While I waited, the fellow behind the glass made a few phone calls, and then he told me the warden could see me in about an hour, if I felt like hanging around.
“Where should I wait?” I asked.
“You can go on over there,” he said. “Out that door and then the third trailer on your left.”
I did as he said, passing two large temporary aluminum structures—what I assumed the man had been referring to as “trailers.” Sure enough, the sign on the third one said “Warden.” I knocked on the door and then stepped inside.
“Yeah?” a man asked from behind a desk. He was also in khakis, and I realized that perhaps he was a trustee, doing a little secretarial work.
“I’m here to see the warden,” I said. “He agreed to meet with me in about an hour.”
“Yeah, he’s busy right now,” he said. “You wanna wait here till he gets back?”
“If I may.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, gesturing toward two chairs that were in a corner, with a small end table between them. On the table was a tacky ceramic lamp and a small pile of magazines.
I sat, forcing myself to flip through the magazines, not surprised at the titles: Field & Stream, American Hunter, Car and Driver. The man returned to what he had been doing, typing slowly on a keyboard and staring at a computer screen in front of him. He seemed frustrated, and between grunts and curses, he would say, “Pardon me, ma’am.” Then he would curse again.
Knowing I needed to stay focused, I tried flipping through one of the magazines, but the words and pictures blurred together on the page. What was I going to do with what I had learned? If I answered no other questions in this investigation, one thing was astoundingly clear: I could never, ever trust Tom Bennett again.
“You know anything about Microsoft Word?” the man asked suddenly.
I looked up, surprised that he was talking to me.
“A little,” I said. “Problem?”
“Yeah. I don’t know what I clicked on, but all of a sudden these dots and symbols popped up on the page.”
“Can I take a look?”
“Yeah.”
I walked to the desk and leaned forward, knowing immediately what the problem was, that he had accidentally turned on the function that showed spaces between words and carriage returns. I showed him how to turn it back off, and when he did everything disappeared from the screen except his words. From what I saw of the text, it looked to be a requisition letter, something about frozen peas for the cafeteria.
“You smell nice,” he said suddenly, his voice husky.
I backed away, aware that the two of us were alone.
“Thank you,” I replied curtly.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be forward,” he said. “We just don’t have a lot of sweet-smelling women around here.”
He was blushing, and for some reason I didn’t take him as much of a threat. Balding and stocky, I had a feeling he was a white collar criminal, probably convicted of insider trading or something. This was minimum security, after all.
“May I ask you a question?” I asked, going back to my chair and thinking I just might use my “appeal” to this guy to my advantage.
“Sure,” he said, focusing on me and giving me what I’m sure he thought was a charming smile.
“Do you know James Sparks?”
“Who, Crunch? Yeah. He’s a decent fellow.”
“Crunch?”
“That’s his nickname. He’s some kind of math whiz, a number cruncher. We call him Crunch.”
“A math whiz?”
“Yeah, he’s always talking about ‘algorithms’ and stuff like that. Way over my head. He’s a computer geek.
“Wow,” I said. “Is that what James—uh, Crunch—did before he went to prison?” I asked. “Computer work?”
The man shrugged and turned his attention back to the screen. I think I offended him by using the word “prison.”
“I dunno,” he said. “Crunch doesn’t talk about his life on the outside.”
“Where’s he from?” I asked, crossing my legs. I could see the man watching me from the corner of his eye.
“Not too far from here,” he said finally, warming up to me again. “Albany.”
“Albany, Georgia?”
“Yeah, I believe so. His mother comes to see him every Sunday, always brings homemade bread and a big tub of soup.”
Just then, the phone rang. He answered it, spoke for a moment, and hung up.
“That was the warden,” he announced. “Said it looks like he’s gonna be a good bit longer than he thought. You can wait if you want, though.”
I felt a sudden surge of claustrophobia. I knew that I wouldn’t wait, that I needed to get out of there.
“That’s okay,” I told him, standing. “I’ll call him later. In the meantime, I need the address and phone number for James’ mother.”
The man shook his head.
“Sorry,” he said. “That’s confidential. No can do.”
“It’s just that I’m on my way to Albany now. Sure would save me some time if you could get it for me.”
“Look, I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to. I don’t know where they keep that kind of thing.”
I hesitated.
“Between you and me, then,” I said, giving him a wink. “Any ideas about how I might be able to find the woman? You think she’s in the phone book?”
“No telling,” he replied. “I know she works as a waitress.”
“You happen to know the name of the restaurant?”
“Huh…” he seemed lost in thought. “Sorry. It’s always printed on the side of the soup container, but I can’t remember. Something with ivy leaves trailing off…”
“How about her first name? Do you know that?”
“I think it’s Tildy. Trudy. I don’t know. She looks a lot like her son, small and blond, but without the glasses. Most of the guys just call her Miz Sparks.”
I thought about giving him my card and asking the warden to phone me when he got in. I decided against it, however, realizing that this fellow might take it upon himself to keep my number and start calling me himself. If I couldn’t turn anything up with James’ mother, I could always call the warden later.
