“Kinda like what you thought.”
Sloan reaches over and tousles my hair. “Ah, come on, Al. I already feel like an asshole for not being here when you needed help.”
Wow! Was this Sloan making a semi-apology?
He continues, “One thing Venable didn’t count on: Hunt reverting to form. When he got the hots for Sara, things went bad and Venable had to clean it up.”
“What about the Hewitts and Peggy Mooney?”
Sloan says, “Venable and Hunt intervened when a foster kid died in the Hewitts’ care.”
“So the Hewitts helped with the cover-up and got a new car and TV to boot.”
Sloan nods. “Peggy Mooney was a different story. She had a crush on Hunt and would do anything he asked. Hunt was afraid Sara was going to take off with her dad and spoil his little plan, so he told Peggy to pick Sara up that Friday and tell her Joe had been arrested.”
“Did Peggy know Hunt was a pedophile?”
“Her co-workers say she believed in Hunt’s ministry and thought he was trying to help Sara. We’ve applied to have her body exhumed. It’s likely she was murdered to keep her from talking.”
“Who killed her?”
He averts his eyes. “She started to get suspicious and told Hunt she wanted to talk to Sara. When he refused, she threatened to go to the police.”
I fight back tears. “If I hadn’t gone to see her, she’d still be alive.”
Sloan leans close and strokes my cheek. “Don’t beat yourself up, Al. She probably had her doubts long before your visit.”
I want to believe him, but I know my capacity for taking on guilt far exceeds his ability to grant me absolution.
“What about Joe Stepanek? Venable told me Joe and Hunt fought at the church.”
“Hunt thought Joe and Sara would take off after the last day of school. Sara disappeared before that. Right?”
I nod.
“When Sara didn’t respond to his messages, Joe figured Hunt had her. They fought. Hunt knocked Stepanek out and panicked. Venable arranged the overdose and put the fake letter from Sara in his pocket.”
I wait.
“Yeah,” he mumbles. “You were right.”
I cup my hand over my ear. “I didn’t quite hear you.”
Sloan is saved from further torment by the delivery of long-stemmed red roses. The aide sets them on my bedside table and hands me the card.
“Somebody loves you.” She winks and bustles out. The card says, “From Michael.”
The words bring back, in sickening detail, the photos Venable was so eager to share. I crumple the card in my hand.
Michael is exonerated by an unlikely source: Sloan. He pries the crumpled card from my hand and tells me detectives cracked Venable’s safe. Along with illicit drugs, they found a treasure trove of incriminating photographs, many of them featuring prominent citizens. Sloan interviewed Michael as well as others.
“Venable had access to GHB,” Sloan says. “Liquid ecstasy. Slip some in a drink, and you’ve got the perfect date rape drug. Venable hasn’t copped to it yet, but I’m sure he drugged these guys and posed them, probably at one of Hunt’s little fellowship gatherings. Everybody I spoke to complained of nausea and headaches the next day.”
“Venable made Michael get us out of the house so somebody could break in and see if I’d found … what?”
“Fishing trip. Joe was trying to blackmail Hunt. Venable knew he had concrete evidence and wanted to see if you’d found it.”
I can’t let go of the anger I feel at Michael’s betrayal. “Michael was joined at the hip with Hunt and Venable.”
“You need to cut LeClaire some slack. Venable threatened to show the pictures to his parents.”
I need time and solitude to sort out my feelings about Michael, neither of which I’ll get in the hospital. Besides, I have more to tell Sloan. “You need to check out the chapel at the winery. Something’s not right.”
Sloan’s mouth twitches. “Woman’s intuition?”
I feel a surge of fury at his smug remark. “Fine! Don’t believe me.”
Sloan heaves a weary sigh. “Aw, come on, Al.”
“Hunt’s a pedophile, and Venable’s a stone killer!” My voice rises in outrage. “He shot me with a stun gun. He locked me in a shed with a black widow spider. He pointed his big, black gun at me and he … he …”
Sloan stands and gathers me into his arms. He strokes my hair and pats my back.
