by Ann McMan
You ask me, the whole town is gonna be cleaning up that man’s mess for years to come . . .
◊ ◊ ◊
David Jenkins didn’t seem surprised when Byron showed up at his office on Monday morning. In fact, Byron thought David met him with something like resignation. He waved Byron inside and got up himself to close the office door.
After David reclaimed his seat behind the desk, Byron sat down to face him.
“So, what brings you here today?” David asked. “Or do I have to guess?”
“It’s nothing ominous. But I have some information that I hope will be welcome to you.”
“And what is that? Are you finally going to do something about that damn outhouse display those knuckleheads who run the thrift store think adds old world charm to Main Street?”
“No. It’s not that kind of welcome news.”
“Too bad. Well . . . hope springs eternal, as the saying goes.”
“I’ll get to the point.” Byron decided to cut to the chase and save David the trouble of working so hard to cover his anxiety. “Bert and Sonny were working out at the cemetery the other day, and they discovered that someone had vandalized some graves.”
David turned white. “Why tell me this?”
“Because one of the graves was your father’s.”
David exhaled slowly. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
“That’s what I heard. But it turns out that Gladys Pitzer was there that day. She’d stopped by after the picnic to pick up some shears she’d left behind after decorating the graves for Independence Day.”
“Oh, shit . . .”
“She saw you there, attacking the headstone with a bronze statue. She didn’t want to embarrass you by letting you know she’d seen it, so she got out of there as quickly as she could.”
“I’m . . . humiliated.” He sounded like he meant it. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I’ve given that some thought, David. And I think this discovery means you don’t have to fear sitting for your inquest interview.”
“What do you mean? You can’t tell me I’m not their chief suspect in Watson’s murder.”
“For starters,” Byron began, “we don’t know that Watson was murdered—and we won’t know until the autopsy is completed. And beyond that, the timing of your visit to the cemetery means you couldn’t have been present at the river when Watson died.”
David was visibly shaken by Byron’s announcement. Byron watched him fight to retain his composure.
“David? We may ultimately learn that there was some kind of misadventure leading up to Watson’s death. But this makes it clear that you could not have been involved in whatever happened that day.”
“Sweet Jesus . . .” David choked back a sob. “I’ve been so terrified. I figured everyone in town assumed it was me—and I had no way to prove I wasn’t there. Even Michael . . .” He didn’t continue.
“What led you to do what you did that day at the cemetery is something private, for you to work through. Well, except for the damage to the Hawkes memorial. I’m afraid you’ll have to pay to repair that statue.”
David held up a hand. “It’s done. I’m so ashamed . . .”
Byron got to his feet. “Like I said, your reasons are personal and I don’t need to understand what led you there or why you did what you did. Just do me one favor?”
“What is it?”
“Call the medical examiner’s office and make a date to sit for your damn interview. I don’t want you to get cited for being stupid.”
“Could they actually do that?”
“Let’s not find out. Okay?”
David nodded. “Thanks, Byron. I mean it.”
“Don’t thank me—thank Gladys.”
David was no longer trying to hold back his tears, so Byron left him in peace.
He hoped for the sanity of everyone in town that Watson’s damn autopsy report would show up soon.
◊ ◊ ◊
Dorothy’s sharing of details from her trip to New York City took up most of her second meeting with Dr. Zakariya. Dr. Zakariya seemed really interested in her reactions to the visits they made to Ellis Island, the Steinway showroom, the concert at Carnegie Hall, and walking around Juilliard. She asked Dorothy to try and describe her reactions to the sights, sounds and smells of the city.
That was especially true when Dorothy talked about Ellis Island and the music sculpture.
“What about those two places affected you the most?” Dr. Zakariya wanted to know.
Dorothy tried to explain how the glass sculpture was tied into the important part music played in her life, and in her friendship with Buddy—and how seeing it had been like a concrete representation of everything Buddy tried to explain about Bach and The Goldberg Variations.
