Tell Me

by Lisa Jackson

  Ruby said to her granddaughter, “Come on, Janie, give me a break here.”

  Janie was having none of it, her waifish face twisting as she wound up for what looked to be a colossal wail. “Noooo!”

  In a hurry, Nikki asked, “How much do I owe you?”

  “Seventeen fifty. I clipped his toenails too.”

  She fished in her wallet and came up with two fives and a ten. “Keep the change.”

  Ruby’s broad face brightened. “Thank you.” She tucked the bills into the pocket of jeans that were a couple of sizes too tight and peered over Nikki’s shoulder to the exterior door. “I hope the others come. I close up at five. Got dinner to get on the table, y’know. Seth, he comes home from the garage and he’s hungry as a bear. Growly as one too, if dinner ain’t on the table. Y’know what I mean?”

  Janie was winding up again. “Hungry!” she cried.

  “In an hour,” her grandmother admonished.

  “I want a snack!”

  “You eat now and I know what’ll happen. You won’t want any of your dinner.”

  “Hungrrrrry,” the little one insisted, grabbing hold of Ruby’s leg again, clutching her rather substantial thigh.

  “Oh, for the love of Pete. Here!” Ruby opened a drawer and pulled out some kind of packaged fruit snacks that looked suspiciously like red jelly beans though the wrapper proclaimed the health benefits of zero fat and a high percentage of vitamin C “in each and every bite.”

  Snagging the packet, Janie finally released her grandmother’s leg and skipped off, her tears miraculously disappearing, her pigtails bouncing as she took off through an archway, separated by a series of child gates, toward the living room, where a television was visible, the screen flickering with the bright colors of a cartoon show.

  “I swear, that one has me wrapped around her little finger, and it’s worse yet where her granddaddy is concerned. Man oh man, does she get her way around Seth.” Ruby was shaking her head as the beams of headlights flashed, splashing against the back of the house. “Oh, good. Looks like Margaret is here to pick up Spike. I was wondering. She’s not the most reliable tool in the shed, if you know what I mean.”

  Nikki didn’t comment. Glancing at her watch, she knew she just had time to run Mikado home before driving to City Hall to hear firsthand why Niall O’Henry had decided to change a story he’d clung to for nearly twenty years.

  CHAPTER 4

  Unprecedented was the first word that came to Pierce Reed’s mind as he stood, collar to the cold wind, watching the growing throng of people gathered around the steps of City Hall. Grandstanding was the second.

  Standing behind a podium that was set up under one of the stone arches of the portico was David Blass, a senior partner in the firm of Blass, Petrovich, and Sterns. A tall man with broad shoulders and what appeared to be an expensive suit, he leaned into the microphone. “Let me be clear,” he said in a voice that boomed into the crowd, where reporters with cameramen jockeyed for position. He held up one hand, as if for effect. “There will be no questions. Mr. O’Henry is here just to make a simple statement.”

  The less-robust man beside him had to be Niall O’Henry, son of Blondell. He appeared uneasy, as if uncomfortable in his own skin, and was a good three inches shorter than his attorney. While Blass’s skin was tanned by hours on the golf course, Reed imagined, O’Henry was pale in comparison, a smaller, nervous man in a much cheaper suit. His features were sharp, his lips tight, his eyes staring across the milling crowd rather than into it. Had he looked healthier, Reed decided, Niall O’Henry, with his large eyes, aquiline nose, and high cheekbones, could have been a handsome man. As it was, he had the aura of a trapped animal, ready to bolt at any second.

  “This is all such bullshit!” Morrisette muttered under her breath. “Such bullshit!” She was chewing her gum as if by pulverizing it she could wring out the very last drop of nicotine.

  “Mr. O’Henry would like to change his testimony in the state’s case against his mother. Though the conviction of Mrs. Blondell O’Henry was nearly two decades ago, Mr. O’Henry was only a child at the time and now feels compelled to tell the truth.” Blass stepped aside, his shock of white hair catching in the wind as Niall stepped up to the microphone.

  To Reed, this smelled of total crap.

