Page 19

Jenna glanced around the Sunflower Café, its walls adorned with artwork and photographs capturing moments of Trentville’s history. The café buzzed with the subdued energy of locals enjoying their afternoon respite, oblivious to the undercurrents swirling just beneath the surface of their quaint town. As she took in the sight of neighbors sharing gossip and teenagers laughing over milkshakes, she found it hard to reconcile the beauty of the town with the ugliness they were uncovering.

Across from her, Jake took a disinterested bite of his sandwich, then set it down and lifted his coffee mug. Jenna reached for her own mug, cradling it in her hands. She gazed into the liquid, hoping for a flicker of insight, a whisper that might guide her to the answers they desperately needed. But the coffee remained still, offering no revelations.

“Focus,” she told herself. Even considering the input from her occasional lucid dreams, Jenna had always relied heavily on observation and intellect to solve cases, but this one was begging for supernatural insights to identify ghosts and their killers. However, Jenna’s gift was as unpredictable as it was extraordinary, and she could not summon the dead on demand.

Jake shifted in his seat, breaking the silence. “I’m worried about Frank. He seemed pretty shaken up earlier.”

“I can understand his feelings of guilt over Caroline Weber’s fate,” she sighed, absently tracing the rim of her coffee mug. “He wishes he’d pushed Sheriff Pulliam harder to investigate her disappearance.”

“But he was just a young deputy then,” Jake protested.

Jenna nodded, acknowledging the truth in Jake’s words, even as she understood that guilt was a beast not easily tamed by reason or time. Frank had seen too much, lost too much, to let go of the past so readily.

“Guilt isn’t always rational,” Jenna said. “Anyway, I’m sure helping Colonel Spelling in his team is the best thing he can do right now. It’s better than sitting at home alone.”

Another quiet pause settled between them, filled only by the soft clink of utensils and the distant murmur of other diners. Then Jake’s voice cut through her introspection, “Any ideas?”

She looked up, meeting his eyes. He knew her well, understood the inner workings of her mind and the burden of her abilities. She was aware of the growing connection between them, a bond forged in the fires of shared purpose and unspoken understanding—and undeniable attraction. Yet she held herself back, her emotional barriers as much a part of her as her gift of communing with spirits. Until the ghosts of her past were laid to rest, she could not fully embrace the present.

“Nothing yet,” Jenna admitted, setting the mug down with a faint clink against the table. She took a deliberate bite of her sandwich, tasting nothing. As she chewed, she sifted through the swirling mass of facts and hypotheses. “Let’s try to profile our killer or killers,” she suggested, setting her food down and meeting Jake’s gaze. “What do we know for certain?”

“Both victims were singers,” he said, his voice taking on an edge of excitement amidst the weariness. “The killer – or killers – must be obsessed with singing voices.”

“Exactly,” Jenna murmured. “And we do have one thing to follow up on. If we find the owner of that Purdue class ring from 1970, we’re likely to have someone who’s involved in this death. That is, if the ring wasn’t left there as a distraction.”

“But how many killers are we dealing with here?” Jake asked. “These murders span three decades. We’ve been considering the possibility of some kind of ‘legacy’ theme – a younger murderer following in his predecessor’s footsteps.”

The thought sent a shiver through Jenna, despite the warmth of the café. Trentville, with its sleepy streets and close-knit community, was not immune to the corruption of human nature. The idea of a legacy killer, of violence passed down like some twisted inheritance, unsettled Jenna more than she cared to admit.

“True,” she mused, casting her mind over the facts they had gathered. “But what about David Cavanaugh? Could he be the sole killer? He’s old enough to have committed all the murders, including his sister Rachel’s.”

Jake nodded slowly, “It’s possible,” he muttered, “but remember the date on that class ring – 1970. I suppose David could have graduated from Purdue around the age of 30, but it doesn’t seem likely.”

Without another word, Jenna stood up, her movements deliberate. She reached into her wallet and placed a few bills on the table, enough to cover the check and a modest tip. Her eyes met Jake’s, green depths reflecting determination. “We need to pay David Cavanaugh a visit,” she declared. Jake nodded, ready to follow her lead.

The drive to David’s house was brief. As Jenna navigated the familiar streets of Trentville, Jake remained silent beside her, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery, likely processing the implications of their next move.

Jenna pulled up in front of the bungalow, the quaintness of its exterior doing little to soften the chill of anticipation that crept up her spine. The well-manicured lawn and flowerbeds spoke of an owner who cared for appearances, yet Jenna knew all too well how deceiving appearances could be. She and Jake exited the vehicle, walked up to the front door, and rang the doorbell. David’s prompt response and genteel greeting caught her off guard.

“Sheriff Graves, Deputy Hawkins,” he said, his voice betraying none of the nervousness or guilt Jenna had anticipated in a suspect. “What brings you here?”

“Mr. Cavanaugh,” she began, her voice steady despite the brief flicker of hesitation, “we have a few questions about the recent discoveries at St. Michael’s.”

“Of course,” David acquiesced with a nod, moving aside to grant them entry.

The detectives stepped into the living room, a space so fastidiously maintained it seemed more like a showpiece than a dwelling. Jenna observed the symmetrical arrangement of furniture and absence of stray items. The simplicity of the living space spoke volumes about the man who occupied it, as ordered and controlled as the notes on sheet music.

