Erica Spindler (17 page)

G
wen quickly showered and dressed. She towel-dried her hair, grateful for her no-fuss cap of curls, slapped on a touch of makeup, grabbed her handbag and darted out. Avery, she'd noted, had taken to jogging early then stopping for breakfast at the Azalea Café.

It was a bit late, but if she was lucky she would catch Avery as she was leaving the café.

She was better than lucky, Gwen saw, spotting Avery through the café's picture window—it looked as if the other woman had just gotten her pancakes. She was deep in an animated conversation with Peg, the Azalea's owner.

Gwen stepped into the restaurant. At the jingle of the door opening, both the café's owner and Avery looked her way. Avery's smile faded.

Gwen pasted on a friendly smile and crossed to the booth. “Morning, Avery.”

“Morning.” She returned her attention to the other woman in an obvious rebuff.

They'd ended their last conversation if not on a friendly note, then one of growing respect. Avery had begun to believe in The Seven.

What had changed since then?

“Sit anywhere, hon,” Peg interjected. “I'll be right with you.”

Gwen hesitated, then nodded, choosing the table across the aisle from Avery. When the woman finished, she turned and took Gwen's order.

She asked for an English muffin and coffee, then watched Peg make her way back to the counter. When she reached it, she glanced back at Gwen, frown marring her forehead. Finding Gwen watching her, she smiled cheerfully and headed for the kitchen.

When the woman disappeared through the swinging doors, Gwen turned to Avery. “I was hoping I'd find you here.”

Avery dug into her pancakes, not glancing her way.

“I really need to talk to you. It's important.”

Avery looked at her then. “I don't want to talk to you. Please leave me alone.”

“Did you have the chance to check out the facts I gave you when we spoke last?”

“I didn't realize you gave me any facts. I seem to remember unsubstantiated opinion and half-truths.”

“If you would check—”

“I don't care to discuss this.”

“Did they get to you? Is that what's happened? Did they threaten you with—”

Avery cut her off. “I don't know if you're delusional or just mean-spirited, but I've had enough.”

“I'm neither, I promise you that. As a journalist—”

“I'm a good journalist. I test premise against facts. I don't twist the facts to make them sensational. I don't bend them to fit my own personal needs.”

“If you would just listen.”

“I listened too much already.” Avery leaned toward her. “What you told me about The Seven were untruths. Yes, The Seven existed, but not as you described them. Yes, they were a group of civic-minded residents. But not a secret tribunal that spied and passed judgment on their fellow citizens. They called themselves Seven Citizens
Who Care. They started a drug and alcohol awareness program in the schools and tried to get families back to church. My pastor was a member, for heaven's sake. So was Lilah Stevens. I suggest
you
check your facts, Ms. Lancaster.”

“That's not true! Who told you this? Who—”

“It doesn't matter.” Avery tossed her napkin on the table and slid out of the booth, pancakes hardly touched. “Put it on my tab, Peg,” she called. “I need some fresh air.”

Gwen stifled a sound of distress, jumped up and started after her, nearly colliding with Peg. The woman jumped back. The coffee she carried sloshed over the cup's side. With a cry of pain, she dropped the cup; it hit the floor and shattered.

Gwen apologized, but didn't stop. She made it out of the restaurant and onto the street moments after Avery.

“Wait!” she shouted. “I haven't told you everything.”

Avery stopped and turned slowly. She met Gwen's gaze, the expression in hers resigned. “Don't you get it? I don't want to hear anything else you have to say. I love this town and the people who live here.”

“Even if they killed your father? Would you love them then?”

For the space of a heartbeat, the other woman didn't move, didn't seem to breathe. Then she shook her head. “I see now how desperate you are. To stoop that low. Be so…cruel. I feel sorry for you, Gwen Lancaster.”

“I can ask that question,” Gwen went on, knowing her time was limited, that the other woman would bolt any moment, “because they killed my brother.”

“Nice try, but—”

“It was the same as with Luke McDougal. His car was found. No sign of violence. He was just…gone.”

Gwen became aware of the volume of her voice, of the
number of people around. Of who might be watching…and listening. She closed the distance between them.

