CHAPTER SEVEN
Thursday
Our flight left early the next morning. I tucked our small travel bags into the overhead bin, and we settled into our coach-class seats. Rachel’s discomfort was still obvious, so I kept the conversation light. Finally, I gave Rachel the letter from Tim.
“I knew it.” Rachel beamed after she read it.
Now this sounded like the old Rachel. “Knew what?”
Rachel was grinning for the first time since I walked into her apartment. “That Tim had the hots for you. You just never saw it.”
“Oh puh—lease.”
“Seriously, he did.”
“Well, if he did, and I’m not saying he did, I guess I was too much in love with David to notice.”
“Still?”
“Still what?”
“Still in love with David?”
“Of course. It’s different now—not the starry-eyed kind—but good. Very good. Not that everything’s perfect, but on the whole—good.” I knew I answered too quickly, but I also knew that on the whole, what I said was true. Then I changed the subject. “You ever meet anyone, Rache?”
“Nope, and I don’t intend to.”
Rachel’s tone implied that our conversation was over. I reluctantly let the subject drop and tried to enjoy the rest of the flight. Why did I ask that? Of course there wasn’t a man in Rachel’s life, not after what she’d been through. Why would she ever trust any man? Would I ever think before I opened my mouth?
Finding the luggage carousels in the Indy airport was a simple matter of following arrows. Squeezing between the crush of people proved challenging, but after the crowd thinned, we grabbed our bags and headed outside.
My youngest set of twins was supposed to meet us at the airport. But I only saw Caleb. His dark, thick hair either wasn’t combed, or sticky, poky hair was in style. His jeans were custom torn in the knees, and his shirt looked like a Goodwill special, but he looked great. He approached and put his arms around me.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hey, Caleb.” I returned his hug and then introduced him to Rachel. “This is my run-never-walk boy.”
Rachel smiled and extended her hand. “Hello.”
“Hi,” Caleb responded.
“Where are Jake and Mom?” I asked.
Caleb put the luggage in the back of his van. “I’ll tell you on the way. This is drop-off and pick-up parking only.”
Once we pulled out into the stream of traffic, Caleb continued. “Jake didn’t have to work this weekend, so he went to Diane’s. I don’t think you’ll see much of him. He doesn’t even have time for me. Diane this, Diane that. You’d think she invented the wheel.” My son rolled his eyes. “He’s staying in Noblesville, but will come down if you must see him. He hopes you’ll be too busy with the reunion and all.”
That’s not the half of it.
The driver’s seat was pushed back as far as it could go to accommodate Caleb’s long legs. “Grandma’s baking for the church bake sale. Does every church in the whole world have bake sales? Didn’t you just finish with one out in Montana?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “Big Guy is playing for the reunion Saturday. We’re the entertainment.”
“My reunion?”
“Yep.”
“And who is Big Guy?” I asked.
“That’s what we named our band. You know . . . after the Big Guy. He’s the One who gave us the talent.”
My heart swirled with warm feelings. Good to see such strong faith in my youngest. “So how’s the band working out?”
“Great! We do both Christian and secular music. We’re busy most every weekend at some church event or school function. Highland High asked us to perform at the graduation ceremonies. Of course, they want us to play for free, but its exposure. After all—who knows who might be there?”
“Sounds like your plate’s full.” Maternal pride oozed out of every pore. “I think I’ll rent a car when we get to Anderson.”
“That would be great, Mom. Not that I don’t like being a chauffeur mind you, but I am really busy.” He flashed that grin that never failed to melt my heart.
“No problem, sweetie. Actually, I think with the reunion, it will be much easier.” I kept my thoughts to myself. Good, then you won’t have to see your Mom go to the police station and deliver evidence in a murder investigation . . . or worse.
Rachel stared out the window in silence. Before I could think of how to include her in the conversation, Caleb spoke up again.
