For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (19 page)

“Leave Ramble?”

“Not necessarily. But you’re too old to run away to the country and hide from your problems.”

“But how is the murder my problem? Why can’t I stay out of it?”

“And let Brad rot in jail? Or that Pinkleman kid?”

“Of course not. But it’s not my problem. I’m not trained or qualified.”

“Maybe not trained, but you proved something—even that observation about the door handles. Maybe you’re gifted, somehow. I don’t know. But I listened to my father for a lot of years, and the way you talk—the way you think—it reminds me of him. Promise me you’ll keep your eyes open.”

“Fine,” I said, resisting the urge to salute. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

From my corner.

Liv popped another videotape into the VCR. “Last one,” she trilled.

It was only the third since I’d started watching while cranking out bridesmaid bouquets, and I don’t know how Liv managed to keep watching Gary preen across the screen. His investigative reports quickly careened from dramatic to melodramatic, as if he were saving the world through his bulldog reporting, his grim expression, and his perfect teeth. That and the vintage hair and clothing styles drew more than a chuckle, especially from our younger interns.

Despite my spending the day “poking around town,” as Grandma Mae would say—including a stop at the Ashbury to tell Brad the good news that he had in no way contributed to Gary’s death, even accidentally—we really were in good shape as far as the flowers were concerned. We had no other weddings. Most people in town had the sense to avoid the hottest months, which also meant we had no anniversary flowers to do. Everyone in town was so abuzz about the TV show and the murder, not always in that order, that we had very little business besides.

A few more hours with our extended crew and we’d be finished. Good thing, since the rehearsal was tomorrow, and then we’d be free to place the flowers in the church and reception hall, which we’d been contracted to do, while Suzy would be sequestered with the hair and makeup people so she could be duly surprised at the final reveals.

So as I prepared more barely opening calla lilies, my attention was drawn to the tiny TV screen. Gary’s videos consisted of only his reports—and sometimes the introduction by the news anchor, especially if they had something flattering to say. This time, the subject wasn’t fraud or political corruption. It was a missing child.

“For several days now,” Gary said into his microphone, “volunteers have been combing the area searching for any signs of the missing child. Prayer vigils were held, and flowers and stuffed animals placed here, at the front gate of the home little Paige Logan shared with her parents. You may have seen the tearful pleas, aired right here on our station, of Paige’s parents, Evan and Deborah Logan, asking for the safe return of their little girl.

“Did a stranger find a way past this fence, to that window”—the camera zoomed to the pulled curtains of a second-story window—“to abduct the sleeping towheaded toddler from her crib? Or does the answer lie closer to home?”

Liv pressed pause. “I remember the Logan kidnapping. All over the national news. Scary stuff to hear about when you’re little. On TV they made it sound like there was a boogeyman waiting around every corner. That’s when Mom took me to get fingerprinted. I’m surprised she didn’t put me on a leash. Remember that?”

I shook my head.

“Well, kiddo, you were a couple of years younger.”

“I remember,” Amber Lee said. “For some reason the media really played up that case. Maybe because the Logans were so wealthy—or little Paige so photogenic. Hard to shield the kids from the coverage. They came to class with all kinds of fears and questions. We had to go through the whole drill with them. ‘Don’t go anywhere with a stranger, even if they say they know your mom and dad. Don’t take candy. Don’t help anyone look for a lost puppy.’ Makes me mad. Kids today can’t even have a childhood without worrying about some nut-job off the street.” Amber Lee set down her knife and rested two fists on the table. She looked like a revival preacher about to launch a fiery sermon.

“When I was little we used to leave the house at sunup, run around town all day on our bikes, and come home for meals and bedtime. Today kids are cooped up in the house all day for their own safety. And doctors blame the parents’ bad examples when the kids end up obese.”

“Did they ever find Paige Logan?” I asked.

“That, I don’t remember,” Amber Lee said.

“Let’s find out.” Liv pressed the play button.

“This investigative reporter has come into information regarding
this man
”—a shot of Evan Logan was panned across the screen—“wealthy business owner, paragon of the community, and trusted father of the missing child. We sat down with Evan Logan earlier today to ask him about what we learned.”

