Rosie entered the room and matched it. Unlike her brash, hillbilly stage persona, the at-home Rosie wore crisply creased camel wool slacks with a persimmon sweater over a beige silk blouse. She definitely looked more Oak Hill than Ryman.
“Miss Hale. I’m Rosie Layne.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I didn’t seem to be able to say much else to her.
She sat on the love seat across from me. “My neighbors tell me you’re interested in my activities. May I ask why?”
Suddenly, facing her directness, I felt like nothing more than a busybody in need of a life. Her unspoken question—what business was it of mine?—hung in the air between us. Failing other options, I decided to be honest.
I told her about being at Hazel’s that afternoon with Doug, about finding Hazel’s body, about some of my conversations and theories, then about the “visitor” who had made me too angry to give up. Finally I told her about making the connection between her and Jackie.
The muscles in her jaw softened as she listened. She was clearly ill at ease, but not at all fidgety. On the contrary, she had an extraordinary stillness.
“Miss Hale, let me assure you, I didn’t murder Hazel Miller. If I were going to kill Hazel Miller, I’d have done it decades ago. She had some hold over Jake, not enough to keep him faithful, but enough to keep him coming home.”
She sighed and went to the door. “Hannah. Would you bring us some tea, please?” She crossed to the window and stared out until the woman with the eyebrow returned and served us. Neither of us spoke.
“Thank you, Hannah.” Hannah left.
“Most of your theories are close. Jacqueline is my daughter. And Jay is obviously Jake Miller’s grandson. Jake said he would support Jacqueline, but only if I let him and Hazel adopt and raise her.
“I was opening for Jake, and we were playing West Memphis, Arkansas. I waited in the car while Jake and the band packed up and put away the equipment. He came out and signed a few autographs, still on an applause high from the crowd. He kissed me, but he wasn’t kissing me; he was being Jake Miller. He was always like that after a show that went well—high on being himself. We started driving toward Nashville, but when we got to Memphis, Jake decided we would stop and spend the night at the Peabody. It was beautiful, unlike any place I could afford to stay in back then, better than I could even dream of except as the woman with Jake Miller. You can’t imagine. Jake registered, paid in cash up front. We went upstairs. He told me he loved me, and I told him I was three and a half months pregnant. I thought he would tell me he would see his lawyer the next day to divorce Hazel so he could marry me, and we’d live happily ever after, recording hits and raising our children. I was nineteen and naive.” Her smile was sad.
“Jake was … sympathetic; he was apologetic. It was his fault; he would be responsible. He would take care of it. He took five hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet. He said he didn’t think it would take that much, but it was all he had on him. I could probably get it done here in Memphis.”
She stopped and drank her tea. She looked down and took a deep breath, shuddering.
“That was a lot of money. An abortion wouldn’t have cost half that, and that’s what he meant. I couldn’t believe it. I had been so sure he would be happy with me. I was devastated. He was surprised. He couldn’t leave Hazel. He’d thought I understood that.”
She looked into my eyes, and I understood the strength of restraint.
“No, if I were going to kill Hazel, that’s when I would have done it. I couldn’t stop crying. That didn’t fit Jake’s mood, and it didn’t fit Jake’s image of himself—ruining the innocent girl. He emptied his wallet, kept just enough for gas money home, and left. He told me to stay there, rest, get myself together, and take a bus home the next day. He’d be in touch. I couldn’t stop crying. I cried all night.
“Then the next day, I boarded the bus to Nashville. It took nearly all day, stopping at every little town. I can still see the signs—Arlington, Brownsville, Lewis, Cedar Grove, Huntington, then crossing the river to McEwen, Dickson, Pegram. My head hurt terribly from crying and lack of sleep.
“I was sure he had thought it over and changed his mind. I’d just taken him by surprise. Every stop was that much longer before I could see Jake. When I arrived in Nashville and went to my apartment—just a room, really—my landlady had an envelope for me. It was from Jake. Ten hundred-dollar bills this time. I tried to reach him for over a week. He wouldn’t take my calls, wouldn’t see me.
