by Sandra Brown
Chris smiled at him. “I defer to your expertise on matters of safety, George. So does Huff. You know that. If you say it’s been repaired to your satisfaction and is now safe to operate, then we feel confident to do so. Anything else?”
“No, that’s it.” He got up to leave and was almost to the door when he stopped and turned back. “Actually there is something else. Lila.”
Chris, who’d begun sorting through the message slips on his desk, stopped and looked up. What the hell was this about? Had the dumb bitch confessed to their affair, accidentally given them away, what? “Lila?” he said pleasantly.
George swallowed hard. “She mentioned to me not long ago that we ought to have you over for dinner one night. And Huff, too, of course. Would you like that?”
Relaxing, Chris replied, “Gee, I don’t know. Is she a good cook?”
George gave a nervous laugh and patted his belly. “Speaks for itself.” Then he ran his tongue over his lips again. “I had to fend for myself last night, though. She was out.”
“Oh?” Chris returned his attention to the stack of pink message slips.
“She had to go see about a sick friend.”
“Nothing serious I hope.”
“I don’t think so. But it was late when she got in.”
Chris raised his head again and looked at Lila’s husband. “A wife like Lila, you’d be crazy not to worry about her safety and well-being, George. Don’t make us wait too long for that dinner at your house, okay?”
George nodded, hesitated as though uncertain how to conclude the meeting, then turned and hustled out.
“Jesus,” Chris muttered. Was it any wonder Lila screwed like there was no tomorrow?
• • •
“My husband died last year.” As Mrs. Loretta Foster announced her husband’s passing to Sayre, she crossed herself. “God rest his soul.”
“I’m sorry. Had he been ill?”
“Not a day in his life. He just dropped dead right here in the kitchen while he was pouring himself a cup of coffee. Pulmonary embolism. The doctor told me he was dead before he hit the floor.”
“Sudden deaths come as such a shock.”
Mrs. Foster’s overpermed gray hair moved as a unit when she bobbed her head in agreement. “It’s good for the one who checks out. No fuss or muss,” she said, snapping her fingers. “But it’s hard on the ones left behind. Anyhow, it’s only me and my boy now.”
She gestured toward her son, who was sitting on the floor watching cartoons on a big-screen TV that took up most of the space in the diminutive living room of the small frame house. He was absorbed in the antics of Rocky and Bullwinkle.
Mrs. Foster had placed a bag of Cheetos and a glass of orange juice on a tray in front of him, admonishing him to be careful and not to spill on the carpet. He appeared not to have heard her and seemed completely unaware of Sayre, who was seated with his mother at the kitchen table, where they were sipping glasses of sweetened iced tea.
The “boy” was well into his forties.
“I guess you noticed that he’s not quite right,” Mrs. Foster said in a whisper that Sayre could barely hear above the manic sound track of the cartoon. “Born that way. Wasn’t anything I did while I was carrying him. That’s just the way he came out.”
Sayre, at a loss over how to respond, said, “I appreciate your letting me interrupt your afternoon.”
Mrs. Foster’s laugh jiggled her generous bosom. “We don’t go anywhere or do anything. Except for Sunday, when we go to mass, one day is the same as the next. As long as I get my boy’s supper ready by five-thirty, he’s content. This is about all we do with our afternoons, so I’m glad for the company and somebody to talk to. Except, I’m a little curious as to why you asked to come over.”
Loretta Foster’s name was on the list Sayre had obtained at the courthouse, thanks to Jessica DeBlance’s contact.
“I know a woman who works in the parish tax office,” she had told Sayre when she’d asked for a favor. “We’re not close friends, but I think she would be willing to help. What is it you need?”
What Sayre had asked for was the list of jurors who had served during Chris’s trial. Jessica placed the call to her acquaintance. The contact at the courthouse agreed to see if such a list could be acquired and asked for several hours in which to find out.
