“Hmmmm. That doesn’t bode well for me.”
“Nah, Tally, you’re not a dumb ass. Just too big-hearted and gullible for your own good.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, Alice vouched for you. She said the whole stunt in Bryan’s office was her idea, and you didn’t know what she planned.”
I pulled a face. “What does that say about me, that I was duped by a teenager?”
He laughed. “It says you’re human. Teenagers are ornery little buggers.”
I accepted his olive branch with a smile.
“Oh, yeah?” I teased. “Have a lot of experience with ornery teenagers, do you?”
“Let’s see.” He held up his hand to tick off his points on his fingers. “First, I was one. Second, I’m a cop. Third, I’m an uncle. Bryan was a high achiever, but he got into his share of trouble.”
He looked out over my shoulder and cleared his throat. “He was a good kid.”
“I’m sorry, Cal.”
“It’s okay,” he said, waving off my concern. “I’ve just been thinking a lot about him lately. You know, I was still a kid when Bryan was born. Eleven, twelve, something like that. I was working on Eagle Scout when he became a Cub Scout. I took him camping a lot, worked on getting his badges. Dang near singed off all my arm hair trying to teach the kid to make a hobo dinner.”
I laughed along with him.
“I don’t know if he really enjoyed much of what we did, but he sure wanted to get those badges. The only time I was completely sure Bryan was having a good time on our camping trips was when we were making s’mores.”
“He liked sweets, huh?”
“Lord, yes. But plain old regular s’mores wouldn’t do. Bryan had to take everything to the next level. And so peanut butter s’mores were born.”
“Mmmm. I’m hooked. Tell me more.”
Cal took a sip of his water. “It’s just what it sounds like. He’d smear his graham crackers with peanut butter, then top it with the chocolate bar, and finally the toasted marshmallow.”
“That’s genius,” I said.
“His mom thought so. She tried to convince the scout leader to give Bryan an extra badge for innovation. Threw a hissy fit when the scout leader informed her that adding peanut butter to a well-known snack didn’t constitute innovation.”
“I’m with Marla on this one.”
“I figured you would be,” Cal said. He sighed. “It’s good to talk about him. Marla can’t go there yet. It’s too soon.”
“I’m glad you have good memories, Cal. And I’m glad you can share them with me.”
I was getting so accustomed to thinking of Bryan as an overly ambitious young man with questionable ethics. It was good to be reminded that even this unlikeable young man had a mama who loved him, a family who loved him. That once upon a time, Bryan Campbell had been a wide-eyed little boy with no greater ambition than to earn merit badges and eat gooey sweets around a campfire.
Before either of us could grow more sentimental, the waitress sashayed up. We placed our orders without even looking at our menus: chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and sweet tea for both of us. I’m sure the other food at Erma’s deserved a shot, but it was hard to pass up the opportunity for the tender breaded beef smothered in peppered cream gravy.
After our waitress left, Cal got down to business. “Tally, I need some help, and I’m hoping you’ll oblige.”
“Of course, Cal. Anything.”
He held up a cautionary hand. “Better wait till you have the facts before you wade in here. See, Marla got this idea that we should establish a scholarship in Bryan’s honor.”
“I think that’s a lovely idea.”
“It is,” Cal said, “but it’s going to take a lot of work. I already talked to George Gunderson and Jonas Landry at Dickerson. They were two of Bryan’s advisers. They suggested having an initial fund-raising event at the very end of May.”
“Why so soon?”
Cal fiddled with his silverware. “Marla’s idea is to have the scholarship awarded to someone like Bryan, a serious student and a serious baseball player. So Gunderson and Landry thought it would be good to coordinate the fund-raising around the end of the collegiate baseball season. Marla’s husband, Steve, thinks he can get ahold of a couple of tickets to the College World Series at the end of June, and they can be the main focus of a silent auction.”
Another advantage to ordering the chicken-fried steak at Erma’s is that they’re constantly frying it up during the noon rush, so you never have to wait long. Our waitress swung by with two mounded platters of carbs and grease, plopped a basket of fresh rolls in the center of the table, and topped off our sweet teas.