  And he wasn’t any more convinced when Blass stepped to one side and Niall, pale and wan, took the microphone.

  His voice was thin and reedy, perhaps because of the injury he’d endured as a young boy, as he read from a prepared statement that he’d placed on the podium in front of him.

  “I, uh, I just want to say that my testimony in the trial of my mother was false. I was young, impressionable, and confused. The night of the tragedy, when my sister Amity was killed, is a blur in my mind, still nearly a total blackout, and I, as a boy, was coerced into giving a statement that would ultimately convict my mother. I apologize to the state of Georgia, to my mother, Blondell O’Henry, and to God. Thank you.”

  That was it.

  Hands shot into the air, and reporters barked questions, even though they’d been specifically told not to. They were ignored by Blass and O’Henry and were left dissatisfied, as was Reed, though he hadn’t expected any major revelation in the first place, no new piece of evidence. The public and the police wanted something more. As he glanced around the crowd, he saw his fiancée, who, with her photographer, had pushed her way as close to the podium as possible. He’d caught a text from her earlier and knew that he’d be in for it later, that she was going to push him hard on this one.

  But with Nikki that was to be expected.

  “I’ll meet you back at the station,” he said to Morrisette. They had walked the few blocks over to City Hall to avoid the traffic knots and parking issues the impromptu press conference had created.

  “Okay. I’ve already requested all the old files on the case.” Her eyes narrowed at the podium, now empty. “Looks like it’s going to be a long night.”

  “The first of many.”

  “Hell’s bells. Guess I’m going to have to play nice with my ex so he can ferry the kids around. It pisses me off.”

  What doesn’t? Reed almost asked, then bit his tongue as he knew that comment would piss her off as well.

  “I’ll be there soon.”

  “Pick up dinner, would ya?” she asked, heading in the opposite direction. “Your turn. The Dollhouse is right on the way. Get me a fried shrimp po’boy, extra sauce. With fries. And a piece of pecan pie.”

  “You want—?”

  “Don’t even say it, okay? I know it’s a heart attack ready to happen. So bring it on!”

  “I was going to ask about something to drink,” he said dryly.

  “Oh. Make it a Dr Pepper.” And she was off.

  Nikki couldn’t believe it. As she watched Niall O’Henry being ushered away by his lawyer, she tried to step forward, to ask one of a hundred questions that leaped to her mind. She was thwarted, of course. She and a dozen other reporters were contained by security as they yelled questions at the retreating figures of Niall O’Henry and his lawyer.

  Thwarted, she turned to Jim Levitt. “Tell me you got some good shots.”

  “Nope.”

  “What?”

  “More like great shots. You know, Pulitzer material,” he said sarcastically while glancing down at her as if she were a moron. He was a beanpole of a man with sandy hair and freckles who’d played basketball in college and whose reach allowed him to hoist a camera over a lot of heads; hence, he was able to get shots a shorter person couldn’t.

  “Okay, okay, sorry,” she said, sensing how touchy he was about his work. Levitt, whose wife was pregnant with twins due around Christmas, was feeling the bite of the economic downturn as well as the newfound difficulties of his profession. These days everyone had a camera, or at least a phone, that could take decent photographs. Not only was he used less at the paper, but his studio business had fallen off sharply. No one wanted to pay for professiona
l shots when they could have Uncle Henry with a timer on his phone do a fairly decent job.

  Working with his digital camera, he showed her more than a dozen shots of Niall O’Henry, his lawyer, and the group of people gathered at City Hall. “Don’t worry about the pictures, okay? Just write a piece worthy of them,” he said.

  “Pulitzer material. I promise.”

  “I’ll see you back at the paper,” he said as he headed off, and Nikki experienced that same uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched. She glanced around. No one was paying any attention to her, not with the focus on Niall O’Henry. Though night had definitely fallen, she was far from alone, the crowd still slowly dispersing, a few knots of people still huddled together.

  And yet she couldn’t shake the sensation that unseen eyes were observing her, scrutinizing her every move.

  Don’t be nuts, she warned herself, glancing over her shoulder, her gaze scraping the shadows. Nothing.

