“I think you’re right. I noticed it when I was at Kate’s last night—” Virgil winced. So much for keeping Jesse’s statement to himself.
“You were at Kate’s? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I hadn’t intended to say anything just yet. Only a handful of my deputies know.”
“Know what?”
Virgil turned and slipped his arm around Jill Beth. “Jesse may have witnessed Dixie Berne’s drowning. He saw a woman fitting her description wading in the river with a man. I’m not making this public knowledge.”
“I’ve been keeping your secrets for almost three decades, lawman. I won’t say anything.”
Virgil knew she wouldn’t. He told her every detail Jesse had given in his statement.
“As it turns out,” Virgil said, “the time Jesse saw the man and woman in the water fits her time of death. And the location is about a hundred and thirty yards upstream from where Dixie Berne’s body was recovered with all her jewelry missing. That, plus the fact that Jesse remembers seeing the man get out of the water but not the woman, supports the feasibility of her having drowned in the Sure Foot.”
Jill Beth’s eyes widened. “And no one else saw anything?”
“No one else has come forward. As far as we know, Jesse is the only witness to whatever occurred out there. I’m trying to keep it close to the vest. If Dixie Berne was murdered, I don’t want the killer knowing we have an eyewitness, especially one as young and vulnerable as Jesse.”
“How does Jesse feel about that?”
Virgil raised his eyebrows. “At the moment, he thinks it’s cool to be the sole witness. Kate doesn’t share that sentiment.”
“I don’t blame her. If you catch the guy and it goes to trial, poor Jesse would be right in the middle of it. And if you don’t catch the killer, the Cummingses will have to deal with the knowledge that he’s still out there.”
“It’s unfortunate that Jesse’s involved in this,” Virgil said. “But I can’t ignore what he saw. I think I’ll get our sketch artist to work with him. Even though he thinks he didn’t get a good look at the guy’s face, he might have seen more than he realizes.”
t
Liam pushed away his dinner plate and watched Colleen pick at her broccoli with a fork.
“Your dinner’s cold,” he said. “You want me to warm it in the microwave?”
Colleen looked up at him blankly, as if his words hadn’t quite registered yet. “Uh … no, thanks. It’s sweet of you to offer, but I’m really not hungry.”
“You need to eat anyway. It’s going to be hard to stay strong if you don’t.”
“I need something that doesn’t feel like a brick in my stomach. Maybe I’ll have a yogurt later.”
Liam nodded. “I’m glad we got Mom’s arrangements made. The pastor at your church is warm. I’m glad he’s doing Mom’s memorial service.”
“Pastor Windsor is a kind man. And he knew Mom personally, which means a lot to me.”
“That’s what matters. I doubt there will be more than a handful of people there.”
“It might surprise you how many people from my church will come to support us. They won’t be strangers. A lot of them knew Mom before the Alzheimer’s.”
“I doubt either of us will be thinking about other people. I just want to get it over with.”
Colleen’s red-rimmed eyes looked tired. “So do I. But I also want Mom to be remembered for the beautiful person she was most of her life. And I want to be with my church family to celebrate her going home to Jesus. That’s important to me.”
“Then it’s important to me.”
Colleen seemed to study him. “Did you ever hear back from Corey?”
Liam took a sip of water. “Just a text message saying he’s sick about his grandmother’s death. But that he just started a new job and can’t get away right now, which is his way of saying he doesn’t want to see me. He’ll never forgive me for divorcing his mother.”
“You didn’t really expect him to come for the memorial service,” Colleen said, “when you haven’t seen him in three years?”
“I guess not. But a part of me was hoping this might be the time to break the ice.”
Colleen reached over and put her hand on his. “I think laying Mom to rest is all the pressure either of us can handle right now. But you can bet I’m not done seeking justice for her death.”
Liam looked into Colleen’s sad eyes. “Sis, if the sheriff can’t prove it was murder, what other recourse is there? Mom’s gone. She’s in heaven—whole again. Doesn’t it make sense to let it go and move on?”
