Picture Them Dead (19 page)

Or, if it did, there were stronger candidates than the kids themselves. Claire, for instance. Ridiculous, but just as a mental exercise, I made a list of those who'd have the strongest motives for retribution. Claire was top on the list, but even supposing she was able to do it, she wouldn't have. Then there was Quentin. If I were in his shoes, I'd be angry upon finding out some snot-nosed kids, my own nephew included, had put all this in motion. In addition to everything he'd suffered personally, it appeared he still loved Claire and would be angry on her behalf. And then there was Nash Simpson. Clearly he had a lot of unresolved issues about his part in Claire's tragedy.

But how could they have known? As far as I knew, neither man had any connection with Sherry Burton. Then again, as far as I knew didn't extend very far.

Next I did some mental sparing about whether to report my suspicions about Gavin, or Gavin's car, to Denny. Despite his weird behavior this morning, Sherry's things in his trunk, it possibly being his car that had run Luke and me off the road, I was still convinced he had not been involved with Sherry's murder. I'd known him a long time and I didn't think he had that in him. Or maybe it was only wishful thinking. Maybe he was counting on me to believe him for old times' sake. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

And Luke Mitchell? Was there something strange about him showing up the way he did? Was he the good guy he seemed? Had he really turned up here to answer his sister's distress call, or were there other motives involved? And as for our little detour into the ditch last night, if it was intentional, were they after Luke or me? Who would have known we were together in that car? Well, any number of people could have known. It wasn't like it was a secret assignation or anything. Luke claimed he had no idea who'd want to harm him, and he'd seemed genuinely perplexed. In fact, he'd looked at me in an almost accusatory way, as if I'd brought the incident down on his head. And maybe I had, but if so, I was as clueless as he was.

The answer to each of these questions was the same, too many unknowns to solve for
x
.

*   *   *

River and Luke were sitting in lawn chairs in the backyard, a pitcher of tea on the ground with a paper towel draped across the top to keep the bugs out. River beckoned me over to the chair they had waiting for me and poured me a plastic cup of the tea, which I downed in a few unladylike gulps.

Luke had already told River the story Miss Lottie had related, so I built some context for it by reading passages from the diary kept by the young man who'd been in Samuel Wright's unit. He described the conditions in the trenches and the horror of the things the soldiers faced every moment of every day.

“You come back from war with demons in your knapsack,” River said.

“Personal experience?” Luke asked.

River nodded. “People tell you to forget about it and move on, but I don't ever want to do that. That's why I changed my name.”

“River's not your given name?” I asked. “I just figured you had hippie parents.”

River laughed. “Not hardly. They were conservative as they come. Up until Nam I was Robert Victor Jeffers, Bobby to my friends. But Vietnam changed everything. I think I already told you I was a medic. We did patrols in the Mekong River Valley. The first thing a downed man would ask me when I went to tend to him was ‘Am I gonna die?' I'd always say, ‘Yeah, someday, man, but not today in this River Valley.' One guy saw the R.V. on my dog tags and decided it stood for River Valley, and the nickname stuck.

“ 'Course my promise was a lie. A lot of them died. And all these years later I still don't know why they had to die, or what they died for. All I knew for sure when I came home was that I didn't want to forget any of 'em, so I had my name changed legally so I'd hear it every day and remember.”

“Did you have any PTSD issues?” Luke asked.

“Still do,” River said, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Nightmares now and again, and I'm no fan of Fourth of July fireworks. Hearing the whump of helicopter blades makes my blood race, too. But that's nothing compared to what it was when I first came back. I wasn't fit to be around people. But I was lucky. I had a wife who understood and supported me, and then we had a daughter. When your life gets full of good stuff, it can help keep the demons at bay. That's what this land is for me now, a way to stay grounded, literally in this case.”

The phone rang inside the house and River struggled to get his lawn chair out of the lounge position. “I gotta get that. I'm expecting a call from my contractor.”

“So, how are you feeling after our little game of chicken last night?” Luke asked once we were alone.