“It sounds like a great plan,” I said. “Where do I come in?”
Cal stuck his fork in his mashed potatoes, like he was going to take a bite, but just mushed the gravy around a bit.
“Marla . . . well, Marla’s not doing too great. She can’t seem to stop crying, so her doctor gave her some sort of tranquilizer. That helps with the crying, but it makes it hard for her to focus. And Steve’s not much better. His sisters all live in Shreveport, so it’s up to me to plan this shindig. And I’m in over my head.”
“You?” I teased.
He uttered a short, mirthless laugh. “Imagine that. I can shoot straight, rope a calf, and even take down a biker hopped up on crank. But I cannot plan a party.” He cocked an eyebrow. “But you can.”
I paused with a forkful of spuds halfway to my mouth. “Me? Why me?”
“I know it’s a big favor, Tally. But I don’t know who else to ask. And I have to do this for my sister. God knows I can’t give her any answers about what happened to her child.”
“Do the police have any leads yet?”
He narrowed his eyes. “You asking as a friend? Or as a wannabe detective?”
That hurt. I got it, but it hurt. “As a friend. I have no intention of getting involved in the investigation.”
“Hmmmm.” Cal hummed thoughtfully while he buttered a roll. “For someone who’s not involved, you’re sure spending a lot of time with our prime suspect.”
I set down my fork and folded my arms on the table in front of my plate. “Okay. First off, y’all keep telling the newspaper Emily Clowper isn’t a suspect. Second, the only way you’d know how much time I was spending with Emily Clowper is if you’re spying on me, and I don’t appreciate that. And last, I’m not really spending time with her at all. It’s Finn and Alice—who both happen to like the woman, thank you very much—and they’re just spending time with her in my presence.”
Cal raised his glass in an appreciative salute. “Fair enough. She’s not technically a suspect, but she’s the closest thing we’ve got. And I’m not spying on you. I’m spying on her. You just happen to be in the vicinity.”
He took a sip of his tea. “As for Alice and Finn liking her, well, Alice is a kid. And Finn is a man. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.”
We stared at one another, caught in a stalemate, until finally Cal reached a hand across the table.
“Truce?” he said.
I took his hand and gave it a shake. “Truce. But, seriously, if you know something about Emily that I don’t know, I wish you’d tell me. I’m not wild about Alice hanging around with her as it is.”
Cal tucked in to his meat. “I don’t know anything but what my gut is telling me. Which is that something there just isn’t right. But I was kidding about spying on her. I just heard through the grapevine that she was spending time at the A-la-mode. As much as it pains me, I’m leaving the actual investigation to my men. I’m not gonna have some lawyer claim I harassed someone and end up letting Bryan’s killer go free.”
Poor Cal. Forced onto the sidelines for the most important case of his life.
“Have your men gotten any leads? As a friend,” I said, “I want to know.”
Cal shook his head. “Nothing. No one saw anything. Or if they did, they’re not saying. The murder weapon
was wiped clean; there was blood on it, but no prints. And all the blood seems to be Bryan’s.”
His jaw clenched. I couldn’t imagine having to talk about someone I’d loved in such clinical terms, but I supposed that being a cop, you learned to compartmentalize early on. Either that, or you burned out fast.
“What about blood outside the main office? The killer must have had blood on him, right?”
“Sure,” he said. “And they found traces of blood in the little bathroom down the hall from the office, one of those one-person unisex things. But, again, no prints. Just evidence that someone locked him- or herself in that bathroom and washed Bryan’s blood away.”
“Oh, Cal.” I reached around the side of the table to take his hand. He wrapped his fingers around mine, gave them a brief squeeze, and then pulled back into himself.
“What about DNA or hairs or fibers?” I asked.
“Tally, you’ve been watching too much TV. Other than the blood, the crime-scene guys didn’t find any evidence that was obviously related to the crime. There was trace all over the crime scene and the bathroom, but they’re public buildings. We probably have hair from every member of the English department faculty and half the students.”
