Authors: Virginia Brown
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Sagas
So Quinton was dead. He couldn’t drum up even a shred of sorrow about that, even if he’d wanted to for Cinda’s sake. He felt bad for her, but that was about it. Not that there weren’t plenty of other assholes ready to take Quinton’s place. The fall-out should be interesting to watch. From a safe distance.
He tried to figure out how they thought he’d killed the old man, but nothing came to mind. Quinton had been alive when he left Six Oaks, and Colin and Laura and the housekeeper could testify to that. Maybe he’d just had a stroke and the cops overreacted. Cinda had said they’d called the doctor to come out.
Whichever, he wasn’t as worried as he probably should be. It’d all sort itself out. He hadn’t done it, and this time, he had plenty of witnesses to back him up, as he told the cops. Donny Ray had probably brought him home. He’d vouch for him being too drunk to function, much less kill anyone.
And this was a great example on the evils of drinking more than he should. It’d been years since he’d been this stupid. Back when he was fresh out of boot camp in January 1991 and had found out he was headed for Iraq. That’d been Quinton’s doing. Just like this time.
Christ, he always seemed to play right into the old man’s hands. And now Bert Quinton was dead and he’d never know just why Mama had stayed in Cane Creek. That might be a blessing. He couldn’t change the past. All he could do was his best to keep it from screwing up the present.
At midday they gave him back his clothes and released him. No charges were being filed yet, which meant they hadn’t been able to fabricate any that would stick.
“We’re releasing you until further investigation,” Gordon said, fixing Chantry with a hard look, “but that doesn’t mean you’re free to leave town.”
Gathering up the stuff they’d taken from his pants pockets, Chantry shrugged. “Mind telling me just how Quinton died?”
Gordon didn’t say anything for a minute. He looked angry, probably because he had to let him go. “That’s not information we’re giving out right now.”
“Not until the autopsy results are back, then,” Chantry guessed, but Gordon gave nothing away.
When Chantry stepped outside, a cold wind was blowing but the sun shone bright in the sky. The police department was on the edge of town, and his car was at the carriage house. It wasn’t too far a walk on a nice day, but he was still rocky with bourbon residue and the lack of a coat. Hunching his shoulders against the wind, Chantry stuck his hands in his pockets and set out for a long walk without his shoes.
By the time he reached the courthouse square, he was shivering pretty badly. A car pulled up next to him and stopped. He looked over. Cathy Chandler leaned across the seat to open the door. “Get in.” He slid inside and she turned the heater up full blast. “You look frozen.”
“Yeah. I am.”
“Guess you just like walking in freezing weather without your coat and shoes.”
“Not so much.”
“So no one would stop and pick you up, huh?”
He looked over at her. She’d stopped at a four-way stop sign and looked back at him. He shook his head. “Had a few slow down to look, but none brave enough to stop.”
“It’s all over town that the police arrested you for murdering old man Quinton.”
“Well, I am the first one they think of whenever there’s trouble. What’d you hear about it? Quinton, I mean. How he died.”
“The police aren’t saying much, but everyone knows anyway. Somebody stabbed him a few dozen times, the way I hear it. Blood everywhere. Sukey—she cleans for Mrs. Pritchett sometimes, too—said it looked like hog killing day in Quinton’s office.”
That explained why the cops had checked out his clothes so carefully. Looking for blood traces. That’d obviously worked in his favor, since they hadn’t found any.
Cathy turned into the alley that ran behind the carriage house, and stopped in the spot where his car used to be. He stared at the vacancy.
“The police towed your car,” Cathy said, and he nodded. That made sense. And it should help clear him when they didn’t find anything.
He reached for the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Anytime. Hey Chantry—” She put a hand on his arm. “I know you didn’t do it. But Gordon’s running for sheriff, and if he can catch whoever killed Quinton, he’ll win. I wouldn’t trust him not to do what he can to make a quick arrest.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“I’m not saying he’d invent evidence, just
. . .
misinterpret it.”
Chantry looked at her. “You okay, Cathy?”
She gave him a wan smile. “About to be a lot better. I’m moving, taking Chelsea and getting out of here. I’ve got a cousin in Houston that said I could stay with her until I get a job and get on my feet. It’s for the best. Too many memories here. You know about that kind of thing.”
“Yeah. Reckon I do. Make sure the next guy you hook up with is the right one. You deserve the best.”
Tears welled in her eyes and she leaned forward suddenly and kissed him right on the mouth, a quick kiss without passion, just a goodbye, he guessed. Then she sat back.
“Take care of yourself, Chantry Callahan.”
“You too, Cathy.”
He got out of the car and shut the door, and turned toward the house. Cinda stood in the open doorway, and he wondered if she’d seen Cathy kiss him.
She just waved a hand at Cathy though, and stood back as Chantry went in. The door closed behind them both and they stood there in awkward silence for a minute. Did she think he’d killed her grandfather? Years of experience had taught him that people usually believed the worst, but this was Cinda. It was important that she believe in him.
“You doing okay?” he asked finally, and she nodded.
“Better than I thought I’d do. Hope you don’t mind me being here. It
. . .
I just had to get away for a little while. Phones, reporters, relatives—my mother’s coming back. And Daddy’s on his way up from Jackson. I don’t know how I’m going to deal with all of it.”
