by Jeff Abbott
“Who gave her that shiner?”
“She claims she stumbled against a tree while taking a walk, but I don’t believe her.”
“Oh, God. This isn’t happening.” I turned to him with pleading eyes. “Junebug, you have to get to the bottom of this. Two of—two people we’ve known forever get murdered and my sister goes missing and turns up with a battered face. You got to do something!”
“I am, Jordy. I’m taking myself off this case.”
“Why?” I felt like hollering my throat raw, but I kept my voice under steely control. “We need you, Junebug.”
“I can’t, Jordy, I got to turn it over to my deputy. I can’t investigate when Arlene’s … involved. It’s a conflict of interest.”
“Do you think she did this? You know she couldn’t have!” Hypocrite, my conscience piped up in my head. Why don’t you go get him that scrap? I’m waiting.
“Of course she didn’t do it,” Junebug said. He stared off into the rain, coming down harder, driving the remaining leaves down to sodden grass. “I don’t believe for an instant that she killed Trey.” He heaved a long sigh. “When I told her he was dead, it was as if all the life went out of her. I hadn’t expected that, not after what happened between them.” He turned back to me, his face miserable. “She still loves him, Jordy. I could see it in her face.”
“You’re dreaming. You didn’t see the cold hate in her eyes last night. You didn’t see how she hit him.” I nearly bit my tongue off; I’d spoken recklessly, too stunned by recent events for much coherency. Perhaps I could write down the list of reasons Sister had to kill Trey? It would surely make questioning her more convenient for all concerned.
“What’s the old saying? It’s a fine line between love and hate?” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Once it had set in, I wasn’t foolin’ her, she screamed like a wounded wildcat. She broke into tears and just kept saying no. Cut me to the bone.” He shook his head. “I don’t think Arlene loves me. I think, even after all these years, all her yellin all her warnings to Trey to stay away, that she loved him still. Arlene’s not the type to hate, you know.”
“She’s not happy with me right now, is she?” I asked, half to myself.
He doffed his Stetson, tossed it on the chair, and ran a callused hand through his damp brown hair. “Sorry about that. Of course she asked if you and Mark knew. I had to tell her about y’all finding him. She got a lot quieter then.”
“She’ll get over being upset at me,” I said. “I hope.” Junebug didn’t look too concerned about my placement on Sister’s Top 40 chart.
Thunder rumbled above me. He kept watching the curtain of rain.
I chose my words carefully. “Of course, the most compelling reason to know that my sister had nothing to do with Trey’s death is that ‘two down’ that was on the wall. Sister might have had reason to kill Trey, but she sure didn’t have reason to kill anyone else.” I watched Junebug’s broad back tense. “There’s no other explanation, Junebug. The same person got rid of both him and Clevey. So there’s no reason to suspect my sister.”
“I know tonight’s going to be rough for you, Jordy, but I’d like you and the other boys to come over to my house.”
“I assume by the other boys you mean Davis and Ed.”
He nodded. “Because of the papers about Rennie Clifton we found in Clevey’s house. The papers mention the six boys specifically. Now two are dead. The remaining four of us need to have a little chat.”
“But you said you were taking yourself off the case—”
“Off Trey’s case. I’m still investigating Clevey’s murder. Be there at eight o’clock. And tell Arlene I’ll call her later.” He spun on his heel and left, the murmur of feminine voices the only sound as he went back into the house.
I felt cold, as though Rennie Clifton’s long-dead hand had risen from the ground and closed around my ankle. Did 2 DOWN signal a finale to bloodshed? Or was it the first note in an even more gruesome coda?
“Jordy?”
I turned. Candace. I should have run into her arms. Instead I froze.
“Baby, for God’s sake!” She hurled herself at me, nearly crushing me in her embrace. And I’m a foot taller than she is. I held her, running my hands up the firmness of her back. Her lake-blue eyes, wide with shock, looked up into mine.
“I’m so sorry, Jordy, so sorry.” She hugged me again, whispering into my chest.
“What about?” I stroked her hair, but I didn’t feel the usual ache of tenderness when she was in my arms. It was almost as though I wasn’t truly me and she wasn’t truly her. The entire day had taken on a quality of unreality.
