If You Really Loved Me by Ann Rule Page B

Newell drove to the Brown's rented bungalow. Morrissey and his crew were still picking up evidence as he approached the strangely quiet house.
    Newell walked around the property first, noting the three vehicles still parked in the driveway after the Browns had left. There was an older, classic MG, a Ford Mustang, and a Chevy Monte Carlo. He ducked under the huge old maple tree, its trunk entwined with ivy. Even with the sun out, the backyard was dark, dappled with shadows. He saw the dog pen back of the garage and stared at the two red doghouses. The family had left the four little dogs behind, and they yapped hysterically.
    Newell turned away, wondering what it must have been like for a fourteen-year-old girl, sick from a massive overdose, to wait the night out in a doghouse in the pitch-black chill. His oldest daughter wasn't much younger than Cinnamon Brown, and he had always tried to protect his girls from anything hurtful or frightening. It was hard not to compare.
    The little trailer, its aqua and white paint rusting, dented here and there, was backed in so that it nudged the double glass doors between the two rear wings of the house, only a few steps from the back door that led to a utility porch. The hitch was propped on a brick and a slab of wood. Newell peered in the door and stepped back quickly to get away from the odor. The floor was dotted with dog feces.
    The Terry trailer was a compact unit, maybe fourteen feet long with a built-in stove, refrigerator, and bunks. It would have been fun for kids to camp out in on a summer night, but it seemed a bit bleak in March—when the rest of the Brown family lived inside the house. Cinnamon had been provided with a portable television, a radio, and a heater. A large, well-worn teddy bear occupied the top bunk, and there was a Cabbage Patch doll on the bottom bunk.
    Newell stepped into the house, nodding to Bill Morrissey and his crew. He padded down the hallways, memorizing the location of the rooms. The place looked normal, as if a family had just scattered to go to work and school. The kitchen was sunny, and someone—probably the victim-had had a green thumb. Vines and houseplants bloomed on shelves and tables. It was a "Donna Reed" kind of kitchen, cozy, immaculate, and welcoming.
    Like the other investigators, Newell noted the proliferation of new, expensive furniture. The middle room along the south hallway was the most startling study in excess— especially when Newell contrasted it with the shabby trailer he had just seen.
    It was a nursery—but what a nursery. The furniture was top of the line, just as in the rest of the house. There were enough toys for a dozen babies. Newell stopped counting at three dozen teddy bears, most of them Care-Bears in every color of the rainbow. There were a half dozen mobiles, toy chests, Sesame Street characters on the wall, an automated baby swing, a car seat, and a small herd of porcelain unicorns. Krystal's name was spelled out on one wall in giant letters.
    Krystal Brown had obviously been a much-wanted baby, if you could judge by earthly possessions.
    And now she had no mother.
    Newell turned away.
    The motive given in the police synopsis made sense. Fourteen-year-old child of a first marriage in the way. Stepmother—and maybe father—favor new baby. Teenager relegated to crummy trailer.
    But something niggled. Newell paused to watch Morrissey sawing away at the wall in Patricia Bailey's room. Bailey had a lovely room too. His mind registered a question.
    Where did Patti Bailey fit in, and why was she apparently held in more favor than David Brown's own older daughter?
    Jay Newell talked to Patti Bailey the next day. She was a quiet, almost phlegmatic, girl. Her lack of animation made her more plain than pretty. She had obviously been crying, and her face was blank as she explained to the DA's investigator why she had come to live with her sister and brother-in-law.
    Things had been tough at home, she said, without