Davis nodded. He still seemed shaken by the news that his cousin was dead. Hell, I was shaken, too, although today was the first time I’d ever seen or spoken to Tom Hitchcock and he wasn’t even tenuous kin to me. To be that young, that full of youth’s fiery passions and exaggerated sense of injustice—and then to be gone in an instant?
Incomprehensible.
“You want to tell me about the fight?” Connor repeated.
“It was pretty stupid,” Davis said. The stitches in his lower lip were like a constant annoyance and he kept touching them with his tongue. “He put a snake in my bed last night, so this morning I stuck it where he was supposed to find it. Instead, it was his girlfriend who got scared and that made Tom so mad that he jumped me when I came back from visiting his parents. He’s been on me the whole weekend, so I was ready to give it to him, too.”
He looked at Connor and swallowed as if something were in his throat. “He’s really dead? Not just hurt bad and in the hospital?”
“He’s really dead,” Connor said.
“How’s my grandfather? And Tom’s family?”
“Not real good,” he said bluntly.
Davis started to rise. “I ought to go—”
Connor waved him back down. “Not just yet. Tell me about this morning. After Tom came but before you left with his mother.”
“I knew he was coming back sometime today to finish grinding that rack of jars that my grandfather took out of the kiln last week, so I slipped over to the shed after breakfast and put the snake in one of them. Okay, I realize now that it was dumb, but he’d been so—” He groped for the right word. “So hostile to me.”
I was pleased to hear that my mini-lecture had penetrated. Connor just nodded and said, “Go on.”
“Tom got here around eleven.”
“Where did he park his car?”
“Out front here, right next to mine. Weird that we could be that opposite and still drive the same car. Only difference, his is a year older.”
“Did he leave the windows down?”
“I didn’t notice. I always leave mine cracked so it doesn’t get too hot inside. Why?”
“Just answer the question, please.”
“Well, when we were comparing cars, he said that his air conditioner was broken, so they probably were down.”
“What happened next?”
“I was up here when James Lucas’s wife—ex-wife?”
“Sandra Kay,” said Connor.
“She came knocking on the door. She’d heard I was here and I think she wanted to see if I looked anything like the rest of the Nordans.”
Now, that was something Sandra Kay hadn’t mentioned to me when she was being so free and open about everything else. A deliberate omission?
“She was here to get a bunch of pots out of the shop and she’d sent Tom up to the house to get the key, since Miss June doesn’t open it till one o’clock on Sundays. Tom and I helped her box them up and carry them out to her car, then we ate lunch at the house.” Again his tongue gingerly touched his stitched lip.
“Anything happen at lunch?”
“Not really. Jeffy did most of the talking.” He looked Connor squarely in the eye. “I didn’t know till Judge Knott told me tonight.”
“Told you what?”
“That my grandfather—that Mr. Amos—I know he said for me to call him Granddaddy, but it weirds me out to try to,” Davis said plaintively. “Anyhow, she says Tom thought he was going to leave me the pottery. I just wish I’d known about that before all this happened. I would’ve told him I’d never take it and maybe we could’ve been friends. I didn’t come over here because I suddenly had this huge urge to throw a damn pot. I only came because I wanted to meet my—to meet Donald Nordan’s people and get to know them a little.”
“I see,” Connor said. “Now, what happened after lunch?”
“Miss June opened the shop. Mr. Amos went up to his room to take a nap and I started cleaning up things downstairs where Libbet worked yesterday. I hosed off the wheel head and the shelves and washed out all the buckets. Then Tom’s mother came over to see her dad and she invited me to ride home with her to see some pictures and stuff. I was over there about an hour and walked back through the lane. There was another car parked next to Tom’s when I got here. Brittany’s. As soon as I stuck my head in the door, he just started ragging on me, and the next thing I knew, we were slugging it out. Mr. Amos broke it up, Tom took off, and Brittany went after him and Judge Knott took me to the hospital.”
