Promises of Home

by Jeff Abbott

  “Goddamn it, goddamn it,” Junebug fumed at the floor.

  “What the hell am I gupposed to do, Jordy? Ignore that she’s conveniently disappeared while Trey’s shot dead?”

  “Wait a second! You can’t think she did this!” Hypocrite. Don’t pretend the thought didn’t cross your mind.

  “Look. I have to consider every suspect. Arlene’s his ex-wife and she’d publicly feuded with him. I can’t cross her off the list just because you and I know she couldn’t do it.”

  I turned away from him. What kind of sorry brother was I, thinking even for a nanosecond that my sister could be a killer? Of course it was ridiculous. I took solace in that thought. The shock of seeing Trey dead had made me imagine the worst. Of course Sister was incapable of killing a man in cold blood. There had to be a reasonable explanation for both her absence and the cloth. Perhaps the cloth came from someone else’s pants, although I thought that unlikely. I’d ordered the trousers from a store in Boston I’d frequented during my publishing career and I didn’t think it likely another pair of trousers with that unusual fabric was haunting Mirabeau. Perhaps she’d gone over to see Trey again this morning—why? To apologize for hitting him? Possible but unlikely. To warn him off her son again? Probable. To kill him? I made myself turn back to Junebug. Not telling was lying, wasn’t it? I knew it was.

  I kept my voice calm. “Someone wrote ‘two down’ in Trey’s blood. Clevey’s murdered the day before. Do the math, dummy. Don’t you think you ought to follow that angle instead of worrying about where my sister is?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Junebug sank into a chair. “Clevey and Trey hadn’t been in touch for years. What could they have in common? Why’d anyone want to kill them both?”

  “We don’t know that they hadn’t been in touch,” I said slowly. “I don’t think Clevey would have told me if he’d been talking to Trey. I would not have taken that news well.”

  “He had all those clippings on Rennie Clifton’s death,” Junebug said. “Clevey was there when we found her body.

  So was Trey. Maybe he had been in touch with Trey, researching an article on Rennie.”

  “And found something worth getting himself and Trey killed over? Where the hell does that leave you and me? And Ed and Davis? This is idiotic, Junebug. Rennie Clifton’s death was an accident. She got killed by flying debris.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Can’t you find three other words to overuse?” I snapped.

  “Don’t get mad at me, Jordy,” Junebug said. “Okay, let’s say that those hidden notes Clevey had about Rennie Clifton had nothing to do with his death. Or maybe there’s no connection between Clevey’s murder and Trey’s murder. But someone still wrote that message. Maybe there’s been another murder we don’t even know about yet.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Junebug said, just to irritate me. “Take your nephew home, Jordy, and if I were you, I’d lock the doors. Call me if Arlene shows up. Or I’ll call you when we find her.”

  It was a horrible end to a horrible conversation.

  WHAT DO YOU DO WITH EVIDENCE IN A MURDER case—when you’ve decided turning it in to the police isn’t an option? And here I always considered myself a good citizen. By the time I got a silent Mark home, that scrap of batik was searing a hole in my drawers, and if those fibers had a voice, they were whispering in my ear: You should give this to the police. You know you should. Those mystery shows, where the town busybody doesn’t tell the police what he knows, you hate them. So why aren’t you telling?

  And my answer was: Because she’s my sister.

  I pulled the car into the driveway. The rain had ceased, leaving a wet, cool day in its wake. Clouds lingered overhead, gray with weight, promising more inclement weather. Mark had been silent all the way home.

  “Mark”—my voice sounded raspier than usual—“I want you to know something. I love you. I love you very much, and if you want to talk to me about any of this, if you want to cry, if you want to get mad, whatever, I’m here for you.” I reached out and touched his shoulder. I’m not a huggy person by nature, but I felt his need for human contact.

  Or so I imagined. Mark shrugged off my hand. “Thanks, but I don’t need any help. I’m fine. I got a history test on Monday to study for.”

  “A test?”

  “Yeah. American history.” He opened the car door. “Not my best subject, you know. Who cares about all those dates and stuff?” Unbelievably, he grinned at me. “I guess you care about it, since you used to edit those history textbooks. You don’t got any pointers for me, do you, Uncle Jordy?”