“It was kind of freaky,” she said. “Almost like it was waiting there for me to find it.”
“It’s great when things happen that way,” Dr. Zakariya agreed. “Too often, they never do.”
“We got a poster of it for Buddy. He hasn’t seen it yet, but Dr. Heller says we can give it to him on Tuesday night.”
“Ah.” Dr. Zakariya smiled. “The infamous taco night?”
Dorothy had been surprised by her question. “You know about taco night?”
“I do. Henry invited me to come, too. But I declined.”
“Why? Do you have other plans or something?”
“No, Dorothy.” Dr. Zakariya smiled. She was really pretty, and her smile made her look especially nice and friendly. “Remember I told you that everything between us would stay private?”
Dorothy nodded.
“Well, part of that means I need to be careful not to intrude on your life apart from these conversations. It’s a boundary we both need to protect. If we do things socially, especially around other people, we might blur the lines that protect the confidentiality agreement we made.”
Dorothy admitted that she hadn’t thought about anything like that.
“Does that mean Dr. Heller can’t talk with you about . . . anything, either?”
“Not about anything that concerns what you and I talk about, no.”
“What about things I tell her that you don’t know about?”
“Not those either. It’s up to you to decide what you want me to know.”
Dorothy took some time to consider that information. She had thought that maybe Dr. Heller would tell Dr. Zakariya about what they had discussed in their hotel room after the concert. She expected Dr. Zakariya to bring it up and ask her about it. She’d pretty much worried about that all night . . .
Now she knew that wouldn’t happen.
What did that mean for her? Should she keep it secret, the way she had always done?
Well. Until she told Dr. Heller.
But Dr. Heller asked her about it . . . nobody had ever done that before. And Dorothy didn’t want to lie to Dr. Heller. Not about anything.
Dr. Heller had said they needed each other—and sometimes, Dorothy knew it was her job to be the stronger one in their relationship. Like when Dr. Heller had that nightmare and Dorothy went in to wake her up. She wasn’t used to adults being vulnerable—and not being ashamed to show it.
It was a lot to try and sort through. Dr. Zakariya was being silent—not asking her any questions while she tried to figure it all out.
Dr. Heller hadn’t brought anything up again after Dorothy told her the truth about what her father had done. She acted like she always did. But Dorothy knew she wasn’t pretending their conversation had never happened, the way most people did when they found out about things they’d rather not know about. Dorothy had had a lot of experience with that . . . especially all the times at school when she’d been unable to hide her bruises. She knew her teachers saw them. She knew the bus driver saw them. But nobody ever asked her about it. Not until Dr. Heller did that day at her piano lesson.
Dorothy had known that day that she could trust Dr. Heller.
She looked at Dr. Zaka
riya. Could she trust her, too?
“What are you thinking about, Dorothy?” Dr. Zakariya asked. “You seem to be struggling with something.”
“It’s . . . I told Dr. Heller some things after the concert. I wondered if she’d tell you about it, but I guess she didn’t.”
“No. She did not. But you can, if you feel safe doing so. You know I won’t pressure you one way or the other.”
Did she feel safe?
“She asked me about my father . . . if he ever did things to me . . . besides hitting me, when he got mad.” She hesitated. “I told her he did.”
Dr. Zakariya did not look away from her. Her expression didn’t change, either. Both of those things made her feel a little better.
“Did you tell Dr. Heller what kinds of things he did?”
Dorothy dropped her eyes to the floor before she nodded.
“It took a lot of courage for you to do that, Dorothy.” Dr. Zakariya’s voice was gentle. “Would you like to tell me, too?”
Dorothy had come here because Dr. Heller had asked her to. But now, she knew it was up to her to decide if she wanted to tell the truth . . . about everything. She looked up at Dr. Zakariya.
“I think so . . .”
◊ ◊ ◊
“I’m not saying they think David had anything to do with Watson’s death.”