“My nose hurts, I have bruises on my shoulder from where my seat belt grabbed, and I'm stiff, but otherwise fine. You?”

“Sore hip and I feel ninety years old, but when I think how bad it could have been, I think we got lucky.”

“Yeah, listen, Luke. I wanted to talk to you about something. About what you told me about that phone call your sister made to Claire's husband—”

“My sister and her pals,” Luke corrected.

I nodded a concession. “The thing is, I think Claire has a right to know. I have to tell her.”

Luke smiled a sad smile. “She already knows,” he said. “I went over to see her this morning. I told her everything and apologized for keeping it to myself all this time. It was rough, but if there's anything I've learned during my experience this past year, it's that human beings need to be able to depend on one another if they want life to be better for everyone. She didn't say she forgave me, but she said she'd work on it. I hold that as an honorable and honest response. I told River the whole story last night. He's extended his home to me and I want to be up front with him. The truth will set you free and all that.”

“Set you free or get you run off the road,” I muttered.

“You think it had something to do with that?” Luke frowned. “How could it? I'd never told a soul until I talked to you about it yesterday in the car.”

“I don't know. I'm just trying to think of anything that might have targeted us.”

Luke frowned. “My guess is, something from Miami followed Sherry here and whoever she was running from thinks I know something about her business. I don't, but that's the only thing I could think of that makes any kind of sense. I'm pretty sure she was dealing drugs. She wasn't a user, or at least I never saw any sign that she was, but I can see how she could justify it to herself to sell. She always wanted what she wanted, you know? I don't know that for sure and she never confided in me, but I'm not stupid. She had way too much money for a bartender and I don't think she had a sugar daddy.”

“So you think she got involved in a deal that went bad somehow?”

“Yeah,” Luke said hesitantly. “Or what I'd rather think is that she was trying to leave that life. She did write those things in the letter she left me about wiping the slate clean. But maybe that's just what I want to believe.”

“A lot of that going around,” I mused.

*   *   *

Esme was puttering around the kitchen when I got home. She'd shed her Sunday clothes in favor of a pair of turquoise slacks and a colorful tunic. No belt, no earrings, no necklace, flat sandals. Something was definitely wrong. Her movements, usually swift and efficient, were now listless.

“Esme, please tell me what's going on with you,” I pleaded, unable to keep quiet any longer.

“I'm fine, Sophreena,” Esme said, her tone contradicting her words.

“Is that F-I-N-E as in fouled up, insecure, neurotic, and exhausted?” I asked.

She flapped a hand at me. “You're about as funny as a toothache. Now, go on and let me finish up in here.”

I looked around but couldn't see anything that especially needed finishing and I didn't like that she wanted to get rid of me. “Did you talk to Claire this morning?” I asked.

“Yes, she told me Luke came to see her. She says she'd like to have some time alone today to think on things and talk with Quentin about it. She's taking a couple of days off work; she's a bundle of emotions. I'll go over tomorrow morning.”

“I wonder how Quentin will take it,” I said.

“Me, too,” Esme said. “But Claire claims Quentin has come a long way, that he's got control of his anger issues through the counseling he got in prison. She's more worried about Nash Simpson. And you know what else about good ol' Nash? I saw him at Top o' the Morning earlier. He drives a dark green sedan. Doesn't have a Wolfpack decal in the window, but it does have one from a gun group with a big old perching bald eagle smack in the middle. Might look pretty similar at a quick glance on a dark road.”

“Sheesh,” I breathed. My mind started to immediately sort through a stack of what-ifs. Had Nash Simpson somehow learned about the phone call? But how? What if it was Luke he was after? But why? Luke hadn't been a party to the prank. But he had known about it and kept quiet all these years. Had I ever done anything to earn Nash Simpson's wrath? I didn't think so; I hardly knew the man.

The doorbell rang, interrupting my ruminations, and both Esme and I turned to look out the kitchen window. We couldn't quite see the porch at that angle, but we saw Denny and Jennifer's unmarked car parked at the curb.