  I managed to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “No, Mark, I don’t. Look, let’s not worry about your exam right now, I don’t think you’ll be going to school on Monday anyway.”

  He swallowed. “Why wouldn’t I go?”

  “Mark—”

  “Look, I was upset at first about Dad, it was pretty awful seeing him shot like that, but you know, I like hardly knew him. He didn’t even look the same, all thin and with that stupid beard and being in a wheelchair. It wasn’t like he cared enough about me to call me, or to be a part of my life.”

  “But you begged me to take you to him—”

  “I gotta study, Uncle Jordy.” He got out of the car and loped along to the house. I turned off the engine and sat quietly for a moment. Well, I’d decided Trey wasn’t worth mourning over; apparently so had Mark. But Trey was his father, and considering the avalanche of emotion Mark had shown, this sudden freeze didn’t bode well. It was as if the Do Not Disturb sign had been hung out on Mark’s face while his mind’s room was being tidied up.

  I went inside. Mama’s nurse, Clo Butterfield, was reading a two-day-old newspaper to Mama, who rocked back and forth, humming tunelessly with a smile on her face. Clo folded the paper with a snap.

  “Mark didn’t say how it went with his daddy.”

  I went to the phone, not answering her, and dialed the cafe. Neither Sister nor Candace had returned. I asked Suzie to tell them to come straight to the house when they got back.

  Mama was once again exploring the unnavigable frontier of her own mind, so I briefly told Clo what had happened. I omitted the bloody score painted on Trey’s wall and the remnant of Sister’s clothing I’d found at the scene.

  Horror filled her dark face. “My God. That poor child. But he seems a lot calmer than I thought he’d be.”

  “He was wailing like a banshee an hour ago. Now he’s acting like nothing’s happened. Mark’s always been a kid who showed what he felt.”

  “Uncle Jordy?” Mark peered at me from upstairs, just glancing above the railing. “You’re right, I don’t feel much like studying. Can I ask Bradley over to watch TV?”

  “Sure, Mark. But let me call the Foradorys.” He smiled vacantly and went back upstairs.

  I turned back to Clo. “Well, that’s a good sign. At least he’s not doing schoolwork like it’s a normal day. Maybe seeing Bradley will help.”

  “Quit deluding yourself, Jordy.” Clo coughed. “He was smiling like a game-show contestant who don’t know the answers. He shouldn’t be smiling. He should be crying. He’s not.”

  “People grieve in different ways, Clo. He hadn’t seen his father in six years. Maybe this is normal.” I wasn’t doing a good job of convincing myself.

  She touched my arm with the same gentleness she used on Mama. “It’s not just that his daddy died, Jordy. His daddy died in front of him. His dying words to Mark were ‘I love you.’ I think Mark’s just not wanting to deal with any of this. You got to get him some counseling.”

  I remembered Steven Teague. He would know about grief counseling. I’d call my friends to tell them of Trey’s death first, then call Steven. “That’s an excellent idea, Clo. Thank you.”

  She patted my arm again. “I tell you what. I’ll stay and help you, okay?”

  I would have kissed her, but she would have hated that; so I didn’t. Clo was innat
ely kind, but she kept nearly everyone at an arm’s length. Life hadn’t always been kind back to her. “What about the funeral arrangements?”

  “I don’t know who’s supposed to be making those. Us? Nola Kinnard?”

  “And where’s Arlene at?”

  “She’s running errands or something for the cafe,” I said, perhaps a little too brightly. Clo watched me, her dark eyes surveying the twitchy territory of my face, and then she pushed the phone along the kitchen counter toward me.

  “I think you better make them calls now, Jordy.”

  I picked up the receiver and dialed Davis Foradory’s house.

  When Davis answered his voice sounded broken, like a pane of glass starred and cracked by a blow. “Huh— hello?”

  “Davis?”

  I heard the noise of flesh on flesh—a long, slow drag of his finger across his lip. “Yeah, Jordan, hey, how are you?”

