Promises of Home

by Jeff Abbott

  I took a long breath while she paused. “And what effect did all this sweet talk have?”

  She shook her head. “Part of me wanted to belt him again. Part of me wanted to tell him to never darken our door. Part of me wanted to hold him. Stupid, huh?”

  “No.” I squeezed her shoulder.

  “He asked to see Mark. I explained I thought that was a bad idea, that Mark needed more time to get used to the idea of his father back in his life before he saw Trey face-to-face. Trey said I was stalling. He begged, Jordy. He begged to see Mark and I kept saying no.”

  “So when’d you get the black eye?”

  Sister paid me no heed. “I finally asked him why he’d come home after all this time—why hadn’t he just stayed away? He wouldn’t look at me for a while, then he said that he’d finally stared death in the face and it had made him a man. I said that was crazy, and he said you’d understand.”

  I eased back on the couch. Famous words from Trey from the tree house. It’d been his argument for our foolishness that long-ago day.

  “So,” Sister continued, sniffing, “he said abandoning us was the most terrible mistake he’d ever made. He wanted to come home more times than he could count, but he was too ashamed. And he said he knew I wouldn’t take him back, and he was afraid Mark would reject him. It wasn’t till after that bull nearly killed him that he decided to come home.”

  I didn’t say anything. I saw Candace standing at the kitchen door, tears in her eyes, her fingertips on her lips.

  Sister looked up at the ceiling—or perhaps past it, toward God and heaven. “He said he still loved me, he’d never stopped loving me. And he wanted to be a father to Mark. I told him it was impossible, it could never be like it was before. He pleaded with me, and I ran out.” She started crying again.

  “I don’t understand. When did you get the black eye?”

  “Oh,” she said, wiping tears away. I handed her a tissue. She dabbed at her eyes. “I stumbled when I fell down the stairs. I hit my face.” Sister got up and retreated to the kitchen. She looked back at me. “Now you know everything, Jordy. Happy? If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get something to eat, take a shower, and go to the hospital.” She ducked past Candace, who regarded me with concern.

  “She’ll be okay, Jordy. She just needs time.”

  I didn’t say anything; I just sat back down. Trey had neglected to tell Sister the most important point of all: just why had he so regretfully left Mirabeau in the first place?

  FRANKLIN BEDLOE DRUMMED HIS PENCIL AGAINST his pad as I finished talking.

  “Well, you’ve been busy,” he said. I couldn’t tell quite yet if he was angry or not.

  I’d invited him to stop by, and when he arrived, basically I’d spilled my guts. What I’d found out from Ed, from Scott, from Steven Teague, from Thomasina Clifton, from Hart. The only item I omitted was that dogged bit of Sister’s pants. She’d told me what I believed was the truth about her seeing Trey and there was no need to tell Franklin about it. At least in my judgment. I could pinch a penny if I gave him a pound.

  “Well, we had been talking to Mr. Teague about his treatment of Mr. Shivers,” Franklin began uncertainly, then stopped. I waited politely. Junebug had always told me Franklin was a bright fellow with a future. I hoped he was right, but I wondered if having been shoved into the role of acting chief had overwhelmed him.

  “Look, I really wasn’t trying to snoop, Franklin. I know Junebug’s told you I have a propensity to stick my nose in. I can’t help it if information comes my way. That’s why I’m sharing it with you. You do with it what you think best.”

  Franklin jotted a final note and shut his book. “Well, all this is real interesting, Jordy, but I’m not sure how it bears on the case. Especially the Rennie Clifton connection.”

  “But that stuff you found in Clevey’s house—”

  “We don’t have an explanation for it yet,” he said calmly. “And I’m in the business of evidence, not conjecture. You haven’t shown me one shred of evidence—only hearsay about both Clevey and Trey.”

  I opened my mouth to speak and shut it promptly. He was right. I’d built a house of cards and he was the wind.

  “Then I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time, Franklin. I just feel so angry about what happened to Junebug, I thought—”

  “Jordy, listen, I do understand. Everyone at the station’s determined we’re gonna catch this bastard. I appreciate the information you’ve given us. We’ll take it from here.”

