Eventually we descended to the ground floor. Ophira watched us carefully.
“We’ll be ready in a minute,” she said.
Devon showed off the library, dining room, and living room, finally ending at the bedroom in the back of the house.
“There’s a hot tub just outside the sliding door,” she told me. “I never use it, but my mom likes it, and so does Joel.”
“Is this your room?”
“God no. I’m upstairs. I showed you my room.”
“Yes, you did.”
“This is my mother’s room. She has a master bedroom upstairs. I showed you that one, too, only she also uses this one sometimes. I think because it’s close to the hot tub. She keeps some of her clothes in the closet.”
The young woman tugged at the collar of her shirt.
“This is hers,” she said.
I came thisclose to explaining that I had witnessed her getting dressed and that she was foolish for not closing the drapes even if the house was in the middle of nowhere, literally miles from her nearest neighbor. I was afraid I’d embarrass her, though. And myself.
“The shirt looks good on you,” I said.
Devon smiled as if it were the best compliment she had ever received.
“Thank you,” she said.
Her breathless little-girl voice reminded me—almost seventeen, almost seventeen, almost seventeen.
“Dev.” Ophira called to us from the kitchen. “Devon. Child, we’re ready to eat.”
Devon took my hand again and led me to the kitchen. Three places were set at the table.
“We have a perfectly good dining room,” Devon said. “That’s what my mom calls it. Perfectly good. I’ve always liked eating here instead. Is that okay?”
“Perfect,” I said.
Ophira’s Cajun stew was a collection of andouille sausage, shrimp, red onion, garlic, celery, carrots, potatoes, bell pepper, tomatoes, okra, and cayenne pepper simmering in a pot, with the homemade biscuits on the side. Devon reached for a biscuit. Ophira gave her a look, and the girl pulled her hand back. She bowed her head and folded her hands in her lap.
Ophira prayed aloud. “Bless this food to our use, and us to thy service. Fill our hearts with grateful praise. Amen.”
“Amen,” Devon said.
“Amen,” I added so I wouldn’t feel left out.
Devon retrieved her biscuit.
“Are you religious, Taylor?” she asked.
Ophira filled both Devon’s bowl and my bowl with her stew. It smelled delicious.
“Not as much as my mother wants me to be,” I said.
“My family isn’t religious at all,” Devon said. “The only time I’ve ever been in a church was with Ophira. Ophira is really religious, aren’t you, Ophira? God and family, she says, are the only important things. It’s because of her that I pray sometimes.”
I glanced at the woman. She was busy eating her stew without even a suggestion that she wanted to join in the conversation.
“I’m glad she takes me to church when my mother isn’t looking,” Devon said. “It gives me an idea of how things work.”
“I haven’t heard church described quite that way before,” I said.
“You won’t tell Mother?”
“Of course not.”
“Then I won’t tell her that we had dinner together even though she told me to stay away from you.”
“I appreciate it. Ophira?”
She lifted her head, and I pointed at her stew with my spoon.
“Eating this is as close to a religious experience as I’ve come in a long time. Your biscuits—manna from heaven.”
She smiled, if only for a moment. I might have missed it if I hadn’t been watching closely.
“Be better if I had more time to let it simmer.” Ophira gestured toward Devon. “This one, she wants what she wants.”
Devon threw her head back and laughed.
“Oh, right,” she said. “Like I give the orders around here.”
Devon waved her spoon at Ophira as if she were slashing at her with a cutlass. Ophira frowned and shook her head. Devon set the spoon down and picked up a biscuit. She took a bite and spoke as she chewed.
“Is my mother going to prison?” Devon asked.
“Manners,” Ophira said.
Devon finished chewing.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Taylor, is my mother going to prison?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then she didn’t kill Emily like they said.”
“There isn’t very much evidence to prove that she did it, yet there’s plenty to prove that someone else might have.”
Devon’s blueberry eyes narrowed, and she leaned in close.
“Who?” she said. “Who did it?”
“I’m afraid I can’t really tell you much more than what I already have. I work for your mother and her attorney. What I learn in the course of an investigation belongs to them. I’m ethically and legally bound to keep it private unless they tell me otherwise.”
An expression of utter rage clouded Devon’s pretty face. She gripped her spoon as if she actually intended to use it like a sword.
“But I’m your friend,” she said.
I leaned away from her.
Ophira reached over and tapped Devon’s shoulder.
“Child,” she said. “Eat your dinner before it gets cold.”
“Right, right.”
The anger disappeared just like that. Devon bowed her head over her bowl and took a bite of shrimp and okra. She was smiling when her head came back up.
“This is really fabulous, isn’t it,” she said. “Ophira is a great cook. I keep telling Mom to hire her as a chef, but she has this guy who thinks if you smother something in enough sauce it becomes gourmet.”