“For the next couple of months I worked in town, singing demos and backup as much as I could. When I started to show, I left. That’s what you did back then. Either you left town to have an abortion—illegally, of course, but everybody knew somebody who knew somebody who knew where to go—or you left town to have the baby. I went to my aunt’s in Macon. I couldn’t go home; then everyone would know. When the baby was born, I wrote him. I thought if he knew it was a baby, a little girl, a person, he’d want her. And he’d want me. I was just nineteen, and I was stupid enough to believe that’s how things worked.
“He called me back—said he couldn’t humiliate Hazel by publicly supporting a child, but if I’d let him and Hazel adopt her, she would never want for anything. I was broke. I had to work. I couldn’t work and raise this child, this precious, perfect child, by myself. I cried for another two weeks and then agreed. I asked him just to give me two months.
“In the meantime, I nursed her and talked to her and sang to her. I tried to squeeze a lifetime of love into those two months. I had this foolish idea that one day she would hear me sing and remember and know that I was her mother. She wouldn’t hate me because she would remember and know that I loved her. I know it seems ridiculous now.” She shook her head.
“I didn’t know Hazel was an alcoholic then. Maybe she wasn’t then. I did hate her when she was raising my daughter and not loving enough to give up bottles and pills. I despised her. I don’t know how much Hazel knew and when she knew—or suspected. Did she know from the beginning or only after she saw Jackie growing up and began to see Jake in her little face? When I could I bought this house to be near Jackie. I’d walk past their backyard and hear her laughing in her tree house. I’d see her swinging too high on her swing set. But I never saw Hazel out there playing with her. Did I do the right thing? Who knows? If Jake had lived … Just before he died, I thought … Well, at the time, I didn’t think I had a choice. Franklin Polk did the dirty work. He was Jake’s lawyer, just Jake’s hired hand. I know if I have anyone but myself to blame, it’s Jake, but I have always hated that man.”
She took a deep breath, then drained her teacup.
“A year or so later, Jake was playing in Louisville. I waited for him after the show. It was surreal, just like old times except he didn’t know I was out there. He was surprised to see me, but he was Jake Miller and I was one of his women. Hazel was there that night, and he didn’t want her to see me. He thought—or pretended to think—I wanted more money, started peeling off hundred-dollar bills. I told him I wanted to know my daughter, and I wanted her to know me. He was mad, said we had an arrangement, although he said he didn’t think Hazel much liked having a kid.” She looked at me. “That’s the way he said it. As if Jacqueline were a puppy or a kitten or something.” She shook her head again.
“He said he missed me, though, that there was nobody else like me. He said he’d figured out how we could see each other in Nashville without anybody finding out. I don’t know. Maybe I thought if I made him choose, he’d choose me. Maybe I was beginning to grow up. I said I didn’t want to be some woman he hid away and acknowledged only when he felt like it. I wanted to raise my child—with or without him. He begged me to give him some time, see what he could work out. He said it would ruin us both if I didn’t give him time to talk to some people, time to talk to Hazel, time to think it over. It was a strange conversation, but that was Jake. He wanted me, or said he did, but I’d have to give him time.”
She took a deep b
reath.
“He left me there in Louisville. I know Hazel was there, but I don’t know what happened after that. Maybe if I’d stayed with him … I don’t know. He wasn’t drunk when he left me, but he was mad, maybe even a little scared. Scandal was different in those days. I wasn’t going to give up, but the next day I heard that Jake was dead. They said he was drunk and ran off the road somewhere between here and Louisville. I don’t know. But how did Hazel get back to Nashville if she wasn’t with him? I didn’t have any way to prove anything. Adoption records were sealed back then. No DNA tests. I went to Franklin Polk, but that was no use. The way the agreement was drawn up, there was nothing I could do. I gave up hope, but I didn’t kill Jake, and I didn’t kill Hazel. And I don’t know why Hazel wasn’t in the car with Jake when they found his body.”
She looked up.
