She looked at Kayla. “I’ll vomit,” she decided. “Then I’ll scream.”
A fish leapt suddenly from the water, snapping up an iridescent dragonfly. It happened so quickly that before Kayla knew what had happened, the only thing left was small, concentric waves rippling outward through the water. She watched until they disappeared, then she looked back at Avis.
“You would really do that?”
Avis gave a solemn nod, silently ecstatic at being readmitted into the charmed circle of Kayla’s affection. “It’s the only way we’ll ever prove who killed your sister.”
36
Mary could not sleep. At six A.M., she finally arose from bed, brewed a pot of strong coffee, and padded into Irene’s study. Bethany’s calling her father “Lot” kept ringing in her head. Convinced that the term was biblical, she plucked Irene’s family Bible from the shelf and began thumbing through it. The pages were wafer-thin, covered in minuscule text, and heavily footnoted. This is as bad as Corbin’s text on contracts, she decided. It’ll take me days to find out who Lot was. She flipped through both the Old and New Testaments, then she had an idea. She reached over to turn on Irene’s computer, and a few moments later she was online. She punched in the URL for Google, then she typed in “Lot.” Several hundred thousand hits came up, but none were about anybody in the Bible. She tried again, typing in “biblical characters.” A moment later, Lot popped up as the hero of Sodom and Gomorrah, as written in Genesis eighteen and nineteen.
“Okay,” she muttered, turning to the first book of the Bible. “Let’s see just what our friend Lot did.”
She read the story. Lot was the only righteous man in Sodom, who gave shelter to two undercover angels. When all the men of the town demanded that Lot turn over his angelic guests for them to have sex with, Lot refused. What caught Mary’s eye was Lot’s alternative plan—Behold I have two daughters which have not known men; let me, I pray you, bring them out unto you and do ye to them as is good in your eyes.
She stopped reading, appalled. Lot was apparently a man who had no compunction about handing his virginal daughters over to a crowd of men. By calling her own father Lot, had Bethany meant that Glenn was complicitous in her sexual abuse? Was he letting other men fuck his daughter?
Good God, she thought, signing off the Internet. This just stinks worse with every passing day.
She dressed quickly and hurried to her office. On her answering machine Ravenel had left a barely audible message for her to stop in and see him, but she ignored it. She would talk to him later, after she reexamined the files spread out on her desk. She didn’t want to meet with Ravenel until she could give him a solid alternative scenario with which he could counter Turpin’s version of the murder.
Two hours later, she had a pattern. Using the copies of the school records that Jen had pirated, she pieced together a basic profile of all the victims. Each girl had been new to the area. Their families had relocated here to work for Keener Construction, moving into houses that Keener supplied. All were blond and slender, and looked younger than their peers, with nearly flat chests and clear skin. Their various test scores indicated that all were brighter than average, but tended to be introverts; little girls who did not run with the crowd.
They moved here with parents who were desperate for work, no doubt as grateful as Mr. Rankin for the good life in a Keener test house. In school they’d started off as strong B students, with As in conduct and regular in attendance. Soon, though, their school lives disintegrated. Hope Henderson was noted as having a “suspected drinking problem,” while an English teacher wrote that she’d caught Valerie Fleming having sex with a boy behind a door in the cafeteria. There were no farewell notes or exit interviews when any of these girls disappeared. Their teachers’ comments simply stopped; their final legacy was nothing more than an empty page. Mary sighed. She despised cases that dealt with children. Prosecution or defense, it was the saddest legal work imaginable.
She opened the last file. Bethany was the anomaly, the one who didn’t fit the pattern. At her death, she was five years older than the others, brighter by a full grade point average; on paper, a popular, successful young woman. Yet Ridge and Sylvia Goins told another story of a girl who drank and kept dark secrets, and her school records revealed the concern of several teachers. “Bethany is a joy, but sometimes seems sad,” wrote her algebra teacher. “Bethany’s participation in gym is sporadic,” scrawled a male PE coach, attributing the behavior to “female problems.”