Back in the car, I drove slowly out of the prison and then used the GPS to find my way to Albany. The highway was weather worn with dips in the blacktop that made a steady whooshing sound against my tires. As I drove, the sound turned to words: Brother-in-law. Brother-in-law. James Sparks was Tom’s brother-in-law.
I wouldn’t let myself think, wouldn’t let myself go crazy just yet. There was simply too much to do.
Fourteen
By the time I reached Albany, it was nearly two o’clock. I found a motel right off the highway, and I went inside and looked in the telephone book, first for a listing for Sparks, and then for a restaurant with either “Ivy” in the title or ivy in its ad logo. I struck out on all counts.
Desperate, I paused at the front desk, where two young women were sitting on stools, chatting with each other. They were both pretty in a “Georgia peach” sort of way, with perfect skin and highly stylized hair, one a blonde, the other a redhead. They wore the uniform of the motel chain, matching navy suits with floral-printed scarves.
“Can I help you?” the blonde asked cheerily, hopping off her stool.
“I’m trying to locate a restaurant,” I said. “I don’t remember the name of it, but their sign has vines in it, like ivy? Does that ring a bell?”
“Oh, yeah,” the blonde said, prettily squinting her eyes at her friend. “What is that place called? We went there after the Country All-Stars concert.”
“The Porch?”
“The Back Porch,” the blonde corrected. “Yeah, it’s off Dawson Road over by the Phoebe Northwest building.”
She pulled out paper and a pen and drew a map of how to get there. Thanking her profusely, I nearly ran to my car. Following the little map, I made my way across town, passing some
lovely neighborhoods and a number of strip malls and then the big medical building they had told me to watch for. Sure enough, just past the medical building, on the left, was a sign that said “The Back Porch,” its letters entwined with ivy.
I parked and went inside, hoping the restaurant would still be serving lunch this late. The place was quiet and empty, with only a few diners. Still, a man greeted me cheerily, grabbed a menu, and said, “One?” I nodded mutely.
He led me to a table by the window, nicely set with a spray of fresh flowers in the center. Had the situation not been so fraught with tension, I might actually have enjoyed dining there.
I practically held my breath until the waitress came, but she was in her twenties, far too young to be Sparks’ mother. She took my drink order, and then I scanned the menu, wondering how to work this. When she came back with my tea, I placed my order for a salad and sandwich and then handed her back the menu, nonchalantly asking my question.
“There’s another waitress here, small and blonde…”
“Who, Mary Jean?”
“No…”
“Tilly?”
“Yes,” I said, pulse surging. “Is she here now?”
“No, I’m sorry, it’s her day off.” Seeing the crestfallen look on my face, she added, “She might be coming in, though. It’s payday, so she’ll probably stop by for her check so she can get it over to the bank.”
I asked if there was any way I could leave a message with Tilly’s paycheck.
“Sure,” she replied, so I borrowed her pen and an order slip and wrote out Tilly, please call me. This is in regard to your son, James. I hesitated, deciding not to write my name. She would probably recognize “Callie Webber,” and I didn’t want to give her the advantage of knowing who I was before we talked. Instead, I wrote A friend and then, under that, my cell phone number.
I handed the note to the waitress, who pocketed it and then told me my food would be out soon.
When she came back just a few minutes later with my salad, she said, “I put your message in with her paycheck. She’ll probably get it before five.”
“Thank you.”
“So you know James?”
I hesitated, surprised not that the girl had read the note, but that she wasn’t even trying to hide that fact.
“Yes.”
“She’s so proud of that boy. But I think he kind of takes advantage of her, don’t you?”
“In what way?”
“She’s always doing for him, going to see him, bringing him food every Sunday. I say, why does she always have to go to him? I don’t care how big and important he is, why can’t he come see her once in a while? That house of hers is practically falling down, but all it would take for him is a couple weekends of work to get it fixed back up. You know, clean out the rain gutters, fix the screen door, things like that. But no, he’s too busy. Can’t even come over and give the place a coat of paint. I say, shame on him.”
I looked down at my salad, understanding that Tilly’s coworkers had no idea her son was a prisoner in jail. Either that or I had the wrong person. But I didn’t think so. I think she had created a whole false life just to keep his true circumstances a secret. For some reason, I felt a surge of protectiveness toward the woman.
“Sometimes family lets us down,” I said simply.
The girl could see I wasn’t going to gossip with her about Tilly. With a shrug she turned and walked away, back to the kitchen.
Numbly, I ate my salad, wondering what I would say to James’ mother when she called. If she called. In the meantime I was hungry, and when my sandwich came, I ate almost every bite. When the waitress brought the check, I asked if Tilly had shown up yet.
“No, but the bank doesn’t close for another two hours. She’ll probably be in.”
