Traceless

by Debra Webb

  “Tea will do us good.” Violet tugged Emily into her room. “You’re just in time, Em.”

  Men’s suits, clearly designer and expensive, lay across the bed, four in all. Two shirts for each were draped over the jackets along with three or four ties.

  “I’m just having an awful time deciding which suit he should wear.” Violet turned to Emily. “Everyone will be there, you know. It’s imperative that the suit is perfect. Keith wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  They both knew it was Violet who wouldn’t want it any other way. Emily watched as her friend tried different ties against the various shirts. Unlike her mother, Violet’s eyes weren’t red or swollen. Her black sheath looked exquisite. Her hair and makeup were … perfect. She chatted on and on about what an enormous task making this final selection was for her.

  If Emily only looked at the surface, at this seemingly cold woman who was more worried about her dead husband’s burial clothes than the fact that he was dead, she could almost imagine Violet climbing in through that bedroom window and killing the competition. Could almost see her pushing Keith over that ledge … for whatever reason he’d failed to meet her expectations.

  But this was Violet. She’d always been this way. A perfectionist. Obsessed with appearances … with meeting her goals.

  “I think the navy suit would be best,” Emily offered, her voice too high, too shaky. “With that crisp white shirt and the tie that has that touch of red in it. Very classy.”

  Violet inclined her head and surveyed the selections one last time. “I think you’re right.” She gathered the navy suit, white shirt, and specified tie and draped them across a wing chair. “Thank you,” she said to Emily. “I was leaning in that direction.”

  “Would you like me to help you put the others away?”

  “Oh yes. You know how I like everything in its place.”

  Emily did know that. Together they put the fine suits away in the massive walk-in closet that was as big as Emily’s entire bedroom back at her apartment in Birmingham. Violet chattered with hardly a pause for breath about all the things she and Keith used to do. Her voice remained calm and stoic.

  Emily couldn’t seem to find an appropriate opening to bring up the necklace. She felt exactly like a traitor.

  “I called Troy and left a message that I’d like very much for him to speak at Keith’s eulogy, but he hasn’t returned my call.” Violet said this with much confusion and disappointment. Folks, especially friends, didn’t usually ignore calls from Violet Manning-Turner.

  “I’m sure he will,” Emily offered. Troy would be torn up pretty badly himself. He would need time to come to terms with his friend’s death before he spoke with Violet.

  Violet stroked the sleeve of one of the suits she’d put away. “I’ll miss him.” She turned to meet Emily’s eyes. “I’m not sure it’s hit me just yet.”

  Emily managed a trembling smile. “I know.” And she did.

  Violet’s face brightened abruptly. “I’m glad you came, Em. I felt bad about the harsh words between us. This thing with Austin has been painful for us all.” Then she hugged one arm around Emily’s shoulders. “Let’s go see if that tea is ready.”

  “Vi, I was wondering—”

  “Oh.” Violet hesitated abruptly. “I almost forgot to tell you. I found that silly necklace.” She left Emily standing in the middle of the room to go over to the ornate jewelry chest sitting atop her dresser. “I was looking for cuff links and there it was.” She held up the gold necklace with its familiar charms. “I was sure it was lost.”

  Somehow Emily kept her smile in place until they’d had the lovely tea Violet’s mother had prepared. Not the usual iced tea southerners preferred, but hot tea with sugar and lemon. Emily listened like a good friend should and then hugged Violet and offered again to help in any way needed.

  Finally, when Emily could scarcely contain the mounting pressure a moment longer, she said her good-byes and left.

  Clint waited for her just down the block.

  She climbed into the truck and closed the door. Before he could ask, she told him, “She has her necklace. I saw it.”

  Clint pulled away from the curb. “How is that possible? Could she have had a duplicate made?”

  “Why?” Emily looked at him. “It wasn’t introduced as evidence in court. As far as we know, it wasn’t really investigated at all. Probably presumed to be mine or Heather’s. There was no reason for her or anyone else, even the police obviously, to think it might be relevant.”