“Yeah, I’d say she had some female problems,” Mary muttered as she read his scribbled remarks. “You would too if you had Lot for a father.”
She finished the file and tossed it on the desk with the others. Bethany, she decided, was different because she’d been Glenn Daws’ daughter. As big a monster as he might be, Glenn would surely be reluctant to kill his own child. Maybe he thought she would never tell, or that she would go off to college and just forget about everything. Maybe he hadn’t meant to kill her at all, but teach her some kind of lesson. Then, when he realized she meant business, he couldn’t risk being exposed to the world. He had to stop her before she caused him to lose everything—his job, his family, his precious Keener career. Firstborn daughter or not, Bethany had to be silenced. Mary looked over at the bear mask.
“So he silenced her. And hung it on your boy.”
She waited for the familiar hum deep inside her when she knew she’d gotten a case dead-to-right. It wasn’t quite there, but it was close. Close enough, she decided, to go see Ravenel.
She gathered up her papers and stepped over to his office.
“Yes?” answered a voice so sonorous that she almost laughed. Sober, Ravenel sounded like an old-time radio announcer.
She opened his door. For the first time, he looked halfway like a practicing attorney. He was pecking on a laptop computer, a legal pad lay on his desk, and the stuffed owl that usually dangled from his ceiling now held a law book open to a particular page.
“Ms. Crow!” He looked up and frowned. “How delightful of you to stop by! Only hours after I asked you to come over.”
“You didn’t specify any time, Ravenel,” she shot back. “Next time tell me when my audience starts. I’ll try my best to be prompt.”
“An oversight on my part,” he apologized. “I forgot how time-consuming second-guessing a PI can be.”
His last remark carried the sting of truth, so she ignored it and moved a cardboard box full of what looked like ginseng from a chair, and sat down. “Well? Why did you want to see me?”
“Turpin would be willing to lower the charge for a guilty plea.”
Mary was stunned. “Why? This is Hartsville’s trial of the century, and Turpin’s holding all the aces.”
Ravenel sat back in his chair. “I think he must’ve gotten wind of your mask. According to my associate, Mr. Henchy, it’s quite the topic in the Qualla Boundary.”
Oh, great, thought Mary. Now I’ll be persona non grata on the reservation as well as in town. “Why would my mask bother Turpin? He’s not Cherokee.”
“No, but he has lots of Cherokee voters that he doesn’t want to offend. A plea serves both constituencies—the whites get their conviction, the Indians are spared the humiliation of seeing one of their big medicine Ani Zaguhi sent to death row.”
“Who says anybody’s going to put Ridge on death row?”
“Oh, come on, Ms. Crow! You’ve been sherlocking around here for weeks. What have you come up with that McGruder didn’t? And don’t waste my time with the fact that Bethany Daws was living a secret life of sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. That I already know.”
“Do you know about Glenn Daws?”
“Glenn Daws, father of the murdered Bethany?”
Mary nodded.
Ravenel chuckled. “If you’re offering Mr. Daws as a suspect, he checked out.”
“Who checked him out?”
“The state did, right off the bat. Sheriff Cochran isn’t a total idiot. But my
man McGruder did his own investigation. Daws’ hair and fingerprints were in the room, but he’d lived in the house for nearly ten years. And no, he didn’t have a witness to swear he’d been asleep when she was killed, but who does? At night, your witness is usually snoring beside you.”
“What did McGruder find out about him personally?” asked Mary.
Ravenel shrugged. “That’s a bit dicier. He had a couple of drunk-and-disorderlies a few years back, plus one arrest for assault. Can’t hold his whiskey, apparently. Last time the judge said either jail or AA, and he chose the latter. He’s stayed sober, or at least not drunk enough to get into trouble, ever since.”
“A lesson for us all,” Mary said pointedly, her reference to Ravenel’s bottle of whiskey unmistakable. “Did McGruder find any bad blood between Daws and his daughter?”
