The Family Tree: a psychological thriller

by S. K. Grice

  We’d all gone to primary school together. I’d attended Richard and Nancy’s wedding fifteen years ago and seen him half a dozen times since then, lurking and bored at Patsy’s parties—which Nancy had dragged him to—and more recently when he’d showed up at both Annette and Patsy’s funerals. A man of few words, we’d rarely spoken.

  But how did that explain the oak sapling planted over Jackson? Could Richard be Jackson’s killer and the person who saw us bury Mike? No. He was the type who would’ve taken the reward by now. And Nancy. I’d only seen her treat Jackson with adoration, but I’d seen her jealous streak, and who could know people’s twisted minds? I couldn’t rule her out as the killer.

  Who else?

  A family member? Jackson’s older brother and sister sat next to their parents. Sibling rivalry could be motivation for murder, but I didn’t know them well enough to make any assumptions. His bandmates sat with their wives and girlfriends. Creative rivalry? Maybe. I turned to the people closest to me. Melissa and Denise.

  Nah. Melissa loved Jackson like a brother. Besides lacking motivation, she’d been in Richmond in the hours he’d been killed. Her whereabouts had been verified by the police. And Denise? A woman who didn’t go to the beach because she didn’t like getting sand on her? Nope.

  My gaze caught two poker-faced men in dark suits holding umbrellas who were walking toward the canopy. A tall, grey-haired man with a low brow, steely blue eyes, and square jaw that looked strong enough to crack walnuts—a direct descendent of Neanderthal Man. His slick-haired, younger companion hid behind dark sunglasses. The older man caught my eye. He acknowledged me with a nod and held my gaze until I looked away. I had a sick feeling they weren’t here to pay their respects.

  I elbowed Melissa. “Take a look at the men in black walking this way.”

  Melissa glanced toward the walkway. “Shit.” She leaned toward me, covered her mouth. “Those are the detectives who questioned me and Nancy about Jackson.”

  I crossed my legs and shifted in my seat. I’d figured they were cops.

  Denise leaned forward in a cloud of Chanel perfume. “What’s going on?”

  Aware of the detectives watching us, I patted my nose with a tissue, concealing my lips. “The detectives investigating Jackson’s murder are here,” I whispered to her. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  Denise’s mouth opened then she sank back in the chair, shooting a sideways glance at the detectives.

  I watched the two men from the corner of my eye. They hadn’t moved. But here they were, surveying the guests at Jackson’s funeral and searching for the same person I was—the murderer.

  The service continued with a few of Jackson’s close friends giving brief eulogies that included heart-warming stories and funny anecdotes.

  I wanted to leave right after the tributes, but the detectives had their eyes glued to me and I didn’t need to draw any attention to myself. While the pastor wrapped up the service, I blotted my mind with mindless images of ocean waves and drifting clouds. But other pictures intruded. Blood. Bones. Bodies under trees.

  The minister’s voice boomed over my head like a cue from above. “Let us bow our heads in prayer.”

  With my head bowed, my mind wandered to ways I might find out what was happening with the investigation. What leads were the detectives working on? For all I knew, they’d already stopped by to question me as a person of interest. The doorbell had rung a couple of times in the past two days, but I’d weakened and kept myself numbed with wine and Xanax, and besides a brief Facetime conversation with the twins in London, I’d avoided human contact.

  At the end of the service, I turned to Melissa and Denise. “I’ll catch up with you two later.”

  Melissa waved. “I should be home from work by six.”

  Denise blew us both kisses. “Bye, my lovelies.”

  Making my way to the parking lot, I peeked over my shoulder. The two detectives followed in the distance. No slipping under their radar.

  A ray of sun peeked through the grey sky. My damp hair stuck to my neck, and I pulled it back. Then, I saw him in the distance. Noah.

  He struck an eerie pose standing alone among marble headstones adorned with crosses and angels. He wore jeans and a casual blue jacket with the hood pulled low over his head, but not so low that I couldn’t see his somber face. I almost waved, but he looked sheepish, like he didn’t want to be noticed. Then he turned and walked away.