Sayre met her at the appointed time and was handed the list. “It was easier than I thought,” the woman told her. “They keep track of people who’re called to jury duty, because if someone is recalled within a certain length of time, they can ask for an exemption. When a juror is dismissed, the case number goes on their record of service for reference if it ever becomes necessary.”
Last night, when she went to see Beck Merchant, Sayre had been holding that list of names like an ace up her sleeve. She hadn’t had the opportunity to play it. This morning she had returned to the courthouse and, using tax records, had learned that ten of the twelve jurors still lived in the parish.
The first two she called told her straightaway they didn’t want to talk about that trial and hung up on her. The third, she was told by his wife, was working his shift at Hoyle Enterprises. When Sayre stated the nature of her business, his wife’s initial friendliness turned guarded, and when Sayre persisted, she got hostile. She said her husband would be too busy to see Sayre at any time in the foreseeable future.
It was on her fourth attempt that she succeeded in having Mrs. Foster agree to a visit.
She stirred her glass of iced tea. It was so syrupy with sugar it was opaque. “I wanted to talk to you about my brother Chris’s murder trial. You served on the jury, didn’t you?”
Suddenly Loretta Foster’s smile showed signs of strain. “That’s right. First and only time I was ever called, and I’ve lived in this parish my whole life. Why’re you interested?”
Selling her explanation was going to be the tricky part. “I let my brother down by not being here during the trial. I regret not coming back to Destiny to lend him moral support. I hoped to talk to some of the people who were involved in order to gain a better understanding of what happened.”
Mrs. Foster didn’t buy it. At least, not entirely. “What do you mean by that? Nothing happened. We couldn’t reach a unanimous decision, that’s all. Split right down the middle.”
“Which way did you vote, Mrs. Foster?”
She left the table and moved to the stove. Lifting the lid off a pot, she gave the simmering contents a stir. “I don’t see that it matters now. Your brother got off.”
“Did you think he was innocent?”
She replaced the lid on the pot, a bit too loudly, and turned back to Sayre. “What if I did?”
“If you did, I owe you my thanks.” Sayre gave her a smile she hoped was convincing. “I’m sure my brother and father properly thanked you.”
Mrs. Foster returned to her chair across the table from Sayre, watching her closely as she sipped from her glass of tea. “They came around and shook our hands after the trial. Other than that, I don’t know what thanks you’re talking about.”
Sayre looked into the living room. It was tidy, but the furniture was dated and worn. Crocheted antimacassars covered spots where upholstery had become completely threadbare. The wallpaper was faded, and the carpet Mrs. Foster had been so concerned about was already badly stained from countless spills.
The television was by far the newest, most sophisticated, and most expensive thing in the room. It was out of keeping with the rest of the decor, which amounted to a crucifix hanging on the wall behind the tattered sofa and a ceramic panther with green glass eyes on the coffee table.
Sayre had decorated rec rooms and dens around similar video units, so she knew the cost involved. It would be far beyond the widow’s budget.
Since her arrival, Mrs. Foster’s son hadn’t budged from his spot in front of the large screen. He continued to sit Indian style on the floor, nibbling Cheetos and drinking orange juice, transfixed by the images on the TV. Conten
t.
Sayre came back around and looked directly at Loretta Foster. At first the woman’s expression was defensive. But when Sayre’s stare didn’t waver, she became nervous. Finally she looked ashamed.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I’ve got to get my boy’s supper ready. He’s prone to pitch a fit if it’s not ready by the time Wheel of Fortune comes on. He likes to eat while he’s watching that show. Don’t ask me why ’cause he doesn’t know his letters too good.”
Then, addressing Sayre with a mix of defiance and appeal, she added, “As I told you, he’s not quite right. Never has been. He depends on me for everything. I’m all he’s got in the world, and when I’m gone, well, I’ve got to see that he’s taken care of, don’t I?”
chapter 20
Red Harper knocked lightly, then poked his head around the door of Huff’s den. “Selma told me it was all right to come on in.”
“I’ve been expecting you. Fix yourself a drink.”
