Page 19 of Once Marked (Riley Paige #19)
Riley squinted against the bright glare bouncing off the store’s display window, where an assortment of vintage bathing suits vied for attention. The quaintness of the shop called Tidal Beauties seemed at odds with the grim reason for their visit.
Ann Marie stood beside her, adjusting her sunglasses, and Sheriff Beeler headed on past them and through the front door.
They followed him inside, and Riley saw racks brimming with swimwear from times long past. Mannequins in pin-up poses showcased the best of the collection, their plastic smiles frozen in time.
One counter was cluttered with an array of vintage accessories: cat-eye sunglasses lay in artful disarray beside colorful beach bags and ornate swim caps that looked like they belonged on the silver screen rather than a modern-day beach.
An older man was standing behind a glass counter.
His weather-beaten face revealed countless days spent under the coastal sun.
The salt-and-pepper beard gave him a distinguished look, the kind of local character who might be featured in a travel magazine article extolling the virtues of small-town living.
“Good afternoon, Sheriff,” he said to Beeler, “I see you’ve brought reinforcements with you.”
“Steven, these are Agents Paige and Esmer from the FBI,” Beeler said, gesturing toward his companions. “The owner of this shop, Steven Walsh.”
Walsh’s expression shifted subtly, the friendly lines around his eyes tightening just enough to suggest the gravity of their presence wasn’t lost on him.
“Heard on the news that the FBI was in the banks,” he replied, hands clasping over one another atop the counter.
“Another murder, they’re saying? Terrible business, that. ”
“Mr. Walsh,” Riley said, “we’re here because the second victim was found wearing a vintage swimsuit, like the victim in the previous case. But the style was different, from another period of time. We were hoping you might be able to help us determine where it might have come from.”
Walsh frowned. “But Sheriff, didn’t we already establish that the first suit wasn’t from here?”
“We did,” Sheriff Beeler replied, his expression weary as he pulled out his tablet. “But we need to be thorough. This is a different bathing suit from a different era. Maybe you’ve seen something like it.”
He pulled out his tablet and brought it to life with an image of the second victim’s bathing suit. “Well, the style’s familiar enough, but I can’t say I recognize it,” Walsh admitted after a moment, his eyes earnest. “I pride myself on knowing every piece that passes through my doors.”
Riley noted the sincerity in his tone. Walsh was a man anchored by his connection to memorabilia. She believed that if either bathing suit had been part of his collection, he would remember it.
“Your assistance means a lot to us, Mr. Walsh,” Riley said. “Do you mind if we take a little time just looking around?”
“Of course,” Walsh replied, his earlier warmth resurfacing as he gestured to the racks of clothing. “Feel free. Maybe you’ll find something that helps.”
Riley’s gaze drifted across the shop, taking in the curated chaos of colors and fabrics. Each piece seemed to echo laughter and summer days long past, yet they were here in search of a connection to something unspeakably grim.
“Look at this craftsmanship,” Walsh said, picking up a suit adorned with sequins that shimmered like the surface of the ocean. “They don’t make them like this anymore.”
“True,” Riley murmured. The bathing suits on the two victims were definitely period styles, but somehow not as elegant as the ones she saw displayed here in the shop.
Ann Marie’s spoke up, “Sheriff Beeler, do you have pictures of the suits themselves? I mean, after they were removed from the corpse?”
Sheriff Beeler nodded.
“Could you pull up a photo of the suit from the first victim—Julie Sternan? I need to see a close-up shot. Something that shows me the details.”
“Of course,” Beeler replied, his thumb scrolling through files until he found the requested image—not a crime scene photo like those Riley and Ann Marie had studied earlier, but a picture of the suit itself.
He turned the tablet toward Ann Marie, who leaned in with an intensity that Riley had come to recognize when her partner was on to some new idea.
As Ann Marie scrutinized the photograph, her eyes tracing the lines and shapes of the garment.
“May I zoom in?” Ann Marie asked.
“Be my guest.”
Ann Marie swiped across his tablet’s glossy surface, enlarging the photograph for a clearer view.
The suit lay flat and lifeless, stripped from its final, grim figure.
Riley watched as Ann Marie leaned closer, her blonde hair almost brushing the cold glass of the tablet screen.
There was a furrowing of her brow, a slight parting of her lips—a silent gasp caught in the absence of air.
“See something?” Riley murmured.
Ann Marie didn’t respond to her question. “Could I see a photo of the other one?” she asked.
The sheriff brought up another photo and handed the tablet back to the young agent. Riley leaned over to see the image as Ann Marie zoomed in for details.
Meanwhile, Sheriff Beeler turned back to the store owner. His voice sounded discouraged as he asked Graves, “Steven, mind if we take another look through your catalogue anyway? Just to be sure?”
Before Walsh could muster a response, Ann Marie’s assertion came sharp and clear. “That won’t be necessary, Sheriff. This swimsuit wasn’t bought here. In fact, it wasn’t bought anywhere.”
All eyes snapped to the young agent whose confidence clashed with her fresh-faced appearance.
Beeler’s expression morphed from frustration to perplexity. “How can you be so sure?”
Ann Marie met the sheriff’s questioning stare. “Because I have experience dressing dead people. I’ve even made clothes for them.”
Momentary silence claimed the space as her statement sank in, leaving a ripple of unease.
Walsh’s mouth hung slightly agape, Beeler’s stance shifted awkwardly.
Riley suppressed a smile. She had often grappled with the juxtaposition of Ann Marie’s sunny optimism and her unsettling expertise in the mortuary business.
She explained to the two men, “Agent Esmer has put in some time working alongside her father in his funeral parlor.”
Ann Marie, undisturbed by the reactions, leaned forward and swiped at the screen.
