Tell Me

by Lisa Jackson

Except that as she drove her Honda into the hotel’s underground lot, her cell phone rang, and she saw that it was her mother. No doubt there was another wedding emergency looming, but Nikki thought she could handle it later and didn’t pick up. She was already running late as it was, so she parked in the first space she saw, marked HOTEL GUESTS, then took the elevator to the main lobby. With marble floors, glass walls, and twenty-foot ceilings, the hotel was sleek and modern, in stark contrast to most of the older buildings in this part of town which oozed with the charm of the Old South. She made her way past the registration counter and concierge desk to a doorway marked SECURITY and stepped inside.

  Two men were talking, both in the navy-blue uniforms of the staff. They looked up, and the taller man, a heavy-set African-American with a broad face and silvery hair, asked, “Can I help you?”

  “I think she’s here to see me,” Steve Manning said. Time hadn’t changed much for Steve; he was still slim, tanned, his hair longer than the fashion, though he’d traded in his jeans and T-shirts for the company uniform.

  “Hi, Steve.”

  To the black man, Steve said, “Raleigh, this is Nikki Gillette.”

  “Big Daddy’s daughter?”

  She tensed a little. “One and the same.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Your father gave my Camille a break and it changed her life, for the better.” He smiled then, showing off one gold tooth. “You two go talk all ya want. It’s been slow this afternoon.” And with a shooing motion of hands, which were large enough to belong to a pro ball player, he swept them out of the small space.

  “Never thought I’d see you in uniform,” Nikki said as they stepped into the grand lobby, her shoes clicking against the marble floor, a few travelers pulling roller bags to an interior elevator with glassed-in cars.

  “Stranger things have happened.” He still had a boyish smile; though a few lines fanned from the corners of his eyes, Steve could have passed for a man ten years younger. “You know I had such a crush on you in high school.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded as they walked past an escalator leading to the second floor and a few potted ficus trees, to a tufted bench by the windows, where the softest notes of piped-in music could be heard and the view of the river was nearly panoramic. “You didn’t know?”

  She shook her head. “You were out of school when I got there.”

  “Yeah, but I knew you because of Elton McBaine. He was your cousin, right?” When she nodded, he added, “We had the same extracurricular interests back then.”

  “Drugs?”

  Rather than answer directly, he said, “The same connection.”

  “Your dealer?” she asked, remembering that Elton had “dabbled,” according to her parents, which could have meant anything from having an experimental joint to being an out-and-out druggie who used any and every illicit substance known to man. From what Hollis had told her, she thought he was somewhere in between.

  “I don’t smoke and tell,” he said with that charming grin, “but those days are behind me now. So what is it you want?”

  “You dated Amity O’Henry when she was in high school.”

  His smile slid off his face. “Well . . . we went out a couple of times. Maybe three times. But we weren’t going together or anything like that.” He looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  “No?”

  “It wasn’t for me not trying. Hell, I thought she was incredible. Hot. But,” he lifted his shoulders, “I didn’t like her old man, the one who’d come back from the war. He gave me the evil eye, and I had the feeling that it was ‘hands off,’ if you get my drift. But the deal was, Amity wasn’t all that interested anyway. I’m pretty sure she had her eye on someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know,” he was shaking his head as if digging up ancient high school history was nearly impossible.

  “Brad Holbrook?”

  “Nah. She thought he was stuck on himself, and she was right. Dumb-ass baseball jock.”

  “What about Holt Beauregard?”

  He looked out the window, where dusk was settling. Nikki turned to follow his gaze and saw both their pale reflections, ghostly images that reminded her of how they had looked at Robert E. Lee High School, which seemed, now, a lifetime ago.

  “Beauregard. I don’t know. As I said, Amity and I really didn’t spend much time together. Too bad you couldn’t ask Elton; she was always calling him. Bugging him, but he loved it.”