Normally this would have sent Esme into a primping spasm, but all she did was strip off her rubber gloves while muttering what I was pretty sure was a really naughty word in French. She threw the gloves on the counter and started toward the door with a heavy sigh. Not good.

I followed her out into the hall and watched as she presented Denny and Jennifer with a decidedly unwelcoming greeting. “I'm busy,” she said simply.

“Good to stay busy,” Denny said, undaunted. “But we need to talk with Sophreena a minute, please.”

He gently pushed his way past her and motioned me to the family room, Jennifer falling into step behind me in case I decided to bolt. Which I felt inclined to do after seeing the look on Denny's face.

“Tell me what you thought you were doing,” Denny began, after compelling me to sit, “going to question Gavin this morning without even telling me you believed it was him in that car last night. What were you thinking?”

“I thought I told you to wait for me,” Esme added, coming up beside Denny.

I looked at them, standing side by side, both of them doing everything but shaking a scolding finger in my face, and I burst out laughing. “Sorry, Mommy. Sorry, Daddy,” I said. “Listen, I didn't believe it was Gavin in the car. I had only a vague hunch. So I went over to talk to him, that's all. I wasn't meeting him in some dark alley at midnight. Wait a minute, how'd you know about it anyway?” I turned accusing eyes on Esme.

She looked indignant. “I didn't tell him,” she said. I turned to Jennifer, wondering if I'd said anything about where I'd been when I was at River's house, but I didn't think I had.

“He called me,” Denny said. “Gavin told me about your conversation, and the more he got to looking at his car after you left, the more he started to think somebody had taken it. Gavin's a creature of habit; I mean, really ingrained habit. He hangs his keys on the same peg of a three-peg rack in his kitchen. Same peg every time. Only this morning, they were hanging on the wrong peg. And the seat and mirrors in the car were adjusted wrong. He thinks somebody's trying to set him up.”

“I think so, too,” I said. “And anyhow, he's got an alibi. He was with a date last night during the time we were run off the road.”

“Francesca Creswell,” Jennifer said. “She goes by Frankie. She works at the golf course. Only she says she can't alibi him for the whole time.”

This surprised me—both the information and the fact that Jennifer was sharing the information.

I was mulling over my response when Denny's cell phone buzzed. “It's the chief,” he said to Jennifer. “I'm going to step out to take it. I'll be right back,” he said, turning to give me another hard stare as he left the room.

The three of us waited in uncomfortable silence. Esme continued to stare at the doorway where Denny had gone out. We could still hear his muffled voice, and the look of longing on Esme's face made my chest ache.

The silence dragged on for what seemed a long time until finally Jennifer broke it. “Listen,” she said, “I know I haven't always been the friendliest person since you've been seeing Denton.” She took a step toward the doorway, trying to get Esme's full attention. “The truth is, I was jealous of the fact that he talked to you about our cases and asked for your advice. I didn't think it was appropriate. He should have been discussing the case with me, just me. But then my dad pointed out that I talk to him about cases all the time. I use him for a sounding board because I know I can trust him. I'm realizing now it's the same with you two. And as for the other thing, well, I don't believe in that stuff, but if you do, it's your own business.”

Esme turned to her and I braced myself for a snarky comment. Instead she heaved a great sigh as if exhaustion had overtaken her. “Don't trouble yourself,” she said, “it's nearly over.”

Before we had a chance to ask her what she meant, Denny was back. He swept the room with a glance, and Jennifer and I both examined our shoes. Neither of us had violated his edict, but somehow I still felt guilty.

“Okay,” Denny said, “I want both of you to hear me on this. We're working on something and I can't have you getting tangled up in it. Stay away from Gavin Taylor and Bryan Mason. And I don't want you talking to Laney Easton, either. You got it?”

“I got it,” I said. “So I take it this is about that phone call to Quentin all those years ago. You know Claire's concerned about how Nash Simpson is going to take it if he finds out.”