“These suits were clearly hand-made,” she soon concluded, certainty in her voice.
“Hand-made?” Beeler echoed, his frown deepening.
“Yes, and not by someone skilled. Look at these haphazard stitches, the way the fabric bunches. It’s like a rough draft, not a finished product.”
Riley pondered this, the implications sending a chill down her spine. If these suits were crafted by the killer for each victim, it meant a level of premeditation and personal involvement that they hadn’t considered before.
“My guess,” Ann Marie continued, her tone steady despite the grim nature of her deduction, “is that the killer took the measurements of the intended victims while they were still alive, then made these suits specifically for them.” She paused, her gaze lingering on the image.
“But it turned out to be harder than the killer expected. The sloppy adjustments suggest the killer had trouble fitting the suits onto the bodies post-mortem and had to make some changes.”
“You’re certain of this?” Beeler asked. “That the suits are handmade?”
“Look here,” Ann Marie said, her voice steady as she pointed to a section of the swimsuit displayed on the tablet. “See this crooked seam? And here, the uneven stitching? And here, where you can see stitches were pulled out and then replaced a little differently?”
Riley edged closer, her gaze following Ann Marie’s slender finger as it traced the jagged lines on the image.
It was a minute detail, one that might have been overlooked by a less discerning eye, but Ann Marie’s mortuary background had obviously honed her attention to the smallest of imperfections.
The flaws were subtle, yet unmistakable—the kind of mistake a machine wouldn’t make, a sign that human hands were behind this grim puzzle piece.
The thought sent a shiver down Riley’s spine, knowing those same hands had not stopped at sewing.
“Amateur at best,” Ann Marie commented, zooming out to reveal the full image before diving back into another compromised section of the swimsuit. “No commercial outlet would sell a suit with these kinds of defects.”
The proprietor of Tidal Beauties stepped closer, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses as he scrutinized the digital photograph from over Ann Marie’s shoulder. His nod was slow, almost reluctant, as if agreeing pained him professionally.
“She’s right,” Walsh murmured, a tinge of surprise undercut by a note of admiration for Ann Marie’s astuteness. “I’d never stock anything of this poor quality.”
Riley felt the shift in the room, the collective realization that they were dealing with something far more personal than a simple purchase.
This swimsuit was a crafted message of death tailored by the killer’s own hands.
The young agent’s finding had dropped into their midst like a stone into still water, sending ripples through most of what they thought they knew about the case.
Turning to Beeler, Ann Marie posed a question that now seemed crucial: “Sheriff, can you imagine Marcus Callahan operating a sewing machine under any circumstances? Or stitching up a seam by hand?”
The large man shifted uncomfortably, the weight of his authority seeming to press down upon him as he considered the incongruity of the image.
But it wasn’t just the absurdity of the powerful Callahan delicately threading a needle; it was the realization that their investigation might have been chasing the wrong man while the true predator remained hidden.
“No, I can’t say that I can,” he admitted, his voice rough with reluctant acceptance. It was clear that even he couldn’t picture Callahan as the meticulous if clumsy crafter of the ill-fitted swimsuits.
“Then I think we can safely say that either Callahan is not our killer,” Ann Marie stated, her blue eyes alight with fervor. “Or someone else is working with him, someone who made these bathing suits for him and adjusted them after the murders. We need to rethink this case from the ground up.”
Riley nodded in silent agreement, her mind already racing through the implications.
She thought that Ann Marie’s first suggestion was by far the most likely—that Callahan had nothing to do with these murders.
Of course both she and Ann Marie had suspected as much.
But Sheriff Beeler was accustomed to looking at the world through a lens colored by assumptions and preconceived notions that the killer had bought the vintage suits.
Now, the landscape had changed, and they had other options to consider.
They were back to square one—but this time, with a clearer vision.
And what they had just learned also fit better with Riley’s sense that this killer might be a woman.
“Mr. Grant,” Riley asked, “do you know of anyone, male or female, who might have produced the bathing suits in those photos?”
“No, I sure don’t,” he replied. “I’ve never known anybody who makes their own swimsuits. Why would they bother to do that?”
“Thank you, Mr. Walsh,” Riley said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. “Your help has been invaluable.” Walsh nodded, his own expression mirroring the seriousness of their undertaking.
“Please let us know if you think of any possibilities,” Riley added.
As the storekeeper gave them assurances, the investigators all headed for the door.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Walsh,” Beeler said, closing his tablet with a soft click.
“Anytime, Sheriff,” Walsh responded, accompanying them to the door. “I hope you catch whoever’s doing this.”
As the investigators headed out the door, Riley paused at the threshold, casting a final glance back at the shop.
Her eyes settled on a framed photograph near the exit, and something tugged at her awareness.
It was of a smiling woman captured in time.
The picture pulled at Riley’s attention.
She stepped closer, her mind registering the high cheekbones and the confident cut of the woman’s hair.
The face held the kind of smile that hinted at a life lived boldly and without regret.
She realized that her partner had stopped next to her.
“Ann Marie,” Riley said, her voice low, “do you see it?”
Ann Marie moved closer, peering over Riley’s shoulder. “I do... it’s uncanny.”
“Whoever did this,” Riley continued, her pulse quickening, “they’re not just killing. They’re recreating.”
“Or erasing,” Ann Marie added softly.
“Agents? You coming?” Beeler’s voice echoed, a bit muffled, from the shop entrance.
Riley’s eyes lingered on the image, her thoughts racing. This was no coincidence, it couldn’t be. The victims had been chosen for a reason, and this smiling woman, frozen in time on the wall of Tidal Beauties, might be the key to understanding the mind behind the murders.
Riley breathed, her pulse quickening. “I think we just got our break.”