  Again the connection. And hadn’t Hollis said once that her brother and his friends had basically used Amity? At the time Nikki had thought it was all just teenage boys with their inflated egos and largely exaggerated sexual tales. “Did they date? Amity and Elton?”

  “Not officially, but I got the idea she had the hots for him. I figured because he had a hot car and money, and could get drugs pretty easily, but that was maybe wrong. The way I remember it, Amity really wasn’t into smoking weed or anything. At least she never did it around me, and you know, at that time, I was into being stoned.” He thought for a second. “Does it really matter? She’s dead. Her weird mom spent most of her life in prison, and her siblings are all messed up. So it’s ancient history.”

  “Except that someone fired a gun at point-blank range and killed her.”

  “You don’t think it was her mom?” he asked, astounded, as if he’d never considered another person could have pulled the trigger. “They sent her to prison.”

  “And now it looks like she’s getting out early, that her son might have lied on the stand. She may very well be innocent.”

  “That would be something.” He shoved his hair from his eyes and looked faintly disturbed.

  “Did you ever meet Blondell?”

  “Like I said, I didn’t like Amity’s old man. I tended to avoid parents back then. I did see Amity’s mom from a distance once, though. She was getting into her car as I was walking up the street.”

  “And?”

  “Amity definitely got her looks from her mother.” He stopped for a second. “So you’re writing about Amity’s murder and Blondell’s release, for the paper. I saw your name on a story in the Sentinel.”

  “I’m doing a series on Blondell.”

  “Sells papers. And you’re writing a book too? You did that before.”

  Nikki nodded.

  “You sure you want to do that?” he asked, rubbing his chin.

  “Why?”

  “Sometimes it seems that it’s best to leave well enough alone. You know, let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “You think I won’t like what I find.”

  “I think there’s just no point to it. Amity’s dead. Yeah, someone killed her, most likely her old lady, but no matter what kind of digging around you do, whatever truth you’re trying to uncover, nothing will ever bring her back.”

  “But maybe justice will be served.”

  “Maybe it already has been.”

  She thought about that a minute, then decided it wouldn’t hurt to tell him about what had happened to her at the cabin.

  “Someone tried to scare me off just last night by leaving a snake in my car. A copperhead.”

  “Oh, shit! Really?” He took a step back. “That’s serious crap. Why would anyone do that?”

  “I don’t know. Yet. But maybe it’s because of my investigation. Maybe it was a warning.”

  “That’s what I’m tellin’ you. People have died. I’d stay as far away from Amity O’Henry’s murder as I could. I still think Blondell did it, but just in case she didn’t, you’d better watch your back.”

  “Let’s get something to eat,” Morrisette suggested as she poked her head into Reed’s office. “I think we missed lunch.”

  “And breakfast,” Reed said.

  “I’ll just be a sec. Meet you in the hall.”

  Reed’s stomach was starting to burn a little from a day of too much coffee and too little food. Since Nikki was going to be late again, he planned to stop by his apartment, gra
b some clean clothes, and head over to her place to spend the night. Little by little, her old manor was beginning to feel like home, even if it was split into three apartments.

  He was giving up his lease come the first of the year, so he figured the more used to her place he could get, the better. But all that was just a cover-up for what he was really feeling today. And the truth of the matter was, since this whole Blondell O’Henry case had been reopened, he didn’t like Nikki to be too far out of his sight.

  His mind was on the conversation, but his brain kept turning back to the snake that had been left in Nikki’s car. She was shaken up last night but had pulled herself together. She’d woken up more determined than ever to write the damned book about the O’Henry case, as well as the continuing series of articles for the newspaper, and that, it seemed, was worrying someone. Who the hell was it, and why were they so concerned? He thought of all the players in the O’Henry case and couldn’t come up with anyone who would be deadly.

  But there was someone.

  Amity O’Henry’s murder was proof enough of that.

  Reed had hoped that when he located the person who’d been spying on her apartment the mystery of her stalker would be solved and she would be safe again. Not so, it seemed, and trying to talk her out of going after a story when it was in her blood was like trying to stop a rushing freight train by holding up one hand.

