A Family of Strangers

by Emilie Richards

  “A rattlesnake shakes its rattles any time of the day or night, lawyers notwithstanding.”

  I took the chair across from him, though I hadn’t been asked. “You obviously think he’s guilty.”

  He finally looked up to glare at me. “I was in Seabank when Becky Drake was murdered, remember?”

  “Yeah, and so was I. Remember? That’s why you have me doing the footwork.”

  “Which does not include the big interview. Capisce?”

  “I’m not sure he’s guilty. I haven’t turned up one piece of hard evidence to support it.”

  “Turning up evidence isn’t your job, and if you think it is, then maybe you need to spend the rest of your time here color coding our files or making coffee runs.”

  “My job is to make the job of your real reporters easier. Which is exactly what I’m doing and no more. But I’m asking questions and I’m listening. And along the way I’m sorting possibilities. Isn’t that why I’m being paid the big bucks?”

  “Not for sorting, no.”

  “He wants to talk to me. Let’s consider it a trial run, okay? I’ll do the preliminaries and help him see he can trust the Free Press to be fair and unbiased. I’ll make sure the door’s open when someone else takes over.”

  He stared at me, considering. “You’ve seen the autopsy photos?”

  I nodded.

  “Whoever killed that young woman was a very angry person. An out of control person. Someone with no mercy.”

  “I’ll meet him in broad daylight with other people around.”

  He considered longer. “I’ll give you a list of questions. And don’t improvise. Basics. And leave him with the idea we’re on his side.”

  “Even if we aren’t.”

  He raised a brow. “I’ll be turning this over to somebody with absolutely no information about the case. Somebody who wasn’t here when the media went crazy.”

  “Including the Free Press.”

  “He may hold that against you. Make sure you have a lot of people around. More than a handful. And leave me information about where you’re meeting him and when.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You can say that afterward, if you still want to.” He dropped the Perry White mask. “Listen, I’m serious. Be careful. I have a gut feeling he did it. You won’t hear me say that again, okay? But I’ve been at this for a long time. I know what I know.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Good, if your father sues for wrongful death, the Seabank Free Press would buckle at the knees.”

  “Okay, now I see why you’re worried.”

  “A good journalist takes everything into consideration.”

  I left with his assurance that the list of allowed questions would be on my computer in an hour. I knew Grant really was concerned, but I also knew that despite his studied apathy, he still loved the news.

  I emailed John Quayle and suggested we meet at a Starbucks downtown, not far from the Free Press, and he agreed immediately. We set six o’clock for the interview, and as promised, Grant’s questions arrived. They were uninspiring, clearly the opening salvo. Grant wanted me to make Quayle comfortable, kind of like a band no one has heard of warming the audience for the headliners at a rock concert. Being the warm-up act was not the way my particular journalistic talents ran, but there was no point in arguing. I left Grant a thank-you email and told him the interview was at six.

  I was meeting Teo for lunch, and once we sat down with his fully loaded Cuban and my veggie pita, I told him my news.

  He didn’t touch his sandwich. “You told me you wouldn’t be going near Quayle.”

  I unwrapped mine. “That’s what I thought, too, Teo. But he contacted me.”

  “Not a good thing.”

  I looked up. We’d made no declarations of love, and certainly no future plans. But the signs were already there. And since I was head over heels for this guy, I thought I would be ready when the negotiations began.

  “You know what I want to do with my life,” I said. “And my choices are a lot safer than yours. I would never ask you not to go out on patrol some night because I was afraid there was going to be more trouble than usual.”

  “One, Quayle’s more than a rumor. I arrested him, remember? Two, he as much as told me he killed Becky Drake. He said everything was his fault.”

  “He claimed he just meant he should have apologized for his behavior at the fund-raiser. He should have taken her home and waited until she was safely inside.”

  “That’s not what he meant. When he said ‘I don’t make these kinds of mistakes,’ he said it with malice. He thought he was beyond mistakes, beyond guilt. This is the man who ran when I confronted him with Bismarck, the same man I had to haul out of a tree stand.”

  “If I didn’t know Bismarck was really a sweetie at heart, I’d run away, too.” I reached down to pet Biz, who was sitting at Teo’s feet.

  “Don’t be fooled by Biz or Quayle. If I told Biz to attack you, he’d do it in a heartbeat. And Quayle doesn’t have to wait for my permission. You know he has a record of violence against women. That was ruled inadmissible because sometimes our laws suck, but you know it’s true. Two girlfriends moved away because they were afraid to stay in Seabank after they broke up with him. They thought he’d come after them some night. They gave interviews after his conviction.”

  “I don’t want to date the guy, Teo. I’m doing an interview. I’m meeting him at Starbucks. There will be people around.”

  “This time, yeah. But what’s to stop him from following you home? From following you to work? From finding you somewhere, sometime, when you’re vulnerable?”

  “Let’s see.” I ticked off my answers, holding up my fingers as I counted. “The gatehouse at Gulf Sands? The fact that I work daylight hours downtown, where people are always milling around? My good sense?”

  “Normal good sense doesn’t stand a chance against a psychopath.”