  He stood and we shook hands. When I showed him to the door, Hart Quadlander’s truck was pulling into the driveway. Franklin gave Hart a polite nod and drove off in his cruiser.

  Trouble with the police?” Hart asked as I let him and Scott in the door. I helped them off with their coats and hung them on the pegs. Scott eyed Mark nervously as I ushered them into the living room.

  “Mark, I’m sorry about my mom. She’s just really upset. But she still shouldn’t have said what she did.” Scott’s eyes held real apology. “I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry she hit you, Jordy.”

  “How’s she doing?” I made myself ask. I thought Nola Kinnard needed a good rest home, but I wasn’t about to suggest that in front of her son.

  “She’s okay. Steven Teague talked to her for a while and he got Dr. Meyer to prescribe a tranquilizer for her.” Hart squeezed Mark’s shoulder. “It was unforgivable what she did at your father’s funeral, Mark. I am terribly, terribly sorry for the way Nola behaved. So is Scott; he wanted to come over and make amends. I hope you’ll understand that Nola is just very grief-stricken. I think she’s going to be ashamed of herself when she has a little time to consider her actions.”

  Mark shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter to me what Nola does. She doesn’t bother me none.”

  “My mom, she’s not a bad person at all.” Scott tried again, and I could see the pain in his eyes. He had to be horribly humiliated by Nola’s antics. “But you probably don’t believe that.”

  Mark shrugged again. “My mom’s done goofy things when she’s upset. Uncle Jordy says women are like that.”

  “I did not!” I bristled. I was glad Candace wasn’t around to hear that little divulgence.

  “Anyhow, just so everything could be cool, I brought you this.” Scott pulled a Swiss army knife out of his pocket and held it out to Mark. “Like I said, I’m sorry about all the fuss with my mom. I hope you and I can still be friends.”

  Mark blinked, taken aback by Scott’s generosity. Finally he reached out, took it, and started a detailed examination of the gift. “Wow, it’s a nice one. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you, Scott, that’s very kind,” I said.

  “You want some pie?” Mark offered, slipping into the role of host and pocketing the knife. Scott nodded and the two boys headed off to the kitchen. I sat down heavily after Hart declined my offer of coffee.

  “I’m beat,” I told Hart. “You’re still hosting the Kinnards?”

  Hart shook his head. “I can’t say I care much for Nola. Scott’s a good kid, but that woman is a trial. She’s one of those ladies who doesn’t quite know how to manage without a man in her life. I’m afraid she must’ve leeched onto poor Trey. She’s already casting about for the next victim.”

  “Are you a candidate?” I asked boldly.

  He laughed softly, his voice rich-timbred. It was a good laugh, the kind my dad had used. “Hardly. I made that clear to her right quick. But she’s sure sniffing around old Ed Dickensheets. Stupid of her to be chasing after a married man.”

  “He says he’s not interested,” I said.

  “Would you be? Lord, that woman’s a sight.”

  “That’s a shame. Scott seems rather lonely. I think he needs a family and friends. I was there when he found out about Trey. He took it like his heart had been ripped out.”

  “I feel for the boy,” Hart said, “but I imagine you won’t have to concern yourself with him too much lo
nger. I don’t think his mama will be staying in Mirabeau if she doesn’t land Ed or some other fool as her next conquest.”

  “May I ask you something entirely off the subject of Nola?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you remember a girl named Rennie Clifton?”

  I saw it in his face. Sudden shock at the name’s mention. “Good Lord, yes. That poor girl that died in the hurricane when you and Trey were little boys. Her mama used to clean house for me. What on earth has brought her name up, Jordy?”

  I postponed answering his question. “Did you know her?”

  He shook his head. “Not well. I remember meeting her a couple of times when she came to help her mama out. But I can’t say I knew her better than to say hello to. She didn’t always come with Thomasina. Why?”

  “I just wondered if you remembered her. Her name came up when I was reminiscing with Davis today— talking about other tragedies our group of friends has faced.” I really surprise myself with my facility for fibbing sometimes. It’s good I have an honest heart. “We were trying to remember who her friends were in town.”