When I left the restaurant, I double-checked my cell phone to make sure the battery was good. I pulled out of the nearly empty parking lot, drove a few blocks, and then turned around to come back to the parking lot of the big medical building next door to the restaurant.
Three feet of grass and a row of scraggly bushes were the only barriers between the two parking lots, but I knew I would be much less conspicuous on this side, where there were more cars. I pulled in next to a navy Honda and parked, glad that I could see the restaurant clearly. I wasn’t sure how long I would have to wait, but if my waitress was correct, Tilly Sparks would show up at some point in the next two hours.
I settled back against the seat, holding a map in front of me so I wouldn’t look too conspicuous just sitting there. The car was warm, and after a while I rolled down the windows, relishing the light afternoon breeze that swept inside. A car pulled up on the other side of me, a low red Mitsubishi, and a woman climbed out, a professional-looking brunette dressed in navy pants and a white lab coat. Pocketing her keys, she gave me a friendly nod and then walked briskly toward the building.
An hour later, I was still waiting for a glimpse of Tilly when the brunette came back. She noticed me and paused, leaning down to look in from the passenger’s window.
“Hey,” she said warmly. “You need some help?”
“Excuse me?”
“The map. Are you lost?”
“Oh, no,” I said, and from the corner of my eye I could see a car turning into the restaurant. “I’m waiting for someone. I was just reading the map to kill time.”
“You’ve been waiting quite a while,” she said, flipping through her car keys to find the right one. “If you need to use a phone or anything, just go inside that door there. Tell them Patricia sent you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I will.”
She got in her car and left just in time for me to see a short blonde woman bound up the back steps of the restaurant. I started my car as soon as she went inside, hoping this was indeed Tilly and not the other short blonde, Mary Jean.
A few minutes later, she came back out with much less bounce to her step now. I could see a white envelope clutched in her hand, and she went straight to her car without even glancing around.
She turned left onto the main road and I followed suit, riding close at first and then putting a few cars between us when we reached some traffic. She surprised me by turning into a bank, but I kept going and pulled over into a donut shop soon after.
From there, I followed her across town, praying out loud into the car as I went. My prayers were twofold: first, that she would be willing to talk to me, and second, that, if so, our conversation would be fruitful.
Eventually, my pursuit led me onto a bridge over a wide, teeming river. Once on the other side, I realized we had entered a visibly poorer section of town. When she turned onto a side street, I went straight, hoping that if I doubled back in a few minutes I would be able to locate her car.
Sure enough, I found it parked in front of a ramshackle yellow house. I drove past to the end of the block, pulling to a stop in a convenience store parking lot.
My intention was to sit and wait there for the phone call, but the longer I waited, the more uncomfortable I grew. The neighborhood wasn’t the best, and my SUV stuck out like a sore thumb, garnering curious looks from pedestrians. The last thing I wanted was to draw attention to myself, so I decided to relocate.
I had seen a pretty little riverside park just prior to crossing the bridge, so I drove back over into the main part of town and went back there. I found a shady spot to park and turned off the engine. The phone rang about ten minutes later.
“Hello?” I said, praying that Tilly was on the other end of the line.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice said tentatively.
“Yes.”
“You left a note? It said from a friend?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know my son?”
She sounded frightened and confused and even a little bit angry.
“Is this Tilly?” I asked, wanting to make sure before I told her.
“Of course.”
“This is Callie Webber. My husband was the one
—my husband, Bryan Webber was—”
Somehow, I faltered, unable to think of how to say it, not wanting to blurt out “your son killed my husband.” In my hesitation, she filled the void.
“I know that name. Your husband is the one who got hurt in the boating accident?”
“Yes,” I said, wanting to say, not hurt, killed, but I held my tongue.
“What do you want?” she asked, sounding more confused than anything.
“I’m in town,” I told her, “and I wondered if I could talk to you. Face-to-face.”
“You wanna talk to me?”
“Yes. It won’t take long. Maybe ten, fifteen minutes?”
She was quiet for a moment.
“I don’t see why,” she said finally.
“Please?” I asked. “I could come to your house, if you’d like.”
“No,” she replied finally. “I’ll come to you. Where are you?”
I described the park, and she said she could be there in a few minutes.
While I waited, I got out of the car and wandered over to a nearby picnic table. I sat facing the water, my back to the parking lot, wishing that none of this were necessary, that today could have been a simple day like any other. The further I went into this investigation, the further I went from Tom. Deep in my heart, I had a feeling that with every new fact I unturned, things were only going to get worse.
I glanced at my watch, counting the minutes until she would get here. Finally, I spotted her car coming over the bridge, and I followed it with my eyes as it turned into the parking lot and pulled to a stop next to mine.
She got out of the car. Tilly Sparks was short and blonde, as described, and she did look like her son. But where he was wary and suspicious, she seemed merely tired and beaten down. She walked over to me. I stood, and after an awkward moment stepped forward and extended my hand to her.
“Callie Webber,” I said, shaking her hand. “Thank you for coming.”
The Buck Stops Here Page 10