“Did you know the Speaker of the House is going to be there? The Speaker of the House of the United States, Mom. His daughter is graduating. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll be sooo good, he’ll invite us to Washington for a performance.”
I laughed. There was no lack of confidence in my younger boys. Both Jake and Caleb had chosen to come to the university in Anderson. They were ready to see the world outside of Montana. My mother lived there, so I wasn’t terribly panicked. For that I was grateful. Worrying, especially about the boys, was second nature to me. Anything that helped alleviate it was gold in my book.
The older twins had been content to go to school in Bozeman. Abe married Kate Tucker right out of college. He stayed on to get his master’s in agriculture. Kate supported his endeavors with a nursing degree. Zeb also married after graduation. He married Lisa Minteer of the “Butte Minteers,” and they moved to Portland, Oregon where he got a job as an electrical engineer with a small but fast-growing company. Lisa was a free spirit with plenty of money to indulge herself. She volunteered, traveled, and enjoyed remodeling their first home.
I’m not sure my boys realized I was part of the human race. I was a genus known only as Mom. Actually, I liked it that way. It gave me sort of an edge with them, like a superpower or something. I can’t imagine how they would react if they found out genus Mom was a suspect in a murder case.
“Well, for your information, I had the Speaker of the House of the United States as my high school government teacher.” I punctuated the words with what I considered to be oh-so-cool, body movements.
“You’re kidding me!” Caleb said.
“Nope. His name is Phillip House, but we called him—now don’t tell him this if you see him—Lousy Housey. He was a real jerk as a teacher, and I don’t think any of us liked him. Did you like him, Rachel?” I asked, hoping to draw her into the conversation.
“I didn’t like much about high school in general,” Rachel said softly.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Friday
I looked at the digital clock on the bedside table—5:15 a.m. I was wide-awake, my mind spinning with the events of the last two days. I felt like I had gone from zero to sixty in under a minute with no time to admire the scenery. I know I dozed on and off between one-thirty and five, but it was guilt-sprinkled sleep at best. Regardless of Rachel’s broken life, I still convinced her to come to Anderson to try to clear my name. You just couldn’t find friends like me on any street corner.
Nor wives for that matter. Guilt tugged at the edge of reason as I thought back to the conversation between David and me. He’d called Wednesday night from Homer after settling in to his motel. I told him about Tim’s murder, but left out the part about being a suspect or the possibility that we could inherit several million dollars. I told him I still planned on going to the reunion, but left out the part about going to the police station. I knew he’d fly back immediately and take charge of the situation if he thought I was in trouble.
Not that I didn’t like the fact that he took care of so many details in our lives. Normally, it was okay, but lately I had the growing feeling that I was just window dressing. Maybe it was a midlife crisis, or empty-nest syndrome, or whatever the newest psychobabble disorder was, but I definitely wasn’t content with my life at this point. Nothing concrete I could lay my finger on, but rather a sense—a gnawing sense—that life was passing me by and I had done nothing of importance. I suspected the words engraved on my tombstone would be: Here lies Jamie
Storm: beautiful, fluffy frosting on a world of deep, rich chocolate cake. For once I wanted to be the cake—to be more than just the hugger and kisser of disgruntled parishioners’ boo-boos.
David was not only content, but he was also downright excited to be doing what he felt was a sure calling on his life. How marvelous it must be when God calls you to something, anything. I had never shared that feeling. Lately, I’d been impatient, even snappish at times, with David. I couldn’t shake the underlying feeling of anger toward him, but the reason eluded me. Nothing outward had changed. Jealousy maybe? He had found his calling, but I hadn’t?
Throwing the sensation of unworthiness off with the covers, I headed for the shower. No time to get maudlin this morning. I would let Rachel sleep in, but Mom and I had planned to meet for breakfast at Bob Evans. I’d called her last night to explain why I wouldn’t be staying with her. I didn’t tell her about Rachel’s situation, just that she was exhausted and needed someone to be with her for the week. As usual, Mom understood and didn’t ask any prying questions.