I asked Devon about school and what plans she had for college just to get her thinking about something else. She named a number of universities that interested her, none of them close to home. She said she was looking forward to touring the campuses that summer. This led to a spirited discussion about the value of higher education versus its cost. Ophira actually joined in for a change, arguing that onerous student loans were crushing the middle class. Devon agreed, which didn’t surprise me, her agreeing with Ophira, even though it was unlikely the girl would ever know a moment of financial anxiety in her life. What surprised me was her clear-eyed theory that high student debt could cripple the economy. “You can’t buy a house, you can’t buy a car, if you need half of your income to pay Northwestern University,” she said. It suggested to me that the young lady actually paid attention to the problems of the world around her despite the fact that she lived so far above them.
After dinner, we settled in the living room. Devon attempted again to pump me for information.
“This someone else who might have killed Emily, does he live in Arona?”
“Could be,” I said.
“Was it U.S. Sand like you suspected? Was it part of a giant conspiracy like they have on Hawaii Five-0?”
“Sorry.”
“Oh, c’mon, Taylor. I’ve never been involved in a murder investigation before.”
“I didn’t know you were involved.”
“My mother was charged with the crime, so yeah, I’m involved.”
Devon glanced at Ophira as if seeking confirmation, but the woman gave her nothing.
“What about Mayor Franson?” I asked. “Were you involved in that investigation?”
“No,” Devon said. “No one even asked me a question.”
“Why would they?” Ophira asked.
I asked the question I had come there to ask.
“You were here when the mayor was shot, weren’t you?” I asked.
“You mean in Arona?” Devon said. “Sure I was. Well, I was here at Mereshack, anyway. It was spring break or something.”
“Were you alone?”
Devon chuckled at the suggestion.
“Mother never lets me go anywhere alone. Besides, that was over a ye
ar ago. I was almost sixteen. I didn’t even have a driver’s license back then.”
Mayor Franson’s house was over ten miles away, I reminded myself.
“I was with her,” Ophira said. “Why does it matter?”
“The mayor was trying to rip off my family,” Devon said. “That makes us suspects. Isn’t that right, Taylor?”
“Yes, it does,” I said. “But … Okay, I’ll tell you something about the investigation.”
Both women leaned forward, which made me grin.
“The county attorney has evidence that proves whoever killed Mayor Franson also killed Emily,” I said.
“What evidence?” Ophira asked.
“Now, I can prove that your mother and Joel were in New York at the time the mayor was killed, so they’re in the clear. You and Ophira have each other for alibis, so—”
“Oh,” Devon said. She sounded disappointed. She leaned back in her chair. “So Mom really isn’t going to prison. I thought you were just being nice before. Did you hear that, Ophira?”
“What evidence?” Ophira asked again.
It was easy to lie to her; I did it automatically.
“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure,” I said. “Martin McGaney—you met him this morning. I’ve known him for a long time. He gave me the heads-up, although he wouldn’t be specific.”
“Is it an ethical thing again?” Devon asked.
“He works for the county attorney, and I work for your mother’s attorney so, yeah, something like that.”
“Do the police have any idea who done it?” Ophira said.
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t, neither?”
“What you need to understand, it’s not our job to find out who killed Emily or the mayor. Our job, your mother’s attorney and mine, is to prove that your mother didn’t do it, and it looks like we’re going to be able to do that.”
“That’s good news,” Ophira said. “Ain’t it, child?”
“Don’t you care, Taylor?” Devon said. “Don’t you want to know who killed Emily?”
“Of course I care. From what I’ve been able to learn, Emily was a wonderful woman and well loved by everyone who knew her.”
“I loved her,” Devon said.
“I’m sorry about what happened to her, and yes, I’d like see the person responsible get what’s coming to him. Only that’s not what I was hired to do.”
“The police, though. If they can’t find who killed the mayor after all this time, how are they going to find who killed Emily?”
“As sad as it sounds, they might never find out. It’s not like TV where everything gets wrapped up in forty-four minutes plus commercials.”
“What you’re saying, someone got away with murder.”
“We’ll see. You know the cops; they’re never going to stop looking. After a while, Emily’s murder will cease being a priority with them. There’re always new crimes to solve. At the same time, they’ll never completely forget about it.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Someone could hire you.”
“Dev,” Ophira said.
“Hire me to do what?” I asked.
“Find Emily’s killer. I mean, if it’s not your job now, someone could make it your job, though, couldn’t they?”
“One thing TV gets right, the police don’t like it when private investigators meddle in open homicide investigations. In fact, they can get downright cranky.”
“Do you care?”
“Not particularly.”
“Well, then?”
“You’re a minor.”
“Yes, she is,” Ophira said.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Devon asked.
“If you’re thinking of hiring me, legally, I’m not sure we can make that happen unless your mother agrees.”
Devon tucked her long legs beneath her and smiled brightly like a girl with a plan.
“Me?” she said. “I wasn’t thinking of me.” She glanced in Ophira’s direction before turning her eyes back. “I wouldn’t worry about it, though. One way or the other, I always find a way to get what I want.”