  “Hey!” she heard as she scrounged in the bottom of her bag for her keys. Glancing up, she spied Reed walking along the sidewalk toward her. As always, her heart did a quick little galumph at the sight of him. Yep, she thought again, hopeless romantic.

  His gaze found hers, and his lips twisted into that irreverent grin she found so damned endearing. A five-o’clock shadow was in evidence but couldn’t hide his strong jawline. Warmth spread through her—happiness—and she felt the corners of her own mouth lift. How could it be that she’d missed him when she’d been with him less than twenty-four hours earlier?

  Make that ridiculous, hopeless romantic.

  She ducked around a couple who were deep in conversation as they shared a cigarette and met Reed under a street lamp. “Where were you? I looked.”

  “To the side.” He hitched his head toward an area that was now cleared of people. “How about dinner?”

  “How about some exclusive comments on the Blondell O’Henry case?”

  “Down, tiger. You know where I stand on that.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but this is breaking news on a very old case.”

  “Keep pushing, Reporter Gillette,” he said dryly, then took the crook of her arm and walked her farther from City Hall. “Seriously, I’ve got to stop at The Dollhouse and grab a sandwich for Morrisette. I thought we could catch a quick bite together. That is, if you promise not to be obnoxious and keep bugging me for information you know I can’t give you.”

  She was hungry, and she knew there was no way she would be granted an interview with Blondell O’Henry tonight. However, she planned to be at the prison the minute the doors opened tomorrow. She hadn’t had an answer to her e-mail yet, but she knew other reporters were probably clamoring for access as well, so she wasn’t going to wait for permission.

  “There’s a certain amount of bugging I feel compelled to do,” she explained, and he groaned dramatically as they linked arms and walked the three blocks to the small restaurant, located in a historic Victorian-era home that had been remodeled and retrofitted with a commercial kitchen, elevator, and veranda used for outdoor dining. Painted a soft pink, trimmed in white, with bay windows and a long porch, the restaurant did appear to be a classic dollhouse, and the owners, Kenneth and Barbara Sutton, added to the theme by shortening their names.

  The restaurant was fairly crowded, but they didn’t have to wait too long for a table, where they ordered meals for themselves and takeout for Reed’s partner.

  “Metzger’s sick, so I’ve got the Blondell O’Henry story,” she said, adjusting her chair. She was seated across from Reed, their table tucked into a corner of what had once been the parlor.

  “I already know you’re not going to let up until I give you an inside police perspective.”

  He didn’t sound overly perturbed, so she added, “And maybe get a look at the old case files.”

  “You’re dreaming.”

  The waiter appeared and set two glasses of sweet tea on the table. As he left, she took a sip, feeling the cool liquid slide down her throat.

  “Come on, Reed. You don’t have to give me any information that’s classified or whatever you want to call it, nothing that would compromise the case, but—”

  “What case? Blondell’s been tried and that’s it. If she gets out of prison, no matter what she did, she’s free. If she’s innocent, she paid a high price. If she’s guilty, the nearly twenty years she’s already served will have to be enough for the state. Either way, there’s not really a case against her. The department will argue, of course, but when it’s all said and done, she may walk. Guilty or not.”

  “But the case will be reopened,” she said. “If Blondell didn’t do it, then someone else did. Remember her story of the intruder breaking in.”

  “An intruder she didn’t recognize. Maybe it’ll be reopened,” he said dubiously. “I can’t say. I wasn’t there. But Flint Beauregard, the lead on the case, is dead, so there’s no help there. All I can tell you, as a reporter, is that the department thinks they got their man, or woman, in this case.”

  The waiter showed up again, this time with their meals—a steaming platter of fried chicken with collard greens and black-eyed peas for Nikki, barbecued ribs, corn bread, and slaw for Reed.

  “So when are you going to the prison to try to get that exclusive interview with Blondell?” he asked, raising a dark eyebrow just in case she might try to deny the obvious.

  “Crack of dawn tomorrow.”

  “I figured.”

  “It’s my job, and I need to do it.”