“Believe I will.” He poured a bourbon and water and carried it with him to the sofa where he sat down, resting his uniform hat on his knee. Huff saluted him with his own glass, and they each took a sip. “You look good,” Red remarked. “How’re you feeling?”
“Like I’m twenty.”
“I forgot what that feels like.”
“I remember it like yesterday,” Huff said. “I was working for old man Lynch in the foundry. My job was to charge the furnace. Backbreaking work, but I pulled a double shift every chance I got. Already I had plans for that place.”
The orphanage school had been strict about studies, and that was the only thing Huff could thank it for. After only a few months there, he had more than caught up with children his age. He spent recesses in the classroom reviewing the lesson just taught, not playing ball and chasing girls as he had imagined when he was idealistic and innocent. He had higher goals in mind now, so he applied himself to learning as much as he could, as quickly as he could.
He read for hours every night by a weak night-light in the communal bathroom, sitting on the hard tile floor, sweltering in the summertime, shivering during the winter months. The food was tasteless, but he cleaned his plate at every meal, and by eating regularly he began to grow.
By the time he escaped at thirteen, he was far ahead of his contemporaries in size and had twice their knowledge. The rest of his education, and perhaps the most important lessons, were learned through experience. He was surviving on his own, living by his wits, providing himself with food and shelter when other teenage boys were stressing over pimples.
He’d been riding a freight train to an undetermined destination when it stopped in Destiny to unload several railcars of scrap metal at Lynch’s foundry. He wasn’t even sure what state he was in, but when he read the name of the town on the water tower it had seemed like an omen.
He decided in an instant that Destiny was where his future lay.
He had no experience in metal casting, but Lynch’s foundry was the only industry in town and the only business hiring. Huff learned quickly and soon distinguished himself with Mr. Lynch.
“By age twenty-five I was his right-hand man,” he told Red now. “Spent the next several years trying to pound some business sense into him.”
The gentleman who had ultimately become Huff’s father-in-law hadn’t been a visionary. He had made what he called a “darn good living” out of his operation, and that was satisfactory to him. His limited ambition had been a constant source of frustration to Huff, who recognized an expanding market and a wasted potential for keeping that market supplied.
This was the basis of endless disagreements between them. Expansion and increased production were not on Mr. Lynch’s agenda. He was pleased with his mediocrity. Huff had unlimited energy and grandiose ideas. Mr. Lynch had an ultraconservative approach to financial matters. Huff adhered to the economic tenet that one had to spend money in order to make it.
The one certainty they did agree on was that old man Lynch held the purse strings and Huff was penniless except for his weekly salary. Consequently Mr. Lynch’s opinion was the only one that mattered.
It was his misfortune that finally provided Huff with an opportunity. When a stroke incapacitated the older man, Huff assumed control of production. Anyone brave enough to challenge his take-over was summarily fired. Though unable to speak legibly or ambulate for the last three years of his life, Mr. Lynch lived to see his business quadruple in size and net annual revenue, and his sole heir, his daughter, Laurel, marry the man who had achieved that growth.
“I was thirty when Mr. Lynch died,” Huff said to Red. “Two years later I put my own name on the business.”
“You’ve always had a healthy ego, Huff.”
“Hell, I did the work. I had bragging rights.”
Red stared into his highball glass. “Did you ask me out here to talk about old times?”
“No, you’re here to tell me what the hell’s going on. Chris is being pestered by this new detective on your staff, and you’re allowing it. Why? Aren’t I paying you enough?”
“It’s not that, Huff.”
“Then what?”
“I’m dying.” He tossed back the remainder of his whiskey, then rolled the empty glass back and forth between his palms.
Huff was too stunned to speak.
Eventually Red raised his weary eyes and looked at him. “Prostate cancer.”
“Goddamn you, Red.” Huff released his breath in a gush and waved his hand as though dismissing the problem. “For a minute there, you had me good and scared. That’s no life sentence these days. They can go in, get it—”
“’Fraid not, Huff. Didn’t catch it in time. It’s spread into my lymph glands. Bones. Practically everywhere now.”