“No more than the usual teenage stuff. The parents didn’t like her dating Standingdeer. Thought he was a bum, wanted her to go to college and make something of herself.” Ravenel sniffed. “I would want much the same for my kids, if I were unlucky enough to have any.”
“Me, too.” Mary thought of Jonathan and his dreams for Lily.
Ravenel leaned forward. “Well, Ms. Crow? Do you still think I overpaid McGruder? Can you and your bear mask add anything more to this grim little saga?”
“Only that Bethany referred to her father as ‘Lot’ and she isn’t the only girl to have come to a mysteriously bad end in this county.”
Ravenel frowned. “Lot, as in Sodom and Gomorrah?”
“Yes,” said Mary. “The man who staffed rent-a-date with his own maiden daughters.”
“Okay,” said Ravenel. “Who else met the same fate as the Daws girl?”
“I got the names of six. Two of their families still live in the area. The similarity between them and Bethany Daws is remarkable. Their fathers worked for Keener Construction, they lived in Keener test houses, and they played on the Keener softball team.”
“Keener’s the second-biggest employer in the county, Ms. Crow. Were these girls found dead in their beds?”
“No. They all just went to school one day and never came home. Vanished.”
Ravenel looked at her as if she were crazy. “And that’s all you’ve got?”
“I’ve seen statistics from the surrounding counties, Ravenel. Pisgah beats them all as far as dropout rates, teen pregnancy rates, attempts at suicide. All those are behaviors indicative of sexual molestation.”
“So on the basis of that, you’re saying that Daws molests every kid in Pisgah County, farms his daughters out to other men, and then kills the ones who threaten to spill the beans?”
Her theory sounded ridiculous in Ravenel’s dulcet tones, but she stuck to her guns. “Look at how well Daws fits. He’s built their homes, he coaches their children, everybody loves him. That’s SOP for a child molester.” An odd thought struck her as she spoke, but Ravenel shot another question.
“If he’s such a monster, why haven’t any of these molested girls come forward?”
“And accuse a popular guy who’s the number-two man at your father’s job as well as your softball coach? I’ve put kids on the stand before, Ravenel. They are absolutely terrified of taking on adults.”
Ravenel scowled. “So you’re saying Glenn’s killed only the brave ones—the ones he was afraid would speak out.”
Mary nodded.
“Then why didn’t he make Bethany just disappear like the others? To kill his own daughter and then leave her in her own bed makes no sense. He’d be the first one the cops looked at.”
“Because he knew he could blame it on Standingdeer! He found out they were having secret trysts in her bedroom, so he knew the cops would find all sorts of evidence that would implicate the boy.”
Ravenel stared at his stuffed owl for a moment, then he shook his head. “Nice try, Ms. Crow. But I still don’t think I overpaid McGruder.”
She sat back in her chair. She realized that, out loud, her theory about Glenn Daws had holes big enough to drive a truck through. Insert Deke Keener, however, and it tightened considerably. Suddenly, her throat felt dry and sticky. She needed to go back to her own office and think this through. “So when are you going to meet with Turpin?” she asked Ravenel.
“Actually, I’m not.”
“Then why did you call me in here?”
“Because right now I need you to go talk to Hugh Kavanagh. Tell the old guy that I’m going to call him as a character witness and I don’t want any displays of Irish temper on the stand.”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” said Mary. “Hugh and his temper come as a package deal.”
“Then put it to him this way, Ms. Crow. Explain that the prospects for Standingdeer are looking pretty grim. If Kavanagh can’t come across as a sweet old man who depended on and trusted the boy with his very life, then I may as well call Turpin and accept his offer.”
Mary rose from her chair. “That’s a pretty tall order, Ravenel.”
Ravenel laughed. “I hear tall orders are your specialty, Ms. Crow.
