I Think I Love You

by Stephanie Bond

  “Nah,” he agreed. “Even the regulars won’t come just to look at an urn. You know how the folks around here prefer a good open-casket viewing.”

  Mitchell looked over. “His body is being cremated?”

  She nodded. “Mica said it’s what he wanted.”

  “Would never have thought that of Dean,” Pete said.

  “How well did you know him?” Mitchell asked.

  Pete shrugged. “He was a dropout, older, kind of wild. We didn’t run in the same circles. I knew him when I saw him, or when Dad talked about him.”

  “He was in trouble with the law?”

  Another shrug. “Carousing, breaking city limits curfew, stuff like that.” He scrunched up his face. “And then there was Rebecca Calvin—I’d forgotten all about her.”

  Regina’s ears perked. “The daughter of the man who sells old books?”

  “Sounds like the same man—sells cars on the side, too. Drives a flatbed truck?”

  “Yes. What about his daughter?”

  “Committed suicide when she was fifteen.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “She was older than us, older than Justine, I think. Lived up Macken Hollow, just her and her dad.”

  “What happened?” Mitchell asked.

  “Hung herself. Turns out she was pregnant, and rumor was the baby was Dean’s. I think he was only fifteen at the time, too.”

  Regina swallowed hard. When Mr. Calvin had said his daughter had been gone a long time, he’d meant dead.

  “Guess there was bad blood between the old man and Haviland?” Mitchell asked.

  “Yeah. The old man was pretty torn up about it, wanted my dad to lock Dean up, but there wasn’t anything he could charge Dean with.”

  “Has anyone questioned Mr. Calvin to see where he was the night Dean was shot?”

  Pete shifted foot to foot. “I don’t mean to sound crass, but it seems pretty clear that John is the guy we’re looking for here.”

  “Right, the obvious theory,” Mitchell said.

  Pete leaned in. “Sorry, Regina. You know we’ll go as easy on John as we can when he shows up.”

  She bit her tongue and nodded. “Thanks, Pete.”

  “Monroeville doesn’t seem like a hotbed of crime,” Mitchell said. “How many murders in the last twenty-five years?”

  Pete thought hard. “There was Lyla Gilbert, then, about five years ago, Fitz Howard—”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Local plumber. Was plumbing George Farrell’s wife, and George ran him over with an Oldsmobile. That was a closed-casket funeral.”

  “Any others?”

  He shook his head. “Not until Dean. We’re more of a farm-accident kind of community.” From the car, his radio screeched. He pointed. “I’d better get that. I’ll see you tomorrow night at the memorial, Regina.”

  She said good-bye, and they pulled out onto the two-lane highway that led back to town. She slumped comfortably and leaned close enough to the window to catch the breeze.

  “I can turn on the air conditioner.”

  “I’d rather have the fresh air.”

  He sped up and she closed her eyes, relishing the coolness on her lashes. The tension drained away as they put more distance between them and the house. After a few minutes of joyous silence, she sighed and looked over. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I didn’t realize how tightly I was wound.”

  “Understandable. Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t burst into flames.”

  She managed a laugh. “I’ve built up immunity over the years.”

  “No wonder you gravitated toward self-help books.”

  She frowned. “I didn’t… gravitate. The opportunity at Green Label became available, and it sounded… challenging.”

  He nodded.

  “And interesting.”

  He nodded again.

  Gravitate, ha. She tried to recapture her calm of a minute ago. “Weren’t you going to show me something?”

  “It’s back there,” he said, motioning behind their seats.

  She glanced in the back of the van past Sam and saw, among other things, a cot. She pursed her mouth. “I’m not in the mood.”

  “Huh?” Then he grinned. “Oh, that’s not what I had in mind. I mean, that’s always close to the surface, but… there’s a blue file folder in the box directly behind my seat. Will you get it?”

  She leaned over and retrieved the file with much licking assistance from Sam. “This one? What is it?”

  “The investigative notes surrounding your aunt’s murder. I got them from David.”

  She sighed. “Look, I realize your brother is hung up on the Bracken hearing, but I’m preoccupied with this situation involving my dad.”

  “I believe the cases could be connected.”

  “What? How?”

  “Three murders in this town in the last twenty-five years and two of the victims knew each other intimately. That’s an uncanny coincidence, don’t you think?”

  She shifted in her seat. “You’re saying the same person committed both murders?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s worth looking into.”

  She turned to look out the window and pressed her finger under her nose to stem the urge to cry.

  “What is it?”

  She swallowed hard.

  “Regina, you’re not telling me something. What is it?”

  He slowed and eased off onto the grassy shoulder of the road. After putting the van into park, he turned sideways. “Look at me.”

  She did.

  “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me everything.”

  “I… can’t.”

  “I’m your attorney.”

  “You’re also a witness—you’re too involved already.”

  “Do you have a dollar?”

  “What?”

  “A dollar—do you have one?”

  “I didn’t bring my purse.”

  He pulled a wallet from his back pocket and peeled off a one-dollar bill. “Here.”

  She took it. “What’s this for?”

  “I’m loaning you a dollar for my retainer,” he said, hand extended. “Give it back.”