“So what do you do now?”
Cal shook his head. “Not much they can do. The detectives in charge are still talking to students and faculty, everyone who knew Bryan, but unless someone other than the killer knows something—or the killer decides to confess—they’re at a standstill.”
“What about motive? Who would have wanted to kill Bryan?”
“Other than Emily Clowper?” Cal asked with a wry smile. Then he sighed. “I don’t have the heart to tell Marla this, but it turns out people didn’t really like Bryan much.”
An understatement to be sure, but I didn’t editorialize.
“The undergraduates thought he was too tough in the classroom, his fellow graduate students thought he was pompous and too competitive. The only people who haven’t said anything bad about the kid are Landry and Gunderson.”
Which begged the question whether Landry and Gunderson actually liked Bryan, or whether they had a reason to hide their animosity. From what Reggie had said, Landry and Gunderson both had issues with Bryan, but they were apparently being more diplomatic with the authorities. Again, though, it didn’t seem like the time to push Cal on that question. After all, I was asking as a friend, not a meddler.
Cal pushed his food around, and then let the fork fall to the plate with a clatter. “No one liked him, but no one had a real reason to kill him. Except for Emily Clowper. And that’s why she may not be an official suspect, but she’s certainly in our crosshairs. Sorry, their crosshairs,” he amended.
“Detective McCormack?”
I looked up to find Jonas Landry standing by our table. Up close, I saw that he had sharp features and dark, penetrating eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles that he hadn’t been wearing at the funeral or at the bar. His clothes made him stand out in the denim and seersucker crowd at Erma’s: a pair of gray pleated trousers, a long-sleeved white dress shirt, and a natty black vest buttoned high on his chest.
Cal stood up to greet the newcomer, extending a hand. “Professor Landry,” he said.
“Please, call me Jonas.”
“Jonas. And I’m Cal. This here is Tally Jones,” he said, gesturing in my direction. “We were just talking about the benefit for Bryan’s scholarship fund.”
Jonas Landry offered his hand, and I reluctantly took it. I didn’t much care whether Sally Landry tolerated her husband’s philandering or not. I thought his behavior was pretty scummy, and I didn’t particularly want to socialize with the man.
“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Jones,” he said, his voice as smooth and seductive as warm dulce de leche. “You were involved with the Honor’s Day program, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I run the Remember the A-la-mode. We were serving ice cream at the event. My niece, Alice Anders, is a student at Dickerson.”
His face lit up. “Oh, yes, Alice! I’ve heard excellent things about her. I’m hoping to convince her to take my seminar on midcentury European cinema next year.”
“Cinema? Aren’t you in the English department?”
He chuckled that “oh, how quaint” chuckle I was coming to loathe from these academics.
“Yes, I’m actually the chair of the English department. But my specialty is in the study of cinema. I’m a bit of a relic, I suppose,” he said, again with the chuckle of superiority, “as I am a firm believer in the auteur theory of film criticism. I study the works of great directors, authors, and artists who use a visual medium to tell their story rather than the written word.”
“Oh.”
Cal nodded. “Jonas here wrote a book that got him on all sorts of talk shows, on NPR and such. And now it’s up for a big national award.”
Landry blinked rapidly three or four times. “How . . . how did you hear about that?”
Cal smiled. “No need to be bashful. Bryan mentioned it one evening at dinner.”
The last word I would have used to describe Jonas Landry was “bashful.” But he did seem taken aback by the fact that Cal knew about his work. Or the fact that Cal knew about the award. Maybe he was superstitious and didn’t want to jinx his chances by talking about it.
Indeed, Jonas waved off the topic. “It’s really nothing,” he said. “Tell me about the plans for the benefit.”
“There’s not much to tell right now,” Cal said. “I was just asking Tally here if she’d help with the planning.”
Both men looked at me expectantly, and I did the only thing I could do.