  “No argument from me. Have at it.” He was already digging into his ribs. “You know I’m all for your career—supportive as hell, as a matter of fact. Just as long as you stay safe, don’t put yourself into harm’s way again, and don’t push too hard when you try to get information out of me.”

  “That sounded like a lot of rules.”

  He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Maybe we’ll agree to disagree for now. And then later we could . . .”

  “Talk about the case?” She fought a smile.

  “That wasn’t really where I was going.”

  “Are you coming over, then?”

  “I wish. I think it’s going to be a long night for me and an early morning for you. How about a rain check?”

  “I can do that,” she said, hiding a stab of disappointment. Though she wanted to find out more about Blondell O’Henry, she let it go. For now. Pushing Reed only put his back up—in fact, he became a brick wall—but if she was patient and didn’t badger him, he’d open up a bit. The trouble was, patience wasn’t her long suit. For now, though, she decided, biting into crispy, butter-flavored chicken, she’d put questioning Reed on the back burner and concentrate on the O’Henrys.

  Not only was there Blondell to interview, but her children as well. What was the real reason Niall was intent on changing his testimony? What about his younger sister, Blythe, wheelchair-bound since the terrible attack? And what of Blondell’s husband, Calvin, now remarried? She’d known the O’Henry family far more intimately than anyone, including Detective Pierce Reed, realized, and she knew she had to jump on the story. Quickly. Before anyone else did.

  They ended the meal sharing a large slice of hummingbird cake. As light as it was, Nikki could take only two bites of the banana and pecan confection. “Take the rest to the station,” she said when Reed too put down his fork. “I bet someone there will eat it.”

  “Trust me, it won’t make it past Morrisette’s desk.”

  He motioned for the check. Once it was paid, they walked together to her car. “Going back to the office?” he asked as she drove him to the station.

  “Working from home, I think. I’ve got to write the O’Henry article for tomorrow and, in the morning, drive to the prison.”

  “She won’t see you,” he said as she slowed for a yellow light two blocks from the police station. “Her attorney won’t allow it.”

  “We’ll see.” As the light changed, she turned onto Habersham and eased around Columbia Square, wher
e water cascaded over the ledges of a central fountain and stately live oaks stood guard over the pathways.

  Slowing, she edged her Honda to the side of the road to let him out.

  He said, “Be careful.”

  “Of what? I’m not going to compromise your case, I swear.” She held up three fingers and mouthed, “Scout’s Honor.”

  “I just don’t like the idea of you at the prison.”

  “I won’t be in any danger.” She saw the doubt in his eyes and loved him even more. He wouldn’t tell her what to do, but he’d worry a bit. “This isn’t a case like the Grave Robber, nor is Atropos at large any longer,” she said, citing the most recent incidents in which a deranged serial killer had stalked the streets of Savannah. “This is a cold case where a woman was charged and convicted of killing her kids. Family members. No one else was hurt.” She paused. “That is, unless you don’t think Blondell O’Henry is guilty?”

  “I haven’t studied the case, but since she was tried and convicted, yeah, I think she did it.” He leaned over and brushed a kiss against her cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Before he could reach for the door handle, she took his face in both her hands and pressed her lips to his. A warmth fired her blood as his tongue touched hers and her bones immediately began to melt.

  “You’re causing trouble,” he whispered into her open mouth.

  “I know.”

  He lifted his head again and winked at her. “Hold that thought, would you? Tomorrow.”

  “Sure, Detective.”

  This time he escaped, opening the door and sliding outside. As he jogged into the old brick building housing the police department, she nosed her way into the flow of cars and headed home. Traffic was thin, and she easily drove past the wrought-iron fence of Colonial Park Cemetery. In the darkness, she caught only a glimpse of the headstones, but even so her skin crawled, reminding her of her ordeal a few years earlier. Glancing into her rearview mirror, where the reflected headlights nearly blinded her, she made her way toward Forsyth Park and, across the street from its perimeter, the antebellum building she called home. The tiered fountain was illuminated, the tall trees with their canopy of branches ghostlike as Spanish moss swayed in the breeze.