“Please, have a seat.”

As they settled onto a pristine floral-patterned sofa, Jenna and Jake scanned their surroundings. The living room was immaculate, every surface dusted and polished to a shine.

The mantelpiece held an array of family photographs, each meticulously aligned and dust-free. The faces smiling back at her from behind the glass were frozen in happier times, unaware of the cloud that now hung over the Cavanaugh name. Her attention shifted to an upright piano nestled in the corner of the room, its polished surface reflecting the fading light. On top, sheet music was stacked with precision, revealing a life steeped in melody and order.

David Cavanaugh had seated himself in an armchair facing them, his posture erect, his hands neatly folded in his lap. He cleared his throat softly before speaking, his voice carrying a note of sorrow that didn’t escape Jenna’s acute senses.

“I must apologize for my abrupt departure from the Parish Hall earlier,” David began, the edges of his words colored with regret. “Mention of my sister Rachel tends to upset me, even after all these years.”

Jenna offered a nod of understanding. She heard sincerity in his tone and recognized the shared experience of loss—unless his seeming sincerity was a ruse. It was a feeling she knew all too well—the void left by her own sister’s absence.

“We understand, Mr. Cavanaugh,” she replied. “Loss is never easy to deal with.” She observed him closely, seeking any telltale sign that might betray his true feelings. But his face revealed nothing beyond what he had just told them.

“Thank you, Sheriff Graves,” David replied. “It’s something one never truly gets over.”

“Of course, Mr. Cavanaugh,” she replied quietly, maintaining her composed exterior. “Let’s talk about the recent incidents at the church.”

“You’ve come to tell me that one of the bodies was Rachel’s, haven’t you?” David’s statement startled both Jenna and Jake with its directness.

“We haven’t determined that for certain yet,” Jake replied, his tone cautious, measured. David leaned forward, his eyes alight with a fervor. The intensity in his gaze seemed to pull at Jenna, beckoning her into the depths of his certainty.

“But I’m sure of it. One of those bodies is my sister. And what’s more, I know who killed her.”

“Mr. Cavanaugh, if you have information about these crimes, you need to tell us.” Jenna watched as a strange calm enveloped David, a stark contrast to the tempest of emotions she’d expected. He nodded, his demeanor composed, as though he had been waiting decades to unburden himself of this knowledge.

“It was Kip Selves,” David stated with the certainty of someone who has held onto a secret for far too long. “The man who automated the carillon.”

Jenna leaned forward slightly, her fingers intertwined to mask the slight tremble she felt at the gravity of the conversation. “What makes you think that?” she asked.

“Kip was... obsessed with Rachel,” David explained, strain evident in his voice as if the memories caused him physical discomfort. “Especially her voice. He would come to every church service, every choir practice, just to hear her sing. It wasn’t healthy.”

Jenna noted the pained look that crossed David’s features, the clench of his jaw, the subtle narrowing of his eyes. She filed away each detail meticulously, aware that each nuance could be a piece to the puzzle they were desperately trying to solve.

“Obsession can be a powerful motive,” Jenna remarked, sensing the depth of the old wound she had inadvertently prodded.

Before she could delve deeper into David’s assertion, Jake cut in, skepticism lacing his tone. “And you believe he killed the other victim as well?”

David responded with an emphatic nod, his expression unchanging as he faced Jake’s questioning gaze. “I’m certain of it.”

Jenna’s brow furrowed, her analytical mind dissecting the information laid out before them. She posed the question that had been nagging at her since David’s first declaration. “Mr. Cavanaugh, when did Kip Selves die?”

“1960,” came David’s prompt reply, his voice devoid of hesitation. “Just a few days after Rachel disappeared. He had a stroke at the age of forty.”

“Forty,” she repeated quietly. Forty was a young but not unheard-of age for a fatal stroke. But there was a serious flaw in David’s accusation.

“That doesn’t add up,” Jake protested, and Jenna nodded in agreement.

“Mr. Cavanaugh,” Jenna said firmly, “if Kip Selves died in 1960, he couldn’t possibly have killed the other victim. That murder happened many years later.” She watched David closely, searching for any telltale signs of deception or evasion.

But David’s expression held no trace of doubt, his certainty as unwavering as the structure of the church whose presence seemed to fall over this very conversation. He didn’t falter, didn’t waver. It was as if the timeline discrepancies that puzzled Jenna and Jake were inconsequential to him. He just sat smiling, not withdrawing a word he had spoken.

“David,” she insisted gently, yet firmly, “logic dictates that what you’re suggesting isn’t possible. We need facts, evidence. Not just convictions.”

The room remained still, the late afternoon light filtering through the curtains. Jenna’s intuition, that unexplainable sense that guided her through many a case, buzzed at the back of her mind, alerting her to tread carefully.

David leaned forward in his armchair, the fervent gleam in his eyes brightening as if fueled by some inner fire. “Oh, but it was still Kip Selves,” he stated, his confidence unsettling.

Jake’s skepticism had not abated, and he leaned forward, mirroring David’s posture. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said. “How could Kip Selves have committed a murder decades after his death?”

David’s next words were delivered with a chilling calm. “Because,” he began, leaning closer, his voice barely above a whisper, “ever since his death, Kip Selves has been haunting St. Michael’s Church. The last victim was killed by his ghost.”