37
Kayla Daws lay in bed, watching late morning shadows dance on the ceiling of her room. All night she’d lain awake, fingering the strawberry necklace that she’d put on just before she’d gone to bed. Ridge had carved it for Bethany, and though her father had thrown it in the kitchen garbage before they took Bethany’s body away, Kayla had impulsively plucked it out, and hidden it in her dresser drawer for safekeeping. Last night she’d hoped it would keep away bad dreams and evil spirits, but every time she closed her eyes all she could see was Coach Keener. Could he truly have done what Avis suggested? Molested Bethany and then smashed her head in with that tomahawk? She’d tried to wrap her mind around that ever since Avis went home, and she still couldn’t do it. Now Avis had this crackpot scheme to trap Coach Keener. It was all so nuts, it made her feel like her skin was on fire.
She’d gotten up a dozen times during the night, trying to read, then listening to her radio, trying to put everything out of her head. Suddenly, at 2:53 A.M., she had bolted upright in bed. She and her parents had a therapy session with Dr. Shope this afternoon! Dr. Shope’s office was right across the hall from that woman her father despised so much—Mary Crow. She was Ridge’s lawyer, so why not give the tapes to her? Kayla could write her a letter, explaining everything, and put the tapes inside. Mary Crow would listen and then decide what to do. Excited, Kayla had given up sleep altogether, and propped herself up in bed to write the letter.
Now, with the sun climbing toward noon, she reached under her pillow to read what she’d written. It had sounded pretty good in the middle of the night. She only hoped it still made sense now. Unfolding the sheet of notebook paper, she read aloud, in a whisper.
Dear Ms. Crow,
Please listen to these tapes (particularly the one with the red label). They prove that Ridge Standingdeer did not kill my sister. Avis Martin and I think that Coach Keener did. He was molesting her. We are going to try and trap him. Please call me at 555-9782, but don’t tell my dad who you are.
Yours truly,
Kayla Elizabeth Daws
Though Avis could have made it sound much more adult and official, she’d said what she’d wanted to say. If this Mary Crow was half the lawyer her father said she was, then she’d get to work on this immediately. Maybe she could even get Ridge out of jail today and have the cops arrest Coach Keener before the ball game. Then Avis wouldn’t have to go through with plan B.
For an instant Kayla’s heart soared, then she realized that she wouldn’t even be able to get the tape to Mary Crow until three, and Coach Keener usually picked Avis up at four. However wonderful Ms. Crow might be, Kayla knew nobody could get Ridge out of jail and Coach Keener arrested in less than an hour.
She folded the letter up and placed it, along with the three best tapes, in a long white envelope she’d filched from her dad’s office. She hid it in the bottom of her purse, then picked up the phone to call Avis. As she waited
for someone to answer, her mouth went chalky with fear. Last night, she’d come up with about a million things that could go wrong with Avis’s plan—from Coach Keener discovering the tape recorder to him driving Avis off in the woods somewhere to have sex. As smart and brave as Avis was, Kayla figured that listening to that tape must have driven her temporarily insane yesterday. That was the only reason for her to have dreamed up such a crazy scheme.
“Avis?” She recognized her friend’s slightly adenoidal hello. “What are you doing?”
“Testing the cap,” Avis whispered. “It works pretty good. I wore it at breakfast and taped an entire conversation with my mother, until she made me take it off.”
Kayla began to sweat, feeling as if the first domino in some monstrous chain reaction had just begun to topple. “Look, Avis, I don’t think you ought to do this. It’s too dangerous and I’ve got a better idea, anyway.”
“What?”
“This afternoon we have our therapy session right across the hall from Ridge’s lawyer. I’ll put the tapes inside a letter and give it to her. Mary Crow can listen to them and call the cops on Coach Keener.”
“But she won’t recognize his voice,” said Avis.
“Sure she will,” Kayla insisted. “He says his own name twice.”
“She’ll think it’s just some stupid trick.”
“No, she won’t.” Kayla twisted the telephone cord. “I’ll give her the tapes today, then tomorrow we can call her and tell her what we know.”
“But how would you give them to her? You can’t just get up from the therapy session and say, ‘Excuse me, but I’ve got to go give Ridge’s lawyer some tapes.’ Your father hates her guts!”
Legacy of Masks Page 29