* * *
Soon after, I announced it was time for me to leave.
Devon said, “So soon?”
Ophira stood up and opened the door.
“I need to get some sleep,” I said. “I’m going home tomorrow morning.”
“Then I might not see you again,” Devon said. “Taylor, I miss you already.”
I believed Devon wanted to hug me as she had the evening before. Yet as she moved toward me, I offered her my hand instead. She shook it, but she wasn’t happy about it.
“You don’t have to worry, Taylor,” she said. “It’s not a crush or anything. I just like you.”
“I like you, too. Have a wonderful life.”
Ophira waved me out the door.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I was in my room at the Everheart Resort. My phone chirped with another text. It was from Alex Campbell.
Hello?
I answered, Good evening.
Wanted to call since you didn’t—afraid to interrupt interview.
Finished. Just got back.
Where are you?
In my room.
In your bed in your room?
On my bed.
Are you still dressed?
Yes. Why?
Just curious.
Where are you?
In my bedroom—in my bed—alone.
What are you doing?
Texting, silly.
I’m not used to this.
Used to what?
Texting.
It’s called sexting.
Then I’m really not used to it.
Kids do it all the time.
I haven’t been a kid for many, many years.
Spoilsport.
If you say so.
Should I tell you what I’m wearing?
Please.
Start at the top and work down or at the bottom and work up?
Why don’t I just call you?
We can do it that way, too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Four forty-five A.M. and my cell phone rang. My first thought was of Alex and what I told her when last we spoke.
“I’m not into cyber, sexting, telephone sex, whatever you call it. I’m strictly a hands-on kind of guy.”
“That’s my preferred method as well,” she said.
Which segued into a long and pleasant conversation about her and me and everything in between that lasted until—geez, was it only four hours ago?
I snatched the smartphone off the bedside table and spoke into it without checking the caller ID.
“What?”
“Good morning, sunshine.”
The drapes on my windows were tightly drawn, yet there was enough of a crack to tell me that it was a very dark gray outside.
“Who’s this?”
“Rachel Colgin.”
“What do you want?”
“I need a favor.”
“I already did you a favor.”
“No. You did something for me, and in exchange, I’m going to do something for you. This is completely different.”
“What?”
“Get dressed. Meet me in the parking lot.”
“What parking lot?”
“The parking lot of the Everheart Resort. Taylor, please hurry.”
* * *
I put on yesterday’s jeans and yesterday’s shirt and my all-purpose sports jacket and made my way downstairs. The lights were on, yet there was no one in the lobby. Just a bell on the front desk with a sign that read RING ME.
I stepped outside.
“Hey.”
Special Agent Rachel Colgin’s voice startled me. I moved to cover it with some macho posing.
“What the hell is going on?” I asked.
Colgin answered by seizing my arm and leading me away fro
m the lights of the front entrance and deep into the parking lot. She was wearing body armor beneath a dark blue windbreaker with the letters ATF plastered in white over the front and back. The sun was threatening to rise, but that did little to keep me from shivering in the morning chill. Colgin, on the other hand, appeared as comfortable as could be. She brushed my hair with the fingers of her free hand.
“I like the bed hair,” she said. “Gives you that outdoorsy windswept look.”
“So I have that going for me.”
“I like the day-old beard, too.”
I exhaled hard in her direction.
“How ’bout that?” I asked. “I haven’t had time to brush my teeth, either.”
Colgin fanned the invisible air.
“Try to stay downwind,” she said.
“Seriously, Rachel. What do you want from me?”
By then we had reached her white van and a knot of agents. They were all wearing bulletproof vests and ATF windbreakers, too.
“A slight glitch,” Colgin said. “Because of your unannounced visit yesterday, the Patriots decided it would be prudent to put a guard back on the gate. It makes our predawn assault on their compound that much more difficult.”
“Why?”
“There’s only one road leading in and out. I have agents manning a perimeter in the woods, but they’re there to cut off escape routes. It’s on us to hit ’em. With a guard in constant contact with the compound, though, it’ll be tough. The road is nearly a mile long. They’ll have too much warning. The chance of my people getting hurt has increased exponentially.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“The Patriots know you.”
“So?”
“So, you’re going to drive to the gate.”
“I am?”
“Yes, you are. You’re going to drive to the gate and tell the guard that you’re there to see Blevins about something important.”
“He’s going to ask what.”
“I don’t care what you say. Tell him that the ATF is onto him. Whatever. Just get the guard to open the gate. If you can get him to ride with you to the compound, that would be very, very good, too. We’ll be following right behind you. Once you’re in the compound, just park somewhere out of the way and we’ll do the rest.”
“It seems to me that a guy could get killed doing something like that.”
Colgin gestured at her fellow agents.
“Yes,” she said. “A guy could get killed.”
Darkness, Sing Me a Song--A Holland Taylor Mystery Page 23