“Screw you, Sloan.” With my face buried against his neck, the words come out muffled and without heat. Damn! I’m going to cry again.
While I blubber like an oversized toddler who missed her afternoon nap, Sloan speaks soothingly of many things. Even though Sara insists she went with Hunt willingly, a multitude of other charges are piling up against him, including accessory to the murder of Joe Stepanek. Add to that his knowledge of money laundering and extortion, not to mention his stolen identity, and Hunt, Sloan tells me, will be a guest at the gray bar hotel for a long time.
Sloan holds me until the hiccoughing stops and then drops a chaste kiss on my forehead before heading for the door.
I call after him. “Check out the juice concentrate from Mexico. The hostess at the winery told me the truck that brings it drops off the concentrate and loads up stuff for the return trip. I bet it’s another way Venable is laundering money.”
“FBI’s on it,” he says with a wave of his hand. He pauses at the door. “By the way, when Joe confronted Hunt, he told him to forget about the money. He just wanted his daughter back.”
After he leaves, I think about the sad life of Joe Stepanek, ex-con, drug dealer, lowlife, and how, in the end, it all came down to family. Someday, Sara will need to know that.
Chapter 32
The next morning I awake feeling semi-normal, i.e. crabby and in need of something better than hospital coffee. Before I start my campaign of harassment to go home, I have one last thing to do.
The Venable-Hunt-Harris story is front-page news, and the flowers pour in. A mixed bouquet from the Vista Valley teaching staff, balloons from Marcy with a card that says, “My hero!” and a plant from Donny Thorndyke.
I reach for the phone and call Donny. “I need a favor,” I say. “Isn’t your ex’s dad a big wig here at the hospital? And, if so, are you still speaking?”
Turns out Gwen’s father is indeed important. Chief of staff important and, yes, strangely enough, he still likes Donny.
An hour later, I’m escorted to the psych unit for a short visit with Sara. Before I’m allowed through the locked doors, Sara’s therapist preps me.
“Remember, her perception of reality is pretty screwed up right now. It’s not your job to point that out. Okay?”
I tell him what I plan to do. He frowns and mulls it over. Finally, he says, “Yeah, I guess that’s all right. If she starts to get upset, drop it. And don’t say anything about her dad dying.”
“But I already did,” I said. “Sunday night at the winery.”
“Her mind isn’t ready to accept it, so, unless she asks, don’t bring it up.”
He takes me to a large, cheerful room filled with comfortable furniture. One shelf-lined wall holds books, magazines, and board games. A television set, its volume turned low, sits against another wall. Sara is at the end of an overstuffed sofa absorbed in a book and twisting a lock of hair around her fingers, a gesture so familiar I catch my breath.
She looks up and smiles. “Hi, Ms. Thome. Where’s Nick?”
Her color is better. Her eyes look slightly vacant, probably due to mind-altering drugs. I wonder how much she remembers about Sunday night.
I sit down next to her. “He was just here. He brought me the letter you wrote the day you went away.”
I hold out the letter. She studies it curiously, her brows knit in concentration.
“Oh, yeah,” she says. “That letter.”
She traces the words with her finger. “That was a pretty weird day. Know what I mean?”
“My dad flipped out. Did Nick tell you I was seeing my dad?” She pauses and searches my eyes.
“I made him tell me. We were trying to find you.”
“Anyhow,” she continues. “Dad told me to stay away from Pastor Rob. He wanted me to leave with him after school was out. I didn’t know what to do.”
“But Peggy came to get you on Friday,” I say.
“Yeah. Peggy said the cops arrested my dad and that Pastor Rob wanted to counsel me. She said it might take a few days.”
She tugs on a lock of hair. “I knew it was a lie. My dad’s too smart to get picked up by the cops.”
I wonder if she remembers he’s dead.
“It didn’t sound right,” she continues. “Why would Peggy lie to me? I told her I was supposed to meet Nick that night, that I wouldn’t leave without writing him a note. She watched me write it, so I had to leave hidden clues.”