I pulled on jeans and a Bears T-shirt and grabbed the rental keys off the dresser. Five minutes later, I pulled into the busy parking lot at Bob Evans. The smells of fresh brewed coffee, honey-cured ham, and sausage gravy filled the air. My stomach growled as I slid into the booth across from Mom after giving her a quick hug in greeting.
My mother, Barbara Waymire, is still a handsome woman at seventy-two. Her eyes are hazel like mine, crinkled a bit at the corners from age, and shadowed with grief. The last ten years as sole caretaker of my dad stricken with Alzheimer’s disease had taken its toll. She stubbornly, valiantly refused to take Dad to the Care Center. He was her beloved, and she nursed him to the end. Several weeks after his death, she had secluded herself in her home, only doing what was necessary to tend to the needs of her grandsons. They had been her salvation.
“Grandma, did you see my LeBron jersey?”
“Grandma, can you fry chicken for some of the guys from school? They love your cooking.”
“Grandma, wanna come to Brookside Church tonight and hear my concert?”
I knew that if the boys hadn’t been there, Mom might have never come out of the dark mist that threatened to overtake her mind and soul when Dad passed away.
“You look great, Mom. I like the new hairstyle. How’s it going?”
“I’m good, Jamie. Each day is a little better. I miss your dad fiercely though. I don’t think that will ever change.”
“No, I bet not.” I missed him, too, but the disease had taken him away a long time ago. It wasn’t as fresh for me.
“Your kids bring so much life to the house. In fact, the boys are responsible for my new doo. They actually took me to the salon and instructed the stylist to spike and bleach my hair. I have to admit I like it. At first, though, I felt like a Martian in public. I worried about what people would think of me. Two days of five-minute hairstyling ended that anxiety. Now I don’t care what they think. It’s fun, easy, and I feel ten years younger.” She rambled on, obviously trying to convince me she was fine. It wasn’t working.
I reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
“How is Rachel?” Mom was a pro at changing the subject. “Did she make it through the night okay?”
I slid my hand back to my side of the booth as the waitress set our plates in front of us. “I guess she’s okay. She’s still sleeping, and since I had several errands to run this morning, I just let her rest.” I dipped a toast point into my over-easy egg.
I avoided mentioning the specifics of my errands. We spent the rest of the meal catching up on Anderson news.
Mom left a chunk of honeydew in her fruit cup—her one-item breakfast. My bacon, egg, hash browns, and toast were gone. I stabbed the melon with my fork and finished it.
“Did you know one of your classmates died here in Anderson in the parking lot of our church?” Mom asked.
“I heard,” I said, chewing slowly.
“It was Timothy Manter. He was shot to death. I think he was in your high school mystery club, wasn’t he?”
“Yep.”
“It was awful, just awful. The pastor didn’t even give a sermon that day. We just had a prayer service.” The waitress came over to refill Mom’s coffee cup, but Mom covered the top with her hand and shook her head.
“So you were at church that morning?” I asked.
“Of course. When am I not in church?”
“Did Tim attend church?”
“I couldn’t tell you. Our average attendance is three thousand. I know a lot of people in my age group, but not many others.”
“Was anything unusual going on outside?”
“Besides a dead body in the parking lot? Because I think a dead body is unusual.” Mom peered at me intently.
I forced a smile. “You know what I mean. Did you see anything odd, anything out of place, besides Tim’s body?”
“Cops everywhere and crime scene tape blocking off a huge section of the parking lot. Other than that, nothing different.”
“Sarcasm does not become you.” I smiled, because in truth it did become her.
The waitress brought our bill to the table and set it between us.
Mom scanned my face. “You’re going to try to solve this, aren’t you?” I picked up the bill and examined it. “Jamie, this isn’t like a high-school game. This is murder.” Mom’s voice would have been a yellow flag if we’d been at the Indy 500.