“Chemo? Radiation?”
“I don’t want to go through that. It would only buy me a few months, if that, and I’d feel like shit for the short time I have left.”
“Hell, Red. I’m sorry as all get out.”
“Aw, well, if one thing doesn’t get you, something else will,” the sheriff stated philosophically as he set his glass on the coffee table. “Fact is, Huff, I’m tired. Plumb worn out. I’m not up to taking on Wayne Scott in any kind of fight. He’s an honest man, trying to do the job he was hired to do. Me, I’m a reprobate. Like you.”
Red raised his hand to stave off Huff’s protest. “No sense in trying to put gilding on it, Huff. This arrangement we’ve had, no matter how we want to color it to make it prettier, is damn ugly. I’ve done more crooked things than I care to think about.
“Nothing I can do about what I’ve done in the past. But now, Chris has got himself into another jam, and I don’t think I have the time, or the energy, to get him out of it.”
It was quite a speech, especially coming from a man of few words, as Red had always been. However, the underlying importance of it went beyond the words. “How long before you leave the job?” Huff asked.
“A month. Give or take a few weeks.”
“That soon?”
“I’d like to spend some time with my family before the worst of it sets in.”
“That’s understandable, Red. But your retirement is coming at a damn inconvenient time.”
“I can’t help that. This thing with Chris could drag on for a while.”
“This thing with Chris,” he mimicked angrily. “He’s no choirboy. Hell, I wouldn’t have any use for him if he was. He’s committed more than his fair share of mischief, and he would be the first one to admit it.” Huff leaned toward his guest. “But he did not kill his brother.”
Red was slow to respond but finally said, “I don’t think so, either.”
“He thinks he’s being framed.”
“Beck told me that. Was he serious when he mentioned Slap Watkins?”
“Goddamn right, he was.” Huff shared what he had discussed earlier with Beck and Chris. “Now, I don’t know if this Watkins cretin is capable of planning and executing a gumbo cook-off much less a murde
r he frames someone else for, but it’s an idea worth thinking about. I’m sure you agree.” Huff’s stare warned the sheriff that agreement was his only option.
And lest there be any misunderstanding of his meaning, he continued. “Watkins is a criminal with three years of prison under his belt. I seriously doubt he spent his time there getting reformed and rehabilitated. I bet if you looked hard enough, Red, you’d find him breaking laws right and left, and one of those crimes might include doing away with Danny, out of revenge or just pure meanness.”
Huff always conveyed what he wanted done without having to come right out and say it. Sheriff Harper read the message loud and clear.
Reluctantly he nodded. “I’ll bring him in for questioning.”
“That’ll be a good start and maybe all you’ll need to get a confession. The boys said he’s acting real cocky. You come down on him hard enough, and he may boast his way right onto death row.”
“I’ll put out an APB right away.” Red was about to stand, but Huff motioned him to remain.
As he lit a cigarette, he said, “There’s something else I want you to do. In New Orleans.”
“Huff—”
“No, this should be relatively simple. You could even delegate it to somebody there you trust. You’ve got contacts in the city, right?”
Huff explained what he wanted. Red listened carefully. “I’ll make it worth your effort,” Huff added as enticement. “You know how well I pay for solid information. This is important. It would be worth a lot to me.”
“All right. I’ll put out a few feelers, see what turns up. I can’t promise anything.”
“Nielson. Spelled with an i e. Any little tidbit could be helpful.”
Red nodded and stood up. “Take care of yourself, Huff. Do as Selma tells you. Shouldn’t fool around with the ticker. Better throw away those coffin nails, too.”
“When you do.”
Red tried for a smile but didn’t quite make it. He walked to the door, his gait that of a man much older. He looked reduced, infirm, utterly defeated. Huff, liking none of what he saw in his confederate, called him back.
