by R. Jean Reid
“Did she ‘work late’ a lot or was this an occasional thing?”
“We’d lived together in Washington,” Kate said, as if trying to explain something to Nell that she wasn’t sure Nell would understand. “So we definitely tried to see each other every day, but … not always. And just about every other day, we’d look at each other and think this is crazy—we’re grown adults, sneaking around like teenagers.”
Nell started to ask another question, but Kate cut in. “Marion had decided it was time to talk to her mother again. Her mother didn’t have to like it, but she wasn’t going to pretend any longer.” Kate again fell into silence.
“So Marion came over and you had dinner,” Nell said. “Did you talk about the book or the murders? Any details you can add?”
“We only talked a little bit—that she’d talked to you about it, and what you suggested, but she still wasn’t sure where to go with it.”
“Did she talk about who she might go to? Weigh the options?”
“She started to, but … we got sidetracked.”
“Sidetracked how?”
Kate didn’t answer, just looked at Nell.
Finally Nell understood. “You had sex?”
“We made love,” Kate corrected, a harshness at the edge of her voice.
Nell hadn’t meant to imply that she relegated their relationship to little beyond sex; she’d just used the words that came to her. But Kate, Kate who’d had to hide her love, couldn’t bear to hide it any more. How do I say it, Nell wondered. Tell her I understand that she loved Marion fully and passionately, as much as I loved Thom.
“When I saw you meet that early morning in the park,” she said, “you kissed and it … made me ache with the memory of having that kind of love in my life.” It was the best apology she could manage. “You made love. But before, how much did Marion manage to say about her choices?”
“She only recounted her meeting with you—and you don’t need me to tell you about that. I asked what she was considering. She did mention maybe going to Sheriff Hickson, but she wasn’t sure. But she said ‘we can talk about that later on the phone, but … we can’t do this by phone.’” Kate stopped speaking, tears starting to slide down her cheeks. Behind anger was grief.
Nell could think of no further questions. She glanced around the bike shop for a tissue to hand to Kate, but saw none.
Suddenly Kate burst out, “I almost grabbed her and said don’t go, just stay the night. I’d spent so many nights without her beside me. I didn’t think I could stand another one.” She pounded her fist into the glass counter top with such force that Nell worried she would break it. The tears streamed down her face. She started to hit the counter again, but Nell grabbed her fists, holding them.
She’s a strong woman, Nell thought, feeling the tension and surge of emotions coursing through Kate’s arms. Her hands were literally trembling. Nell wasn’t sure if she was doing the right thing, wasn’t sure she should touch this woman she didn’t know very well. In the end, she wasn’t even sure that Kate wouldn’t turn on her, the only target nearby, with her rage and loss.
For a moment the two women just stood, Nell with her hands wrapped about Kate’s wrists. Then suddenly Kate pulled away. But it wasn’t a violet break; instead, a pulling away and back into herself. Clumsily, she wiped the tears off her face.
“I know I’m intruding on your grief …” Nell said.
“Better than being left alone in it,” Kate replied in a harsh whisper, her voice raw from crying. She reached out and touched Nell on the wrist, just where Nell had held her.
They were startled by the sound of the door opening. It was Josh returning from his bike ride.
“Better wash my face,” Kate mumbled as she turned away. She headed hastily for the bathroom before Josh could see her.
Nell went to the door to help Josh keep it open and get the bike through it.
“Any wrecks?” she asked, in what she hoped was a light tone.
“Ten cars, two garbage trucks, and an eighteen-wheeler full of chickens,” Josh replied. Nell suspected he’d been practicing that line the whole time.
“How was the bike ride?”
“Pretty good. But the lower speeds were kind of rough shifting. Needs to be adjusted.” Josh looked around for Kate as he spoke. Clearly his mother was clueless in the arcane world of bikes.
“She’ll be here in a minute,” Nell said.
Josh used the time to put the bike back in the repair part of the shop, take off the borrowed helmet, and wipe the sweat out of it. He even allowed Nell to ruffle his hair out of its helmet-induced shape.
Even a few long minutes in the bathroom couldn’t hide that Kate had been crying. But she brushed it off by saying, “My allergies have been bothering me all day.”
Josh saw no need to probe beyond that and he and Kate spent several minutes discussing the merits and demerits of the bike. Nell let them talk, wandering around the shop so she wouldn’t be the hovering mother. Why would a woman in a committed relationship with another woman go searching for sex with a man, after she and her partner had just made love? The more she found out, the more disturbed Nell was by Marion’s death.
Then Josh and Kate were finished talking. Nell could see the tiredness etched in Kate’s face, the cost of pretending she had no worries beyond adjusting bike parts. Nell thanked her, and wanted to just touch her hand for a moment, but Josh was between them and she could think of no easy way to maneuver around him or to explain why it was important she reach out to Kate.
But she did ask one last question as they were at the door. “The book? Where is it?”
“Hidden in a safe place. I’ll call you later.” That was all Kate said, turning away to hide the hand that was wiping the seeping tears off her face.
