Page 19

Jenna stared out at the passing landscape as the patrol car hummed along winding roads. Her mind circled back to Chief Morgan’s barely veiled accusations and Colonel Spelling’s unexpected defense of her.

Jake had called to inform Rebecca Mitchell that they were on their way to seek her help before he started to drive. “You’re quiet,” he commented, eyes on the road as he navigated a particularly sharp curve. “Still thinking about Spelling?”

“I’m not used to having someone at his level defend me like that," she replied.

“It was unexpected,” Jake agreed, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel. “But not unwelcome.”

“What do you think he makes of it?” she asked. “My methods, I mean.”

Jake considered this for a moment. “Honestly? I think that Spelling respects results. And you get them, regardless of how.”

“But he must wonder. Everyone does.” Jenna turned to look at Jake’s profile. “What’s your theory on what he’s assuming?”

Jake gave a small, thoughtful smile. “Well, he definitely doesn’t imagine you’re communing with the dead. That would be last on his list of explanations.”

“Agreed,” Jenna said, unable to suppress a chuckle despite the gravity of the question.

“More likely, he believes you’ve got some kind of real-world network. Informants, maybe. Sources you’ve cultivated that you don’t disclose.” Jake shrugged. “Or maybe he just thinks you’re that good at reading a scene.”

Jenna nodded slowly. “Either of those would be easy for him to accept.”

“The important thing is,” Jake continued, “he’s keeping his theories to himself. And he shut Morgan down before he could start digging in directions none of us wants him going.”

The car rounded another bend, revealing the first glimpse of the Mitchell estate through a break in the trees. They pulled into the circular driveway and parked in front of the old mansion.

“I appreciate Spelling’s discretion,” Jenna said quietly. “Whatever he might think.”

They had reached the double-door entry and were just about to push the bell when the doors swung open, revealing Franklin. The household manager stood with perfect posture, his uniform as impeccable as before.

“Sheriff Graves, Deputy Hawkins,” he greeted them, his voice measured. “Ms. Mitchell is expecting you. Please, follow me.”

Jenna caught the subtle curiosity in his gaze as he led them through the house. She wondered what questions were forming behind that professional mask and what theories he might have about a second visit in such a short time.

The room where Rebecca awaited them was the same as before—an elegant space filled with Howard Mitchell’s prized audio equipment.

Rebecca rose from her seat as they entered. She wore another black dress, similar to the one from their previous visit, her dark hair still pulled back. The shadows beneath her eyes had deepened, a testament to sleepless nights spent dealing with her father’s affairs.

“Sheriff Graves,” she said, extending her hand. “Deputy Hawkins. I must admit I was surprised by your call.”

“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Ms. Mitchell,” Jenna replied, taking the offered hand.

Rebecca gestured toward the seating area. “Please, sit. Can Franklin bring you anything? Coffee, perhaps?”

“No, thank you,” Jenna said, settling into one of the armchairs. Jake took a position slightly behind her, standing with his hands clasped behind his back.

Rebecca sat across from them, her posture straight but tense. “You mentioned there have been developments in the case.”

Jenna nodded, choosing her words carefully. “I’m afraid I have some difficult news, Ms. Mitchell. There’s been another death that seems to be connected to your father’s collection.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened, her hand rising instinctively to her throat. “Another...? Who?”

“Sandra Reeves,” Jenna said, watching Rebecca’s face closely. “She owned Melody Forge Studios here in Pinecrest.”

The color drained from Rebecca’s face. Recognition flashed in her eyes, followed swiftly by horror.

“Sandra Reeves? The singer?” Her voice cracked slightly. “I—I know who she is. Was.”

Rebecca’s hands trembled more visibly now. She clasped them together in her lap. “This can’t be happening. First that man who bought the old radio, and now...”

“I understand this is shocking,” Jenna said gently. “But there’s something else you should know. Ms. Reeves had also recently purchased an item from your father’s estate. A phonograph, I believe.”

“Yes. Yes, she did. Just a few days ago.” Rebecca paused, realization dawning in her eyes. “She came to the estate sale personally. I was actually quite honored to meet her, even briefly. I told her I was a fan.”