  “It’s an interview. I’ll wear my torn-up jeans. No, better yet. I have a Lily Pulitzer dress my mother gave me that makes me look an escapee from an exclusive sanatorium. It will be perfect.”

  “He may know you and I are together. He may want payback.”

  “Have you been putting my name up in lights at your apartment again? I told you not to.”

  “Don’t treat this so lightly.”

  I put my hand over his. “I’m not. I’m sure he only knows me as someone at the Free Press asking questions. I’m going to be careful. I’ll make sure he doesn’t follow me home. This is a one-time thing. You have to let me be me if this relationship is going to happily continue.”

  “I’d settle for unhappily right now.”

  “Teo...”

  “I don’t want to control you, Ryan. I just want you to stay safe.”

  I wondered if this would be a constant theme. Cops saw criminals everywhere and journalists saw stories.

  “I’ll call you as soon as I get home, okay? But that’s it, Teo. I have to do my job, just like you have to do yours.”

  “Which Starbucks and when?”

  I got up, leaving my sandwich on the table. “Help yourself. You don’t eat enough vegetables, and I’m leaving.” I picked up my purse, pulled out a ten-dollar bill, dropped it on the table and stalked out of the sandwich shop.

  Afterward, I was sorry, but not sorry enough to call and apologize. Neither was I sorry enough to take his phone call later in the day. I was afraid if I did, the argument would start all over again, so I turned off my ringer. Since he didn’t leave a message, I decided to wait and call after the interview, the way I’d promised I would. I would apologize then, but I would tell him we both had to set boundaries, and mine started with my job.

  At five-thirty I got a text from Quayle saying he was unavoidably delayed and asking if I could do the interview that evening abo
ut eight. Since I figured it would still be light outside, I agreed and shot Grant another email, then I went out for fast food and errands to waste the necessary time.

  By the time I got to Starbucks a thunderstorm was raging, but an earthquake couldn’t have shaken Grant’s questions out of my head. As I closed my umbrella, my interview subject was easy to spot. He was sitting near the window gazing outside at the storm. I’d parked at the end of the next block specifically to keep my car out of sight, and even though I was soaked, I was glad I had. I went right to him and introduced myself.

  John Quayle was passably handsome, with sandy blond hair and a wide chest. Still, time wasn’t going to be kind. He was twelve years my senior and his face and neck were already lined. His hairline was decidedly higher than I’d noted in photographs. Prison was no picnic.

  “May I get you something?” I asked. “Cappuccino? A latte? Scone?”

  “I’m good. But I’ll wait while you get something for yourself.”

  I had just filled my body with fat, carbs and carbonation, but I wanted to appear casual. I got a cup of decaf and returned to the table with no intention of drinking it.

  “I’m curious,” I said, as I took the seat across from him. “How did you know to contact me?”

  “I figured the paper would get around to rehashing the past. And Misha Reynolds told me you talked to her. She gave me your email.”

  Misha was the woman who had overheard Quayle fighting with the victim at the fund-raiser. His release from prison was partially due to her insistence she had been coerced by the police. I wondered if her change of heart had come about after agonized years of rehashing and twisting what she’d heard. Did she now hope that by doing Quayle this favor, she could make up for his years behind bars?

  I leveled with him. “You weren’t on my list to interview. I’m an intern. They just let me do the basics.”

  “And I’m better than basic?”

  I smiled. “Certainly more important. You’ve been through a lot. How does it feel to be home again?”

  “Like I have a target painted on my back.”

  We continued to talk. He was obviously coming to terms with his freedom, and all the things that had happened since Becky Drake’s death. He seemed pleasant enough, but I thought under the calm facade he was simmering. I wasn’t surprised. Years of his life had vanished, and despite his release, too many people were treating him as if he was still a murderer.

  I thought it was a good thing I was interviewing him now. I had a feeling Quayle wasn’t going to stay in Seabank for long, and this might be all the Free Press ever got directly from him.

  The interview went well enough, and I stuck to the basics because what would I do with anything else? Tell Grant he’d been wrong not to let me strut my stuff? Quayle seemed to relax as we spoke. I have an excellent memory, so I took few notes, planning to write down most of what was said after we finished. We were there for half an hour, and we were more or less done when he checked his watch. The storm seemed to drift away, but the skies were still gray and night would fall soon.

  “I have to be somewhere by nine,” he said. “You have enough for your article?”

  “Not an article. Just background for one in the future. And you’ve been helpful.”

  “You didn’t take many notes.”

  “I have it all right here.” I tapped the side of my head. “But I’m going to stay and write it down.”

  He had a nice smile, the kind that promises that the used car he just sold you will run another hundred thousand miles. I didn’t like him, and I didn’t feel I’d gotten very far under the surface, or that I even wanted to. But I also knew that someone who’d been incarcerated unfairly might not care about being likable. Sincerity might take a while to relearn.

  He stood and I stood, too, holding out my hand. “Thank you, Mr. Quayle. It was nice of you to take the time to set the record straight. The Free Press wants to do that. Can they count on you for a more in-depth interview in the future?”