  The necklace was a dead end. Where did they go from here?

  “Then someone else who knew Heather had to have a necklace like that.”

  “No,” Emily argued. “Only the …” She hesitated. No, that was ridiculous.

  “What?” he demanded, as he slowed for the turn onto Main Street.

  “Justine.” Emily turned to him. “She had one.”

  The discordant wail of a police cruiser’s siren jerked Emily’s attention to the street behind them. Blue lights throbbed.

  Clint checked the dash, then slowed to a stop. “I wasn’t speeding. What the hell does Ray want now?”

  “It’s not Ray,” she said after studying the man behind the wheel of the car easing up behind them at the curb.

  Mike Caruthers stepped out of the official vehicle and strode to the driver’s side of Clint’s truck.

  “Caruthers,” Clint acknowledged.

  “Step out of the vehicle, Austin.”

  Fear crowded into Emily’s throat. She leaned past Clint and asked, “What’s going on, Deputy Caruthers?”

  He ignored her and motioned for Clint to get out.

  Clint climbed out of the truck, his hands already raised in compliance with the unmistakable tension the deputy exuded.

  “You’ll be riding to City Hall with me for questioning. Your parole officer is waiting there.”

  Emily wrenched her door open and rushed around the hood. “Why are you taking him to City Hall? Where’s Ray?”

  Time seemed to stand still as she waited for Caruthers’s response. Surely they hadn’t found some evidence they thought could connect Clint to Keith’s murder. She’d already told Ray that Clint had been with her.

  “Are you arresting me?” Clint demanded to know.

  Deputy Caruthers’s head swiveled in Clint’s direction. “You have the right to remain silent—”

  “Don’t even bother.” Clint backed up a step. “I’m not going any damned where until you tell me what the hell is going on?”

  It wasn’t until then that Emily noticed the pale, blank look on the deputy’s face. She hadn’t really hung around Mike Caruthers that much back in school, but anyone could see that something was very, very wrong. Terror gripped her … the kind that accompanied the threat of the unknown.

  He reached for the handcuffs on his utility belt. “I’m taking you in for questioning related to the murder of …”

  Emily held her breath.

  “ … Ray Hale.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  410 Oak Avenue 3:45 P.M.

  Troy was scared. He slung the empty can across the kitchen and reached inside the fridge for another. The milk he shoved aside was expired. He slammed the fridge door, shook the magnets holding his little girl’s artwork. His gut clenched. Goddamn it all to hell. He looked around at the empty kitchen. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink. The whole fucking place was a wreck.

  Patricia had left him.

  He popped the top on the beer and guzzled it down in one long, sucking swallow. He exhaled a belch and tossed the can in the corner with the last one. One can at a time just wasn’t doing the job. He dived back into the fridge and grabbed a fresh six-pack and stalked off to the living room. He flopped into his recliner and popped the top on another.

  The pain started to swell again and he tried his best to wash it away with more beer.

  Keith was dead. And it was his fault.

  “Fuck.” He gulped down the rest of the beer
and slung the can away. This time instead of reaching for another beer he picked up the .38 Smith & Wesson lying on the table next to his chair. He stared at its inviting black barrel. He should just blow his damn brains out and be done with it. His life was over. He’d lost his sister. He’d lost his wife and kids. He’d lost his best friend.

  The man responsible for all of it was walking around free. Happy-fucking-go-lucky like nothing had ever happened. Clint Austin had come back to this town and torn it apart.

  Someone had to make him pay.

  Troy laughed at himself. He’d been saying that for a fucking week and he hadn’t done a damned thing about it except break a few things and tear up a few damned pictures. He’d just gotten drunker and passed out.

  He’d called Keith a coward when he was the fucking coward.

  His fingers tightened on the butt of the weapon.

  By God it was time he made this right. He knew one surefire way to lure Clint Austin into a trap.

  Emily Wallace.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  302 Dogwood Drive 4:30 P.M.