  Reed feared some nutcase had Nikki in his crosshairs again, and he was pretty damned sure it wasn’t Charles Arbuckle or Leon Donnigan. No, whoever was targeting her was far more dangerous, and it was all he could do not to order a bodyguard for her. She’d be upset, but it didn’t matter. Let her be mad. As long as she was safe.

  He grabbed his jacket and sidearm and patted his jacket pocket to make certain he had his badge and wallet. His keys jangled in his pants pocket as he stepped into the hallway and nearly ran into his partner.

  “You know,” Morrisette said as they headed downstairs, “Reverend Ezekiel Byrd’s congregation does use copperheads in its snake-handling rites. But they’re not just into coppers. They are an equal-opportunity user of poisonous snakes, so they’ve got rattlers and cottonmouths, and even an occasional cobra, but they’re rare since, you know, they’re not indigenous to the area—or the continent, for that matter.” She seemed proud of herself as they headed down the steps together, her boots ringing loudly on the stairs.

  “You visited the reverend?” He’d learned the church was forty-five miles outside of the city and, of course, outside their jurisdiction, but the various departments across the state worked together more often than not.

  “Of course not. I called, but I just got a voice recording. I’m hoping he’ll call me back.”

  Reed almost laughed. “You think the reverend would tell you?”

  “He will if he’s an honest, God-fearing man, I think,” she countered. “And even if he isn’t, I have a cousin whose friend belongs, and Corinne, that’s my cousin, double-checked about the snakes.”

  “I would have liked to have heard that conversation. Was it casual, maybe over an iced tea? ‘Hey, by the way, what kind of serpents do you all handle at church?’ ” He stepped closer to Morrisette at the landing, to allow room for a couple of uniformed cops climbing up the staircase.

  “Make fun all you want, but that’s what she said. I don’t know how she found out, but according to her, lately it’s only been rattlers. I guess there’s been a run on copperheads.”

  “The kind someone used to scare Nikki.” At that thought, he lost his sense of humor.

  “According to Corinne, the congregation is small, maybe sixty people, and was started by Byrd, who originally hails from Kentucky. Appalachia. His daddy was a coal miner and started the group. Byrd apparently brought Daddy’s beliefs with him. The members stand out a little. Don’t smoke. Don’t drink. The women don’t cut their hair, the men wear long-sleeved shirts, and they speak in tongues, though Byrd’s sect has drawn the line at drinking poison.”

  “There’s a line?”

  “Every religion is different.”

  “I still think we’d better talk to the good reverend himself. Your cousin’s anonymous friend’s tip has to be checked out.”

  “Amen, brother!” They reached the bottom of the steps and started for the main doors.

  They had just stepped outside when Reed’s cell phone went off. He glanced at the screen. “Deacon Beauregard,” he said. “Wants a meeting.” He frowned. “In his office. And he wants it now.”

  “Of course he does.” Morrisette rolled her eyes. “He’s no better than his old man.”

  Elton has to be a part of this, Nikki told herself. You know it. Whether you like it or not, you have to face the fact that your whole family is involved in this mess. It’s sicker and more twisted than you thought.

  She parked her car in the Sentinel’s parking lot and cinched the belt of her sweater a little more tightly around her as she hurried along the cobblestones near the waterfront. She walked quickly, but was wary, half-expecting some stranger to leap out at her. She hadn’t told Reed that the night before she had barely slept, with thoughts of snakes crawling through her mind and dreams of scaly bodies, open mouths, and sharp fangs dripping with venom. Amity O’Henry had been bitten by a copperhead in her bed; now Nikki had been warned with the same slinky reptile, so tonight she was careful, on edge.

  Within minutes and without intervention from a tall stranger or a slithering viper, she found the alley and Salty’s bar, an establishment that had been in existence, under different names and a variety of owners, for a hundred and fifty years.