“I’m sorry because Trey is dead, dummy! What’s wrong with you?” She leaned back, staring at me as though I’d lost my mind.
I didn’t respond. Those clear blue eyes bored into me like a beacon cutting a swath across darkness. I suddenly felt ill at ease in her arms.
“How are Mark and Arlene?” she asked.
“Sister’s terribly upset. Mark freaked out completely. Now he’s acting like nothing happened.” I stepped back from her.
She regarded me with a critical gaze. “And how about you?”
“Fine,” I mumbled. “I mean, granted, it was horrible to see him the like that, but I’ll be just fine.”
One of her hands reached out for mine. She ran a fingertip along my unshaven jawline. “C’mon, babe. He was your best friend, at least when you were growing up.”
“Who told you that?”
She blinked. “Well, good Lord. Everyone says how close y’all were.”
“That was years ago! What does it matter?” I pulled my hand free and walked to the end of the porch. The little garden plot Mama used to plant every spring was barren and muddy. Dank elongations of water lay in the shallow hills between empty rows. I watched drops strike the surface, their tiny impacts spreading a circle of water until the next bead of rain fell.
“Why are you being so pissy to me, Jordan?” she asked my back.
“I’m sorry.” I turned to her, holding my palms out, fingers spread. “You don’t understand, Candace. There’s no point in me being upset. You said Trey was my friend. Well, the emphasis is on the past tense. He was an unforgivable asshole.”
She gave me her patented Doubting Candace look and crossed her slender arms. “I see. And since he was such an asshole, you’re not at all affected that he practically died at your feet?”
I shook my head in frustration. “I feel terrible that Mark saw that. I’ll never forgive myself for taking him over to that house. But at least—at least Trey told Mark that he loved him.” I stared out again at the rain. “I don’t know, Candace. Maybe Mark didn’t need to hear that. Maybe it would have been better if Trey had just died and he wasn’t anything more than a memory to Mark. Mark shouldn’t have seen that blood, that death. He’s just a kid. If I hadn’t—”
“That’s not your fault. So we should all only be concerned about Mark? You’re perfectly fine? Entirely unscathed by losing two old friends in two days?” Her tone was arch, one I recognized from when a fight was brewing between us.
“I will mourn Clevey,” I said, realizing I was gritting my teeth. “But what do you want from me? Should I scream? Tear my hair? Not over Trey Slocum. Not over that worthless son of a bitch. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to call Steven Teague. Mark is going to need counseling. Maybe my sister, too. I have to take care of them. And I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, and I need some aspirin, and maybe a nap.” I was tired of the ceaseless rain, tired of the moist smell of wet dead leaves, tired of talking nonsense. I headed for the screen door, for the warm comforting smells of casseroles and the lowered voices found in homes that death touches. She didn’t stop me.
I’M NOT GOOD AT MOURNING. The rest of the afternoon went in a haze. Sister wouldn’t talk to me; I’d tried once, knocking on her door. The sobs on the other side made me feel I was knocking on her heart. “Later,” was all she would say.
Mark played a childre
n’s game in my room with a hushed Bradley Foradory. I watched their pieces slide and rise in the fortunes of the gameboard. Mark was treating Chutes and Ladders like grand-master chess. He only answered in monosyllables when I talked to him. Bradley favored me with a confused smile. I mussed his hair, told him to take care of Mark (who didn’t want to acknowledge my presence), and left them alone.
I fended off unneeded—and unwarranted—concern from Eula Mae, Clo, Truda, Cayla, Davis, and a score of other well-intentioned neighbors. Even my nemesis Gretchen; you’d think after all our battles, she’d have known me well enough to leave me alone. Ed and Wanda Dickensheets appeared, fresh from a Saturday peddling memories of the King. Wanda didn’t bother to change out of her Elvis getup that was her working uniform, and for the first time I wasn’t inclined to laugh at her. Ed moved like a man on tranquilizers.
Of course, Mark and Sister were indisposed in their grief, so I took the proffered pity for Trey’s death. I accepted kisses on my cheeks, squeezes of my hand, murmured expressions of sympathy for our loss. I cast my face in sorrow and nodded quietly a great deal, acting as the family spokesman. And the cynics say there’s no ironies in life.