  Justine was home.

  Clint would be furious when he found out Emily had left the inn without him. But she couldn’t wait any longer. Ray was dead. God, she couldn’t believe it. How could this be happening? What were the police doing about it? Besides questioning Clint.

  She had to get to the truth. She’d left Clint a note telling him where she’d gone in case he was released before she’d finished here.

  The whole concept of what she was about to do felt insane. Justine had been her friend. Everyone’s favorite teacher. All the cheerleaders loved her. What could she have hoped to gain by hurting Heather?

  It just didn’t seem logical or possible.

  Then again, the missing necklace was the only other piece of evidence besides the knife. That left Emily with little choice except to follow the only clue she had.

  She leaned her head back against the seat—Ray and Keith were dead. Her chest constricted with regret. Their murders gave her all the more reason to suspect that what she and Clint were doing was not only right but also necessary. Someone was killing off every single person who might have known the truth about that night.

  Someone had to do the right thing. Clint was being held for questioning, so that left her.

  Emily got out of the car and walked up the sidewalk to the porch. Justine had lived in this small house since coming to Pine Bluff. She liked calling it a cottage. And it did sort of look like one with lots of architectural features and lovely fretwork. Very old world. Oodles of flowers.

  Not the kind of place where a murderer lived.

  Emily pressed the doorbell and waited, working hard to keep her respiration even.

  The door opened and Justine appeared, her eyes red and swollen. “Emily. Did you hear the news about Ray? It’s just awful.”

  “I did. It’s terrible.”

  Justine’s white skirt and halter blouse showed off her tan. She’d woven her blonde hair into a French braid. She looked beautiful as usual, but she also looked grief stricken. Emily should have thought of that. She’d been out of the loop so long she’d forgotten how close all of these people still were.

  “You just caught me.” Justine’s voice was raw with emotion.

  Emily mentally scrambled for the proper response. “Maybe I should come back another time.” God, she didn’t want to wait. She wanted to do this now!

  “No. No. I was just going shopping for funeral dresses.” Justine pressed a hand to her chest. “I can’t believe it.” With monumental effort, she drew in a breath, seemed to compose herself. “Please, come on in.”

  Emily went inside, briefly admired the comfortable furnishings. She remembered then that Justine had more framed photographs than anyone she knew. They were everywhere. That was Justine’s hobby, she’d always said, the thing that kept her grounded.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Justine asked, then sniffed and pressed a tissue to her nose.

  “No, thanks.” Where to start? Emily had planned this; stick with the plan. “I saw Violet this afternoon.”

  Justine motioned for Emily to take a seat on the sofa while she curled up in a chair. “How is she?”

  “She’s Violet,” Emily allowed. “She won’t let anyone see her pain.”

  “I know she must be absolutely devastated.” Justine shook her head, anguish on her face. “I just can’t imagine who would do such a thing. Keith was such a great guy. And Ray. My God. Everyone loved him.”

  Emily clasped her hands together to prevent their shaking. “It’s hard to believe they’re really gone.”

  “Did Violet say when the funeral will be held? I’m sure it’s too early to know anything about Ray’s.”

  How could Emily sit here and believe that this woman, a woman she’d known more than half her life, was a murderer?

  “Depends upon the autopsy, I think.” No matter what Emily wanted to believe, she had to see this through. “You know,” she began, her voice sounding too chipper even to her, “while I was there Violet showed me her senior necklace. Can you believe she still has it? After all this time?” She shook her head. “I don’t know what happened to mine. I guess I lost it.”

  Justine folded her hands in her lap, stared straight into Emily’s eyes, but her gaze was blank, distant. “That’s a shame.”

  Do it! Emily braced. “Do you still have yours?”

  A tiny line formed between Justine’s eyebrows. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “The necklace,” Emily prompted, feeling horrible for pursuing the subject.