Nadine was making a dozen small skillets of sweet potato cornbread. It was a favorite recipe of hers—one she’d found years ago in a cookbook written by a North Carolina chef. A lot of people came to the café just to order small pans of it as appetizers. The cookbook said it was best when served with a lot of honey ginger butter.
She had Michael mixing that up for her. It was his turn to help her out today.
“What are you saying, then?” he asked her.
“I’m just agreeing with you that they seem a little too interested in where he went after Watson pushed him into that table of food.”
“When the hell are they going to finish that damn autopsy?”
“Why?” Nadine asked. “Do you think it’ll make things any clearer?”
“I don’t see how it could make things any worse. Do you?”
Nadine didn’t tell him that she thought it could make things a whole lot worse—especially if it showed that somebody had killed the worthless man.
“Quit whisking that butter so hard,” she warned him. “You’re gonna turn it into a sauce.”
“No, I won’t.” Michael set the bowl aside. “I just wish I could get him to be straight with me, Nadine.”
“Ain’t that above your pay grade, boy? I don’t think the Lord Himself could make that boy straight.”
“Very funny.” Michael rolled his eyes. “You know what I meant.”
Nadine started ferrying her little skillets to the big oven.
“You just need to give it time. No matter how long it takes.”
“Are you quoting Diana Ross?”
Nadine yanked the ubiquitous hand towel out of her apron and threw it at him. “Don’t you blaspheme in my kitchen.”
“How is it offensive to God to take Motown lyrics in vain?”
Nadine grumbled something unintelligible.
Michael sighed. “I know you’re right. It’s just so hard to make sense out of his behavior.”
“He’s just scared. Anybody with two eyes can see that.”
“Yes—but scared about what?”
“Probably about whatever in tarnation he was doing that he doesn’t want you—or anybody else—to know about.”
“I guess that’s possible.”
“It’s more than possible,” a voice said from the entrance to Nadine’s kitchen. “It’s pretty damn insightful—which in my mind, shows some greatness of intellect, Nadine. Color me impressed by your powers of perception.”
It was David. Neither of them had any idea how long he’d been standing there.
“Where’d you come from?” Nadine demanded to know. “It ain’t nice to sneak up on people that way.”
“If you must know,” David explained, “I just had a very illuminating visit from the sheriff.” He looked at Michael. “I wanted to come right over here to tell you about it . . . and to apologize for acting like such a jerk.”
Nadine knew that was her cue to exit.
“Watch that timer for me, so those things don’t burn,” she ordered Michael, as she headed toward the door to the dining room. “I don’t want to have to make that mess over.”
“You don’t have to leave, Nadine,” David apologized. “I don’t mind if you hear what I have to say.”
“Well maybe I mind—and I’d rather not be involved in your private business.” She waved a hand at them dismissively before exiting the kitchen. “Get on with it and be quick about it. I’ll be up front.”
Once she’d left the kitchen, she said a silent prayer that David had brought good news.
Lord knew, they all could use some.
◊ ◊ ◊
Once they were alone, David crossed to where Michael stood, and took hold of one of his hands.
“I’m truly sorry for acting like such an asshole. I was just ashamed of what I did that day, and I was too embarrassed to tell you about it. I hope you can forgive me.”
“Of course I can forgive you.” Michael had no idea what David’s meeting with the sheriff had done to bring about this change in his demeanor, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “What did you not want me to know?”
“That part is a lot more complicated.” He leaned against the prep table where Michael had been working. “You know how I ran off after Watson took Dorothy away. What you don’t know—and what I refused to tell you—was where I went.” He met Michael’s eyes. “The truth is, I went to the cemetery.”
“The cemetery? Why in the world did you go there?”
“You’re gonna have to just go with me on this. Like I said, it’s complicated.”
“Okay.”
“When Watson grabbed Dorothy the way he did, something inside me snapped. It’s hard to describe. But it was like watching a home movie of my own childhood—and the way my own father behaved toward me. I looked into that girl’s eyes and I knew . . . I just knew what he was doing to her. I could see it—just like I could see it all the times it happened to me. Every bit of it came flooding back like it had just happened yesterday. And I knew I couldn’t hide from it anymore.”
