A Table By the Window (16 page)

When she was gone, Carley's mood was so much lighter that she showered and pulled on her black slacks and teal sweater and headed for the library.

“Thank you for recommending this,” she said, handing
Camellia Street
over to Mr. Juban. “I enjoyed it.”

He gave her a cautious look. “You didn't…”

It took her a second to catch on. “Peek ahead? Not even once.”

“I'm so proud of you,” Mr. Juban beamed. “Now, let's see…. You should read
Delta Dreams
next—start at his first book.”

“You're talking about Bertram Norris?” came a man's voice. Dale Parker stepped up to the counter and smiled. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Carley said back, struck again with the blueness of his eyes.

“Bert and my brother were in the same fraternity at USM.”

Mr. Juban's eyes widened. “Then you went to his signing a few years ago?”

Dale shook his head. “I missed it. I was in Florida for my parents' thirtieth anniversary.”

“I wouldn't have time to finish another book,” Carley said. Of the five more lunch breaks remaining at Grandma's Attic, she would probably spend at least a couple with Aunt Helen. And with the trucking company scheduled for Thursday, she could not devote any evening hours to reading. “I'll just wait and buy it in San Francisco.”

“You're leaving soon?” Chief Parker asked, as his blue eyes revealed what seemed to be genuine disappointment. Or perhaps he was simply being a gentleman.

“Next Monday.”

“But that leaves you with a week with nothing to read,” Mr. Juban said, as if that were the most terrible tragedy he could imagine. “Since you're going to buy a copy over there anyway, just check one out here and turn it in just before you leave. Then you can finish later.”

“I wouldn't be able to leave it alone,” Carley said, touched by the librarian's solicitousness. “And I still have packing to finish.”

“Order a copy online,” Dale Parker suggested. “You'll have it waiting in your mailbox back home.”

“That's a good idea.”

Mr. Juban brightened. “Yes, a good idea. But you'd better do it right away, while no one's on the computer.”

Carley had hoped it would be available anyway, so she could look over the classified ads in the
Chronicle.
But reluctantly she stepped away from the counter.

“Well, thanks,” she said to both men.

Chief Parker nodded. “Have a good day, Miss Reed.”

“Same to you.”

On her way to the computer, Carley heard him ask Mr. Juban for state and federal income tax forms. A reminder that life would continue on here as before after she returned to California. That brought a surprising little stab of pain.

She ordered
Delta Dreams,
halfway fearing Mr. Juban would come over and scold her if she did not take care of that first. In the
Chronicle
classified section she noted three promising positions geared to her education: proofreader for a medical transcription business, editorial assistant at a publishing house, and enrollment services counselor at a business college. She brought up her résumé from her e-mail account, then switched to the word-processing program to write a cover letter and résumé.

“I have six printouts,” she said, placing them on the counter beside six older copies of
Southern Living
she would scan for recipes during snippets of free time.

“That'll be sixty cents,” Mr. Juban said. “Did you remember to order the book?”

Carley had to smile. “I remembered. May I leave these here while I use the telephone?”

“Of course.”

She dialed Kay Chapman's number. “I'm going to need to put the house up on the market after all,” she said.

Thankfully, Kay did not ask for details. “How about if I stop by in the morning with the contract?”

****

“Why didn't you tell me about that FBI recruiter?” Deputy Garland Smith asked back at the station.

Dropping the tax forms on a bare spot on his desk, Dale replied, “What's to tell? I'm not interested.”

“Sure,” Garland said with a shrug. In his midforties, he had dark hair graying at the temples, a salt-and-pepper mustache. He was a decent man, not one to sulk, but the round dark eyes could not conceal his disappointment.

Who could blame him? Twelve years on the force, and then to be passed over in favor of a rookie who'd had a lucky break. Dale had no illusions that the Board of Aldermen had not hoped the publicity of his appointment would benefit the antiquing businesses. He probably had helped put Tallulah on the map.