“And you didn’t see anyone around Tom’s car after he got here?”
Davis shook his head. “I guess we all walked past it at one time or another, and— Hey, wait a minute! Jeffy!”
Connor frowned. “Jeffy was by Tom’s car?”
“He was in and out of both sheds after lunch. I don’t know if he messed with Tom’s car, but he got inside mine. I came out one time and he was sitting in the driver’s seat, pretending to drive. Poor guy. I didn’t think there was anything he could hurt, so I didn’t chase him. Is that why Tom wrecked? Somebody messed with his car?”
Connor didn’t answer, just made a note on the legal pad he’d laid on the coffee table. My far vision’s good enough to see that it looked like a J and a question mark.
“What about Bobby Gerard? Was he here today?”
“Not that I saw. He was supposed to work yesterday afternoon, but he never came back after lunch. Betty and Mr. Amos were both pissed about it, but I got the impression that’s just the way this guy is.”
“Now, son, I want you to think about this real carefully. Did you see anybody put a snake in Tom’s car?”
“Jesus! Another snake? That’s why he crashed?”
Connor nodded. “A big black rat snake about four feet long. You didn’t see anyone do it?”
Davis shook his head emphatically. “No, sir.”
“Did you put it there?”
“Me?” He jumped to his feet and shook his head even harder. “No! I didn’t.”
“See, the thing is,” said Connor, “if you just did it for another joke—”
“But I didn’t!” He was getting more and more agitated.
“It’s okay, Davis,” I said soothingly. “He has to ask.”
“Do the rest of them think I did?” he asked.
Connor didn’t answer, but as far as I was concerned, the bright red flush that abruptly covered his face was answer enough.
I was struck by a sudden thought. “Did you check Davis’s car for snakes?”
Both of them looked at me questioningly.
“Well, think of it, Connor. Two white Toyotas sitting side by side? If someone did deliberately put a snake in Tom’s car, maybe they also put one in Davis’s. Or, for all we know,” I said, warming to my theme, “maybe they thought it was Davis’s car they were putting it in, in the first place.”
“Tom would certainly know his own car, and who else would want to scare Davis?” Connor asked reasonably.
“Maybe the same person who killed James Lucas,” I answered, striving for the same reasonable tone. “Somebody who thought Amos was ready to rewrite his will in favor of this new grandson.”
“Except he wasn’t,” Connor said heavily.
There came such an immediate rush of blood to his fair face that I realized he hadn’t meant to let that slip and his look so implored me that I didn’t pursue it.
Connor’s careless remark had passed right over Davis, who now struggled with the thought that someone might want him dead or seriously hurt. “The same person that killed James Lucas? But nobody else was here. Nobody that I saw. It was just family.”
“Anyhow,” I said, just full of helpful scenarios, “for all you know, that snake could have been in Tom’s car for a week. You can’t be sure when it got in.”
“Mighty convenient timing, though,” Connor said. He asked for Davis’s home address and telephone, then stood up. “How long did you plan on staying here?”
“I didn
’t have any definite plans. Right now, though . . . He hesitated. “I really ought to go up to the house. See my grandfather. And then go over to the Hitchcocks’.”
Connor looked at me awkwardly.
“They do think I put that snake in Tom’s car, don’t they?” Davis demanded.
Connor nodded. “I’m afraid they do.”
“Do you?”
“I’m not jumping to any conclusions,” he said, “but I’d like for you to keep in touch if you leave Seagrove.”
I walked Connor downstairs.
“We need to talk,” I said when we were outside under the starry April sky.
“I was afraid you were going to say that.” He took a flashlight from his cruiser and examined every cranny of Davis’s car. “You going to be in court tomorrow?”
“No, not till Tuesday. But I’ll come by your office in the morning, okay?”
He nodded.
Back upstairs, Davis was wandering restlessly around the loft. “I wish I’d never come over to Seagrove. I wish Mom had never told me.”
“Really?”
He thought about it a long moment, then sighed. “No, I guess not.”
