Voodoo, Lies, and Murder Page 11

  I pulled out the picture of Chantal and showed it to Miss Facelift on reception. "I'm investigating the disappearance of Chantal Langton. Was she a patient here?"

  She didn't glance at the picture, although maybe that was hard to do since her eyes were so tight from the ponytail that she couldn't move them anymore.

  "Are you a police officer?" she asked.

  "No, I work for Hi-Tec Insurance."

  "Then I'm very sorry, but I can't discuss our patients with you," she said in a tone that indicated she wasn't in the slightest bit sorry.

  "This could be a life-and-death situation. This poor woman has gone missing in suspicious circumstances. I need to find her before something bad happens to her." I pushed the photo under her nose so she couldn't avoid looking at it.

  I studied her face for a reaction to the picture and saw a brief twitch of lips as she looked at it.

  "I don't recognize her." Miss Facelift bent her head over her desk and started scribbling on some forms.

  I'd seen all I needed to, though. That twitch was a dead giveaway that she was lying. So Chantal had been here, but why? Was it connected to her pregnancy or the story Liza was working on? If Liza covered a lot of human interest and women's rights issues, could her story have been about the prostitutes that came here? Before I could think about it more, a tall, slim nurse called my name.

  I followed her past several consulting rooms to a door marked Dr. Andrew Scott. She opened the door and said, "Amber Fox to see you, doctor. I'll be in reception if you need me." Then she left me standing in front of one of the best-looking men I'd ever seen.

  Like Chantal, Andrew Scott had mixed parentage. He obviously didn't get his features from Marie, so I was guessing his dad was a looker, too. He had huge, dark eyes framed by thick, long lashes that any woman would be jealous of, perfectly shaped lips, teeth so straight and white they had to be veneers, and skin the color of my favorite Galaxy chocolate bars. The whole stunning effect almost made me want to lick him.

  Down, girl! You've got chocolate on the brain. And anyway, you're on a case. He could be a murderer for all you know!

  I pushed all skin-licking thoughts out of my head. What the hell was wrong with me? I put it down to chocolate withdrawals again messing with my brain.

  He stared back at me with amusement dancing in his eyes, as if this were the kind of impact he always made on women, and he wasn't surprised in the least.

  He smiled, flashing his flawless set of gleaming white teeth. "Please, have a seat, Ms. Fox. What can I do for you?"

  I wondered briefly how many members of the opposite sex he'd affected with that smile, and how many concocted weird gynecological problems just to make an appointment with him.

  I sat down, pretty glad that he wasn't my gynecologist. There was something creepy and disarming about having a gorgeous doctor looking up your lady garden. "I'm trying to find out what's happened to your cousin, Chantal. Do you have any idea where she is?"

  His eyes widened in surprise. "I take it you're not a patient, then?"

  "No. I'm from Chantal's insurance company."

  He reclined in his chair, stretching out his long, muscular legs. "Isn't it a bit early for an insurance investigation? I didn't hear on the news that her body had been found."

  Stop looking at his legs! I tried hard not to picture him naked.

  I flushed and tore my eyes back to his face, clearing my throat. "Her parents have also asked me to find her."

  For a brief second he broke eye contact, glancing away and then back to me so quickly I was almost unsure if I'd imagined it. "I don't know how I can help you. I'm sure Nicole and James told you that their side of the family is estranged from ours. I've never met Chantal." He gave me a superior smile that didn't quite manage to reach his eyes.

  Had I imagined it? Was his attractiveness blinding me to signs of lying that I would normally be certain of? "So why did she have your business card? And why did she phone the clinic on several occasions?"

  "I have no idea." He waved a dismissive hand through the air and gave me a smile that was about as real as Jordan's boobs.

  I waited in silence, an old cop interview technique I'd learned. Most of the time people were uncomfortable with silence. They'd do anything to fill it, babbling away, which often led to them giving out details that they didn't want to.