  “Oh.” Justine blinked. “The necklace. I haven’t worn mine since Heather … passed away. I didn’t want to risk damaging it or losing it. It’s been right there in my jewelry box ever since.” Regret clouded her eyes. “You girls were the first to get the necklaces. It didn’t seem right to give them to anyone else after what happened. I went back to the charm bracelets after that year.”

  “I feel terrible about losing mine.” God, she hated lying.

  “Would you like me to get you another, Em?” Justine offered. “I don’t mind trying. It might not be exactly the same, but it would probably be close.”

  This was the woman she wanted to accuse of murder?

  “That …” Nothing in her plan about this. “That would be wonderful.”

  “Consider it done.” Justine managed a faint smile, the effort visible. “Just give me your address in Birmingham before you go and I’ll take care of it.”

  Banging on her front door drew Justine’s attention there. She frowned as she pushed to her feet. “Excuse me, Em.”

  Deviation from plan. What did she do now? Emily pushed to her feet. “Could I use your bathroom?”

  Justine hesitated before opening the door. “Sure. Down the hall and on the left.”

  Her heart thudding in warning, Emily forced her legs to move at a normal pace as she went from the living room to the hall. Three doors. One on the left, two on the right.

  Shouting stopped her dead in her tracks. Both voices female. Her heart felt as if it had stopped as well. The voices turned hushed. Emily started moving again. First room on the right was a home office. The second, Justine’s bedroom. The span of floor space between the bathroom and the bedroom was only about six feet. Hardly anything at all. She could do it.

  Emily went into the bedroom. She glanced around, took stock of where things were. The jewelry box sat atop the dresser. She went there. Listened to ensure Justine was still engaged in conversation.

  Her hands shaking, Emily opened the jewelry box. Didn’t even consider that it might be one that played music until she’d opened it. She held her breath. No sound came from the box.

  Thank God.

  She listened again. Justine and her visitor were still talking.

  Working as fast as she could, she sifted through the necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. It wasn’t there.

  Damn.

  Then she saw the
huge jewelry box that stood upright like a small dresser. Her pulse raced.

  Do it.

  She crossed to the jewelry box, but the array of framed photos on the bureau distracted her. Lots and lots of pictures of Justine … and some with Misty. One photo in particular intrigued Emily. Justine and Misty looked really young … grade school maybe. Emily picked up the photograph. Voices echoed in her head. Heather talking about creepy Misty Briggs. Marv saying she was weird. The memory of running into Misty outside Fairgate’s house. But was any of that relevant? It felt strange, but was it important to what had happened to Heather? Not likely.

  Emily replaced the framed photo and settled her attention back on the larger jewelry box. The hushed voices indicated Justine was still distracted. Emily moved across the room, opened drawer after drawer. Each one held expensive jewelry. Incredible pieces. How on earth did a teacher afford such luxury?

  Last drawer, this one was the deepest. No necklace, no jewelry, period. More photos. A whole stack. The photo on top made Emily’s eyes go wide. “Oh, my God.” The words rushed out on a breath.

  Her pulse blipping wildly, she withdrew the stack and studied the photo on top more closely. Two young men engaged in a sexual act … did she know those guys? The profile of the tall one with blondish hair looked vaguely familiar. The other one had his back to the camera … he was on his knees.

  The tempo of the conversation in the other room rose, then fell again. Emily stared at the door, told her heart to slow. She had to hurry.

  She shuffled through the stack. Her fingers shook as she recognized Justine in one. A man, his face obscured by Justine’s hair, was giving it to her from behind. The third person in the photo was female. Emily couldn’t see her face, since she knelt in front of Justine … her hands on Justine’s hips, her face pressed to the juncture of her thighs. The woman on her knees had long brownish hair. Misty? Emily couldn’t be sure, but the hair color was right.

  Okay, this was none of her business. She reached to put the stack back into the drawer and a change in the intensity of the voices jerked her attention back to the door. She had to hurry. Emily shoved the pictures into the drawer and started to turn away. Something on the floor snagged her attention. Damn! One of the photos. She’d dropped one.