Jenna leaned forward slightly. “We believe the items purchased from your father’s collection may be the key link between the victims.”

Rebecca stared at Jenna, her gaze shifting from disbelief to a dawning comprehension that seemed to physically weigh her down.

“You’re saying someone is... targeting people who bought my father’s things?”

“That’s what the evidence suggests,” Jake said from behind Jenna.

Rebecca stood abruptly, moving to the window. Outside, the manicured grounds of the estate stretched into the distance, peaceful and oblivious to the darkness of their conversation. Her silhouette against the light trembled slightly.

“All these things,” she said, turning to gesture at the room filled with her father’s collection. “They were his passion. His joy.” Her voice faltered. “Now they’re somehow connected to... to murder.”

“We need your help, Ms. Mitchell,” Jenna told her. “The more we understand about who purchased these items, the better chance we have of preventing another tragedy.”

Rebecca nodded, composing herself with visible effort. “Of course. Anything I can do.”

“Do you recall anyone who showed particular interest in both the phonograph that Sandra Reeves purchased and the ham radio your father sold to Howard Mitchell?” Jenna asked.

Rebecca returned to her seat, brow furrowed in concentration. The ticking of an antique clock on the mantel punctuated the silence as she thought. Jenna could almost see her mentally sifting through faces, conversations, and moments from the estate sale.

“There were so many people,” Rebecca said finally, frustration evident in her voice. “Collectors, enthusiasts, just curious locals... I tried to keep track, but...” She shook her head. “I can’t recall anyone specifically interested in both those items. But of course, I could have missed it.”

Disappointment settled in Jenna’s chest, but she pressed on. “Did your father ever mention anyone whose interest in his collection struck him as concerning? Someone who perhaps seemed too eager or whose questions made him uncomfortable?”

Again, Rebecca thought carefully before answering. “My father was... selective about those he allowed to view his full collection. But he never mentioned anyone specific that worried him.” Her shoulders slumped slightly. “I’m sorry. I wish I could be more helpful.”

“There is something else you can do,” Jenna told her.

“We need a complete list of everyone who purchased items from your father’s collection.

It may help us identify potential targets.

” Jenna exchanged a glance with Jake before adding, “And anyone who has expressed interest in future purchases, or distress that they didn’t get what they wanted. ”

Rebecca looked concerned. “Of course. I have records of all the sales. I’ve been meticulous about that. But as for … any resentment or anger … I wouldn’t necessarily know …”

“Your list of purchasers and any prospective buyers will be a great help,” Jenna said, reaching into her pocket for a business card with Spelling’s contact information. “If you could send that information directly to Colonel Chadwick Spelling at the Missouri Highway Patrol,”

Rebecca took the card. “I’ll compile everything and send it right away.” She stared down at the card for a moment, then looked up with new resolve in her eyes. “And I’ve made a decision. I’m shutting down the estate sale until this case is solved.”

“That’s a significant decision,” Jake observed. “The sale must represent substantial income.”

Rebecca shook her head firmly. “I can’t in good conscience continue selling these items if they might be putting people in danger. Money isn’t worth a life.” She glanced around at her father’s beloved collection. “He would have felt the same way.”

Jenna nodded, forming a new respect for Rebecca Mitchell. “That’s a wise precaution, Ms. Mitchell. We appreciate your cooperation.”

As they prepared to leave, the mood in the room remained somber. Rebecca walked them toward the front door, where Franklin waited to escort them out.

“Sheriff,” Rebecca called as they reached the threshold. “Please find whoever is doing this. Before anyone else gets hurt.”

“We will,” Jenna promised, hoping the assurance wouldn’t prove hollow.

Back in the patrol car, Jenna immediately pulled out her phone. “We need to update Spelling.”

Jake started the engine but didn’t pull away yet. “Put him on speaker.”

Colonel Spelling answered on the third ring, his voice crisp and formal. “Spelling.”

“Colonel, it’s Sheriff Graves and Deputy Hawkins. We’ve just finished speaking with Rebecca Mitchell.”