  He shifted in his chair. "I'm sure hundreds of people ring the clinic each week, but I'm afraid I'm too busy being a doctor to filter all the calls. I can assure you that Chantal has never been a patient here." He scratched the side of his nose. "I don't know why you have this notion that I've seen her or even spoken to her, but I haven't had any contact with her at all."

  I suspected that was a big, fat whopper, since Elliot had already told me he'd followed her to the clinic, and I already knew from her phone records that she'd called the clinic. Andrew must've seen and spoken to her.

  "Even though I'm not close to her, I'm just as upset as everyone about her disappearance," he carried on. "Of course, I want her to be found safe and well."

  "Well, maybe Chantal was a patient of the Holbrook Clinic. She also had their number. Do you know what they do?" I asked innocently.

  "I'm afraid I can't help you. I've never heard of them." He scratched his nose and gave me that wide smile again.

  The nose-scratching thing did it for me. He was definitely lying. Either that or he'd developed a sudden case of itchyitis.

  "You say your side of the family is estranged from Chantal's, but there's a witness who saw Chantal going into your mum's house."

  He shrugged. "I have no idea about that, I'm afraid."

  "Are you involved in left-handed voodoo?" I changed the subject to try and disarm him.

  He made a disbelieving sound at the back of his throat. "Pardon?" The smile melted quicker than a Popsicle in the desert.

  "Apparently your mother is a bokor—someone who practices black magic."

  He stood up, eyes flashing with anger. A muscle pulsed in his jaw and his face turned the color of a beetroot. Think "exploding beetroot" and that would be more accurate. "Firstly, voodoo is a religion, and not every person who believes in voodoo is involved in the darker side portrayed in Hollywood films. Secondly, our conversation is over." He pointed to the door.

  Ooh, touchy!

  At this rate, I'd be getting a complex about people not wanting to talk to me, although it didn't escape my notice that he'd completely avoided answering the question.

  * * *

  When I left the clinic, I was having an attack of the drooping eyelids. Either Andrew had put some kind of sleeping spell on me or I was suffering from the aftereffects of a late night tossing and turning. All this worrying about whether to give up my procrastinating and set a date for the wedding, or just carry on living together for a while and see what happened was really affecting my normally zonked-out sleep patterns. After everything we'd been through, getting married was the crunch time, and that was what was scaring me. If it didn't work out there would be no more second chances. This was it. Could I go through a marriage and then lose him forever if it didn't work out? Thinking about it made a cloud of worry form across my forehead, casting a shadow of doubts left, right, and center. I think deep down the problem was that the realization had finally hit home that our relationship was really right, and when something is so important, there's a lot more risk involved. If I stuffed it up somehow, I might never be able to get it back again.

  I tried to blank my thoughts and fears from my mind. Coffee. That was what I needed—a hefty caffeine pick-me-up if I was going to make it through the day. Usually I'd hit Starbucks, but I wanted to have another chat with Steven Shaw, so I hit the Burger Land drive-through again.

  "Can I take your order, please?" The crackly voice said at the microphone.

  "I'll have a large white coffee, please."

  "Would you like milk and sugar?"

  "Just milk, please."

  "Would you like it in a bag?"
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  "No, a cup will do fine, thanks."

  "Would you like onions with that?"

  "Not today, thanks. I find that the onions get a bit soggy in the coffee."

  "Would you like fries with that?"

  "No, thanks."

  "Damn, I can't give them away today," the muffled voice said. "Please drive to the next window to collect your order."

  Dad was serving at the pick-up window again. "Hey, Dad, how's the case going?"

  He glanced behind him and back to me again. "Slowly. How about you?"

  "Ditto. Is Steven in? I need to have another quick chat with him?"

  Dad nodded. "He's in his office."

  I paid for the coffee and Dad handed me a hot cup.

  "I'll drink this in the car and go up."

  "Good luck." Dad waved at me.

