“I’m just stunned over what you’ve told me. God, first Clevey, now Trey. We got some serial killer running around here?”
“I don’t know. Listen, Mark’s not in the best shape. He’s playing the tough guy right now. He asked if Bradley could come over and watch TV, just hang out with him.”
“Well … I don’t know…” I heard movement and a brief recounting of Trey’s death from Davis. His wife, Cayla, came on the phone.
“Jordy? My God, this is horrible. I am so sorry. How are Arlene and Mark?” Distance colored her voice more than sympathy. Each word seemed forced from Cayla’s mouth, as though concern was an unpleasant exercise to be completed.
“Coping,” I answered. I wasn’t about to get into a discussion with Cayla Foradory, our local ice queen, about how my family felt over Trey’s death. “Cayla, would it be too much trouble to let Bradley come over? Mark could sure use his friends right now.”
Cayla hesitated. “Yes, I suppose that would be okay. I’ll bring y’all some food, too.”
I thought of saying no. But when you’ve had a death, telling Mirabeau people not to bring food is like trying to say no to breathing air. I thanked her instead.
“I can’t believe it. Two murders in two days. What’s happening to Mirabeau?”
“I don’t know, Cayla.” Her tone gave me the creeps.
“Jordy, one moment. Let me speak to Arlene.”
I pressed my lips hard together. What to say? “She can’t come to the phone right now, Cayla.”
The coolness in Cayla’s voice deepened. “Of course, I understand. Tell Mark we’ll be over shortly.”
“Thanks, Cayla.” I paused, then decided to ask her a question. “Is Davis okay?”
There was the slightest of pauses. “Davis is fine, Jordy. You’re sweet to ask about him. I think he’s still in shock over Clevey’s death and this latest tragedy is just hitting him very hard.”
“Of course. See you in a bit, Cayla.” I hung up the phone, not entirely convinced she was being frank with me. Davis Foradory didn’t sound like the self-assured lawyer I knew. I rubbed my temples; as if I didn’t have enough to worry about, I was ready to take on Davis’s imagined problems. I finished making my phone calls.
Grief and shock do not lend themselves to originality. Nearly everyone I called said the same empty words:
Oh my God, I can’t believe it,
or
How terrible,
or an occasional
Well, I didn’t know he was back in town!
I had my own set speech, telling them that I didn’t know quite yet what the funeral arrangements were going to be and that yes, Mark was bearing up okay (that I didn’t know about, but what else could I say?) and that, why, yes, I was fine.
People promised to stop by. I kept hoping Sister’d be back by then.
I checked on Mark. He was lying on his bed, light from the window casting a dim square on his shirt. He stared at his ceiling, listening to an R.E.M. song that advised him to try not to breathe. His cheeks were dry and his eyes, although reddened from his earlier outburst, weren’t damp.
“Mark? You okay?”
“Sure. Fine.”
“Bradley’s coming over shortly. That still okay with you?”
“Yeah. Mom home yet?”
“No, Mark, not yet. She’ll be here soon.”
“I just hope nothing happened to her, the way it did to Dad.”
Ice coated my throat. “Oh, Mark, I’m sure she’s fine. She’s—she’s just out running errands or something.”
“Okay.” He turned away from me. “Let me know when Bradley gets here.” He got up and pulled a box out from deep in the chaos of his closet. A dusty, battered, cracked box with chutes and ladders in faint print across the front. He smiled thinly at me.
“It’s a fun game. Want to play?”
“Maybe later, Mark.” The fourteen-year-old I knew would sooner have bamboo shoved under his fingernails than play a kindergartner’s game. I tried to convince myself he just wanted to do something simple that Bradley could enjoy. I couldn’t shake the dread that Mark was in serious retreat.
I left him alone and crept to Sister’s room, feeling like a thief. I closed the door behind me and opened her small closet. Pants and jeans hung in neat lines, draped over hangers; Sister’s never been a slob. I rummaged among the selection. The batik slacks weren’t in there. I quickly checked her dresser drawers, feeling like a pervert as I pawed through her undergarments and other apparel. No trace of the missing pants, Likely she still had them on. But they were of thin material, and this was a cool day. Why would she wear them in the November chill?
I went to my own room and put the scrap in a small blue stationery envelope, and after a moment’s hesitation, hid the envelope in a thick book on Texas history. I then stuck the book in the middle of the tower of books by my bedside—my ever-tottering to-read stack. I promised myself some time to contemplate before I mentioned that shred of cloth to Sister. Or to Junebug.