“The week after Jake’s funeral I was offered a contract with a major label. Does that about answer your questions?”
I didn’t know what to say. I gaped for a moment or two. “Yes, ma’am, of course. I’m sorry.”
She rose and walked back to the window. “Sorry. Yes, well, there’s a lot of that in the world. I can’t see that it helps much.” After a long moment, she continued. “I think I’d like you to leave now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I drove back to the office and worked on automatic the rest of the day.
Chapter Thirteen
Your eyes were as blue as the Tennessee sky
When the buds were bloomin’ in spring,
And I wonder sometimes, if I’d stayed till the fall,
What treasures I might have seen.
—Jake Miller, “The Sound of My Heart Breakin’”
At home there were two more hang-up messages plus one from MaryNell. I had missed out whe she had called to ask if I wanted to see a movie the evening before, but her daughter had a basketball game that night, so I joined her. I needed a little normalcy, a little sense of parents watching their children grow up, being there with and for them.
MaryNell and I found seats in the not-yet-crowded McGavock High gym just before the girls’ game started. At halftime McGavock led Hillsboro 47 to 41. MaryNell’s daughter, Melissa, was playing well, with three fouls, eleven points, and a lot of rebounds. She was a point guard, an aggressive player, which was probably why she accumulated fouls. I watched her jog off the court to the locker room thinking that Rosie Layne was only a couple of years older than Melissa when she was making those life-defining decisions. Where was Rosie’s mother then?
When Melissa confided in me, her greatest agonies in life seemed to be over whether she wanted to play college basketball and how to wear her hair when she was sweating in a game. When Melissa really wanted to tick off her mother, she’d talk about maybe getting her nose or an eyebrow pierced, although she confided to me that she never really would: she didn’t like pain, and she thought it was stupid to poke holes in your face. She just liked to watch her mother’s reaction. That was when I was glad I didn’t have children.
I glanced up to see Detective Davis smiling at me from across the gym, right behind the McGavock bench. After the emotional wringer I had been through all day, it was just too much for him to be following me to a high-school basketball game. I decided to make that clear to him. I told MaryNell I’d be right back, and marched around the floor to where he sat, still grinning.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “I haven’t done anything even marginally illegal today! Can I at least go to a friend’s ball game without being shadowed and harassed?”
He looked surprised, then amused as he stared past me. “Ms. Hale, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Julie.”
I turned to see a McGavock cheerleader. She was tall and pretty with her father’s eyes. Her hair was long and sandy; she was very neat, not too much makeup. I was mortified.
I blushed and stuttered my name, extending my hand to shake hers. “I think I’ve talked to you on the phone. Good game. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
She was politely acknowledging the introduction, assuring me that I wasn’t intruding as I fled, my face burning.
I bought two Cokes and returned to MaryNell.
“Who was that attractive man you were talking to?” she asked as I handed her a Coke. “He must be a parent; nobody else comes to the girls’ games. I see him a lot.”
“Attractive? You think? That is Detective Sam Davis, one of Metro’s finest.”
“He’s your detective? Not bad. I’d let him guard my body anytime.”
“He’s not my detective, and he’s not my bodyguard.” I gave her a withering look. “I’ve just totally humiliated myself by accusing him of following me. He’s here to watch his daughter; she’s a cheerleader.”
MaryNell laughed. “Oh, he’s a good father and not bad looking—and he’s watching you. And you have a problem with him following you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Ummh. He’s still watching, still smiling. Which one’s his daughter?”
I snuck a quick look. “Tall, kind of blond, second from the right. Julie Davis.”
“Oh, yeah. I think Melissa knows her. I’ve seen them talking. I think she’s even been to the house. I’ll check them out.” McGavock is a large school, over two thousand students, but I did not doubt MaryNell’s ability to ferret out any information of a personal nature.
I had trouble concentrating on the rest of the game, because I was too busy avoiding eye contact with Detective Davis. Luckily, McGavock stayed ahead, and Melissa continued to play well. Winning may not be everything, but it does require less of the loyal spectators. I didn’t have to question the eyesight of the referees or judgment of the coach. I could just sit and clap when everyone else did.