  I pulled into the car park facing the building and took a sip of my caffeine fix, thinking about Chantal and everything I'd learned that morning. Was it possible that Steven had found out about Chantal being pregnant and killed her in a jilted lover's rage? It wouldn't be the first time it had happened. He'd also been lying to me about Chantal. But then what was Andrew and Marie's involvement in it? Had Chantal visited Marie for some kind of voodoo ritual to get rid of the baby? Had she, in turn, suggested Chantal visit Andrew for a termination? Or was something else going on that involved human sacrifices? Was the baby Elliot's, or had she been sleeping with Steven, too? Why was Chantal talking to a prostitute? Was it about the Second Chance Clinic? Was Elliot following her an innocent act of looking out for her welfare, or was he actually stalking her because he was a man obsessed? Was he also enraged at being jilted by Chantal after their night in the office? Who was this Emily Jacobs that Liza rang before she disappeared, and what did the list of initials and dates that Chantal made mean?

  My phone rang as I was pondering the possibilities.

  I glanced at the caller display. "Hey, Mum. How are you?"

  "Hi, honey, I'm out shopping and they've still got that fabulous hat on special offer so I wanted to know if you'd set a date yet," she gushed down the phone.

  I rolled my eyes. "Nope, I still haven't set the date."

  "Well, can I buy it anyway?" she asked hopefully.

  "No. Don't buy it yet."

  "Why not?" She sighed. "You know it's perfectly normal to have wedding jitters. I did before I married your father."

  "Did you?"

  "Of course. I was worried about being with a man who had a career in the police force, and never seeing him, or, God forbid, if he got assaulted on duty."

  "But I bet you're glad you made the right choice now—after all, Dad's worked his way up and is now on the checkout at the Burger Land drive-through."

  Mum chuckled. "In the end, I loved him enough to put up with being a police widow and never seeing him. I think every woman goes through these worries before she gets married, but you and Brad are made for each other. You can't live without each other, so what's the point in wasting any more time? Life's too short for worrying about whether you're doing the right thing or not all the time."

  I knew she was right, but…what if?

  "So…can I buy it?"

  "No!" It was my turn to sigh then. "Look, I promise you'll be the first to know as soon as I've set the date, okay?" Hopefully that would get her off my back until I'd made a decision.

  She tutted. "Well, what about if—"

  I made a static noise down the phone. "You're breaking up, Mum. I'll speak to you later." I hung up. Yes, I know, slightly cruel, but I wasn't in the mood for talking about the wedding every day. I had a missing woman to find. Well, that was my excuse, anyway.

  I drained the dregs of my coffee, got out of the car, and dumped it in a nearby bin. Then I asked Pink Hair at the serving counter if Steven was free.

  He came down and met me, looking haggard and pale.

  "Have you found Chantal?" he asked as soon as he saw me.

  His eyes darted around nervously, and it looked like he was actually worried about the possibility that she'd been found.

  I studied him for a few moments, watching him squirm with obvious discomfort. "Why, do you know where she is?"

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets and avoided my probing gaze. "No. Why would I know where she is?"

  Liar, liar. Any minute now his pants would spontaneously combust. "You tell me." I cocked my head, waiting for an answer.

  He swallowed and averted his gaze to the window. "I told you before, I don't know where she is."

  "I need to ask you a few more questions."

  "Oh." He shifted from one foot to the other. "Well, I suppose you'd better come up to the office."

  I followed him upstairs.

  "Did you know Chantal was pregnant?" I said as soon as we'd both sat down.

  What color Steven had in his cheeks completely vanished at those words. His mouth gaped open for a few seconds then closed again. He shook his head, his lower lip trembling. "No. She couldn't have been."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Well…" He glanced around the room as if searching for the right words. "We hadn't slept together in months and…" He trailed off as if a light bulb had suddenly pinged on in his brain. "You mean she was seeing someone else?"

  "She'd been involved with someone else, yes." I hated to be the bearer of bad news but needs must—plus, this wasn't a game and I couldn't pussyfoot around people. I needed to find out what he was hiding.

  He emitted a strangled cry. "No. No, no, no." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, head in his hands in much the same display as Elliot.

  "You know more about her disappearance than you're telling me. What is it, Steven? What happened to Chantal?"