  For a moment I wondered if Davis had been drinking—he sounded dulled. I told him briefly what had happened, excluding again the blood-scribed words on the wall; I didn’t think that I should jump to any conclusions about what 2 DOWN meant.

  He was silent a long while. “They say these things come in trees, Jordan.”

  “Trees?” His words were slurring together and I couldn’t understand him.

  “Threes. You know, death comes in threes.”

  Davis didn’t have a future writing sympathy cards for Hallmark. “That’s not exactly a comforting idea right now, Davis. Are you okay? You sound sick.”

  “I’m just stunned over what you’ve told me. God, first Clevey, now Trey. We got some serial killer running around here?”

  “I don’t know. Listen, Mark’s not in the best shape. He’s playing the tough guy right now. He asked if Bradley could come over and watch TV, just hang out with him.”

  “Well … I don’t know…” I heard movement and a brief recounting of Trey’s death from Davis. His wife, Cayla, came on the phone.

  “Jordy? My God, this is horrible. I am so sorry. How are Arlene and Mark?” Distance colored her voice more than sympathy. Each word seemed forced from Cayla’s mouth, as though concern was an unpleasant exercise to be completed.

  “Coping,” I answered. I wasn’t about to get into a discussion with Cayla Foradory, our local ice queen, about how my family felt over Trey’s death. “Cayla, would it be too much trouble to let Bradley come over? Mark could sure use his friends right now.”

  Cayla hesitated. “Yes, I suppose that would be okay. I’ll bring y’all some food, too.”

  I thought of saying no. But when you’ve had a death, telling Mirabeau people not to bring food is like trying to say no to breathing air. I thanked her instead.

  “I can’t believe it. Two murders in two days. What’s happening to Mirabeau?”

  “I don’t know, Cayla.” Her tone gave me the creeps.

  “Jordy, one moment. Let me speak to Arlene.”

  I pressed my lips hard together. What to say? “She can’t come to the phone right now, Cayla.”

  The coolness in Cayla’s voice deepened. “Of course, I understand. Tell Mark we’ll be over shortly.”

  “Thanks, Cayla.” I paused, then decided to ask her a question. “Is Davis okay?”

  There was the slightest of pauses. “Davis is fine, Jordy. You’re sweet to ask about him. I think he’s still in shock over Clevey’s death and this latest tragedy is just hitting him very hard.”

  “Of course. See you in a bit, Cayla.” I hung up the phone, not entirely convinced she was being frank with me. Davis Foradory didn’t sound like the self-assured lawyer I knew. I rubbed my temples; as if I didn’t have enough to worry about, I was ready to take on Davis’s imagined problems. I finished making my phone calls.

  Grief and shock do not lend themselves to originality. Nearly everyone I called said the same empty words: Oh my God, I can’t believe it, or How terrible, or an occasional Well, I didn’t know he was back in town! I had my own set speech, telling them that I didn’t know quite yet what the funeral arrangements were going to be and that yes, Mark was bearing up okay (that I didn’t know about, but what else could I say?) and that, why, yes, I was fine.

  People promised to stop by. I kept hoping Sister’d be back by then.

  I checked on Mark. He was lying on his bed, light from the window casting a dim square on his shirt. He stared at his ceiling, listening to an R.E.M. song that advised him to try not to breathe. His cheeks were dry and his eyes, although reddened from his earlier outburst, weren’t damp.

  “Mark? You okay?”

  “Sure. Fine.”

  “Bradley’s coming over shortly. That still okay with you?”

  “Yeah. Mom home yet?”

  “No, Mark, not yet. She’ll be here soon.”

  “I just hope nothing happened to her, the way it did to Dad.”

  Ice coated my throat. “Oh, Mark, I’m sure she’s fine. She’s—she’s just out running errands or something.”

  “Okay.” He turned away from me. “Let me know when Bradley gets here.” He got up and pulled a box out from deep in the chaos of his closet. A dusty, battered, cracked box with chutes and ladders in faint print across the front. He smiled thinly at me.

  “It’s a fun game. Want to play?”

  “Maybe later, Mark.” The fourteen-year-old I knew would sooner have bamboo shoved under his fingernails than play a kindergartner’s game. I tried to convince myself he just wanted to do something simple that Bradley could enjoy. I couldn’t shake the dread that Mark was in serious retreat.