And I'd jump at the FBI in a minute, if I could!
he thought, pulling out the wooden desk chair on rollers. Or last summer's invitation from the Dallas police force, to join their Criminal Investigation Division. He glanced at Garland, now printing out his duty report.
At least you can leave this Disneyland for Antique Collectors.

Suddenly, the office seemed to close in on him, just as the town had closed in on him years ago. He took clipboard and citation pad from his desk drawer and pushed out his chair again. “I think I'll go up to 589. Catch some speeders.”

Garland's brows lifted. While Dale would make traffic stops when infractions took place under his nose, he usually consigned the speed traps to the two deputies. One of the perks of being chief. But today he needed to be away from the probability that some citizen would stroll in any minute to complain about a pothole or leaning stop sign or, worse, want to simply make small talk.

“You don't have to do that,” Garland said. “I'll go.”

Dale went to the coatrack for his jacket. “Just hold down the fort. The girls all say I look handsome with flushed cheeks.”

The deputy laughed, and the tension cleared.

Turning the cruiser onto Main Street, Dale passed Carley Reed driving the Tates' 2003 platinum-colored Cadillac DeVille. She returned his wave.

She would have gone out with you if you had asked,
Dale told himself. She was a pretty woman, and he could tell by the light in her eyes that she had a sense of humor. It was a pity she was returning to California. Two weeks had passed since he had last attempted to telephone Riley. Incredibly, being forced to give up on the hope of ever hearing her voice again had softened the knot in his chest somewhat. And a woman who could make him laugh would speed the healing. But she would have to be a woman content to stay in Hickville, and obviously Miss Reed was not.

She reads Bertram Norris,
he thought with a dry smile, pulling to the side of the highway behind a kudzu-draped telephone pole. Was that irony? He never quite grasped the meaning of the word. But of one thing he was certain—if Bert had decided to become an architect or engineer, he himself would be in a posh office with a view of a skyline, instead of on the side of the road, waiting to ruin some trucker's day.

Or, to divide the blame further, if only Chad had not sold him the '67 Mustang.

****

His older brother had bought the firethorn-red fastback from a neighbor during high school and restored it into the envy of every jock at Lincoln High. It was a chick magnet.

So, during their parents' thirtieth anniversary celebration six years ago, when Chad mentioned needing a more family-suitable automobile, Dale pounced on the offer. The wasted return airline ticket did not matter. Nor did it matter that he would have to sell the three-month-old Chevy Camaro waiting in the overnight parking garage of Jackson International Airport. He owned the car he had lusted over throughout his teen years!

“You're gonna have to buy a repair manual,” Chad had advised. “The one in the glove compartment's so old it's missing pages.”

The seven-hour drive from Tallahassee to Hattiesburg was sheer joy. It was while Dale was refilling at the Citgo Station on Highway 98 that he glanced over at the Books-A-Million, a parking lot away. He had planned to order the manual online, but decided he may as well stop in. The afternoon was still young—1:30, now that he had gained an hour changing time zones.

Had he
known
the impact that decision would have on his life, he would have continued driving. Or better yet, flown back as originally planned. What good was the car doing him now, rusting at the bottom of his pond?

Bertram Norris, Chad's fraternity brother and fellow big man on campus was just packing up after a signing for his first book,
Delta Dreams
. “I'm starving,” he had said with arm loped around Dale's shoulders. “Let's go next door, you big hero, and I'll buy your lunch.”

It took very little persuading. Dale had only eaten an apple during the drive, and he was especially fond of Chinese food with all its vegetarian choices. But he should have refused when Bertram ordered drinks while they waited for their entrées, and then thrice again during the meal. That much alcohol after a two-year abstinence was lethal.

Literally.

Six years had passed, but he could still hear the sickening thud, just over the hill past Mount Olive Church. He had not seen Gwen Stillman until he backed up to see what animal he had hit. His ears had caught the sound of a motor advancing between the shrieks from the infant in the stroller three feet away. Sweating and shaking, he shifted back to first gear and took back roads, making a circle, approaching Highway 42 and then Black Creek Road from the west.