Candace stayed—but she stayed away from me. Every now and then she caught my eye and I saw the forgiving concern in her face. I always broke contact first. I felt bad I couldn’t react the way she thought I was supposed to, but she was presuming I sustained some kind of affection for Trey Slocum. I knew she meant well. I knew she loved me. I just wanted her to let me be for a while.
My father, Bob Don, was in Las Vegas at an automobile conference. I missed him. I thought he, at least, would understand; he wouldn’t expect me to shed tears over a man I loathed.
Finally, the bearers of food and succor departed, leaving me, Clo, Eula Mae, and Candace sitting at a table overflowing with pies, casseroles, and sandwich makings. I made myself eat, but nothing had taste, not even Eula Mae’s Mirabeau-famous plum-and-whiskey cake. Clo took trays to Sister and Mark; she came back and told me they were sitting together in Mama’s room, talking quietly. Mama did not appear to be participating in the conversation; she, according to Clo, kept asking when Hawaii Five-O, her favorite show, would be on.
“Was Mark crying?” I asked Clo. She shook her head.
“That’s not natural,” I muttered. Candace coughed, but I ignored her.
“I’ll be glad to stay tonight, Jordy,” Clo offered. I nodded as Candace spoke.
“Clo, you’ve already been here all day. You must be exhausted, and I know you’ve got your granddaughter to look after. Why don’t I stay, and you can spell me tomorrow when I have to go to the cafe?”
I smiled at her. I did want her here; I just wasn’t going to get dragged into an argument over whether or not I was dealing normally with Trey’s death.
“Thank you,” I said. “Candace, if you’re going to stay, why don’t you run home and get whatever you need for tonight?” I checked my watch. “Junebug is expecting me.”
“Junebug?” Eula Mae demanded. “Ed’s going there. And Cayla mentioned that Davis was, too.” Her eyes shone bright with curiosity, only vaguely muted by the pall that hung over my house. “Excuse me, ladies,” I said quietly.
“Boys, we have to talk,” Junebug said.
He poured me a whiskey—not my first of the evening— and resumed his place on the sofa. The four of us gathered around the squat coffee table in Junebug’s den, as uneasy a group of mourners as I’d ever seen. Davis downed Jack Daniel’s into his big, football player’s frame, looking morose; Junebug frowned, funereally solemn; and Ed Dickensheets walked restlessly, his shock and grief propelling him like a ceiling fan turned up a notch too high. He paced around the table, crossing and uncrossing his arms.
“Goddamn it, Ed, you’re making me dizzy. Sit down!” Davis insisted. He rolled whiskey in his mouth and for one moment I thought Davis was going to spew the booze at Ed on his next orbit.
“I can’t,” Ed retorted. “If I sit down I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”
“Let him be, he’s not bothering you,” Junebug said quietly. Davis shrugged and sipped some more of his whiskey.
I held a glass of bourbon and water in my hand, but I’d left it untasted. I felt bone weary.
Junebug stood, glass aloft. “Here’s to Clevey Shivers and Trey Slocum, boys. May they rest in peace and meet us in heaven.”
The others stood, and for one brief moment I thought of not joining in. But it was for Clevey, too, and I felt heartsick that I seemed to be forgetting about him. I saw his easy smile, his laugh, the noticeable gap between his front teeth that would have kept him looking boyish at forty. I stood and clinked my glass against my friends’, the ringing of crystal brief and discordant. We sipped at varying speeds: Davis quaffing his in a gulp, his eyes averted, Junebug sipping slowly, Ed and I barely tasting ours. Davis was a little drunk and wasn’t done toasting.
“Clevey, our friend and a fine reporter,” he said. “He’ll dig up all the secrets, even if it sends him to hell.”
“Damn old Clevey,” Ed said, his pug face puckering up in a frown. “I always thought he was gonna be the meanest old fart in the nursing home.”
“He would’ve been the ugliest,” Davis muttered.
“I feel bad for Trey,” Ed said suddenly. “He’d just gotten to see us all again.” Silence fell and we sat in its shadow.
No one spoke for several minutes. I gazed into the amber shallows of my glass for a while and then looked up. Junebug, like me, was hypnotized by the eddies of liquor around ice; Davis, slumped in his chair, examined the ceiling for points of interest; Ed stared at his feet.