Nell closed the door and herded Josh back to the car.
twenty-eight
Nell gave Josh the choice of staying home after lunch—with doors securely locked—or going back to the bike shop. He chose the shop. Nell dropped him off and then made a quick run to the office just to listen to the most recent phone messages; only about missing papers, as it turned out. Normally she would politely call everyone back, but today she didn’t bother. In the phone listings for the Crier there was a clearly marked number for distribution problems, and she currently wasn’t feeling charitable enough to call that number for people. There were no other messages and she still had questions she wanted to ask.
Her first stop was the DA’s office. She ducked Buddy Guy as he was coming around a corner, knowing she’d have to make polite political chat, with Buddy suggesting stories, all of which were designed to give him good PR. Thom could do that kind of thing, be the perfect good ole boy without really promising anything. Even if she weren’t haunted with Marion’s death, Nell wasn’t very good at it; she was more likely to say brusque things like “I really can’t see much of a news angle to that.”
Instead, she went in search of Harold Reed. Although it was a gamble to try to find him here—unlike Buddy, Harold actually did things like go to court—she still didn’t want to call, didn’t want to give any advance warning.
But luck was with her. Harold was in his office and willing to see her.
“Nell, I doubt this is just a social visit,” he said after they’d seated themselves. “What questions can I safely answer?”
“Did Marion Nash come to you about a book Rayburn Gautier took out from the library?” Nell bluntly asked.
Harold sat forward, and his eyes only showed interest, not any of the emotions Nell suspected would be there if the question was one he didn’t want to be asked.
“No,” he answered. “Tell me about this book.”
Nell thought for a moment, then countered with a question of her own. “Were you ever in uniform?”
Harold gave her a slightly quizzical look, but he answered
her question. “Yes, it’s how I got my law degree. Had to spend a few years in the Army JAG to pay for it.”
“Did you … enjoy it?”
“I discovered I liked the law, but didn’t like the military. I did my time and got out. Had one kid and another on the way, so my wife wasn’t too thrilled at me leaving a steady paycheck, but we made it.” He gave a bare nod, as if saying, I’ve answered your question, now you can answer mine.
Nell realized that another reason she’d decided to tackle these men in broad daylight in their places of work was to protect herself. It wasn’t likely the murderer could do much to her in these times and places. But whatever she was looking for, she hadn’t found it in Harold. That decision made, she answered his question. “Marion Nash told me about a book Rayburn Gautier checked out of the library, which was returned after his death. In that book, he’d drawn in some crude pictures of an adult sexually molesting a boy.”
“How could you tell it was sexual molestation?”
“A phallic symbol is an easy thing to draw,” Nell answered.
“All seven-year-old boys have phallic symbols.”
“But they usually don’t draw them on men with little boys kneeling in front of them,” Nell retorted, sharper than she intended.
“Devil’s advocate, Nell,” Harold said quietly. “I have to ask the hard questions. You’ve seen this book?”
“Yes, Marion showed it to me. The day before she was murdered. I told her she needed to show it to the authorities. I suggested you.”
“Why not Chief Shaun? Or even Sheriff Hickson, although I know you don’t like him.”
“As crude as they were, the pictures indicated a man in uniform,” Nell replied. “Hat, gun, badge. But Rayburn wasn’t prescient enough to write a name or a good-enough artist to tell us more than that.”
“So that’s why you asked about the uniform,” Harold said softly. “But I’m afraid Marion didn’t come to me. Are you sure she showed someone else the book?”
“I’m not sure, but she told me she was going to.”
“Do you have it?”
“No, I don’t,” Nell answered. “But if need be, I might be able to get it.” She trusted Harold, but not quite enough to hand him that.
He nodded, then said, “I’m guessing you’re here because you think there’s a link between Marion Nash’s death and the deaths of the two boys?”
“You’re guessing right.”
“Do you have anything other than the coincidence of the book?” Harold asked.
Nell thought for a moment before answering. “Yes. Marion Nash was a lesbian. She spent the evening with her partner, making love. I don’t think that makes her a likely candidate for picking up strange men for random sex.”
Harold sat up straight. “Good Lord. It’s all circumstantial, but I don’t like the icy feeling I just got down my spine. You realize the implications of this?”
Nell nodded. “Ronald Hebert was innocent …”
“And the real killer is still out there,” Harold finished for her. “And possibly wearing a uniform.”
“You know these men, Harold. Who do you suggest? Who do we go to?”
“Let me think for a bit. We might want to call in the FBI. This is going to be a hell of a mess.” He rubbed his face with his hands, then looked sharply at Nell. “And what are you going to do?”
“Keep asking questions,” Nell replied. “Go to Sheriff Hickson and Doug Shaun and ask them the hard questions.”
“Do you think that’s wise? I can’t imagine it’s either of them, but if it’s one of their men, those places are sieves. The front desk knows what was said before you’re out the door.”
“It’ll be in their offices, not in some dark alley,” Nell responded. “I don’t think the killer is so brazen as to attack me in the police station or the sheriff’s office. And I’m not the one the killer needs to worry about. I wasn’t Marion’s partner, and I don’t have the book.”
“And you’re not going to tell me who the killer should worry about?” Harold asked, but he seemed to already know the answer.