  I hopped into my car and drove off with Noah on my mind. As far as I knew, he’d never been close to Jackson, so why was he hanging out on the sidelines of the man’s funeral and not in a suit and tie like the other detectives? The Lighthouse Beach Homicide Department wasn’t huge, and I couldn’t imagine they had a surplus of homicide detectives on staff. Something was off, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  A glare of afternoon sun caught my eye, and I checked my rearview mirror. There was the white sedan I’d noticed on my tail when I’d left the cemetery parking lot. The tinted windows made it hard to see who was in the car, but I recognized the familiar silhouette of a massive head in the driver’s seat. The detectives from the funeral.

  Taking deep breaths, I figured they had other reasons to drive in this direction. Nancy and Richard, along with some of Jackson’s friends, all lived out this way. They could’ve been on their way to see any of them.

  I turned onto Willow Road, and the sedan turned too. Tightness pulled across my shoulders. I wasn’t too surprised. I couldn’t fake a flu forever.

  I pulled into my driveway, pressed the garage door remote, and drove inside.

  Car wheels rolled on the asphalt driveway.

  My eyes closed and I tapped a finger on my thigh. “Two, four, six, eight, now it’s time to radiate.” I repeated my stock-standard mantra five times.

  A car door slammed. Then another.

  I opened my eyes and filled my lungs with air. I had nothing to do with Jackson’s death. I have nothing to hide. All I needed was to tell the truth. Then I’d be cleared in the investigation.

  Releasing a breath, I hopped out of my car with all the moxie I could manage. The two deadpan detectives stood in the driveway. I pasted on my best confused-and-concerned expression and walked toward them. “Can I help you?”

  The Neanderthal held up his badge. “I’m Detective Warren and this is my partner Detective Larson. We’re with homicide. We’re looking for Miss Jo-leene Parker.”

  His baritone pressed against my composure, squeezing out my tiny reservoir of confidence. I eked out a polite smile, hating that my lips trembled. “You found her.”

  Detective Warren put his badge away, but he kept his eyes drilled on me. “We’ve just returned from Jackson Howell’s funeral. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I sniffled. “Thank you. And, yes, I did notice you there.”

  “May we come inside and ask you a few questions about Jackson?” Detective Warren asked.

  “Of course. Come on in.” Dabbing my nose with the back of my hand, I led the detectives through the front door and repeated the truth in my head.

  I have nothing to hide. I have nothing to hide. I have nothing to hide.

  “Please, have a seat.” I gestured to the living room sofa. “Can I get you both something to drink? A glass of water?”

  Detective Larson sat on the sofa and straightened his tie. “No, thanks,” he said. “We’re fine.”

  Warren didn’t sit, but he wandered across the room while scanning every corner like a nosy kid looking for a candy bowl. He turned to me. “You’ve been busy these past few days?”

  A vein in my neck twitched. I knew when I was being baited. I wanted to ask why he wasn’t out looking for the murderer, but I simply sat myself into the armchair. “I had a terrible flu. A temperature of one-hundred-and-four degrees. Could barely get out of bed for the past two days.” I ripped a tissue out of the tissue box on the table and wiped my nose. “I’m still recovering. Probably shouldn’t have been at the funeral.”


  Warren rubbed his chin. “Uh-huh. Is that why you’re not attending the family’s funeral reception?”

  “No, it’s not. See, I’ve lost two of the dearest people in my life this past year. Jackson is another loss, and frankly, I’ve hit my quota on wakes, funerals, and receptions.”

  Larson rested his elbows on his knees. “We’re sorry for all your loss. Right now, we’re trying to get some answers on what happened to Jackson. Can you help us with that?”

  I sat back. “Of course. What do you need to know?”

  “When was the last time you saw Jackson?” Larson asked.

  “Five nights ago. I believe Melissa Harrington told the police that. She’s my roommate and was here when I came back from Jackson’s place.”

  “Can you tell us more about that evening?” Detective Warren’s attention was on the framed photo on top of the fireplace mantel—me with the twins at the beach last Summer.