“And?” There was the sound of papers shuffling in the background.

“She couldn’t remember anything helpful. But she’s agreed to send you a complete list of buyers from her father’s estate sale,” Jenna reported. “And she’s halting any further sales until the case is resolved.”

“Good,” Spelling replied. “I’ll put a team on analyzing the list as soon as it arrives.”

“Any developments on your end?” Jake asked.

“Morgan and I finished interviewing the staff at Melody Forge Studios,” Spelling said. “We have a person of interest—a former sound engineer named Claude Davis who had a falling out with Ms. Reeves last year. Morgan’s running background checks now.”

Jenna made a mental note of the name but kept her expectations measured. Their experience told her that obvious suspects rarely panned out in cases like this.

“Let us know if anything comes up with Davis,” Jenna said.

“Will do.”

After ending the call, Jake pulled the car onto the road. “Where to now?”

Jenna rubbed her temples, feeling the familiar pressure of a case with too many questions and too few answers. “Let’s stop at Brewed Awakening. I need coffee and time to think.”

The coffee shop on Main Street was bustling with afternoon customers.

The aroma of freshly ground beans and baked goods created an atmosphere so disconnected from death and murder that it felt almost jarring.

Jenna found herself noticing everyday details with heightened awareness—a woman laughing over her latte, a couple hunched over a computer tablet, a barista creating elaborate foam art.

They found a corner booth away from the crowd. Jake returned from the counter with two mugs of coffee and a plate with two blueberry scones.

“Thought you might be hungry,” he said, sliding onto the bench across from her. “I wanted a snack myself.”

Jenna accepted the coffee gratefully, wrapping her hands around the warm ceramic. “Thanks.” She nibbled on a scone.

Jake took a sip of his coffee, studying her over the rim of his mug. “Can you remember anything more from your dream, Jenna? Anything at all that we haven’t discussed?”

She looked up sharply. “I’m not holding back.”

“I know you’re not. But we need everything we can get right now. If we’ve missed anything at all…”

Jenna sighed, knowing he was right. She closed her eyes, allowing the ambient sounds of the coffee shop to fade as she focused on recalling her dream encounter with Sandra Reeves.

The frustration was immediate. Dream memories were elusive at the best of times, and these encounters were always shrouded in a strange, otherworldly haze that made details difficult to grasp.

She concentrated harder, trying to remember Sandra’s words, her expressions, any clue she might have offered.

Fragments came back to her—Sandra’s fear, the description of being choked with a cord, being bound ...

Jenna’s eyes snapped open. “She said the killer was talking while he bound her to the tower.” Keeping her voice low, she explained. “Sandra said he kept babbling while he was binding her to something hard. There were certain phrases ……”

Jake leaned forward, fully attentive now. “What phrases?”

“‘Astral voices,’ “Jenna recalled, the words surfacing with sudden clarity. “And ‘midnight voice.’“

Jake pulled out his phone immediately. “Let’s see what comes up.”

They huddled over the small screen as Jake typed the phrases into a search engine. The first few results were vague—references to spiritual practices, a few music albums, a self-help guru.

“Wait,” Jenna said, pointing to a result further down the page. “That one.”

Jake tapped on the link, which opened to a local history blog post titled “Forgotten Voices: Pinecrest’s Underground Radio Scene.” The article detailed the history of pirate radio stations in the area during the 1980s and early 1990s.

“‘Among the most notorious was ‘Astral Voices,’ broadcasting in Pinecrest from 1987 to 1991,’ “Jake read aloud.

“‘Based in the ruins of the abandoned Ozark Sole Works shoe factory, the station gained a cult following for its eclectic music and mysterious on-air personalities, including the popular late-night personality, a woman known only as the Midnight Voice.’“

“That’s it,” Jenna gasped. “Both of those phrases. That has to be a connection.”

The coffee shop continued its normal afternoon rhythm around them, the patrons unaware of the breakthrough that had just occurred. The hunt for a killer had just taken a new direction—one that pointed toward the airwaves of Pinecrest’s past.