“Tom Lancaster,” she continued softly. “The
Gazette
ran a piece about his disappearance. It was about the size of the one they ran about McDougal's. Wednesday, February 6, this year. I have my own copy but you'd probably think I found some way to manufacture it.”

Gwen glanced at the café's front window and found Peg there, peering out at them. She shifted her gaze. A CSPD patrolman seemed to be paying more attention to them than to the driver he was ticketing; she glanced toward the square. The old man on the bench across the street was openly watching them over the top of his newspaper.

She lowered her voice even more. “That's how I know about The Seven, from Tom. The thesis was his. He was here researching. He got too close.”

“I think you're unstable,” Avery said, voice shaking. “I think you should get some help.”

“Check it out. Come see me when you believe.”

J
ust past dawn the next morning, Avery lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Fatigue pulled at her. A headache from lack of sleep pounded at the base of her skull. Gwen Lancaster's baldly stated question had played over and over in her head, making rest impossible.

“Even if they killed your father? Would you love them then?”

Avery rolled onto her side, curling into a tight ball. She wished she had never met the woman. She wished she could find a way to find and hold on to the peace of mind she had felt the other night after speaking with Buddy.

Why couldn't she simply believe in Buddy and Matt and the other people she loved and trusted? Why couldn't she put her faith in the various agencies that had investigated her father's death and determined it to be a suicide?

“I can ask that question, because they killed my brother.”

“Dammit!” Avery sat up. She balled her hands into fists. Desperate people resorted to desperate measures to get their way. Gwen Lancaster was desperate, that had been obvious. So why should she believe her? Why not write her off as either a nut or a liar?

That very desperation. It rang true. Gwen Lancaster believed what she was saying. She was frightened.

Avery flopped onto her back, staring up at the ceiling once more. Gwen could be suffering from a psychotic disorder. Schizophrenics believed the voices they heard in their heads; their visions, the people who populated them, were as real to them as Matt and Buddy were to her. Paranoid schizophrenics believed that others plotted against them. Some functioned for years without detection.

But that didn't explain her anonymous caller. It didn't explain Luke McDougal's disappearance or Elaine St. Claire's murder.

And it certainly didn't assuage her feeling that her father could take his own life.

She threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. She crossed to the window and nudged aside the curtain. Cypress Springs had not yet awakened. She saw not a single light shining.

Headlights cut across the road, slicing through the dim light, bouncing off the trees and morning mist. A police cruiser, she saw. It slowed as it reached her property line, inching past at a snail's pace. Instinctively, she eased away from the window, out of sight.

Silly. Without a light inside, they wouldn't be able to see her. Besides, the cruiser was no doubt Buddy's doing.

Playing daddy. Watching out for her.

She rubbed her face, acknowledging exhaustion. She
was
being silly. Losing sleep over this. Letting it tear her apart. She should be able to go on faith. Should be able to, but couldn't. She wasn't built that way. As an investigative reporter, she tested premise against facts, day in and day out.

If she wanted to regain her peace of mind, she would have to disprove Gwen Lancaster's claims.

Avery turned away from the window and began to pace, mind working, the skills she used on her job kick
ing in. If this were a story she was considering, what would she do?

Begin with a premise. One she thought had merit, that would not only make a good story but also make a difference. Remedy a problem.

Like the story she had done about the flaws in the foster care system. She had exposed the problems. By doing so, she'd helped future children caught in the system. Hopefully. That had been her aim; it was the aim of all good investigative reporting.

She stopped. So what was her premise? A group of small town citizens, frightened over the growing moral decay of their community, take the job of law and order into their own hands. Their actions begin benignly enough but unchecked, become extremist. Anyone who's actions fall outside what is considered right, moral or neighborly is singled out. They break the civil rights of their fellow citizens in the name of righteousness, law and order. Before it's all over, they resort to murder, the cure becoming worse than the illness, the judges more corrupt than the judged.

It was the kind of premise she loved to sink her teeth into. One that would make a startling, eye-opening story. It spoke to her on many levels. She loved her country and believed in the principles on which it had been founded. The freedoms that had made it great. Yet, she also bemoaned the loss of personal safety, the ever-decaying American value system, the inability of law enforcement and the courts to adequately deal with crime.