  “I ran into him at the Mini-mart,” I said. “Jackson, he’s—was an old friend. We reconnected when I moved back to this part of town recently.”

  “Did you arrange to meet Jackson at the Mini-mart?” Detective Warren asked.

  “No. I did not.” If I had come across any more adamant, I would have sounded defensive.

  Warren adjusted the photo on the mantel. “You said you’ve just moved back to this part of town… where did you live before?”

  “On the bay side of town. I recently inherited this house.” His non-reaction gave me the feeling he’d already known that.

  Larson pulled a small spiral notebook and pen from inside of his suit jacket. “Go ahead. What happened at the Mini-mart?”

  “Jackson… he invited me to his place to watch a movie.”

  Detective Warren took slow steps toward the sofa. “How long did you stay at his house?”

  “Less than two hours. We watched Fast and Furious, and I left around ten-thirty. Came straight home. Jackson was fine when I left his house.”

  Detective Larson eyeballed me. “Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against Jackson? Someone who might’ve been threatening him?”

  Nancy’s husband, Richard, came to mind. But I had no evidence and was reluctant to point a finger. “No. He’d always seemed easy-going. I don’t know anyone who’d have wanted to hurt him.”

  “Uh-huh.” Detective Warren sat on the other side of the sofa and then rested his gaze on me. “And how was Jackson’s mood that night you were with him? Did he seem edgy? Upset?”

  Jackson’s cheerful face flashed in my mind, and I swallowed back the pain rising in my throat. “No. He was happy and laid-back. Typical Jackson.”

  “Did anyone call or stop by while you were there?” Larson poised his pen on the pad.

  The rustling shrubs outside the window came to mind. “No. But we’d heard some noises outside. Buddy barked at the front door like someone was there.”

  “And?”

  I shrugged. “Jackson turned on a bright outdoor light. We looked out the window but didn’t see anyone. Figured it was a raccoon or a fox.”

  “Uh-huh.” Larson jotted a note on his pad and shot another question. “What time was it when you heard the noise?”

  “Not long after I got there. Before we started watching the movie.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Anything else?”

  “The movie ended, and I went home. Melissa Harrington confirmed that.” I didn’t like repeating the obvious, but I also didn’t like how they’d minimized my alibi.

  Larson clicked his pen twice. “And did you and Melissa go anywhere after that?”

  “We watched some TV and then went to bed.”

  “You were both home all night?” Larson asked.

  The wine and Xanax had hit particularly hard that night. I’d slept like a rock. “Yeah. I woke up around seven the next morning. Melissa got up about half an hour later. She was upset that she’d overslept because she’d wanted to beat the traffic to Richmond.”

  The detectives nodded at each other like they were in agreement over something.

  “And you?” Detective Warren asked. “What did you do on Sunday?”

  I clasped my hands on my lap, ignoring the need to pick at the dirty guilt and grime under my fingernails. I wanted to tell them how I’d gone grocery shopping, baked an apple pie, and had coffee with a neighbor. Truth was, that Sunday had been my last hurrah with mixing a double dose of Xanax and a bottle of wine. I’d promised myself that if the court reinstated my custody rights, I’d stop using the drugs and wine as a crutch. “I stuck around the house. Did laundry. Caught up on paperwork.”

  Detective Warren stared me in the eye. “Did you leave the house?”

  “No.”

  He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Did anyone stop by?”

  “No. Melissa was in Richmond. I was alone.”

  Larson spoke. “How well do you know Nancy Miller?”

  I shifted in my seat. This had started to feel like an interrogation. “About as long as I’ve known Jackson.”

  “And Richard Miller,” Larson said. “How well do you know him?”

  “Nancy’s husband? I mean, he’s from the area. We’ve all known each other since primary school.”

  “Nancy and Jackson,” Detective Warren said, his tone so deep it would have made Johnny Cash jealous. “What can you tell us about the nature of their relationship?”

  My mouth dried, and I wanted a drink of water. “They were good friends. We’ve all known each other since primary school.” I didn’t want to believe she’d killed Jackson. She loved him too much.