“I’m not sure I can do that.”
“I understand. I really do.” Liam tenderly squeezed her hand. “But I’m not sure we have another choice.”
Colleen shot him one of her I-beg-to-differ looks. “Speak for yourself. I certainly do. I can use my half of the inheritance money to hire a private investigator. If it takes every cent, I’m going to find out what happened to Mom.”
“You think a PI could find out what the sheriff can’t? Or that Mom and Dad would want you to spend your inheritance that way? It’s their gift to us.”
“I could never enjoy spending that money,” Colleen said, “knowing how we got it.”
Liam bit his lip, careful not to react. It was just the grief talking. A month from now, she would change her mind.
Chapter 11
Two weeks later, Jesse missed the Monday-morning bus and hitched a ride to school with Elliot, who came to his rescue so Kate wouldn’t miss her dental appointment. They were almost to school and Jesse had hardly said a word.
“What’s wrong, sport?” Elliot glanced over at him. “You’re awfully quiet.”
Jesse stared at his hands. “Miss Berne is coming back today. I’m worried about what I should say to her.”
“Well, when your mom and I saw her at the funeral home, I just told her I was very sorry about her mother. That’s all you need to say.”
“What if she can tell I know something?”
“She can’t. How could she?” Elliot turned in behind a line of cars in the circle drive in front of the middle school. He reached over and put his hand on Jesse’s knee. “The sheriff said he’s not telling the victim’s family that he has a potential witness unless he makes an arrest and it goes to trial. Your teacher doesn’t know anything about you or what you saw. Just be yourself.”
“Kind of hard to do when I might’ve seen her mother get murdered.”
“Or not.” Elliot inched the car forward. “There’s no proof that’s what happened.”
“You don’t think it’s weird that the coroner said her mother’s time of death fit the time when I saw a white-haired lady wading in the river with a man—and both of them were dressed in regular clothes?”
“Of course I think it’s weird.” Elliot pulled the car forward and stopped. “But the point is, unless the sheriff can find the man and question him, we will never know for sure. That’s why he’s talked to you several times and pressed you so hard to remember every detail you could.”
“I remember lots of details. But I only saw the man’s face for a couple seconds. I’m not sure that what I gave the sketch artist helped very much. But I’m ninety-nine percent sure the woman I saw was Dixie Berne.”
Someone waiting behind them tooted the horn, and Elliot pulled forward.
“I guess I’d better get going,” Jesse said.
“Just relax and have a good day. Tell Dawson I said he made an awesome catch on that last pass.”
“I will. He’s everyone’s hero. Thanks for the ride. I’ll make sure I don’t miss the bus home.”
“See you at dinner,” Elliot said.
Elliot drove off, and Jesse walked up the front sidewalk of the ivy-clad stone building. He pulled open one of the red doors and walked into the spacious f
oyer, bright with golden sunlight and buzzing with the usual Monday-morning chatter.
He spotted Dawson standing near one of the tall windows, his polished dark skin enhancing his bright smile. He was surrounded by a group of cheerleaders and a few teammates. They were all laughing and seemed to be having a great time. Dawson didn’t see him. Or pretended not to. Jesse decided not to interrupt him and headed down the hall to his homeroom class.
It was almost impossible to get Dawson’s attention anymore. Between his new clique of friends, homework, football practice, and games, he didn’t have time for much else, not even his best friend. Jesse suddenly felt really sad, but he pushed away the feeling. He wasn’t a crybaby. If Dawson wanted to hang out with him, he’d find the time. Too bad he was so busy. He was missing some great fishing.
Jesse didn’t get much studying done in homeroom. He couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to walk into his second-period English class and pretend he didn’t know anything about how his teacher’s mother had died.
Finally, the bell rang, and he grabbed his backpack and headed down the hall, blending into the fast-moving stream of students.