  She gave it back, exasperated.

  “Now, even if I’m subpoenaed as a witness, I can only testify to what I personally observe, not anything that you divulge to me.”

  She puffed out her cheeks, tapping her foot in indecision. She wanted to trust him, but could she?

  “Regina?”

  She exhaled with much embellishment. “Mom told me this morning that Dad had an affair with my Aunt Lyla.”

  He hummed. “Not good.”

  “My thought exactly.”

  “Do you believe he could have killed her?”

  “Absolutely not. Could he have killed Dean? Maybe in self-defense or to protect one of us. But Dad would never have stabbed a woman in cold blood.”

  “Not even if she’d threatened to go public with the affair?”

  “Not even.”

  “Not even if her husband was his brother-in-law?”

  “Especially if her husband was his brother-in-law.”

  He smiled. “That’s good enough for me. And I don’t believe he killed Dean.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing, the day we went fishing, he could barely walk on that arthritic foot of his. When the three of us walked from the shop to the house through the woods, he was having a terrible time just putting his foot down.”

  “I noticed.”

  “So he’s supposed to have knocked off Dean, stuffed him in a wardrobe, ditched Dean’s car a mile away, then walked back to get his own car, and left.”

  “You’re right,” she murmured. “He would’ve had to have help.”

  “Could he be covering for one of your sisters?”

  She pressed her lips together. “This morning Justine suggested he was taking the rap for Mica.
”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think Mica had plenty of motivation to get rid of Dean, and as Justine pointed out, we don’t know Mica as well as we used to.”

  “What about Justine? She had plenty of reason to want him dead, too. Would John have covered for her?”

  “Of course. Justine has this thing about Daddy preferring Mica, but like you said when you came back from fishing, he adores all of us.”

  “When do you all take your polygraph tests?”

  “Tomorrow morning. There’s someone coming in from Asheville to administer them.”

  “Don’t be nervous; it’s not nearly as dramatic as they make it seem on television.”

  “I’m only nervous about the fact that I have to take one at all.”

  He smiled. “Chalk it up as a life experience.”

  “One I could happily die without.”

  He tapped his thumb on the steering wheel. “Let’s assume that your sisters aren’t involved. My brother told me the tip was called into his office around eight a.m., but Dean didn’t show up here until three in the afternoon. Where was he in Monroeville during the hours between?”

  She perked up. “Good question. You think he met up with an old friend?”

  “Or an old enemy. Did you know any of his buddies?”

  “Not really. And Mica said he didn’t have any family left.”

  “Did he have a best man at the wedding?”

  She nodded but struggled to remember the man’s name. Short, ferretlike. “Stanley something. Kirby—his last name was Kirby.”

  “Do you know where we’d find him?”

  “Dean grew up several miles from town, a wide spot in the road called Macken. Stanley lived there, too, and he seemed like the kind of guy who wouldn’t venture too far.”

  “Near the place where the Calvins lived, Macken Hollow?”

  “Yeah. That’s probably how Dean knew Rebecca Calvin.”

  “Why don’t we see if we can round up Stanley, then drop in on Mr. Calvin and ask a few questions?”

  “Okay. You’ll need to turn left at the next intersection.”

  He nodded toward the folder in her hands. “Meanwhile, why don’t you take a look through those notes and see if anything jogs a new memory?”

  She rolled up the window halfway, then opened the folder with trembling hands. On top was a heavily photocopied typed police report. Description of crime: Homicide. Victim: Lyla A. Gilbert. Location: 1 mi. south of railroad tracks on Bradley Road, near Armadillo Creek.

  Victim found in ‘78 Cadillac convertible, partially nude, with stablike wound in chest. No visible weapon. Apparent sexual activity. Body found by two hunters, Roger Bradley and Hilton Mann, at 4:30 P.M.

  At least she’d lain there for only an hour or so. Regina closed her eyes briefly, then lifted her head to get her bearings.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Take the next right.”

  He did. She had to love a man who followed driving directions.

  Well… not literally, of course.

  “Where will this take us?” he asked.

  “It’s a roundabout way but eventually to Lovers’ Lane.”

  She hadn’t been back, not in all those years. After that awful day, any time that she and her sisters walked to the Dilly swimming hole, they had scrupulously avoided the overlook.

  It took them a few minutes of driving up and down Bradley Road, a one-lane broken asphalt disaster, before she spotted the opening in the trees. “There.”

  He pulled in gingerly, keeping an eye out for low branches overhead. After a few feet into the trees, however, the green space opened up. The ground was crisscrossed with tire impressions in dried mud. Lovers’ Lane, it seemed, remained a thriving local attraction.

  Some conscientious soul had even contributed a fifty-gallon metal drum for a trash can.

  “I hope no one’s here,” he murmured.

  She laughed. “On a Thursday morning?”

  “You got something against making whoopee on a Thursday morning?”

  “Not in general.”

  “Good.”

  Regina frowned. “Stop here and we’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  Because the trees and foliage had matured so much, she didn’t recognize the spot where Lyla’s car had been parked until she looked up to see the rock ledge where they’d hovered prostrate and gotten more than an eyeful. The ledge was visible because the tree she’d shinnied down lay on its side, rotting. She waited for the terror of that day to take hold, but in truth, the deadend grassy lane and the surrounding wall of rock and trees created a peaceful and, yes, romantic enclosure.