There was only one small window up here and he’d thrown it open and switched on the overhead exhaust fan to freshen the air. He looked so miserable that there was only one thing to do.
“Get your things together,” I said. “You’re coming with me. My friend’s got an extra bedroom and I know she won’t mind if you crash there tonight. You can drive back to Raleigh tomorrow.”
He gave me a look of pure relief, but then his shoulders slumped and he shook his head. “No, I have to face them, tell them I didn’t have anything to do with Tom’s wreck.”
“You can do that now,” I said briskly. “I’ll go with you. Just pack your stuff.”
I went over to the bed. “These your CDs? What about the travel clock?”
Galvanized, he pulled out a catchall duffel bag and began stuffing clothes into it.
Ten minutes later, we switched off the fan, closed the window, turned off the lights, closed the upstairs door, and latched the workshop door. Davis slung his duffel into the trunk of his car, then we both took a deep breath and walked up the slope to his grandfather’s house.
Whatever his problems with Tom and Libbet Hitchcock, Davis had apparently become accustomed to coming and going freely in his grandfather’s house over the weekend. He rapped lightly on the side door of the house, then opened it and stepped inside.
June Gregorich turned from the sink where she was emptying the drainboard of its dishes, moving back and forth from sink to cabinets in blue cotton socks that almost matched the faded blue of her denim dress. A Celtic cross strung on a red leather thong hung around her neck. Her thick leather sandals sat neatly beside the door. Her face looked drawn and tired.
“You’ve heard?” she asked Davis.
He nodded. “How’s he taking it?”
“Not good, not good at all. He made Betty and Dillard leave about an hour ago. She’s just falling apart and Mr. Amos is almost catatonic—he said he was going to bed, but he just keeps sitting there. Maybe you can get him to go on upstairs.”
Despite her solicitous tone, I saw her eyes brighten at the prospect of more drama.
I followed Davis into the den. Amos Nordan’s recliner was locked in its upright position and the old man sat just as erectly. It seemed to take him a moment to focus on who Davis was.
“So you come back, did you?”
“I just heard. I’m really sorry, sir.”
“You’re the one supposed to be dead,” Amos said. “I thought I could keep him safe. I didn’t know I was inviting another killer to have a go at him.”
I didn’t know if Davis understood any more than I did what Amos’s first words meant, but we both understood the intent of his last.
“I didn’t put that snake in his car,” he said earnestly.
“Lean down here,” Amos said, gesturing him closer.
When Davis did as he asked, the old man spat full force with all the venom of his years.
“I spit on you!” he snarled. “Now get the hell out of my house and get off my property before I put the law on you!”
I was almost as startled as Davis, who stood there looking down at this man who’d sired his father. Then he turned and walked steadily from the room.
As I suspected, June Gregorich had overheard everything and she met him at the kitchen door with a damp dishcloth.
He wiped the spittle from his face and took the first deep breath since entering the house. “Thanks, Miss June. You’ve been nice to me. I really appreciate all you did.”
“You’re leaving?”
“You heard what he said.”
“But—”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I was going tonight anyhow.”
“Well, maybe it’s for the best,” she told me as he pushed open the screen door and walked out into the mild night.
I didn’t envy her having to stay on here in this bleak and cheerless house. As I said goodnight, I added inanely, “Take care of yourself, June.”
She gave me a grim smile and nodded. “Don’t worry. I will.”
The moon was only two nights from full and when I caught up to Davis down by the sheds, tears glistened in his eyes.
“Let’s go to my friend’s house,” I said softly.
“I feel like a coward,” he said, sounding almost as miserable as he looked. “But I don’t think I’m up to having anybody else spit in my fa—”
There was a loud gunshot and a bullet ripped a chunk of wood from the shed post beside his head.
We both jumped ten feet.
Another bang. Another bullet. This one a little higher up. Davis grabbed my arm and pulled me down behind his car. Neither of us was reassured by the shooter’s poor aim. I carry a gun in the trunk of my car, but there was no way to reach it. Besides, this wasn’t the O.K. Corral and I wasn’t up to a real shoot-out.