“No,” Nell admitted, “not yet. And … not alone. I trust you as much as anyone in this, Harold, but I’d rather be too cautious than not enough. Bring in three FBI agents and I’ll tell you and them everything I know.”
“I know myself well enough to know I’m a good guy, but I can’t expect you to,” Harold said, then made a decision, “I’m going to make the phone call. This afternoon, if I can set it up. If not, then tomorrow if at all possible.”
Harold’s phone rang. He started to pick it up, but added, “Don’t do anything foolish.”
Nell stood to go. “I’ve got two kids. Foolish dropped out of my vocabulary years ago.”
Harold started talking and Nell let herself out. She wasn’t going to do anything foolish, but that wasn’t the same thing as not asking questions.
But as she got into her car, she questioned herself. Am I being the girl reporter going after glory? What am I going to stir up by continuing to push this? Isn’t it better to wait until the FBI cavalry come riding up? As she tried to convince herself to leave it alone, she found herself still driving to the sheriff’s office.
She sat in the parking lot, still trying to come to a decision. I know these men, she reminded herself, in a way that the FBI agents can’t. I’ve heard the killer’s voice. Even though it was disguised, there can still be clues of cadence and vocabulary. And then Nell realized that the real reason she wanted to keep asking questions was an irrational one: I’m the witness. That’s why the killer called me in the middle of the night. He doesn’t want to kill me, but to have me watch as he kills others.
It was that irrational thought that finally won the struggle. Nell got out of her car and went into the sheriff’s office.
The person at the desk was her usual polite but ineffective self. Nell didn’t understand how someone with fingernails the length of talons could dial a phone, let alone type. She recognized Nell but didn’t seem to have been told not to let reporters, particularly intrepid girl reporters from the Pelican Bay Crier, through the door. It did, however, take the woman close to half an hour to track down exactly where Sheriff Hickson was. She didn’t bat an eye when she told Nell that he was down at the harbor for the reopening of Ray’s Bar. Or bother with an explanation that he was doing security, or something that would appear less damning on the front page of the paper.
Again sitting in her car, Nell contemplated whether she wanted to confront the sheriff on his home turf. She didn’t quite answer that question, but she did decide the Crier could do a story on the reopening of the bar, with perhaps an exposé of how the sheriff spent his work day.
With that, Nell stopped by the office long enough to get a camera and glance at the blinking lights of her phone messages. Probably all missing papers, she decided. If enough papers didn’t arrive at their proper destination, she could at least rely on the disgruntled subscribers to hunt her down should the killer decide to kidnap her.
When she arrived at Ray’s Bar, a sheriff’s patrol car was parked prominently in front. There were a few balloons out by the door and a hand-lettered sign saying “Ray’s Bar is Back.” Nell got out and snapped a few pictures of the patrol car.
“Afternoon, Miz McGraw.”
Nell looked up to see Velma Gautier bringing out a few more balloons to make the other ones look less forlorn.
Velma clearly saw the camera in Nell’s hand. “You not going to make trouble for Clureman, are you?” she asked in an almost pleading voice.
This is when I really need Thom, Nell thought. He could talk his way out of this. But she merely said, “You have to admit, it seems a bit improper for the sheriff to be spending time in a bar while on duty.” God, I do sound like a prig, she thought as she heard herself.
“He’s not here for the bar, but for
Ray. Trying to get him to have a life again.”
Nell nodded as if understanding, but she wanted to ask, who is going to help you get a life again?
Velma continued. “Ray didn’t really want to do it, open the bar again. Hit him too hard to lose little Rayburn. But Clureman talked him into doing the right thing. He needed to be away from his sadness and … well, we need the money. Still got mouths to feed.” Velma held Nell’s gaze through this speech, then looked down at the ground when she was finished, as if asking for mercy and afraid that she wouldn’t get it—or would somehow be blamed for what Nell’s camera caught.
Nell slung the camera over her shoulder. The sheriff could continue his good ole boy ways. She could catch him another time.
“Let me help you with these,” she said as she took some of the balloons from Velma’s hands. “I’ll run a photo of the reopening of Ray’s Bar.”
“Thank you, ma’am. That would be very kind.”
Nell started to say that the Crier ran photos of yacht club do’s all the time, so it seemed only fair that Ray’s Bar got its share of notice, but instead she just tied balloons to the shutter hinges. The salt air had made them rusty and it was hard to move the shutters to get the string around tied. Both women worked in silence for several minutes. Thom would be bantering, not letting the silence build, Nell thought. What do you say to a women whose son has been murdered?
Finally they finished and Nell merely said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Maybe it was another in the string of wrong things she’d said, but she also knew how hard it was for her when people didn’t speak of Thom, as if she wasn’t living with it every day.
Velma looked up at her, then down again as if she wasn’t used to the powerful people of Pelican Bay noticing her. “Miss him,” she said, still looking at the ground, “Miss him hard.”
“I think my heart would be ripped out and scattered in pieces if something happened to one of my children,” Nell said.
Velma looked up at her, then slowly nodded. “Ripped out and scattered, that’s what it is. But I got to pull the pieces back for the rest of the kids and Ray.”