“Thanks for meeting with us,” Gary said.

“Anything to get my precious baby girl back,” Evan said.

“You’re convinced the child was kidnapped?”

“What else could it be? She’s too young to wander far, and the police say they found evidence her window was pried open from the outside.”

“But still no ransom demands?”

“No,” Evan Logan said. “Not a word.” He turned to the screen. “Listen, if you have my daughter, contact me somehow. We’ll do whatever it takes to get her back. Just don’t harm her. Baby, if you see this, Daddy loves you.”

“But there won’t be a ransom demand, will there, Mr. Logan?” The ruthless Gary we’d seen in other reports was starting to come out.

Evan looked dumbstruck.

“I’d like you to take a look at something.” The on-screen Gary pulled out a manila folder and opened it in front of Evan Logan.

“I . . . I don’t understand. What are you doing with this?”

“By ‘this’ do you mean this police report, alleging that you were guilty of sexual assault?”

“None of that ever happened. In fact, she had to drop the charges. They were all made up. It didn’t take long for the police to figure that out. That has to be in your little folder, too.”

“Would you like to tell your side of the story?”

“There’s nothing to tell. I dated this girl in high school, oh, maybe two or three times. She seemed nice at first, but a little off. I thought she was shy. Quiet. But we really didn’t hit it off.”

“Is that why you raped her? This underage girl?”

“I . . . I didn’t touch her. Look, she got all riled up because I never called, so she made up this wild accusation to try to get me in trouble. Nobody ever pressed charges. Where’d you get this information in the first place? It should have been all sealed. I was cleared.”

“Cleared? Or did your father pay her off?”

“Is that what she’s saying now? Then she’s just as nuts as she was back in high school. And none of this has anything to do with my daughter’s disappearance.”

“Doesn’t it?” On-screen Gary stared into the camera as the corner of his mouth rose in an almost imperceptible, sly smile.

Evan jumped out of his chair, which fell back to the floor with a clatter. “I don’t have time for these allegations. My child is missing, do you get that? My baby. And you’re here dragging up all this old garbage.” He pushed the folder off the table, sending papers flying, then stormed out of the room. The handheld camera followed him until the door slammed.

The interview feed ended, and the video cut to a shot of Gary looking directly into the camera.

“Is that the reaction of an innocent man?” Gary asked. “A man with nothing to hide? Our subsequent calls to Evan Logan were not returned, but his lawyer issued a statement saying the Logan family continues to cooperate with authorities. He asks that if you have any information, you contact the numbers on your screen.”

Gary followed with a pledge to keep investigating. Liv pressed pause.

“I guess Evan Logan goes on our list.” Opie left the corsage she was making on the table while she crossed to our bulletin board—usually reserved for notes about jobs—and scrawled a name onto a half-f page.

“You have a list?” I said. “Of suspects from Gary’s old reporting job?”

Liv nodded.

I joined Opie at the bulletin board. The list spanned half of a page, although some of the names had since been crossed off. “You change your mind?”

“Not exactly,” Opie said. “We’ve been Googling. Some of these people are dead, and others are out of the country or in prison.”

Melanie walked over to the computer. “E-V-A-N, right?”

I joined Melanie behind the screen as she did a search for Evan Logan. Up came a Wikipedia page and YouTube videos snatched from
Dateline
and
America’s Most Wanted
. I pointed to a short news article from several years back, written on the twentieth anniversary of little Paige’s disappearance.

I skimmed the article. “No, they never found her, and no one was charged. Evan Logan was taken in briefly for questioning. The ransom was never recovered.” I looked up at Liv, who caught on about the same time I did. “Wait, didn’t the report say there was no ransom demand?”

“I wonder if Gary covered the story again.” Liv picked up the remote. “Ready?”

The next segment featured Evan Logan making his way through a crowd of reporters. Microphones from local and national news outlets were shoved in his direction, cameras flashed, and larger boom mics hovered overhead.

Disembodied voices shouted questions.

“Is it true you paid the ransom demands?”