I went downstairs, still uneasy over Mark and Sister. People—mostly older women—had started arriving, bringing food and sympathy. Truda Shivers and Eula Mae Quiff had been among the first folks I’d called, and they’d resummoned the cavalry. Some of the callers still wore the looks of solicitude I’d seen at Truda’s house last night. It seemed unreal to have them here, lamenting a man who hadn’t set foot in this house for six years. But regardless of what had happened between him and Sister, he was still Mark’s father, and to these fine, bighearted women, this was still a house of mourning in need of support in the form of tender hugs, plum cakes, buttermilk pies, and broccoli-cheese-rice casseroles. There were seven ladies lingering, dithering over Mama (who didn’t seem too confused by the presence of these friends she used to know) and nodding remorsefully at Clo as she talked, “Oh, honey.” Dorcas Witherspoon came to me and hugged me. She’s one of Mama’s oldest and dearest pals. “I’m so sorry. How are Mark and Arlene? Are they upstairs?”
I don’t like lying. If I confessed Sister had gone missing, they’d panic. I could hardly announce that she was here; they’d demand to see her, and courtesy would require her to make an appearance, even if Trey’s death had left her prostrate with grief.
“Mark’s coping. And I think my sister’s going to be okay. It’s surely a shock to everyone.” That was neutral enough to toe the line between truth and fiction.
“Jordy.” Truda Shivers came forward and pressed my hands, having abandoned one house of loss for another. “I’m so sorry.”
“Truda, thank you for coming, but you shouldn’t have.
I know how hard it is for you right now, what with Clevey and—”
And that’s when Sister chose to make her appearance. Hie front door flew open, the hinges squealing in violated dismay, and Sister, followed by a somber Junebug, stormed in. Her face wore the same mask of shock that Mark seemed to find so comfortable. Except for her blackened eye.
Her countenance shushed the gathered women to silence, not to mention the foreboding presence of our police chief. “Where’s my boy?” Sister demanded of me without preamble.
“He’s upstairs. What happened to your—”
“I’ll deal with you later, Jordan Michael Poteet. I understand that because of you, my child saw his father die. I hope you’re goddamned happy with yourself, you bastard.” She shoved past me and sprinted up the stairs two at a time.
Since etiquette didn’t require a response to her attack, I stood there with mouth open, staring at her. And staring at the batik pattern underneath the muddy smears on her trousers. I covered my face with my palms. It’s hard to know that even for one instant, your sister hates your guts.
I glanced over at Junebug, who nodded toward the back porch. The assemblage of mourners discovered several reasons to either leave or retire to the kitchen, where Clo had prepared coffee. I followed my old Mend out to the back porch, a miserable look on my face.
The rain had returned, playing an arpeggio of pitters on the roof. The wide, emptying branches of the live oaks swayed in the mounting coldness that promised a hard winter, and the leaves from the trees had begun their wet descent to the ground. The sky was leaden with clouds that looted like ashy bolls of cotton. I suppose if thunder had ominously rumbled, it would have only completed the scene.
“Where was she? Is she okay?” I asked Junebug.
“She’s fine. I found her down on Mears Creek, where it divides off the river. She was just sitting in her car.”
“Where the hell had she been?”
“She says she needed time alone.” His lips thinned.
“Who gave her that shiner?”
“She claims she stumbled against a tree while taking a walk, but I don’t believe her.”
“Oh, God. This isn’t happening.” I turned to him with pleading eyes. “Junebug, you have to get to the bottom of this. Two of—two people we’ve known forever get murdered and my sister goes missing and turns up with a battered face. You got to do something!”
“I am, Jordy. I’m taking myself off this case.”
“Why?” I felt like hollering my throat raw, but I kept my voice under steely control. “We need you, Junebug.”
“I can’t, Jordy, I got to turn it over to my deputy. I can’t investigate when Arlene’s … involved. It’s a conflict of interest.”
“Do you think she did this? You know she couldn’t have!”
Hypocrite,
my conscience piped up in my head.
Why don’t you go get him that scrap? I’m waiting.