I said yes.
chapter 12
As her wedding date approached, Crystal Tompkins grew increasingly more self-possessed. I’d seen plenty of brides melt down into bratty children over their impending nuptials, but Crystal seemed more serene every day, as though she was becoming more and more confident of her feminine power.
She sat across from me at one of the A-la-mode café tables, leisurely licking a double-chocolate waffle cone while I scribbled “Crystal’s Wedding” across the top of a blank legal pad.
“So tell me about this groom’s shake idea,” I said.
Crystal’s cupid’s bow mouth turned up in an enigmatic Mona Lisa smile. “All my mom,” she said. “Personally, I don’t care much about the tradition. It’s supposed to be a gift from the bride to the groom, right? Well, trust me, I’m giving Jason a gift. Just not in public.”
She licked her ice cream again, the tip of her pink tongue darting out to catch a drip of chocolate before it ran down the side of the cone. Apparently the nut didn’t fall far from the tree, and Crystal had more than a trace of her mama’s devilish nature.
“Well, whether it’s your idea or hers, your mama’s got her heart set on these milk shakes, and I want to make them special for you.”
Crystal chuckled. “Oh, and I appreciate it, Ms. Jones. Jason loves ice cream, and he’ll get a kick out of having his very own milk shake flavor.”
“What’s he like?”
“Jason?” She screwed up her features in concentration. “He’s a pretty simple guy, really. Laughs a lot. He likes watching football and playing computer games, tinkering with cars. All the boy stuff.”
“What about food? Anything special he likes?”
She smiled. “He’s a Texas boy. Barbecue and chili and Tex-Mex. In fact, our first date was a barbecue.”
“Really? Tell me about it.”
“Well, I guess it wasn’t our first date. I mean, we’d known each other for years, but the first time I thought ‘Wow, he’s cute,’ was at a big barbecue we had for debate my freshman year of high school. We were going to the state championship that year, and we had this big fund-raiser.”
That would have been the year that Bryan Campbell was the captain of the team. Deena had mentioned the team’s triumph at Bryan’s funeral.
“Anyway, we all brought food to sell. Jason brought br
isket smothered in his homemade sauce.”
“He made his own sauce?” That seemed pretty ambitious for a high school boy.
Crystal laughed. “He’d done 4-H and FFA for years, but Jason’s not really a manly man, you know? He always gravitated to the cooking and canning competitions. His barbecue sauce is impressive.”
“What’s he use?”
Crystal waggled a finger at me. “Oh, now, Miz Jones, you know that a Texas man won’t share his barbecue recipe with anyone but his horse.”
“Mmmm-hmmm. But something tells me Jason wouldn’t dare keep secrets from you.”
She winked. “I’ll give you a hint. His secret ingredient is Dr Pepper.”
“Really?”
“Yep,” she said with a satisfied nod. “Dublin Dr Pepper.”
Dr Pepper is the unofficial state beverage of Texas. Older than Pepsi, RC, or even Coca-Cola, Dr Pepper originated in Waco, Texas. The Dublin variety of Dr Pepper is made with the old formula, using cane sugar instead of corn syrup. It’s harder to find, but worth the hunt. I jotted “Dr Pepper” on my legal pad.
“What did you bring to that barbecue?” I asked.
“I brought a red raspberry pie. My mom had just taught me to make pastry crust, and we had raspberries out the yin yang that year. Jason always told me that my pie caught his eye, but my smile won his heart.”
I sighed as I scribbled “raspberry” on my notepad. Such a sweet story.
“You’ve been dating a long time.”
She shrugged. “Yeah. A lot of our friends figured we’d get married right out of high school. But we both wanted to wait.”
“That was smart. It’s hard to know whether high school crushes are real love or not.”
Crystal looked at me like I was nuts. “Oh, we knew it was real love. Love is love, no matter how old you are. But we both have plans, ambitions. We were afraid that if we got married, we’d start feeling obligated to buy a house and have babies and all the rest of it . . . and then we might not both get to go to law school.”
Jason had just finished his third year and would be taking the bar exam later in the summer, and Crystal planned to start school in the fall.
Scoop to Kill Page 9