He had no idea what damage had been done other than cracks webbing his windshield on the passenger side, could only hope it was not extreme enough to attract attention. He hid the Mustang in bushes on his land. Faintly he could hear the sirens as he lay huddled in the back seat suffering from heat and grief.

At sunset he jogged across country northward toward Highway 589, slapping at mosquitoes. He hot-wired an old pickup truck outside a farmhouse with no lights in the windows. He abandoned the truck in a Circle K parking lot in Jackson and continued four miles to the airport on foot, grateful for the daily running and strength workouts.

Still, he was exhausted by the time he drove the Camaro into his driveway, after midnight. There were eleven messages on his answering machine. He listened to the most recent, from Garland, took a quick shower to wash away all evidence of a cross-country trek, and then dialed the station.

“Yeah, Garland, what in the world's going on?”

“Aw, Dale, where've you been? I called your folks' house and paged you three times at the airport.”

“My folks left for Gatlinburg this morning, and I never heard any page. The car wouldn't start, and I had to have the Chevy people send a tow truck to the parking garage so they could fix the alternator.”

The news of Gwen Stillman's death hit him like a ton of bricks, even though he had witnessed the awkward way she lay. Doctor Holden, the county coroner, had already ascertained that a red vehicle was involved. Fruit stand owner, Dana Bell, had called in to report seeing a damaged red sports car speeding eastward on Highway 42 this afternoon, while on her way home for her asthma inhaler.

“I'm on my way,” Dale had said, rubbing the bumps on his cheek. Even those could be explained. A person coming from Florida without mosquito bites simply had not had a good time.

He worked diligently on the investigation, coordinating information with the state police, putting in extra hours. It was the least he could do. Most of Tallulah turned out for the funeral. Thankfully, the casket was closed, but the framed photographs on the table beside it were just as haunting. Gwen Stillman, from infant to gap-toothed schoolgirl, from adolescent perched in a horse's saddle to cap-and-gowned teenager holding up a diploma, from blushing bride to beaming mother.

“I hope you catch that monster like you did the last one,” was expressed to him several times. The sense of community outrage was almost palpable.

Turning yourself in won't bring her back,
he had reminded himself. And the thought of becoming the target of all that outrage had given him nightmares, terrifying him to the point of nausea. Especially after basking in all the attention and adulation. Those same newspapers and magazines that had lauded him as a rescuer of women would not hesitate to decry him for hit-and-run murder.

There was no way he was going to be able to have the Mustang repaired—as if he cared for the accursed car any longer. But he could not leave it to be discovered during hunting season, even though when he slipped out there to retrieve his suitcase, he had removed the plates, wiped it down, and scraped off the vehicle identification number. His land had been on the market for four months. He could not see Kay Chapman wading through shrubs and briars, but any savvy potential buyer would surely do so.

The urgency heightened when Kay telephoned the station the morning of July fifth. “Remember Mr. Golden, who looked at your land back in May? He's decided he wants it. We'll be writing out a bid today.”

It was routine for Dale to leave the station and make rounds. And no one would have blinked an eye at his swinging by his own property to give it a quick check. Still, paranoia had caused him to park the squad car behind a thick stand of pines. Setting the Mustang afire was not an option, for the smoke would be visible for miles around.

The pond on his property was not a natural pond—it had been formed when the previous landowners dammed a valley. His only solution was to drive it along the dam, cut to the right, and jump. The low shrubs would spring back, covering tire tracks. The water was at its deepest there, fourteen feet waiting to swallow all evidence.

The only hitch was the thought of anyone slipping back there to fish or swim. But, he had reassured himself, if the Mustang happened to be discovered before it rusted into mud, it would simply indicate the guilty person had panicked and sought out this hiding place. By then, someone else would be handling the investigation. He planned to get out of Dodge as soon as possible.