Michael squeezed his hand, but wasn’t sure what to say.
But David wasn’t finished. “Watson was brutalizing his daughter . . . we all suspected that. At least, I did. But in that one moment, I understood the extent of his brutality. I knew that he was abusing her sexually, too. It was obvious to me.” He searched Michael’s eyes. “It was obvious because my father did the same thing to me—and I never told anyone about it, either. I hid it—just like Dorothy was hiding it. I hid it because that’s what we thought we were supposed to do.”
“David . . .” Michael stepped forward to embrace him, but David held him back.
“No. Let me finish, okay?”
“All right.” It was an effort, but he stepped back.
“Seeing him drag her off the way he did . . . the truth of it all cut me like . . .” He cast about the kitchen. “Like one of those knives. I had to run. I had to get out of there because I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold it together. So I ran. I got in my car and I took off. I don’t even know how I ended up at the cemetery. When I got to my father’s grave, I just stood there staring at it . . . knowing he was dead, but not gone. He’d never be gone. Not as long as I kept hiding the truth about who he really was. About everything he’d done to me when I was a child—just like Dorothy. So I fought back . . . finally. I hit him with anything I could get my hands on—and I kept on hitting him until there was nothing left of that damn monument but broken pieces of granite. I screamed at him for all the ways he’d hurt me, and for all the years I kept silent about it. For all the times I blamed myself, because that’s wh
at they do to us. They make us buy in to their conspiracy of silence—and everyone around them colludes with them, too, because the truth is too horrible to face. And I kept right on screaming because Watson was doing the same thing to Dorothy.”
Michael was overcome with rage and sadness by David’s revelation. He knew he was totally out of his depth and struggled to know how to respond. But right then, he owed it to David to listen. To hear what he was finally willing to confess.
“I didn’t know until this morning, when Byron came to see me, that Gladys Pitzer had been at the cemetery when I was there. She saw me and witnessed the whole thing. Byron got involved when they found out the grave had been vandalized. He knew Gladys had been there doing flowers, so he went to ask her if she’d seen anything.” He smiled sadly at Michael. “She had.”
“I’m so sorry,” Michael said. “I’m so sad and sorry this ever happened to you.”
“I know you are.” David kissed his big hand. “And I’m sorry I never told you about this before now—and that I acted like such a jerk when you tried to get me to tell you where I’d gone.”
“Tell me what I can do? Tell me what we can do together to make this better. I don’t want you to be afraid any more. Not of him. Not of anything.”
David hugged him. “Believe me, my furry prince. You do it in a thousand ways, every single day.”
“I hope so. I want to.”
David gave him a final, warm squeeze and stepped back. “Do you want to hear the only good news to come out of this nightmare scenario?”
“Yeah.” Michael used Nadine’s hand towel to wipe his eyes.
“Byron told me that dear, unsuspecting Gladys Pitzer gave me a gift—the one thing I desperately needed.”
“What was that?”
“An alibi.”
Michael’s jaw dropped.
Yes, Virginia, he thought, there is a Santa Claus . . .
◊ ◊ ◊
Byron had arranged to take Dorothy to the house she’d lived in with her father, so she could identify the personal belongings she wanted to retrieve before the house was destroyed. Celine was gratified when Dorothy asked if she would ride along with them.
When they’d told Dorothy the decision the county had made to burn the house down before selling the land at auction, Dorothy had shown little reaction. Celine didn’t know what to expect and wondered if Dorothy would be sad to lose all connection to the place she’d once lived with her mother. But if Dorothy had any of those feelings, she didn’t express them. Her only question was whether she could keep some of her mother’s things—the two boxes of books and personal effects her father had kept stashed in the attic. Byron had been quick to assure Dorothy that she could retrieve anything she wanted from the house, and he would help her remove it.