But this wasn't some anonymous story she was following up, Avery reminded herself. Her role wasn't that of uninvolved, cool-headed journalist. This was her hometown. The people involved her friends and neighbors. People she called family. One of the dead was her father.

She was emotionally involved, all right. Up to her eyeballs.

Premise against facts, she thought, determination flowing through her. She wouldn't let her emotions keep her from being objective. She would stay on her guard, wouldn't be blinded by personal involvement.

And same as always, she would uncover the truth.

A
very decided her first stop of the morning would be at the office of the Cypress Springs
Gazette
, located in a renovated storefront a block and a half off the square. Founded in June 1963, just months before the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, a picture of the former president still hung in the front waiting area.

She stepped through the door and a bell tinkled, announcing her presence. The front counter stood empty.

A tall, sandy-haired man appeared in the doorway to the newsroom. Behind his Harry Potter spectacles, his eyes widened. “Avery Chauvin? I was wondering if you were going to stop by for a visit.”

“Rickey? Rickey Plaquamine? It's so good to see you.”

He came around the counter and they hugged. She and Rickey had been in the same grade and had gone to school together all their lives. They had worked together on the high-school newspaper, had both pursued journalism and attended Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. He, however, had opted to return to Cypress Springs after graduation, to report for the local paper.

“You haven't changed a bit,” she said.

He patted his stomach. “Not if you ignore the thirty pounds I've gained. Ten with each one of Jeanette's pregnancies.”

“Three? Last I heard—”

“We just had our third. Another boy.”

“Three boys.” She laughed. “Jeanette's got her hands full.”

“You don't know the half of it.” His smile faded. “Damn sorry about your dad. Sorry we didn't make the service. The new one's got colic and the entire household's been turned upside down.”

“It's okay.” She shifted her gaze toward the newsroom. “Where's Sal?”

He looked surprised. “You didn't know? Sal passed away about six months ago.”

“Passed away,” she repeated, crestfallen. Sal had been a big supporter of hers and had encouraged her to go into journalism. With each advancement of her career, he'd written her a note of congratulations. In each, his pride in her accomplishments had come shining through. “I didn't know.”

His mouth thinned. “Hunting accident.”

Avery froze. Goose bumps crawled up her arms. “Hunting accident?”

“Opening day of deer season. Shot dead. In fact, the bullet took half Sal's head off.”

Her stomach turned. “My God. Who was the shooter?”

“Don't know, never found the guy.”

“Sounds like it could have been a homicide.”

“That's not the way Buddy called it. Besides, who'd want Sal dead?”

Her father. Sal Mandina. Two men who had been pillars of the community, men the entire town had looked up to. Both dead in the past six months. Neither from natural causes.

Rickey cleared his throat. She shifted her attention to the task at hand. “I was doing a little research and wondered if I could take a look at the archived issues of the
Gazette
.”

“Sure. What're you looking for?”

“The Waguespack murder.”

“No kidding? How come?”

She debated a moment about her answer then decided on incomplete honesty, as she called partial truth. “Dad saved a bunch of clippings…I'd forgotten the entire incident and wanted to fill in the blanks.” She smiled brightly. “You mind?”

“Not at all. Come on.” He led her back into the newsroom. From there they headed up to the second floor. “Biggest local news story we ever carried. I'm not surprised your dad kept clippings.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because of the furor the murder caused in the community. Nobody escaped unchanged.”

“That's what Buddy said.”

“You talked to Buddy about it?”

Was that relief she heard in his voice? Or was she imagining it? “Sure. After all, he and Dad were best friends.”

He unlocked the storage-room door, opened it and switched on the light. She stepped inside. It smelled of old newspapers. The room was lined with shelves stacked with bound volumes of the
Gazette
. At the center of the room sat a long folding table, two chairs on either side. Her throat began to tickle, no doubt from the dust.

“Call me if you need me. I'm working on Saturday's edition. The spring Peewee soccer league is kicking into high gear. Pardon the pun.” He pointed toward the far wall. “The 1980s are over there. They're arranged by date.”

Avery thanked him, and when she was certain she was alone, she crossed to issues from the past eight months. She carried a stack to the table and sat. From her purse she took a steno pad and pen and laid them on the table.