  Inside, the bar was dark but warm, a long, narrow room with black wainscoting, gray walls, and decorative tin ceiling tiles, all illuminated by a dozen sconces. It was early for the evening crowd, only a few tables occupied, so she spotted Holt Beauregard easily, a lone man nursing a drink in one of the booths near a back corner. He had been gazing at the door, so he noticed her as well, and lifted a hand as she wended her way through the tightly packed tables. Physically he resembled his older brother, aside from his coloring, but that’s where the likeness ended.

  While Deacon was always clean-shaven, his black hair neatly trimmed, his suits expensive and pressed, Holt exuded a total disrespect for fashion. Tonight he hadn’t bothered to shave; his hair was on the shaggy side, the sleeves of his work shirt were shoved up, his jeans faded and probably in need of a wash.

  He rose as she approached.

  “Nikki Gillette,” she said, extending her hand.

  Dark blue eyes assessed her as he took her hand in a firm, brief shake before they sat down on opposite sides of the table. “Buy you a drink?”

  She nearly declined as she wanted to keep her wits about her, but she needed their conversation to be easy, almost friendly, so that he felt he could confide in her. She guessed his drink, a short glass filled with ice and some kind of whiskey, from the looks of it, wasn’t his first. “Sure,” she said brightly. “But I can buy my own. Yours too.”

  With a shake of his head, he said, “My mother would kill me if she thought I let a woman pay, no matter what the circumstances.” With a glance and a crooked smile in Nikki’s direction, he added, “Flora is very old school. There are rules, you know, and they must be followed.”

  “What your mother doesn’t know won’t kill her.”

  “S’pose not.” He flagged a waitress at the bar. “But just the same, this one’s on me.” As the unenthusiastic waitress shuffled over, he said, “Whatever the lady wants.”

  “The lady will have a . . . cosmo,” Nikki decided aloud. “I haven’t had one in years.”

  Holt said, “Then it’s time.”

  “ ’Kay. Got it. You?” the waitress, a frizzy-haired girl with dangling earrings and an oh-so-bored attitude asked.

  “I’m good.”

  As the waitress disappeared, Holt leaned against the tall wooden back of the booth. “You said you wanted to talk about Amity O’Henry.”

 
“That’s right.”

  “I already told you: there’s not much to tell.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Fine.” He expelled a rush of air. “I dated her. Yeah. Three, maybe four times before my old man found out and totally freaked out, and I mean freaked with a capital F.” He picked up his glass and took a swallow. “Nothing had happened between me and Amity. Really. Nothing. We went to a dance and then out for burgers and to a party once. Lots of underage drinking, and somehow the word got out, and Flint came unglued. When I got home, he was waiting for me, and he blew his stack. Came at me, hauled me off my feet, and slammed me up against the outside wall of the house. I’d never seen him like that. He told me in no uncertain terms that Amity O’Henry was off-limits.”

  Nikki thought she understood the older Beauregard’s reaction, and she’d always heard Flint had a temper, even though the man she’d seen in the video clip of Blondell O’Henry’s trial was calm, even reserved. “Did he say why?”

  “Nothing except that her mother was trash and bad news, and that I was to stay as far away as possible.”

  The waitress returned with her drink and set it on the table. “Anything else? A menu?”

  “We’re good,” Holt said and she moved off.

  As Nikki picked up her cosmo, she asked, “So did you? Let it go with Amity.”

  A slow grin crawled across his scruffy jaw as she took her first sip. “What do you think?”

  “That you ignored your father’s edict,” she said. Holt had always been the rebellious one, the son of a cop, who pushed the boundaries, a cocky athlete in high school who never lived up to his potential and had bombed out of the police academy. She might never have known that detail except her older brother, Andrew, had known both Deacon and Holt and she’d heard the gossip.

  “Yeah, we snuck out together, but it wasn’t a big deal. No spark, I guess you’d say. It was like she got the same advice and took it.”

  “Did she say so?”

  “Didn’t have to.” Lost in thought, he rotated his drink on the table.

  “Was she interested in someone else?”