A Willing Murder (Medlar Mystery 1)
PROLOGUE
LACHLAN, FLORIDA
5 SEPTEMBER, 1997
He was wearing the clothes he’d found in the back of the old truck. Filthy, with pieces of grass clinging to them, they smelled bad and scratched his skin. The baggy pants had fresh oil on them and stuck to him in places.
He didn’t think anyone would notice the rusty old truck, but he was cautious by nature. He stopped in front of the house for just minutes as he unloaded the tree. It was in a five-gallon pot and heavy. Dirt slid up his arms, adding a new layer of grime to the shirt.
He left the tree on the lawn, then parked a block away in a vacant lot.
It was full night, but still, he hurried back as fast as his disguise allowed. He bent over and shuffled in the heavy-soled work shoes. They were too small and hurt his feet.
As he picked up the tree, he paused at the gate, listening. Night sounds: a TV in the distance, a child crying. All ordinary and nothing to worry about. When he was sure no one was near, he went around the side to the hole in the back. It hadn’t been dug by him, but had been used to roast a pig and never filled in. There was still grease in places.
Immediately, he saw that the dirt had been disturbed. His heart leaped into his throat and pounded hard. His mind raced forward to what would be done if someone found out what had happened. It would be the end of his life, of his family’s life.
“Happened,” he said aloud. Yes, it had just happened. Not anyone’s fault. It was something that couldn’t be helped.
When he’d calmed himself enough to look closer, he saw that the dirt had moved from beneath. Not from an outside disturbance, but from inside. Underneath.
He refused to think what that meant. A vague question—which one?—ran through his mind, but he didn’t try to find out.
The hole had been deep and they were small. Only a thin layer of dirt was over them, so there was still plenty of depth left for planting.
He hefted the tree out of the plastic pot and put it on top of what was barely covered. He adjusted it so it was on the exact spot that had been disturbed.
When he realized he didn’t have a shovel, he cursed in annoyance. Maybe there was one in the truck, but that meant he’d have to make another trip in and out. He couldn’t risk it.
Angry, he got down on his hands and knees and began clawing at the pile of soil. The hole had been there a long time and was littered with beer cans and broken glass. When he cut his hand, he wiped the blood on the old shirt.
Two times the earth shifted from beneath, but he ignored it. He was satisfied that he was planting a truly beautiful tree. It was a fitting monument to—to them.
When he was done, he patted the dirt down, then stood up. To make sure it was done right, he went around the tree again and again, stamping harder and harder, crushing what was buried beneath the soil.
By the time he finished, it was late. He left the backyard of the ramshackle house and walked down the street to the truck.
For a moment he thought it wasn’t going to start, but it did. He drove it back to the owner’s house, removed the old clot
hes from over his own and threw them in the back.
As he walked away, he smiled at the peaceful houses. His small town was such a nice place. In fact, maybe ridding it of undesirables had been a favor to the neighborhood. All he was sure of was that he was content to know that a lesson had been learned and nothing like that would ever happen again.
* * *
A few months later, the abandoned house was put up for rent. It was said that the last tenant and her daughter had packed up and run away in the night. No one liked the mother much, so they didn’t mind. And besides, everyone in town knew the truth about her. Too bad about her daughter, though.
While he’d been waiting, he’d made a plan. He did some clever and elaborate dealings to buy the place under a name that had nothing to do with him.
Anonymously, he put the house under the care of a management company that kept it rented. The money was sent to a charity for battered women. They sent thank-you notes, but he never saw them.
The rental agreement stipulated that the beautiful royal poinciana tree in the backyard was never to be disturbed. It wasn’t even allowed to be pruned. The tree grew and flourished and was remarked on by many people.
Gradually, the incident faded so deeply into the man’s long-ago memory that he sometimes wondered if it had actually happened.
But then, one night as he was watching the local news on TV, he saw a picture of the house and the tree. A pretty young journalist was saying that Wyatt Construction had bought six houses on one street and they were going to completely remodel them. The reporter held the mic toward the owner, Jackson Wyatt, a tall, handsome, dark-haired young man.