“Jesse, wait up!”
In the next instant, Dawson walked beside him, keeping perfect pace. “Hey, man. I didn’t see you before school and thought maybe you were sick today.”
“I was running late and barely got in the front door when the bell rang,” Jesse said, the lie pricking his conscience.
“Sorry I didn’t text you over the weekend,” Dawson said. “I played in the game on Saturday and went out with the team for burgers afterward. Then Mom took my phone away till I finished my homework—which took most of what was left of Sunday after church.”
“No sweat,” Jesse said. “I spent most of the weekend fishing. I wish you could see the crappie hole I found. Hawk and I can’t pull them in fast enough. Even Riley’s been catching one after another. It’s been that way for a couple weeks. It’s awesome.”
Dawson winced. “Man, you’re killin’ me. I miss fishin’ with you. I just wish I had more time. School’s hard this year. And if I want to play football, I’ve gotta get the grades.”
Jesse slowed to a stop and glanced up at the door to their English class. “Miss Berne is supposed to be back today.”
“I’m glad. Aren’t you?” Dawson waved at one of his football buddies, as the jock strutted into the classroom from across the hall. “I like her a lot better than the sub.”
“Me too.” Jesse followed Dawson into the classroom and saw Miss Berne writing something on the blackboard. Grateful not to have to face her, he turned down the second aisle and took his seat next to Dawson.
Other students poured into the classroom. Several walked up to Miss Berne’s desk and left what appeared to be cards. One girl brought a small vase of zinnias. Jesse wondered why he hadn’t thought to at least bring a sympathy card.
A minute passed and the bell rang, signaling the beginning of second period. The chatter and whispers died down quickly as Miss Berne turned around.
She wore a pretty blue dress and the same cool glasses, but she looked pale. Skinnier and older. Jesse didn’t remember her having so many wrinkles on her forehead. Her lips were pressed tightly together and her hands clasped in front of her as she seemed to survey the cards and flowers.
Finally, she looked up and smiled. “Thank you, students, for this thoughtful display of sympathy and caring. I’m glad to be back with you. Miss Northup has kept me up on your progress. I’m proud of the work y’all did in my absence. It’s been a difficult couple weeks, but I’m ready for us to pick up where we left off and get back to creative writing.”
The students reacted with rumblings and sighs.
“Lest you think it’s drudgery,” Miss Berne said, “I want you to try a fun exercise. Each of you will need to get with your writing partner. The assignment is for the two of you to brainstorm and come up with a story. One of you is going to write the first half. The other, the second half. Y’all decide who goes first. All I want you to do today is figure out the story line. You’ll have forty minutes to brainstorm. We’ll start on the writing tomorrow. Because it’s such a beautiful day outside, I’m going to let you sit in the courtyard and work on this assignment. So grab some paper and something to write with and let’s quietly file through the cafeteria and out to the courtyard.”
Jesse glanced over at Dawson, then joined a single file of students, crossing the hall to the cafeteria, his mind racing with an idea for a story. It could work. Unless Dawson could think of something better.
Jesse stepped out of the cafeteria and into the courtyard that made up the school’s inner campus. He flopped down in the grass, and Dawson dropped down beside him.
“I hope you have some ideas,” Dawson said. “I stink at writing. I have trouble writin’ a thank-you note.”
“Actually, I do.” Jesse grinned. “Ready?”
Dawson nodded. “Go.”
“Okay … one summer day, a kid about our age is fishing on the river and sees a murder.”
“Cool!” Dawson said. “What kinda murder?”
“He sees a man and woman fishing off a dock but doesn’t pay much attention because he’s into a school of crappie. Later he notices the man by himself, throwing something into the water that makes a big splash. He can’t tell what it is and doesn’t think about it again until he hears on the news that a woman’s body has washed up in the river—and realizes he might have witnessed her murder. His mom calls the sheriff, and he gives his statement. Come to find out, he’s the only witness. He’s not allowed to tell anyone about it—not even his best friend—because the killer is still out there and might want to silence the witness.”