“You had us going for a while. Especially the bit about Clementine.”
I hope I’m not breaking the rule when I ask, “Why did your dad tell you to stay away from Pastor Rob?”
Her face closes up, and she stares at her hands. “He said Pastor Rob was bad.”
She begins picking at a hangnail. “That was the hard part. I knew Pastor Rob was trying to help me. I wanted to see him. I needed to see him. He was the only one who could help me.”
She bites her lip. I wait. When she speaks again, her voice sounds thin and strained. “Did Nick tell you I killed my baby?”
“Sara,” I say gently. “You were thirteen. You were a child.”
“No!” she says. “I knew I had to get right with God. I had to! Don’t you see?”
I want to dismember Robinson Hunt with my bare hands.
Sara takes a deep, shuddering breath. “It wasn’t so bad, really. Rob loves me. He said he loves me.”
Not your job to change her mind, Allegra. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from trying. “You called me. You asked me to help you.”
She flushes. “Yeah, I was scared. I found a cell phone underneath the sofa cushion. Rob caught me and grabbed the phone. He said people wouldn’t understand.”
An attendant appears and tells me my time is up. I give Sara a hug with my good arm and promise her we’ll talk soon. When I leave, she picks up the book. When I see the title, I curse under my breath.
Great Expectations: A Pregnancy Primer.
I go home the next day. In the week that follows, I receive a visit from Chief of Police Randall O’Dell and Captain Peter Lembeck. Chief O’Dell alternately smiles reassuringly at me, and glares at Lembeck, who, judging from his demeanor, would rather eat carpet tacks than be in my presence.
I smile sweetly and wait while he sputters and chokes. He finally manages a weak apology. “I hope you understand that Robinson Hunt is, uh, was a close friend. I’m an elder in his church, for Christ’s sake.”
Frowny face from Chief O’Dell.
“It wasn’t that we were stonewalling,” Lembeck says.
“Of course not,” I say.
“Hunt said not to worry about the kid, Sara. He told me she’d run off with her boyfriend. It’s not like we don’t have real crime to worry about in Vista Valley.”
“Let’s not lose our focus here, Pete,” the chief warns.
Lembeck digs a deeper hole. “Hunt said you were way overboard and acting like it was a major crime or something.”
I look at the chief and wink. “Don’t you just hate it when that turns out to be true?”
Lembeck flushes. “Yeah. Well, anyhow, consider this my official apology.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Your sincerity is heartwarming.”
By the weekend I’m sick of lying around and nag Dodie until all three Dr. Myers grant me their collective blessings and say I’m fit to teach summer school. But I still have the heavy hitter to convince.
Grandma Sybil insists we go for a test drive in Red Ranger to make sure I can drive one-armed. I pass with flying colors, leaving Grandma free to concentrate on her new project.
Upon Sara’s release from the hospital, Grandma put her therapeutic career on hold and welcomed her into the Thome family circle. She’ll stay with us until Marta comes home. Grandma’s good with screwed up teenagers. Look how I turned out!
Back in my normal routine, the week whizzes by. After school on Friday afternoon I’m tidying my desk when an unlikely couple enters my room. Heather Hunt and Michael.
Heather smiles and walks to my desk. Michael stands in the doorway looking miserable. He removes his cap and twists it in his hands, looking everywhere but at my face.
“Come in, Michael,” I urge. “Close the door if you want.”
I plop down in my chair and wait until they slip into student desks.
Heather says, “Since you’ve been in this thing from the beginning, you have a right to know.”
She pauses and looks at Michael. A jillion things flash through my mind. Are they secret lovers? Old prison mates? What?
Michael finally speaks. “My golf game’s been in the crapper. I need a new challenge.”
“This is about golf?” I ask.
Michael flushes. “No, it’s about me buying the winery.”
“What Would Jesus Drink Winery? That winery?”
Michael grins. “Yeah, that one. But I’m changing the name to Valley Vintage.”
I stare at the two of them, mouth agape.