She opened the volume for Wednesday, February 6, of this year. And found the story just where Gwen had said she would.

Avery sucked in a shaky breath. One truth did not fact make, she reminded herself. The best lies—or most insidious delusions—contained elements of truth. That element of believability sucked people in, made them open their wallets or ignore warning signs indicating something was amiss.

She found a number of stories about Sal's death. Since he'd been the
Gazette
's editor-in-chief, the biweekly had followed it closely. As Rickey had told her, he had been shot on the opening day of deer season. The guilty party had never been found, though every citizen who'd applied for a hunting license had been questioned.

Buddy had determined Sal had been shot from a distance with a Browning .270-caliber A-bolt rifle. Both it and the Nosler Ballistic Tip bullet were local hunters' favorites. Closed-casket services had been held at Gallagher's.

Rickey had been wrong about one thing: Buddy had classified the death as a homicide.

For the next two hours she picked her way through the archived issues. What she found shook her to the core.

Gwen Lancaster hadn't been fabricating.

Avery picked up her notepad, scanning her notes. She had listed every death not attributed to natural causes. Kevin Gallagher had died this year, she saw. Danny
Gallagher's dad. A car wreck on Highway 421, just outside of town. His Lexus had careened off the road and smashed into a tree. He hadn't been wearing a seat belt and had gone through the windshield.

Deputy Chief of Police Pat Greene had drowned. A woman named Dolly Farmer had hung herself. There'd been a couple more car wrecks, young people involved—both in the same area Sal had died. The city, she saw, had commissioned the state to reduce the speed limit along that stretch of highway.

She frowned. Another hanging—this one deemed accidental. The kid, it seemed, had been into autoeroticism. Another young person had OD'd. Pete Trimble had fallen off his tractor and been run over.

Avery laid the notepad on the table and brought a trembling hand to her mouth. Eight months, all this death. Ten of them. Thirteen if she tossed in Luke McDougal, Tom Lancaster and Elaine St. Claire.

She struggled for impartiality. Even so, Gwen had not presented the facts accurately: she had claimed there'd been six suicides—including her father's—in the past eight months. She saw two.

“You okay up here?”

Avery took a second to compose herself and glanced over her shoulder at Rickey. She forced a smile. “Great.” She hopped to her feet. “Just finished now.”

She tucked the notebook into her purse, then grabbed up the volume she had been studying. She carried it to the section that housed the 1980s, hoping he wouldn't notice she was shelving it incorrectly.

She wasn't that lucky.

“That doesn't go there.” He crossed the room. “Wrong color code.”

He slid the volume out, checked the date, frowning. “Thought you wanted to look at stuff from 1988.”

“Caught me.” She hiked her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “I did, I just—” She looked away then back, working to capture just the right note of sincerity. “It's so maudlin, really. But Dad's…his death…I—”

He glanced down at the volume as the date registered. “Geez, Avery, I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.” She manufactured a trembling smile. “Want to walk me out?”

He did just that, stopping at the front door. “Avery, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Rumor on the street is you're staying. Is that so?”

She opened her mouth to deny the rumor, then shut it as she realized she didn't know for certain what she was doing. “I haven't decided yet,” she admitted. “But don't tell my editor.”

He smiled at that. “If you stay, I'd love to have you on the
Gazette
staff. A big step down, I know. But at the
Post
you've got to put up with the city.”

“You're right about that.” She smiled, pleased by the offer. “If I stay, there's no one I'd rather work with.”

“Stop by and see Jeanette. Meet the kids. She'd love it.”

“I would, too.” She crossed to the door. There she glanced back. “Rickey? You ever hear of a group called The Seven?”

His expression altered subtly. He drew his eyebrows together, as if thinking. “What kind of group? Religious? Civic?”

“Civic.”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“It's okay. It's something Buddy mentioned. Have a great day.”

She stepped out onto the sidewalk. Squinting against the sun, she dug her sunglasses out of her purse, then glanced back at the
Gazette
's front window.

Rickey was on the phone, she saw. In what appeared to be a heated discussion. He looked upset.

Rickey glanced up then. His gaze met hers. The hair on the back of her neck prickling, she lifted a hand in goodbye, turned and walked quickly away.