Instead, I yanked the cell phone from my purse and dialed 911 just as a third shot took out two of Davis’s windows.
“I’m calling from Nordan Pottery,” I screamed when the dispatcher answered. “Someone’s shooting at us out back of the shop—hurry!”
A dispatcher’s calm voice is meant to steady a person’s nerves, but this one wasn’t helping much. I answered her questions, but I don’t know how much sense I was making. I just wanted a patrol car to magically appear between us and whoever was blasting away at us.
An overhead light at the peak of the shed’s roof suddenly came on, dazzling us with its unexpected brightness.
From the house, I heard Amos Nordan holler, “What’s going on down there?”
June called over his shoulder, “Deborah? Davis? You all right?”
Libbet Hitchcock’s angry young voice called back, “He’s fine.”
She stepped into the circle of light dragging a rifle behind her, then let it drop to the ground. “If I’d really wanted to kill him, he’d be dead as Tom right now!”
“Good God Almighty, girl! What the hell you doing?” Amos cried, hobbling down the slope to us.
“What I should’ve done last week when he sat on the edge of your porch to weasel his way into the pottery. And you!” She was half-crying now with grief and rage as she turned on Amos. “Tom would still be alive now if you hadn’t gone back on your word and picked this one over him. How could you?”
“You stupid bitch! I didn’t!” Amos howled.
Adrenaline pumping, Davis stood up. “Would you both just shut the hell up? Why would you think for one minute that I want this dumb place? I wouldn’t have it if you wrapped it up and hung it on a Christmas tree!”
Both of them stopped in their tracks, then Libbet sneered, “Oh, right. You’d say anything now to keep us from thinking you killed Tom.”
“Yeah,” said Amos. “Putting that snake—”
“I did not touch the damn snake!”
Then, mercifully, I hea
rd a siren wailing down the road close by.
At almost the same instant, headlights appeared in the lane. The gunshots had carried on the night air and the place was soon awash in lights from both directions. Dillard Hitchcock got out of the van and ran toward his daughter. “Oh, Lord, Libbet! What’ve you done? What’s your mother going to think of this?”
“Who’s the shooter?” asked the sheriff’s deputy who strode forward with his hand on his open holster.
Hitchcock picked up the rifle and Libbet collapsed in tears on his shoulder.
Amos Nordan sank down on the bench in front of the shed, while June hovered over him. A wide-eyed Jeffy, barefooted and in pajamas, stared at everything in bewilderment. “Momma?”
“It’s okay, son,” she kept telling him.
As the deputy tried to sort it all out, Davis walked over to his grandfather. “What did you mean when you said I was supposed to be dead? That you thought you could keep Tom safe by having me here?”
Amos glared back at him. “Somebody’s killing my boys and I ain’t supposed to try and stop him any way I can?”
I saw shocked realization wash over Dillard Hitchcock’s face the same time it hit me.
“You were using Davis for bait?” I was appalled.
“I was going to watch out for him,” Amos said belligerently.
“Yeah, like you watched out for him this afternoon?” I was too indignant to sugarcoat my words. “Two white Toyotas sitting side by side. Maybe the killer thought he was putting the snake in Davis’s car just like you planned. It could be Davis lying dead at the morgue tonight.”
“But it ain’t him, is it, lady? It’s my real grandson.” His words were almost strangled by his rusty sobs. “It’s Tom.”
CHAPTER
25
Laura Teague . . . believes . . . “If you trim, you leave a lot of thickness at the bottom of a pot while turning it. Then it’s hard to get enough of the shape so you know what the whole shape is going to be like. You need to get the shape while it’s plastic rather than carving it away. Trimming does something to it. I see shapes not coming out spontaneously, not true, if they have been cut later.”
Uncommon Clay (A Deborah Knott Mystery Book 8) Page 19