“Has Paige been returned to you?”

“What were the terms of the ransom agreement?”

Gary’s question was different. “Is this a smoke screen to divert attention?”

When Evan had made his way into the building, Gary turned to the camera. “While Evan Logan again refuses to answer questions, we did learn this from a confidential source: authorities are in possession of a ransom note, asking for one million dollars for the safe return of Paige Logan. No word yet if any ransom has been paid or even if the note has been authenticated. Back to you.”

Liv paused the recorder again, freezing Gary’s face as he pronounced the last word, giving him fishlike lips.

“So there
was
a note,” Amber Lee said.

“Gary seems to be hinting that Evan Logan is behind it,” Liv said.

“He’d better do it more carefully,” Opie said. “Those kinds of allegations can make or break your career.” Since Opie’s father was a lawyer, she’d become our unofficial legal consultant. “The station might fire him just to avoid a lawsuit.”

Liv pressed play to go to the next segment. But the rest of the tape was blank.

“Apparently it broke his career,” Melanie said.

Liv removed the videotape and returned it to the box. “The only other thing in here is the DVD. Should I pop it in?”

We murmured agreement as she switched cables, removing the VCR and attaching the small DVD player. I took the time to wrap the hand-tied bridesmaid bouquet with the silver ribbon we’d bought.

“That’s funny.” Liv pointed to the blue screen, which featured only the words, “Disk not found.”

“Are you sure it’s a DVD?” Amber Lee asked.

“Maybe you should try it in the computer,” Melanie said.

I set the stems of the bouquet into a small jar with about an inch of conditioned water and carried the completed bouquet into the walk-in cooler before joining the group clustered around the computer.

“Yeah, it’s a data disk.” Melanie pointed to the screen. “Looks like PDFs, a few saved HTMLs, MP3s, and a few MPEGS.”

“Translate that,” Amber Lee said.

“Text, pictures, and a few audio and video files.”

“It’s a mishmash of stuff.” I scanned the list of files. “Look, there’s old news reports, newspaper articles, and . . . oh, boy.”

“What?” Liv squeezed in next to me.

“These audio files say Suzy Weber. These are interviews with the bride.”

Liv leaned in closer to the screen. “Let’s listen to them.”

“Wait.” I bit my lip. This wasn’t information we were supposed to have. “We’re not supposed to talk with the bride about what she wants.”

“Who’s talking to her?” Shelby said. “We’d just be listening.”

I turned to Opie. “What would your dad say?”

“Well, I could call him, but he’d bill you for it. But if you want me to imagine what my dad might say—mind you, I’m not licensed . . .”

“Your best guess.”

“I’d say it’s possible you might violate your contract if you listened to it, at least before you delivered the flowers.”

“Oh, come on,” Liv said. “We’ve already designed the flowers. We’re not going to change them at the last minute because of something we hear. Are we?”

“To make her happy? I would,” I said.

“Me, too,” Amber Lee said.

Liv sighed. “Okay, fine. But as soon as we deliver the flowers, I’m listening to them. Why don’t we take turns reading the rest of what’s on here? I could probably use some sitting-down time.”

Liv heaved herself onto the stool in front of the computer and let her shoes fall to the floor.

I looked at her swollen feet. “You okay?”

“Hormones do it, I hear. I’ll be okay after I sit down for a while.”

“You should be home in bed,” I said.

“Now you’re sounding like Eric.”

“Probably because Eric and I have something in common.”

“A desire to see me become an invalid?”

“No,” I said. “We both love you.”

“Aw, thanks, Audrey. But don’t go playing mother hen with me. That’s my job. And I am really curious what Gary has saved on here. You know, watching all those hours of footage made me see a different side of him. Sad, really.”

“He was so young and ambitious,” Amber Lee said. “For the most part, he seemed to have good instincts.”

“Not sure I like how the Logan case went down,” I said.

“No,” Liv said. “I think Gary jumped the gun on that one. Found a bit of evidence and thought he’d hit on something. Maybe he was right. Maybe Evan Logan was guilty and nobody has been able to prove it.”