  Mitchell followed her line of vision. “Is that where you were when it happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was the car?”

  She panned the area, then paced over a few yards. “Here, I think. Facing that direction.”

  “Which way did the man run?”

  “The way we came in.”

  “So he might have lived close by?”

  Her father? “Maybe. Or maybe his car was parked nearby, or maybe he walked awhile and hitched a ride, or maybe he walked to town and called a friend.”

  He nodded, conceding that one theory didn’t outweigh another, then he extended his hand.

  She took it, confused. “What?”

  He pulled her close, held her loosely. “I was thinking that maybe you’d like to have one good memory of this place.”

  She smiled up at him. “What did you have in mind?”

  “A kiss, if you’ll lose the glasses so I can do it properly.”

  She removed her glasses and leaned into the kiss he offered. Sweet and thorough and familiar, but not nearly long enough.

  “How’s that?” he asked.

  “Memorable,” she admitted, running a finger over her lips.

  He looked pleased with himself.

  She angled her head. “I was thinking…”

  He grinned. “Yes?”

  “I’d like to talk to the men who found Lyla’s body.”

  His grin faded. “Oh. We can do that, I guess. Think they’re still around here?”

  “Maybe.” She stabbed her glasses back in place, strode to the van, and scanned the papers in the blue file. “Here are their addresses. And we’re not too far from the Bradley home.”

  He offered a surrendering smile. “What are we waiting for?”

  Chapter 26

  DO question everything he says. And does. And might do.

  The Bradley residence was an ancient gray clapboard house that sat off a gravel road on a level piece of land that might have been picturesque except there was not a single blade of grass around the cement-block foundation. The reason slid into view as they parked next to a mud-spattered Jeep Wrangler—at least twenty dogs, all shapes and sizes, raising a nerve-jangling brouhaha with their hoarse barking. Sam went nuts.

  “Easy, boy,” Mitchell soothed, then looked at Regina for guidance.

  “Toot your horn. Loud.”

  He did, and the dogs were shocked into silence. He honked again and they began to slink off, barking with much less menace. The front door opened and an elderly woman came out carrying a dish towel.

  “Let me do the talking,” Regina said, then climbed out and walked slowly toward the house. Mitchell followed, and they were instantly surrounded by curious dogs, sniffing and whining at their heels. “Mrs. Bradley?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My name is Regina Metcalf. I grew up around here; my parents are John Metcalf and Cissy Gilbert.”

  “They run that antique store.”

  “Right. And this is a friend of mine, Mitchell Cooke.”

  He nodded. “Hello.”

  The woman didn’t reply.

  “Is Mr. Bradley home?” Regina asked.

  “Taking a nap.”

  “Would it be possible to talk to him? I’d like to ask him a few questions.”

  “What about?”

>   “Lyla Gilbert was my aunt, and I understand that he found her body when she was murdered.”

  “That was nigh on twenty years ago, and suddenly everyone’s asking questions again.”

  Apparently Bracken’s team had been retracing the steps of the initial investigation. “Yes, ma’am, I know. It’s important.”

  “I’ll see if he wants to talk to you.”

  As they waited in the yard, the dogs grew bored and disappeared. At last, the door opened and the Bradleys appeared. Roger Bradley was sleep-ruffled but invited them to come up on the porch. They introduced themselves and sat on dusty black wrought-iron chairs.

  Mr. Bradley coughed a couple of times, then wheezed in a big breath. “There was some trouble over at your parents’ place this week, wasn’t there?”

  She hesitated. “Unfortunately, yes.” She cleared her throat “Mr. Bradley, I was hoping you could answer some questions about my Aunt Lyla’s death.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Elmore Bracken trying to get a new trial?”

  “Yes, indirectly.” She explained that she and her sisters had witnessed the murder from a distance and why they hadn’t come forward. “When Elmore Bracken was arrested, we thought everything would be fine. But now, with all the new questions, we just want to make sure the right man is serving time. I actually saw the car and the murder scene up close, and I wanted to compare what I saw with what you saw.”

  He inclined his head. “Okay.”

  “How did you find the car?”

  He clasped his big wrinkled fingers in front of him. “Walked up onto it, really. I was hunting with Hilton Mann—weren’t after much, just training a new dog. It was hot as blazes. The dog ran off-scent, and we were looking for him. Found him next to the car, going berserk. Then we saw the Gilbert woman lying on the seat, dead as could be. Real still. Everything was so quiet.”

  The abiding stillness had embedded in her memory as well. She swallowed. “Did you see the murder weapon?”

  He shook his head.

  “Mr. Bradley,” she said, wetting her lips. “This is very important. Are you certain there wasn’t something that resembled a knife lying on the passenger seat?”

  “Yep. Hilton and me, we thought she’d been shot because we didn’t see anything that could’ve killed her.”

  She believed him—he didn’t seem like the kind of man who would lift a souvenir from a murder scene. “Does Mr. Mann still live around here?”