  “Why not? Maybe someday the cops will even get around to catching whoever killed Becky. Then you’ll have a whole new feature to interview me for.”

  I nodded, although from talking to Teo, I knew the local cops were sure they’d already caught their man, and he was now walking the streets again. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to see that day.”

  He stopped by the counter and left with a takeout cup, raising a finger in goodbye as he walked out the door. I watched until he had disappeared down the sidewalk. I might have nearly total recall, but memories are better the fresher they are. I stayed to jot more extensive notes, so I wouldn’t forget details before I got back to my parents’ house.

  I thought about calling Teo, but decided to do that on the way home. It might be a long conversation, or so historically short I’d be embarrassed to be cut off in public.

  Fifteen minutes later I was on my way to my car. Seabank’s downtown area never buzzed at night, and the storm had cleared the sidewalks. Thunder still rolled in the distance, and I guessed pedestrians weren’t taking any chances. Cars passed, but headlights were shining now. I walked a little faster and was glad when I reached my car.

  I will never understand why I decided to take the back way home. That route was quicker, yes, and there was usually less traffic. But the road, which veered sharply away from downtown before it ended up at Gulf Sands, sometimes flooded after a storm, and I knew that. Maybe I was busy thinking about Quayle, or more likely about Teo, I can’t remember. When I stopped at a light on the outskirts of Seabank, I punched in Teo’s number but got his voice mail. While I waited I left a message.

  “Teo, the interview is finished, and I’m on my way home. In fact I’ve been sitting at the traffic light at Flamingo and 7th for about three months. Tell your cop friends somebody needs to adjust it or there’s going to be a riot.” I paused. “Okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have walked away before we finished our argument. We need to work this out so it doesn’t happen again. Do you want me to stop by tonight? I’m not sure how long you’re working. Just let me know.” I paused again. “Please don’t stay angry. You know how I feel about you.”

  I put my phone down and followed the car ahead of me through the light that was now green. Ten minutes later I realized my mistakes, and there were two. One, I hadn’t remembered the road often flooded. And two, I hadn’t checked the weather. Another storm began as I neared the lowest dip in the road. Seabank’s sandy soil could only absorb so much water, and besides, the water table here was always high and drainage ditches were always neglected.

  By then I was almost alone on the road, everyone else too smart or too seasoned to be there. A lone car was closing in, but I couldn’t see any other headlights. I stopped as a lake appeared across the road ahead of me, and I realized my only way home was to go back the way I’d come. The water ahead was rising quickly enough that I was afraid to venture into the edges to make the turn. I needed to back up before I tried, but by now, the car behind me had its nose against my bumper. Clearly he wasn’t paying attention to the rising water, and he expected me to keep going.

  I honked, but he didn’t move, so I flashed my lights. No success.

  “Jerk.” I decided to try to make the turn without backing up by creeping just as far into the water as I absolutely had to. I did, but the car behind me followed. Now my only choice was to drive through the water, or get out and ask whoever was behind me to back up so I could turn around.

  My Chevy Cobalt was old, a high school graduation present from my parents and no longer in production. I wished I had sold it and bought an SUV, but we’d been through a lot together. My first car. Gift from my parents. No more Cobalts on the horizon. Yada yada. Sentiment or not, now it would probably stall if I drove much farther.

  Muttering under my breath I ignored my umbrella, useless in the downpour, threw my door open, and stepped out into the puddle
and the storm. I dashed back to the car behind me.

  Just as I got there the driver opened his door and stepped out.

  “Remember me?” This time John Quayle was not smiling. “Does your boyfriend remember me, too?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  For once the next morning, I was glad the girls dawdled. Keeping after them kept me busy, and I had no time to process last night’s dreams or what I intended to do about them this morning.

  While they still dragged their feet, Holly no longer acted as if I had no business in her life, and Noelle was almost friendly. I had a surprise for them. After my first nightmare I’d researched YouTube for videos on little girl’s hairstyles. My favorite showed the one-minute variety, which took me closer to five, but that was still an improvement. I put Noelle’s hair in a tight ponytail, wrapped a ribbon around it and crisscrossed it to the bottom where I tied the ribbon in a bow. I sectioned Holly’s hair into something approximating French braids at the side, and fastened everything with an elastic band and barrettes. Since nobody bit me or called me names, the morning was a win.

  By the time I came back from school, a tiny woman named Analena, wearing wireless headphones and a charming smile, was patiently waiting at the front door. She cleaned for Gracey Group and assured me that she always did the laundry. I had to restrain myself from sweeping her into a fierce hug.

  I left as she came downstairs with sheets and towels in her arms. She’d already informed me she would lock the door behind her when she finished. I had no excuse to hang around.

  Today as I headed toward Confidence K-9s, I ignored the designer running gear and wore jeans and a dark green pullover. I wasn’t going to jog past the kennels. I was going to drive my little Civic right up to the parking lot fifty yards from the front building, get out as if I had business there, and ask whoever I happened to see where I could find the owner.

  By the time I arrived, my hands were perspiring, and I felt vaguely nauseous. But the moment to see Teo had come and gone a hundred times, and this time if I lost my nerve, my nieces might pay the price.