After the girls’ game, as the boys’ teams ran onto the floor to warm up, Detective Davis walked around the floor toward us.
“Ms. Hale.” He nodded to me. He turned to MaryNell and offered her his hand. “I’m Sam Davis.”
“MaryNell McLean,” she responded. “Campbell said your daughter is one of the cheerleaders?”
“Yes, Julie Davis,” he said, and gestured toward the clump of girls.
“My daughter, Melissa, is on the ball team. Number fourteen.”
“Oh, yeah.” He brightened. “She’s a great player. Had a good game tonight.”
They made parent small talk while I wished for the gym floor to open like the one in It’s a Wonderful Life. I could quietly fall in, be swallowed, and everyone could go right on dancing.
“No more unexpected visitors, Ms. Hale?” he finally turned to me.
“No. No, everything’s been quiet.”
“Good. Well, nice to meet you, MaryNell.”
“You, too, Sam.”
“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you at the games.”
He went back to his daughter, who hugged him before he left. Oh, great. I needed someone to be angry at, and he was acting like the ideal man—good father, non-rebellious child, polite, not afraid of affection.
I waited until Melissa came out of the locker room so I could congratulate her on a good game, then left, too. I was going to take some ibuprofen and try to forget I knew myself. I’d made a fool of myself one too many times for one day.
Nothing seemed unusual at home, a couple more hang-up calls, no other messages. I should probably tell Detective Davis, but they were hang-up calls, not threats. I’d tell him the next time I saw him, I thought. I decided not to make a special call. I got a Coke from the refrigerator and held it against my forehead.
I seemed to hear every car that passed by, and they all seemed to be driving by slowly. I tried to turn off my imagination, but I couldn’t seem to settle down. Eventually I started folding the pile of clean laundry sitting in front of my dryer. Sheets, towels, socks, T-shirts. So that’s where all my underwear had gone. I put it all away, making several trips and feeling righteous.
I turned on the television for noise and company, the
n turned it off again because it was annoying. I took the clean dishes out of the dishwasher and put them away. Then I loaded in the ones that had begun to accumulate in the sink.
When that was done, I started in on two week’s worth of mail. Half of it could go directly in the trash without even being opened—loans; new credit-card applications, acceptance guaranteed; insurance; realtors wanting to sell my house; carpet cleaning. No, thanks, I have hardwood floors. Another 30 percent went into the trash after being opened—solicitations—great causes; I’d give if I could. Sales, loans, thank-you notes. Bills, bank statements, investment statements—I always save them, but what do I ever do with them? A letter from the physical therapist I met on a hiking tour of Ireland last spring. Never go on a hiking tour without a physical therapist. I wrote checks for the bills, found stamps, and placed them by the front door. I was still restless.
MaryNell called. “I have to say, Campbell. He’s pretty cute. Maybe a little old for you, but not out of the ballpark.” I didn’t want to talk about it.
I changed the sheets on my bed and started a load of laundry. I turned the TV back on in time to see the news. After the headlines, after the first weather—rain, dropping temperatures, possible frozen precipitation of some kind depending on when the cold front arrived—a perky anchor began speaking in front of a photo of Rosie Layne.
“Rosie Layne and Jacqueline Miller, the adopted daughter of Jake and Hazel Miller, issued a joint statement today. Rosie Layne revealed that she is Jacqueline Miller’s birth mother and that Jake Miller was, in fact, Jacqueline’s biological father. Jacqueline said that she was delighted to have the opportunity to develop a relationship with her biological mother, particularly in the wake of the death of her adoptive mother, Hazel Miller. She said that Hazel and Jake had been very loving parents and she was sure they would want her and her son to enjoy this relationship.
“Rosie also said that she has chosen to reveal this information now because interest in Hazel’s recent death has fueled speculation and led to the probability of the information becoming public. She contacted Jacqueline, and the two of them decided to forestall further speculation by making the information public. Dan?”
Your Killin' Heart Page 14