  “Oak trees,” Larson said. “Tell us what you know about oak trees?”

  Blood drained my face, and my hands went cold. “Oak trees?” My voice barely cracked out the words.

  “That’s what I said.” Larson kept his eyes on me. “What d’ya know about them?”

  My bones rattled so hard that my teeth chattered. I spoke with my mouth slightly open, avoiding teeth-to-teeth contact. “I-I don’t understand.”

  “The killer placed an oak sapling over Jackson’s body,” Detective Warren said matter-of-factly.

  I hesitated, worried I’d stutter. My danger radar detected a strange vibe. No matter how hard they tried to act like this was a casual conversation, I could sense their true motivation. They suspected me. “Yes, well… Nancy told me about the tree.”

  “Why do you think the killer would’ve put an oak tree on top of his shallow grave?” Larson asked.

  Oak. Oak. Oak. Why did he keep saying oak? “I have no idea.”

  The detectives looked back at me, unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Right,” Detective Warren said. “If we have any more questions, would you mind coming to the station next time?”

  I almost asked if I needed a lawyer, but I already knew the answer. I pressed my heels to the floor to stop my legs from shaking and then rose from the armchair. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you find who did this.”

  Detective Warren smirked. “We’re sure you will.”

  The detectives left the house, and I collapsed to the sofa. Blinding sparks popped in my brain. The police were suspicious of me. I could feel it. That meant the detectives weren’t any closer to finding Jackson’s killer.

  They knew something more, though. Something they weren’t telling me. Why else would they have asked me about the oak tree?

  I believed I knew the answer. Someone had set me up for Jackson’s murder. Someone who knew what I’d done to Mike. But why?

  Terror ripped through me, lighting every impulse to run for cover. But who was I running from, and where would I go?

  I remembered the Xanax in the kitchen cupboard. Three pills would put me to sleep for a long, long time.

  No.

  I did things differently now. No matter how uncomfortable, I had to allow my mind to drift back to the details of that night.

  What was missing in my memory?

  Chapter Fifteen

  It took two hours to gather m
y resolve after the detectives left. I locked the front door and made my way toward the Nichols’ house about a quarter of a mile up the road, toward the pine reserve. The late afternoon sun was low on the western horizon, a golden glow on the clear blue sky.

  Looking back at what happened to Mike was scary, but I’d never get answers until I faced my demons—the random thoughts about that night, the guilt, remorse, the dark figure on the lawn. What other details were missing?

  The ominous figure was my sharpest memory. Now, it was a vision which refused to die. The colorful tail lights of the Nichols’ car, though—that was no vision. I’d never given the odd old couple much thought. Annette and I had been certain they’d seen nothing, because if they had, they would’ve immediately reported it to the police. No, the Nichols didn’t know what we’d done, but Mrs. Nichols had made it her business to know other people’s business, which made her a good place to start. Patsy had found her snoopiness annoying, but the woman was as loyal as an old dog when it came to being a friend and neighbor, and Patsy had valued that.

  Within minutes of heading out, I arrived at the red brick ranch home—plain and traditional with no pretense, just like the owners. The place looked the same now as it had when Annette and I had been children feeding apples to their Palomino horses.

  “Jolene? Is that you?” Mrs. Nichols stood behind a hedge, a floppy straw hat on her head and a rake in her hand.

  I waved. “Sorry for just dropping by unannounced—”

  “My goodness, no. It’s been so long since we’ve seen you.” She dropped the rake, took off her gardening gloves, and walked toward me with open arms.

  We hugged, and then I pulled back. “I never got a chance to thank you and Mr. Nichols for arranging the gathering at Patsy’s house after the funeral.” My hand went to my throat as if that could stop my voice from cracking. “It’s hard to believe three months have passed since Patsy died. The shock still feels new.”

  “I miss her, too.” Mrs. Nichols took my hand and squeezed. “Come on, dear. Let’s go inside.”

  The austere décor of her pristine house was early colonial American. Seventeenth-century early with no soft seating. Nothing about the cold, hard furniture welcomed me to stay.