  "I don't know." He started rocking back and forth. "I don't know. I just knew that she was in trouble."

  "What kind of trouble?"

  "She wouldn't tell me. I swear!"

  "So you're sure you don't know where she is?"

  He hesitated for a beat, then said, "No." His voice was muffled behind the hands hiding his face.

  I left my card on his desk "If you know something, something that could help me find Chantal and Liza, then you're not doing them any favors by hiding it." I left him with that thought and walked out the door, leaving him alone with his tears.

  I got back in the Toyota and sat in the car park. If Steven did know something, and I was betting he did, maybe I'd spooked him enough to give me a clue. I figured I'd sit there for a while and see if he left, then I could follow him.

  I sat on my hands to stop me eating the melted, out-of-date, heart-shaped chocolate blob in the glove box. What I wouldn't give for a chocolate muffin right about now. I clamped my lips together to stop drooling at the thought and watched the front door for signs of Steven as the day turned from dusk to darkness.

  One hour and many fantasies about chocolate-covered donuts, chocolate ice cream, and chocolate-coated Brazil nuts later, Steven hurried out of the front of the building with his head down and a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, quickening his pace as he reached the main road. He looked like a man on a mission to me, so I got out of the Toyota and followed on foot at a safe distance.

  He walked through the town, pushing his way between the crowded streets and ignoring the busy market stalls hawking their wares before they packed up for the day and went home. As he neared the end of the town, he stopped outside the Catholic church. He stood for a few moments, glancing up at the building before striding up the concrete steps two at a time.

  Was Steven coming here to confess to a priest about something that he'd done to Chantal? And if so, could I manage to eavesdrop? I'd never been in a Catholic church before. In fact, I'd only ever gone to Sunday school as a kid, and even then I'd been banned because of an unfortunate incident involving me, another kid called Julie Peterson, and a whoopee cushion. I swear it was just a joke to put it under her cushion before she sat down after reciting the Lord's Prayer to the whole Sunday congregati
on, but the vicar didn't seem to see the funny side of it.

  As I climbed up the stairs, I saw a man in a purple priest's robe in the garden at the back of the church. He clutched a Bible in one hand and a set of rosary beads in the other, and was talking to an elderly woman holding a mountain bike against her legs and wearing a bike helmet. They had their heads together in deep discussion and every few seconds she'd nod her head thoughtfully. If Steven was waiting in the confessional box to blab about Chantal, somehow I needed to delay the priest so I could slip in there and pretend to be him, then listen to what Steven had to say. I wasn't entirely sure exactly how I'd be able to pull that off, but a girl's gotta try.

  "Father!" I gave the priest a wave and rushed over to them.

  He glanced up, his eyebrows scrunching together, trying to place me as someone he recognized.

  The woman placed a hand on his arm and smiled at him. "Well, thank you, Father McGuire, it's been a fascinating conversation. Who'd have thought the Pope was into mountain-bike riding and other extreme sports?" She turned and smiled at me as I got closer to them.

  He took her hands in his and smiled back. "Any time, Maude."

  She disappeared through the garden and down the steps as he gave me his full attention.

  "Hello." He beamed at me, his bushy eyebrows dancing as he spoke. "Can I help you?"

  "I'm so glad I caught you," I said. "There's been a serious car accident in Ware Road, just by the bus stop, and there's this poor woman who's trapped in one of the vehicles in a bad way. The fire brigade is on its way to cut her free and there's an ambulance waiting, but they can't do much until she's out of the vehicle. She was asking for you, father."

  The smile dropped from his face and his eyebrows scrunched together with concern. "Oh, my, that's terrible. Who is it?" He led me back toward the steps.

  "Er…Sarah?" It came out more like a question than a statement.

  He shook his head slightly. "Sarah? I don't recall a parishioner here called Sarah."

  "Or maybe Sally?"

  "Oh no. Not Sally Wilkinson?"

  I nodded vigorously. "Yes, Sally Wilkinson." I clutched his arm. "You need to hurry. She may not have long left."