“You’ll do fine. You’re strong. You’re a—”
“Quinton?” she interrupted, and smiled. “I’ve been called worse.”
“Not by me.”
“No. Not by you.” She looked indecisive, then turned to go into the kitchen. “I put on some coffee. Thought when you got out you might need some. Bud Casey said you had a good alibi, but he’d defend you if you need him.”
“It shouldn’t come to that. There’s no evidence to link me to
. . .
to his death. Cinda, I’m sorry you’re hurt by all this.”
“You didn’t do anything, Chantry. I know that. Someone killed him, but it wasn’t you.” Her mouth twisted into a faint grimace. “You’d never run away if you had.”
He wasn’t so sure about that, but didn’t say it. Seemed like he’d been running most of his life. From something, toward something, in circles. Just running.
“Chris is on his way home,” she said when she’d poured them both a cup of coffee and they sat on the couch in the den, not close, not touching, but like strangers. It felt odd. “He’s bringing Tansy with him. She cancelled the rest of her west coast tour.”
“Dempsey will be glad to see her again so soon.”
It was all he could think of to say that wouldn’t sound insincere or stupid. Cinda nodded. She ran her thumb around the rim of the coffee mug, stared down at it like she was reading tea leaves, and he let the silence drag out a while. He’d never been good at this kind of thing. Felt awkward, deficient, unable to console someone else’s grief when he’d never even learned how to acknowledge his own.
Unspoken words built a wall between them. Last time he’d talked to her, she’d said she’d had enough and hung up. Now her grandfather was dead and the police thought he was responsible. What did Cinda think? She had to know he didn’t do it or she wouldn’t be sitting here with him now, but she didn’t seem grief-stricken, either. Maybe she was good at hiding how she felt, too.
“I was furious with him, Chantry.” She looked up. “Granddad. I went to see him after I talked to you. I told him that I knew about some of his shady business dealings, I knew that he’d cheated people. And I told him that I knew what he’d done to Herky. We quarreled. He finally called to get Herky released until he can get a fair examination and appraisal to see if he can continue to live on his own. But I could see that he didn’t want to, that he’d rather hurt Herky to get at you than be fair. I told him I’d had enough. I just
. . .
he’s not the man I always thought—hoped—he was. He’s not
. . .
wasn’t
. . .
the man he pretended to be. It’s a hard thing to realize after all these years.”
He knew how that felt, the disillusion, the grief and anger that came with it. There wasn’t a whole lot he could say to make her feel any better about it, either.
When the phone rang, it startled him, and he grabbed for it. He didn’t know who he expected to be calling, reporters, maybe, but he just said “Yeah” into the phone instead of his usual greeting.
“Chantry?”
“Mikey. What’s up.”
“Come home.”
“Uh, can’t do that right now, sport. You okay?”
Mikey sounded funny, his voice all strange, thick-sounding. There was a brief pause, then Mikey said, “No. I’m not okay. It
. . .
it’s Shadow. He’s dying, Chantry. I need you to come home. Please.”
God. A sudden lump made it impossible for him to speak. He had a fleeting memory of a hot summer evening and a tiny scrap of fur that lay in his palm, the smell of mimosa blossoms and Mama’s lavender, and how it’d felt to know something that small and helpless depended on him.
“I’m on my way.”
Cinda looked over at him when he stood up.
“I need a ride to Memphis.”
She didn’t ask any questions, just nodded.
Lights were on in the Callahan house on Peabody. Mikey had taken Shadow there when he realized he was dying. For all that he was twenty years old, Mikey had no sense of reticence in showing how he felt. He was a mess. Dempsey had once said that Mikey knew how to grieve, that it was a gift. He’d been right. Chantry envied him that.
Shadow lay in one of those big, expensive dog beds made especially for older dogs. His breathing was shallow, eyes closed, and his paws twitched a little like he was running after rabbits in his sleep.
Miss Pat stood in a corner of the kitchen where they’d put Shadow’s bed because it was the warmest place in the house, and after giving Chantry a brief hug, went back to stand beside Miss Bettie. Mikey paced back and forth, tears wetting his cheeks; he nodded at Cinda, but didn’t speak to her. He was too gone in his grief for simple courtesies.
“I don’t want to let him go, Chantry.” Mikey looked at him like he could do something, like he could keep Shadow from dying. Blue eyes that reminded Chantry too much of Mama were wet, bright, and Mikey sounded almost like a little kid again.
“You’ve got to,” Chantry said, shorter than he meant to, but it was just out there. He went over to the dog bed, knelt down beside Shadow. He’d lost weight since the last time he’d seen him, the ribs sticking out in that way old dogs have sometimes, belly loose and pouchy. The injured leg with the scars still faintly visible stuck out at an odd angle. Big paws twitched, and a low moan sounded deep in Shadow’s throat, like he’d treed something in his dreams. Muzzle lips blew out softly.
He wanted to touch him, to stroke one of the soft ears, but didn’t want to wake the old man if he was comfortable. Maybe he’d just fade away. That’d be the kindest thing. But just in case, he’d brought what was needed to ease his way. It’d be the last thing he could do for him, the kindest thing. Experience had taught him that there came a time to every living thing when it was just best to let go. And he’d had to tell people that keeping their pet alive past time to let go bordered on cruelty. Just like it did with people. Death was inevitable. There weren’t any loopholes or escape clauses. Making it easy was the ultimate act of love.