“Of course she didn’t do it,” Junebug said. He stared off into the rain, coming down harder, driving the remaining leaves down to sodden grass. “I don’t believe for an instant that she killed Trey.” He heaved a long sigh. “When I told her he was dead, it was as if all the life went out of her. I hadn’t expected that, not after what happened between them.” He turned back to me, his face miserable. “She still loves him, Jordy. I could see it in her face.”
“You’re dreaming. You didn’t see the cold hate in her eyes last night. You didn’t see how she hit him.” I nearly bit my tongue off; I’d spoken recklessly, too stunned by recent events for much coherency. Perhaps I could write down the list of reasons Sister had to kill Trey? It would surely make questioning her more convenient for all concerned.
“What’s the old saying? It’s a fine line between love and hate?” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Once it had set in, I wasn’t foolin’ her, she screamed like a wounded wildcat. She broke into tears and just kept saying
no.
Cut
me to the bone.” He shook his head. “I don’t think Arlene loves me. I think, even after all these years, all her yellin all her warnings to Trey to stay away, that she loved him still. Arlene’s not the type to hate, you know.”
“She’s not happy with me right now, is she?” I asked, half to myself.
He doffed his Stetson, tossed it on the chair, and ran a callused hand through his damp brown hair. “Sorry about that. Of course she asked if you and Mark knew. I had to tell her about y’all finding him. She got a lot quieter then.”
“She’ll get over being upset at me,” I said. “I hope.” Junebug didn’t look too concerned about my placement on Sister’s Top 40 chart.
Thunder rumbled above me. He kept watching the curtain of rain.
I chose my words carefully. “Of course, the most compelling reason to know that my sister had nothing to do with Trey’s death is that ‘two down’ that was on the wall. Sister might have had reason to kill Trey, but she sure didn’t have reason to kill anyone else.” I watched Junebug’s broad back tense. “There’s no other explanation, Junebug. The same person got rid of both him
and
Clevey. So there’s no reason to suspect my sister.”
“I know tonight’s going to be rough for you, Jordy, but I’d like you and the other boys to come over to my house.”
“I assume by the other boys you mean Davis and Ed.”
He nodded. “Because of the papers about Rennie Clifton we found in Clevey’s house. The papers mention the six boys specifically. Now two are dead. The remaining four of us need to have a little chat.”
“But you said you were taking yourself off the case—”
“Off Trey’s case. I’m still investigating Clevey’s murder. Be there at eight o’clock. And tell Arlene I’ll call her later.” He spun on his heel and left, the murmur of feminine voices the only sound as he went back into the house.
I felt cold, as though Rennie Clifton’s long-dead hand
had risen from the ground and closed around my ankle. Did
2 DOWN
signal a finale to bloodshed? Or was it the first note in an even more gruesome coda?
“Jordy?”
I turned. Candace. I should have run into her arms. Instead I froze.
“Baby, for God’s sake!” She hurled herself at me, nearly crushing me in her embrace. And I’m a foot taller than she is. I held her, running my hands up the firmness of her back. Her lake-blue eyes, wide with shock, looked up into mine.
“I’m so sorry, Jordy, so sorry.” She hugged me again, whispering into my chest.
“What about?” I stroked her hair, but I didn’t feel the usual ache of tenderness when she was in my arms. It was almost as though I wasn’t truly me and she wasn’t truly her. The entire day had taken on a quality of unreality.
“I’m sorry because Trey is dead, dummy! What’s wrong with you?” She leaned back, staring at me as though I’d lost my mind.
I didn’t respond. Those clear blue eyes bored into me like a beacon cutting a swath across darkness. I suddenly felt ill at ease in her arms.
“How are Mark and Arlene?” she asked.
“Sister’s terribly upset. Mark freaked out completely. Now he’s acting like nothing happened.” I stepped back from her.
She regarded me with a critical gaze. “And how about you?”
“Fine,” I mumbled. “I mean, granted, it was horrible to see him the like that, but I’ll be just fine.”
One of her hands reached out for mine. She ran a fingertip along my unshaven jawline. “C’mon, babe. He was your best friend, at least when you were growing up.”
“Who told you that?”
She blinked. “Well, good Lord. Everyone says how close y’all were.”
“That was years ago! What does it matter?” I pulled my
hand free and walked to the end of the porch. The little garden plot Mama used to plant every spring was barren and muddy. Dank elongations of water lay in the shallow hills between empty rows. I watched drops strike the surface, their tiny impacts spreading a circle of water until the next bead of rain fell.