  I left him alone and crept to Sister’s room, feeling like a thief. I closed the door behind me and opened her small closet. Pants and jeans hung in neat lines, draped over hangers; Sister’s never been a slob. I rummaged among the selection. The batik slacks weren’t in there. I quickly checked her dresser drawers, feeling like a pervert as I pawed through her undergarments and other apparel. No trace of the missing pants, Likely she still had them on. But they were of thin material, and this was a cool day. Why would she wear them in the November chill?

  I went to my own room and put the scrap in a small blue stationery envelope, and after a moment’s hesitation, hid the envelope in a thick book on Texas history. I then stuck the book in the middle of the tower of books by my bedside—my ever-tottering to-read stack. I promised myself some time to contemplate before I mentioned that shred of cloth to Sister. Or to Junebug.

  I went downstairs, still uneasy over Mark and Sister. People—mostly older women—had started arriving, bringing food and sympathy. Truda Shivers and Eula Mae Quiff had been among the first folks I’d called, and they’d resummoned the cavalry. Some of the callers still wore the looks of solicitude I’d seen at Truda’s house last night. It seemed unreal to have them here, lamenting a man who hadn’t set foot in this house for six years. But regardless of what had happened between him and Sister, he was still Mark’s father, and to these fine, bighearted women, this was still a house of mourning in need of support in the form of tender hugs, plum cakes, buttermilk pies, and broccoli-cheese-rice casseroles. There were seven ladies lingering, dithering over Mama (who didn’t seem too confused by the presence of these friends she used to know) and nodding remorsefully at Clo as she talked, “Oh, honey.” Dorcas Witherspoon came to me and hugged me. She’s one of Mama’s oldest and dearest pals. “I’m so sorry. How are Mark and Arlene? Are they upstairs?”

  I don’t like lying. If I confessed Sister had gone missing, they’d panic. I could hardly announce that she was here; they’d demand to see her, and courtesy would require her to make an appearance, even if Trey’s death had left her prostrate with grief.

  “Mark’s coping. And I think my sister’s going to be okay. It’s surely a shock to everyone.” That was neutral enough to toe the line between truth and fiction.

  “Jordy.” Truda Shivers came forward and pressed my hands, having abandoned one house of loss for another. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Truda, thank yo
u for coming, but you shouldn’t have. I know how hard it is for you right now, what with Clevey and—”

  And that’s when Sister chose to make her appearance. Hie front door flew open, the hinges squealing in violated dismay, and Sister, followed by a somber Junebug, stormed in. Her face wore the same mask of shock that Mark seemed to find so comfortable. Except for her blackened eye.

  Her countenance shushed the gathered women to silence, not to mention the foreboding presence of our police chief. “Where’s my boy?” Sister demanded of me without preamble.

  “He’s upstairs. What happened to your—”

  “I’ll deal with you later, Jordan Michael Poteet. I understand that because of you, my child saw his father die. I hope you’re goddamned happy with yourself, you bastard.” She shoved past me and sprinted up the stairs two at a time.

  Since etiquette didn’t require a response to her attack, I stood there with mouth open, staring at her. And staring at the batik pattern underneath the muddy smears on her trousers. I covered my face with my palms. It’s hard to know that even for one instant, your sister hates your guts.

  I glanced over at Junebug, who nodded toward the back porch. The assemblage of mourners discovered several reasons to either leave or retire to the kitchen, where Clo had prepared coffee. I followed my old Mend out to the back porch, a miserable look on my face.

  The rain had returned, playing an arpeggio of pitters on the roof. The wide, emptying branches of the live oaks swayed in the mounting coldness that promised a hard winter, and the leaves from the trees had begun their wet descent to the ground. The sky was leaden with clouds that looted like ashy bolls of cotton. I suppose if thunder had ominously rumbled, it would have only completed the scene.

  “Where was she? Is she okay?” I asked Junebug.

  “She’s fine. I found her down on Mears Creek, where it divides off the river. She was just sitting in her car.”

  “Where the hell had she been?”

  “She says she needed time alone.” His lips thinned.