  He shrugged. “Fraid I never knew the young lady well enough to answer that. Speaking of Davis, what spooked his boy today at the funeral?”

  “I don’t know. That certainly wasn’t typical of Bradley. I’ve never seen him act that way.”

  “Death makes us all act odd, Jordy. Bradley’s no exception. Maybe a boy with a delicate mind like his, he just found two funerals overwhelming.”

  It sounded good, but I wasn’t convinced. There was more to Bradley Foradory’s dismayed scream than grief.

  A call to Sister at the hospital revealed no improvement in Junebug’s condition. He was still breathing on his own, his heart pumping strongly—but he was still asleep and wasn’t waking up. I wondered what we’d do if he never roused. It was a thought I didn’t want to dwell on.

  Candace had gone to tend to business at the Sit-a-Spell, and Mark was upstairs watching television. I fretted about him being alone, but he seemed fine and I decided to respect his privacy. I remembered after my daddy died I’d needed time alone, intervals without well-meaning folks hovering over me like flies swarming above honey. I could hear the drone of the little black-and-white TV in his room.

  I felt restless, despite my exhaustion, and I opened a cold beer and paced around the living room. Someone had broken in and searched my house for something damned important to them. And I thought I knew what it was.

  One event, as far as I could see, had triggered two murders and the attack on Junebug: Trey’s arrival home. Regardless of whatever side issues might be attached to this case, Trey’s homecoming seemed the hub that the entire case turned upon, the firecracker thrown into the crowd to stampede them into action. So the ransacking of the house had to be related to Trey’s return. The only link I could see was Scott’s shocking claim that Trey corresponded with Mama. The people present when Scott made that announcement were my family, Candace, Eula Mae Quiff, Wanda Dickensheets, Hart Quadlander, Steven Teague, and Bradley Foradory. The only reason I could think of for a burglary where nothing was taken was that someone was looking for Mama’s correspondence with Trey—perhaps because a letter of Trey’s might have very well mentioned why he left Mirabeau. And that secret, too long in shadow and threatening to be brought to light, might have been the reason for his and Clevey’s deaths.

  So, I reasoned, our burglar had to be one of those present—or someone they’d told with a vested interest in rinding the letters. Bradley might have mentioned Scott’s news to his parents; Wanda could have told her mother, Ivalou, or her husband, Ed. I doubted that Hart would have told Nola that he’d brought Scott to our house, but perhaps Scott had finally told her about his burgeoning friendship with Mark. It didn’t do much to weed out the suspect list.

  Suspect list, I thought in some disbelief. Because not only had I been prepared to believe that my sister had a hand in murder, I was now ready to accuse people I’d known my entire life. I set my beer down on the table. Ridiculous, I told myself, you’ve watched too much Murder, She Wrote.

  But the house had been searched. That was undeniable.

  I could pare the list down further, I thought, by bringing Rennie Clifton into the equation. Who could have had motive to kill her twenty years ago? I’d found that she’d worked occasionally for Hart Quadlander and regularly for Ivalou Purcell; she’d secretly wooed a boy Wanda Dickensheets claimed; and although I couldn’t discern a connection between her and Steven Teague, he’d left town shortly after her death. If her alleged white beau, Glenn, was still alive, I’d have wondered about him as well, but he’d already gone to his reward.

  The phone ringing interrupted my mental ramblings. It was Candace, sounding overly polite and none too pleased.

  “Get your butt over here right now, Jordan Poteet.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Never you mind. You and I are going to have a conversation.”

  “Aren’t we doing that right now?”

  “No. Get over here, please.”

  “Look, I’m not leaving Mark and Mama here. Not after our house was broken into yesterday!” Whatever bee had gotten in her trousers was going to have to just buzz.

  “Fine. We’ll be over in a bit, just as soon as I close up.” She slammed the phone down before I could answer.

  We?

