The Watcher. BEVERLY BARTON

with the credit card machine and looked right at Nic. “I went to nine o’clock services this morning. Don’t want y’all thinking that I’m not a good Christian woman.”

      “The thought wouldn’t have entered our minds, Ms. Willoughby,” Griff said.

      “Call me Cleo. Everybody does.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” Nic and Griff said simultaneously.

      “If you’d wanted connecting rooms, I could have given you the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers rooms, but the Jean Harlow room is bigger and has a view of Main Street. And the Cary Grant room is very nice, too.” She patted Griff on the arm. “The last gentleman who stayed in it said he couldn’t remember when he’d slept better.”

      “That’s good to know.” Griff wished Cleo would hurry things along, but he suspected there was no point in trying to rush her.

      She ran Griff’s credit card, handed him the slip to sign, and swapped him his card for the bill.

      “Do you get many visitors?” Nic asked.

      “Not many, but enough to keep the doors open. The gentleman I mentioned who last stayed in the Cary Grant room spent only one night. Said he was just passing through. I wonder if those boys finding Kendall Moore’s body in the park had anything to do with him leaving so fast.”

      “When did this man arrive and when did he leave?” Griff asked, an odd notion hitting him at the mention of the man being here so recently.

      “He came in on Friday evening, rather late, and paid in cash.” Cleo said. “And he left Saturday morning, right after we heard about them finding that poor gal strung up by her heels and her head scalped. Have you ever heard of such a gruesome thing?”

      Nic and Griff exchanged glances and in that moment, he knew that she was thinking the same thing he was: the recent occupant of the Cary Grant room might well have been Kendall Moore’s murderer.

       Chapter 4

      A six foot, auburn-haired, good old boy with an easygoing manner and an infectious laugh, Benny Willoughby seemed like a nice guy. Nic guessed that he was in his early fifties, and the gold band on the third finger of his left hand indicated he was married. When they arrived at Mot’s, which was apparently the town’s most popular restaurant, at least for the Sunday lunch crowd, he greeted them cordially and suggested they order the chicken and dressing.

      Nic wondered where Benny’s wife was.

      After they placed their order and sat down at the table with the police chief, at least six different men stopped by to speak to Willoughby. Finally, just as the waitress brought their drink order, he turned and glanced from Griff to Nic.

      “Aunt Cleo tells me you folks are private detectives interested in Kendall Moore’s murder.”

      “That’s right,” Griff replied, giving Nic a don’t-contradict-me glance.

      “Did the Moore family hire y’all or—?”

      “No,” Griff said. “We’re not working for anyone on this case.”

      “Then I don’t understand.” Benny frowned.

      Griff leaned in closer to the chief and lowered his voice. “I’m not at liberty to reveal my sources—not yet—but we have reason to believe that Ms. Moore was murdered by a serial killer and if that’s true, her murder could be connected to a case we worked on in the past.”

      Benny’s eyes widened in surprise. “If what you say is true, then I sure do need to know the source of your information, Mr. Powell.”

      “I’ll make you a deal, Chief Willoughby.” Griff glanced from right to left, then focused his full attention on Benny. “If you’re willing to give us what information you can about Ms. Moore—nothing that would get you in any trouble, of course—I’d be willing to tell you who our source is.”

      “Humph.” Benny looked down, his gaze not quite centered on anything in particular as he shook his head while he considered the proposition. “How about you divulge your source and then I’ll see what I can do about answering any questions you’ve got.”

      Griff looked at Nic, as if wanting her agreement. She smiled and nodded, knowing damn well he couldn’t care less what she thought.

      “Fair enough.” Griff grasped the back of Benny’s chair and moved in, right up against his shoulder, then whispered, “Kendall Moore’s killer called us and told us. There was another murder identical to Ms. Moore’s out in Stillwater, Texas, about a month ago.”

      “Well, I’ll be.” Benny shook his head again. “If that don’t beat all. A serial killer, huh? Somebody that didn’t even know Kendall. That girl was Ballinger’s pride and joy, you know. She went to the Olympics nearly ten years ago and won a silver medal. She was on the track team in high school, just a few years ahead of my oldest, Benny Jr. Came from a good family. She’d been living in California until about six months ago.” Benny grunted several times. “I sure couldn’t figure out who’d want to do such a terrible thing to Kendall. It was a real puzzle to me and everybody else.”

      “How long was Kendall missing before her body was found?” Griff asked.

      “Her folks contacted me when she didn’t come home from an aerobics class one night over three weeks ago,” Benny said.

      “Could you tell us if she was sexually assaulted?” Nic asked, knowing he’d be more likely to respond to that type of question if a woman asked it.

      “We haven’t gotten back the autopsy report yet, but our coroner said it didn’t look like it to him. Of course, you know she was shot in the head and had been scalped. And our coroner, Larry Kimball, said he was pretty sure she hadn’t been dead more than ten or twelve hours. Three teenagers, the Oliver brothers and Mike Letson, found her body hanging from a tree in the park. By the time we got to the scene, there was already a crowd there and in no time, reporters were swarming like maggots. Information that shouldn’t have been released to the press got out before we could do anything about it.”

      “Those things happen,” Griff said.

      “If you’re right about the serial killer, then I sure am relieved. I hated to think anybody around these parts was capable of doing something like that.”

      “Is there anything in particular you can share with us?” Nic asked. “Anything at all, even something you might consider insignificant.”

      Grunting, Benny shook his head. “Can’t think of anything. Of course, y’all know that she wasn’t killed in the park. She was killed somewhere else. We’re waiting for the state boys to get back to us. If I let ‘em know we think it could be the work of a serial killer, that might get us an autopsy report a little faster.” His gaze connected with Griff’s. “You were involved in the Beauty Queen Killer cases, weren’t you? I saw your name and picture in the paper on and off for years.” He glanced at Nic. “And you look familiar, too.” He snapped his fingers. “Damn it all, you’re the FBI agent who headed up the task force, aren’t you?”

      Nic nodded, but before she could respond, Griff took over. “This isn’t an official FBI case. Not yet. Special Agent Baxter is here in an unofficial capacity. We’re putting together a few pieces of a puzzle, that’s all. If enough pieces fit together and we can prove there’s a killer who is crossing state lines, then the bureau will step in.”

      “As you know, any case with an interstate aspect to it comes under the FBI’s jurisdiction,” Nic added.

      “Well, I tell you what—when I get more information, probably within the next few days, I’ll share it with you and whatever you find out about that murder in Texas, you share with me.” Benny picked up his fork and dove into his chicken and dressing. After a couple of bites, he