a matter of hunkering down and waiting through the wailing alarm and noisy wind.

  Then, there was the moment when the power went off and finally there were the first signs that the danger was over. The civil defense alarm stopped its incessant blaring, and the usual sirens began to wail. The police, firefighters and rescue unit volunteers were all heading out to see what they could do.

  Chief B.J. Bandry, who had gone straight to her office when the first warning came, was on her phone with Capt. Demetrius Cater through most of it.

  “I’m over on Butterfield Road,” he said. “There’s a trailer that got smashed to rubble. The Rescue Unit guys just pulled up. We’re going to make sure nobody’s in it.”

  “I’m on my way,” B.J. said. “It doesn’t look too bad downtown.”

  People were coming out of their stores and houses to look around. Some were already dragging fallen branches out of the streets, or picking up the debris from overturned garbage cans.

  It got worse as she got closer to the Butterfield Road turn. B.J. took a detour when she arrived at the sheared-off branch of an old oak tree, and wound up blocked again at the intersection of Chase and Morrow Streets. Two teenaged boys were taking cellphone photos of a girl jumping on a trampoline that had somehow landed right side in the middle of the street.

  B.J. stopped, rolled down her window, and called out to them.

  “Hey, guys! How about moving that thing out of the way?”

  The teenagers glanced at the cruiser, grinned and went to work.

  “There’s a power line across the street down there,” one of the boys called out to B.J., pointing down Morrow Street. “Where that pole fell. My dad called the power company. They’re coming and they said to stay away from it.”

  Once the trampoline was moved, B.J. turned into the street, which was short—with four modest frame houses on one side and three on the other. It came to a dead end in a wooded area as if somebody had started to create a residential street and just given up halfway. The utility pole, with a tangle of branches and lines, had fallen near that end. She parked and got out to ask a gray-haired woman with a shopping bag full of clothes if she needed help.

  “I just told my daughter to get herself over here and pick me up,” the woman said “That thing sounded like a freight train going through, and I got no power, can’t watch TV, can’t…”

  B.J. wasn’t listening anymore.

  There was a child—a toddler—heading out of the woods and straight toward the power line—with a dog beside him.

  “Stop! Stay right there! ” B.J. shouted, realizing even as she heard her own voice, but the child didn’t seem to understand.

  The dog, a Sheltie with a shiny reddish-brown, black and white coat, did seem to understand the command, and curved around the little boy, moving in closer, trying to turn him around. The child stopped.

  B.J. looked for the quickest way around the power line. The child had gotten around the dog, and was toddling forward again.

  “That baby’s going to get electrocuted!” the old woman screamed as B.J. backed up and made a wild jump, clearing the wires and stumbling on the asphalt. At the same time, the Sheltie caught the little boy by the back of his overalls and yanked him backwards so that he sat flat down on the pavement.

  “Good dog!” she yelled, hurtling toward them.

  The child, who was fair-haired and dressed in a soaking wet long sleeved red shirt, denim overalls and red sneakers, struggled and kicked in B.J.’s arm.

  “It’s okay,” B.J. said. “I’ve got you! Where’s your house? Where’s your mommy?”

  She heard a female voice call out, “Logan!” A woman was running through the woods toward them.

  “Are you his mother?” B.J. called back. “Come take him. I can’t put him down. That power line could be live.”

  “I’m his aunt,” the woman said, breathlessly. She was not much older than B.J., a little on the chubby side, and clearly not used to running. Her long dark-haired was wet with rain and her glasses were askew. B.J. saw that tears were streaming down her face.

  “Is he all right?” she asked, taking the child from B.J.’s arms. “Oh, thank God, he’s really all right, isn’t he? I can’t believe it. A big pine tree fell on the trailer. It’s all smashed in.”

  The little boy clung to the woman and scowled at B.J.

  His aunt kept talking now that she had her breath. “There’s a bunch of people over there trying to find Kasey—my sister. His mother. We thought Logan was in there, too, but I heard you shout and looked this way. I can’t believe he’s okay. You’re the police chief, aren’t you? Thank you! Thank you so much.”

  “Hey, the dog did all the work,” B.J said.

  “What dog?” the woman asked.

  B.J. looked around. The dog was gone.

  “There was a dog with him,” she said, “A sheltie. I thought it was protecting him…”

  “They don’t have a dog.”