Heather fills in the blanks. “The church board of directors met. Since the church owned the winery free and clear, they’ve allowed me to sell it and keep the proceeds.”
They wait for my reaction. For the past month, I’ve been sucked into a world spinning crazily out of its prescribed orbit. After it hurled me out, bruised and bleeding, I’ve been unable to find the normalcy I crave. But hearing their words, I feel the universe shift with an inaudible cosmic click. My life is back in sync, bright with promise, right and wonderful. I want to clap my hands for joy. Instead, I pound the desk with my left hand and laugh out loud.
“What a great solution! I’m happy for both of you.”
Michael looks relieved. Heather digs around in her purse and pulls out a checkbook.
“Michael paid more for the winery than we were asking,” she says. “We talked it over. We want to help Sara. Would you see that she gets this?” She hands me a check for $50,000.
I’ve never seen that many zeros on a check. “But it’s made out to me.”
“We want you to be the trustee on her account,” Michael says. “I talked to Sloan. He’s working on getting Sara’s mother out of prison early. They’ll need a place to stay. And Sara will need counseling.”
“And if Sara is pregnant …” Heather begins. Her voice breaks, and she swallows hard.
“I heard she isn’t,” I say, thinking, even though she wants to be.
Heather breathes out. “Thank God.”
Entirely of its own accord, my lower lip starts to tremble. I thank them and blot my eyes with a tissue. Michael stays behind after Heather leaves. He has a few tears of his own.
“Baby, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about the break-in. Venable drugged me. I would never …”
“It’s okay, Michael. Sloan explained it to me. Let’s just forget about it.” As I say the words, it really is okay.
Before he leaves, I warn him about Betsy the black widow and tell him to be sure to feed the winery cat. He promises to show me around after he’s made his changes. I tell him we might have to wait a while for that.
Sloan is waiting for me when I get home, drinking coffee and eating leftover bread pudding from the second shelf. Grandma sits next to him on the couch. Then I show them the check. Sloan whistles. Grandma claps her hands in delight then leaves to get ready for Melba and KFC night.
Sloan pulls me into his arms and nuzzles my ear. “About time for date number four.”
“Four!” I say. “We haven’t had a real date yet.”
“Keeps things interesting.”
“I’ve had enough excitement in my life for a while.”
He gives me a warm, wet, lingering kiss. “See ya tomorrow.”
“No way! I’m going out with Marcy.”
He narrows his eyes. “Bet I can find you.”
He starts for the door then pauses. “Looks like you were right about the chapel. There’s a trapdoor under the lectern.”
Feeling vindicated, I ask “What’s down there? Not a body, I hope.”
“Cash. Lots of cash. The juice concentrate gets trucked up from Mexico. Nice and clean coming into the U.S. On the return trip, the truck’s carrying cases of wine and bundles of cash stashed in a special compartment. No problem going back into Mexico. The juice people in Mexico take their cut and write a check to the WWJD Winery. Everybody’s happy.”
“The FBI will probably offer me a job,” I say. “Since I was all over this.”
“Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow.”
After Sloan leaves, I wander upstairs and take a twenty-minute power nap. I awake refreshed and go to my closet to get my running shoes. I’m not up to a jog, but Vlad and I will take a nice, long walk. Before I close the closet door, I notice a single strappy sandal with a dangerously high heel and pick it up, idly wondering why I don’t wear the shoes more often. Then I remember. When I can find both of them—one would invariably go AWOL—they look great, feel great for a while. But then, when I least expect it, they start to rub and I have to take them off and walk around in my stocking feet, shoeless. Sexy as hell and unpredictable. Exactly like Sloan.
I rummage through the jumble of shoes and pull out a black leather pump with two-inch heels. Suitable for attending funerals, winter weddings, or a business appointment. Good leather. Expensive. Capable of a high, glossy shine. Sensible but slightly boring. Michael.
I set the shoes side by side on the floor and curl up on the window seat. Noe is edging the lawn with a weed whacker. I bang on the window and wave. He looks up then points at the tree across the sidewalk from our house.
Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam Page 24