“I know.” I brushed a piece of imaginary lint off my T-shirt.
Another sin of omission—probably a habit I shouldn’t get into. But I didn’t want to upset Mom. Not yet, anyway. “I’ll be on my cell if you need me for anything. I don’t know how much time I’ll be at the house. I’ll be spending a lot of time with Rachel and at the reunion”
“Be careful, Jamie.”
Over Mom’s protest, I paid the check, left a generous tip—thanks to Tim—kissed Mom on the cheek, and drove to the police station.
CHAPTER NINE
Scott Walters was the one member of the Cliffhangers whom I’d seen frequently since high school. Whenever we made the trip to Anderson to deliver the boys, or to visit Mom and Dad, David and I made a point to see Scott and his family. We had at least one meal together every visit. Even so, I felt tense approaching his office. He was a sergeant with the criminal investigation division of the Anderson Police Department. Did he believe I was involved with Tim’s death? If so, why hadn’t he said anything to me when I arranged for the Cliffhanger reunion that was taking place tonight?
I took a deep breath and entered Scott’s office. Looking up from his desk, he broke into a warm smile. Scott is my age with short, black hair and chocolate-brown eyes. His skin is the color of cocoa. His pale yellow shirt was open at the collar, a matching tie thrown carelessly across his desk.
“I am so glad you’re here, Jamie. I’d get up, but . . .” He rolled his wheelchair back from the desk so we could embrace.
“I think you just use that thing to get sympathy,” I teased.
The wheelchair was a pointed reminder of the price Scott had paid for interfering with a bank robbery ten years ago. The bullet had gone through his abdomen and spinal column in one quick, life-changing second. After a six-month pity party, he pulled himself out of PTSD and clinical depression more determined than ever to put the bad guys behind bars. Scott, the only African-American in my high school, had lived a life of challenges. This one hadn’t held him back for long.
Not one for small talk, I got right to the point. “I brought bank statements and a flash drive of e-mails to and from Tim. I didn’t kill him.”
“I know you didn’t, but we have to rule out all possible suspects. You stand to inherit a bundle. It’s a no-brainer that you’re a suspect. You’re a friend, so I have to be especially careful not to show favoritism. It can’t look like I’m ignoring the evidence.” He regarded me with regret.
“I know, but—”
“I’m sure the bank
statements alone will clear you. This hit was definitely an expensive proposition. Whoever wanted Tim dead is either a professional or hired one, and they don’t come cheap.”
“Did Tim come see you last week?”
“He always does.”
“Always? He’s been here before?”
“Jamie, Tim’s been coming down on breaks, vacations, and weekends for the last two years. He’d grown restless, bored with his career. He made enough money. He didn’t have to work if he didn’t want to. He had no family.”
“He never told me. Not that he needed to, but I’m surprised.”
Scott shrugged. “He started looking into the death of that student teacher who died the year we graduated. Remember her?”
I studied my nails, pretending the question was rhetorical, choosing to remain quiet about what Tim had sent me via his lawyer. Part of it was shame for being oblivious to the world of my friends. Part of it was fear—fear that Scott might use it against me. If my silence piqued Scott’s curiosity, he didn’t show it.
“I gave him a copy of the old file and made a few phone calls for him over the past few months,” Scott said, “but until two weeks ago, nothing. Then one day out of the blue, he called me to say he wanted me to meet someone. Someone who might have an angle on who killed Dacia Stewart. His voice was edgy, excited. He told me where to look for the body, and sure enough it was there. The fact that he knew about the body made him a suspect—until he died himself.”
“Who was this person?”
“No idea.”
“He didn’t mention a name at all?”
“He planned on bringing whoever it was to the reunion tonight. He didn’t hint anything about this in your correspondence?” Scott asked.
“No. I didn’t even know he ever left New York.”
“Curious.”
“Very.”
“If you remember anything at all, regardless of how trivial, let me know tonight,” Scott said.
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