“Way cool,” Dawson said.
“Even better, the kid finds out later that the dead woman was kin to his math teacher—and he has to see the teacher and all his friends every day and pretend he doesn’t know anything. Pretty cool idea, huh?”
Dawson’s eyebrows scrunched, and he seemed to study Jesse. “This is awesome, man. The kid would be dyin’ to tell someone. But he couldn’t. I like it. So how’s it end? Does he finally spill the beans?”
“Uh, I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t gotten that far.”
“Well, I say he does. Nobody could keep somethin’ that big from his best friend. Besides, his friend’d be able to tell somethin’ was wrong.”
“Not necessarily.” Jesse cracked his knuckles. “Maybe his friend was busy with school and sports and they hadn’t hung out together for a while.”
Dawson locked gazes with him. Jesse could feel his cheeks flush and looked away. This was a dumb idea.
“What’s wrong?” Dawson said.
“Nothing.”
Dawson gave Jesse’s shoulder a slight shove. “Come on, man. Don’t mess with me. We’ve been friends since we learned to talk. What aren’t you tellin’ me?”
“The ending of the story,” Jesse said. “Come on. Help me think of a neat ending and maybe we’ll get an A.”
Dawson chewed his lip and looked intently at Jesse. “Why is your face red?”
“The sun’s hot.” Jesse smiled. “If you weren’t black, your face’d be red too.”
Dawson laughed. “So how’d you think this up?”
“I have a good imagination, remember? I’ve thought a lot about Miss Berne’s mother drowning. It could’ve been murder. Nobody really knows. Now that I think about it,” Jesse quickly added, “it’d be better if the kid in the story saw a murder somewhere besides the river so Miss Berne won’t be reminded of her mother.”
“How ’bout Beaver Lake?” Dawson said. “The story’s great. I don’t think anyone’s gonna top it.” Dawson seemed caught in a long pause, his gaze fixed on Jesse. Finally, he said, “You know somethin’ you’re not tellin’?”
“Ha! Now you’re the one with a good
imagination.” Jesse was careful to show no reaction, but he felt hot all over.
Dawson continued to stare at him. “Did you see somethin’, Jess? Is this about you?”
“I never said that.” Jesse started to sweat. Why did he have to open his big mouth?
“But you’d never keep somethin’ like that from me, right?”
Jesse’s heart nearly beat out of his chest. He wanted to run somewhere—anywhere—to keep from breaking his promise to the sheriff. But he’d never lied to Dawson before—not even once.
Thirty minutes later, Miss Berne signaled the students to return to the classroom. Jesse trailed behind Dawson, then sat at the desk across from him.
Miss Berne waited for all the students to be seated. “I hope you found this exercise to be fun. Tomorrow, you’re going to write your stories. I’ll give you ten minutes first to review how you want to do it, and then you won’t be able to discuss it with your partner again. One of you will write the first half. The other, the second half. On Wednesday, we’ll read them aloud. I’m eager to hear what you’ve come up with. Any questions?”
One girl raised her hand and asked a question, but Jesse wasn’t listening. What had he gotten himself into?
The bell rang and brought his focus back to the present. He grabbed his backpack and walked out into the hall and headed for his next class, Dawson keeping pace with him.
“Remember,” Jesse said, “you can’t tell anyone what I told you.”
“You can trust these lips, dude. I don’t know how you can keep this a secret, though. You’re a celebrity. I’ll bet you’re the only kid in this school who’s ever seen a murder and can identify the killer.”
Jesse wiped the sweat off his forehead. It was bad enough that he’d gone back on his word, but why had he exaggerated the story? “Dawz, it has to stay our secret.”
Dawson flashed a bright smile. “What a shame. People write books about stuff like this and make a ton of money. It’s so cool.”
Only by Death Page 9