  B.J. shrugged and took out a small notebook. “Could I get your name, and the child’s?”

  “I’m Holly Wellston, and he’s Logan Hill.”

  Kasey scribbled the names.

  “And his mother’s name?”

  “Kasey Hill,” Holly said, biting her lip. “Demetrius Cater’s over there with the rescue people. He was asking me if she could have gone somewhere with Logan, and everybody was hoping maybe both of them went off somewhere … but her car’s there. She wouldn’t have left Logan. So now…”

  She broke off, looking pale and holding the child tighter.

  B.J.’s phone buzzed.

  “Hey, Chief,” Demetrius said. “You want to call the coroner? We’ve got a fatality over here on Butterfield. They’re still clearing the debris away from her body, and there’s a little kid we haven’t found yet.”

  “Confirm that name,” B.J. asked, turning away from Holly and Logan.

  “It’s Kasey Hill,” he said. “Her sister was here a few minutes ago, but she’s gone somewhere.”

  “We’ve got the little boy and he’s safe with her sister,” B.J. cut in briskly. “I’m going to get them home and then I’ll be over there.”

  She turned to face Holly Wellston, who gave her a questioning, frightened look.

  “Did they find Kasey?”

  She seemed to know before the answer came.

  “I’m afraid there’s bad news,” B.J. began.

  Holly Wellston shuddered but did not fall apart. She squared her shoulders, held the child a little tighter and said in a shaky voice, “C-could you give me a ride back to my car? It’s over there where the trailer is. I need to g-go home and get Logan into some dry clothes.”

  “Why don’t I just drive you straight home?” B.J. offered gently. “I’ll get somebody to drive your car to your house. Is there anybody I can call for you?”

  “No. My husband’s home,” Holly said. Logan rested his head on her shoulder and twisted a strand of her dark hair.

  “What about the little boy’s father?” B.J. asked.

  “There’s no father,” Holly said in a voice so firm and absolute that B.J. decided any further questions could wait. “We’re the family he’s got.”

  “Okay,” B.J. Said, “I’m glad he’s got you. We need to walk over into that lady’s yard and around the poll. Watch out for the wires.”

  A small crowd had gathered and watched in silence.

  The Wellston home was on Linnet Lane, just a few blocks away in one of the older parts of town. Built on a slight hill on a corner lot, it was the sort of square and ugly house that was a match for any tornado: a solid two-story red brick structur
e with graying cement steps in the front, and a screened-in front porch.

  Holly’s husband, Roger Wellston seemed to be a take-charge type. He scowled at the news, but got himself together quickly, hugged his wife and took Logan from her.

  “We’re going up to Mama’s house,” he said.

  Two little girls—maybe six and four—came down the stairs, and Holly whispered, “Oh, Lord, Roger. What do we tell them?”

  “They don’t need to know right now,” Roger said. “I already called Mama. She’s expecting us. We can stay with them until the power’s back on.”

  “You’re right,” Holly nodded, “I can’t deal with all this and no lights.”

  “Wendy, Anna,” she said, “Run upstairs and get your pajamas and your blankets. We’re going to Mamma Jean’s house.”

  The older girl spoke up.

  “Logan needs Bo-Bear and his blanket if we’re going to spend the night. Is Kasey coming, too?”

  “Just go do what your mother told you to,” Roger snapped. “Right now!”

  The girls ran back up the stairs, and Logan squirmed in Roger’s arms, wanting to follow them, and got his way. As he started climbing the stairs, it struck B.J. that he was very much at home.

  Roger had changed the subject.

  “What about the trailer?” he asked Holly. “Is it ruined?”

  “Yeah,” Holly said indifferently. “That big old pine smashed in the roof over the kitchen. One end’s smashed and the other end’s sort of up in the air. There’s broken stuff everywhere.”

  “How about the car?”

  “It’s okay, Roger. Let me go get Logan into some dry clothes. Do you need anything else from us, Chief Bandry?”

  “Yeah,” Roger said. “What happens now?”

  “We’ll be taking her body to the morgue at the hospital,” B.J. explained. “The coroner will have to rule on the cause of death, and he’s going to want somebody to identify her for his records. I can ask him to wait until tomorrow morning if that will be better for you.”

  “We’ll have to be back first thing.” Holly said, looking around in some distress at the cluttered house. “People will be coming over, I guess, and I really need to get things straightened up.”