  It turned out we meant Candace and the estimable Miss Ludey Murchison, the noted reader during the library’s Story Day presentations for the poppets of Mirabeau. Miss Ludey appeared resplendent in mismatched galoshes (the rain had abated yesterday, as I’ve already mentioned), white athletic socks that peeked above her inclement weather footgear, a full denim skirt with a rodeo’s lasso embroidered across it, a blouse that could only be described as Pepto-Bismol pink, and a Houston Oilers baseball cap. She greeted me with her usual friendly smile (helped, no doubt, by her dentures). Candace had a smile for me, too—tight and annoyed.

  I quickly made Miss Ludey comfortable in the living room with a glass of iced tea and a slice of buttermilk pie. (Miss Ludey had said she’d prefer pecan pie, but told us—in gratuitous detail—of the shoddy adhesive qualities of her denture sealant, and she didn’t want to risk gumming a nut.) I, on the other hand, was quickly made to squirm by Candace.

  “Miss Ludey says,” Candace began, “that you’ve been snooping again.”

  “Pardon?” I said faintly.

  “You went to see Thomasina Clifton and grilled her about her daughter’s death.”

  “I had a talk with her. I would hardly call it a grilling. We had Kool-Aid.”

  “Damn it. Listen to me, Jordan. This is a case for the police to solve, not you! Stay out of it. Why do you insist on sticking your nose in where it has no business?”

  “Wait a second! Two of my friends are dead. Another may never wake up. My nephew and my sister have been put through hell. Someone broke into my house. And it’s not my business?” I turned to the inoffensive Miss Ludey, who apparently had already heard all Candace’s complaints against me. “Why’s Candace bothering you, Miss Ludey?”

  As Miss Ludey had her mouth full of buttermilk pie, Candace deigned to answer for her. “Miss Ludey stopped in for dinner.”

  “I don’t cook much since the kitchen fire,” Miss Ludey offered through half-swallowed pie crust. I didn’t ask for an explanation of what incendiary event she referred to.

  “And she and I had an interesting chat. Did you know that Thomasina Clifton used to clean for Miss Ludey? They’re still old friends. Mrs. Clifton told Miss Ludey all about your visit.”

  “Well?” I demanded. “What’s your point?”

  “Jordan!” Candace said. “You have an unfortunate habit of playing detective. You shouldn’t. You’ve managed to get yourself involved in two murder cases, and both times you narrowly escaped with your life. I want to keep you safe!” Her voice rose in pleading.

  I truly hate to see Candace beg, but I smiled anyway. She was worried a
bout me. It was sweet. But I was not going to be deterred by baseless fears.

  “Look, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And I’m not investigating. Franklin Bedloe’s doing that. I’m just asking questions.” I considered it prudent not to mention to Candace my perusal of old papers, my discussion with Ed over Clevey’s plan to buy into KBAV, or my hiding of the scrap of cloth Sister left at the crime scene. Those activities didn’t exactly fall under asking questions.

  Candace regarded me with a raised eyebrow. “Please don’t insult my intelligence, Jordan. You fancy yourself a regular bloodhound. Well, I think it’s time for a leash. How would you feel about New Orleans?”

  “Huh?”

  “I adore New Orleans,” Miss Ludey piped up. “I met a sailor there once who could—”

  “That’s nice, Miss Ludey. You can tell us all about it in a second.” Candace patted her knee kindly to avoid any detailed discussions of Miss Ludey’s past nightlife. “I think you could do with a change of scenery, Jordy. My brother and his wife would love to have you for a visit. I’ve already talked to Peter, and he said their house is open to you.”

  “Excuse me? I’m not about to leave Mirabeau while Junebug’s in the hospital.”

  “Someone,” Candace said, her usually calm voice growing strident, “put bullets in Trey, Clevey, and Junebug. Presumably that same someone broke into your house. You’ll excuse me if I prefer my men bullet-free.”

  “Candace—”

  “Begging’s never been my strong suit,” she said, her voice steadying. “But now I’m pleading. Please, get out of town for a while. Go to New Orleans. You and Peter can party on Bourbon Street and drink at Pat O’s and take in a Saints game. Have a wild time. Drink and leer at women. I promise I won’t mind. Just go.”

  “I am,” and I made sure I enunciated clearly and calmly, “not leaving Mirabeau. My sister needs me. My nephew needs me. Junebug needs me. And while I appreciate your concern, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”