This is how men grieve, I thought. We feel this terrible, heavy sadness, but we pretend it’s not there. We don’t look into each other’s face for fear we’ll see another man’s tears, or worse, he will see ours. We talk about the things that mattered least in the lost life, and when words fail us, we down our drinks and turn glazed eyes to the carpet. Our laments are silent. I sipped at my whiskey.
“You know what kind of guns killed ’em?” Davis asked, his tone distant and solemn.
Junebug looked up from his drink. “Both shot with thirty-eights, but we haven’t determined yet if it was the same gun. Trey had a thirty-eight registered to him, and it’s missing.” No one spoke.
“Did Trey say anything before he died, Jordan?” Davis wanted to know.
“Jordan can’t talk about that,” Junebug interjected.
I shrugged. “I don’t see what difference it could possibly make. He told Mark he loved him. He didn’t say anything else. He just looked at me. Then he died.” I put my glass to my mouth but didn’t sip.
“Damn it, Jordan, you were told not to say anything about the case!” Junebug slammed his glass down on the table.
I’m already hiding evidence. Surely that’s worse than running off at the mouth. I didn’t share my ruminations with the group. “Why are you having a fit? You took yourself off Trey’s case.”
“That true, Junebug?” Ed asked, the ice rattling in his glass.
“I’d really prefer not to discuss it, Ed,” Junebug said. “Especially with the media.”
Ed coughed. “Hey, I just sell airtime for the station. I don’t fill it with news reports. You’d have to talk to Mr. Boss Man Foradory here about getting on the airwaves.”
Davis shrugged. “Let it go, Ed. Let’s change the subject.” His voice sounded weary.
Anger kept Ed going. “Hell, no. Our friends are dead, and now you’re not investigatin’? What the hell is that?”
I leaned forward. “Ed. Junebug had to take himself off the investigation of Trey’s murder because my sister is a suspect.” There, I said it.
Ed raised his chin slightly, looking at me with his dark eyes. A half smile played along his face, and he eased back in his chair. “You’re kidding, right? Junebug surely can’t believe Arlene shot anyone.”
“Why not?” Davis ventured. “Sorry to say it, y’all, but Arlene
looked like she was in a killing mood last night.”
“Mood and action are two different things, Davis,” I retorted. “The idea of my sister murdering anyone is ridiculous.”
“Regardless”—Junebug kept his voice measuredly calm—“I felt it best to turn over Trey’s case to Franklin Bedloe. He’ll be the lead officer.”
Ed shook his head. “I bet ol’ Arlene really appreciates that vote of confidence, Junebug. You won’t be getting any more free coffee down at the Sit-a-Spell.”
“You’re not funny,” Junebug said in a low gravelly voice. He glared at me for having ventured into topics he didn’t want to discuss.
“Don’t get mad at Ed for pointing out the obvious,” I snapped. “You said a minute ago we had to talk. So let’s talk.” I felt a warm flush of frustration redden my face. “Whether or not my sister is an automatic suspect in Trey’s death, you think that the same person’s responsible for shooting Trey and Clevey. Why don’t you share your reasoning with everyone?”
Junebug stood, went to the bar, and refilled his drink. “I don’t want what’s discussed here leaving this room. Is that understood? I’m speaking as an officer of the law, not as your friend. Y’all hear me?” Silent assent greeted this statement, and he sat down again. He then told the others about the peculiar evidence: the newspaper clippings about Rennie Clifton and the 2 DOWN written in blood on Trey’s wall.
My lifelong friends traded uneasy glances. Finally Ed said, “I don’t understand. If Clevey knew something about that girl’s death, why hadn’t he told? I mean, he was a newspaper reporter. He would have written about it.”
Davis wet his lips. “Maybe he didn’t have enough evidence. You can’t just write an article without having all the facts. Papers get sued for inaccurate reporting. Clevey might have discovered something about Rennie Clifton’s death but not had enough to go to press with.”
“But enough to get killed over,” I pointed out.
“What could Trey have known? What connection would he have?” Davis asked.
“Well, he was with all of us when that storm hit….” Ed murmured. “All of us …”
