by Karen Pullen
Inside the house a dog yapped, a white puff dashing back and forth to peer at me through glass sidelights. Tiny, Nikki had called him. Finally, a man wearing a uniform with the logo of a carpet-cleaning business opened the door. “She’s in the garden,” he said, pointing to a brick path leading around the house.
I tried to ignore the knot in my stomach, the unease I felt surrounded by Essex County wealth, and concentrate on the job. Ridiculous, this insecurity. As Fern often said, we’re all doing the best we can with what we have, but obviously some had much more. Some had functional plumbing and leak-proof roofs, for example, as well as a landscaped garden—a confusing clutter of topiary shrubs, Roman statues, and rock gardens massed with white and yellow daffodils. Behind an obelisk, a woman kneeled on a foam pad and scraped at the earth with a claw-like tool. She was slender with frothy blond hair and looked about twenty, though since she was Nikki’s mother she had to be nearly forty. “Mrs. Truly?”
She stopped scraping and looked up at me. “I haven’t been Mrs. Truly for years. I’m Zoë Schubert. Who are you?” Her peach skin was delicate, flawless. I wondered who did her peels in case I could afford one someday.
“I’d like to talk to your daughter.” I showed her my ID.
She studied it and her smile faded. “Lavender. Are you related to Fern?” She spoke with a soft Carolina accent.
“She’s my grandmother. How do you know her?”
“I’ve taken her painting classes. She’s a wonderful teacher.”
Every wanna-be artist in the county knew Fern, but that wasn’t why I was here. “I need to talk to Nikki.”
“She’s sleeping. So sorry.” She picked up the claw and attacked a dandelion.
“I’m investigating a murder, Mrs. Schubert. It’s necessary that I talk with her.”
Zoë blew out an exasperated puff of air, fluffing up her bangs. I suppressed a smile—Nikki had reacted the same way to me. “We’d like to have our lawyer present,” she said.
Surprising. “There’s no need for that.”
She knitted her eyebrows together. Surely she knew frowning would engrave vertical wrinkles in her forehead, necessitating botox. “I meant, anytime we talk to the police our lawyer wants to be there. It’s standard,” she said.
One would think the cops called on her once a week. “How long will it take your lawyer to get here? I’ll wait.”
I guess she decided it wouldn’t be a good idea for an SBI agent to sit on her front steps all day, because she changed her mind. “I’ll get Nikki. But I’m warning you, if I think you are implying anything or leading her on, you’ll be sorry.”
You’ll be sorry. A threat? I chose to decide it was simply the arrogance that comes with having a lawyer on call. She led me into her house and went upstairs to fetch Nikki. Tiny became hysterical, barking squeaks of fear as he scrabbled around me on the marble floor, leaving a trail of dribbles that explained the carpet cleaner. I scratched the dog’s head, calming him. The creature was no more than a handful of coarse white hair with a wet, black nose. He continued to growl, vibrating like a guitar string.
The home décor was baroque, uncomfortable. Gold-curlicued lamps dripped crystals, naked gilt cherubs held up glass tables, knights chased foxes on wall tapestries. Every piece of furniture was upholstered in faux zebra or leopard or tiger skin. At least I hoped it was faux. I sat down on a furry white ottoman, possibly polar bear, and waited.
In a few minutes Zoë and Nikki came in. Nikki’s sleep-creased face lit up when she saw me, her new cop friend. She had on flowered pajama bottoms and an Appalachian State sweatshirt. I wondered how comfortable it could be, sleeping in all those earrings and studs. She sat down on a zebra loveseat, and her mother squeezed in next to her. They looked like sisters—the same wide-apart gray eyes, the same petulant mouth. Tiny scrambled into Zoë’s lap and stared at me suspiciously.
“A bit of background first,” I said. “Are you from this area?”
“Originally, Texas. We’ve moved around.” Zoë took Nikki’s hand. “I came here about ten years ago after a divorce, to be closer to my brother, Erwin, and his wife. My only family.”
June and Erwin Devon again. Kent Mercer’s across-the-lake neighbors. “Mrs. Schubert, did you know Kent Mercer?”
“Only slightly. I talked to him about an upcoming party at Clemmie’s, the restaurant. And Nikki took care of his child.”
“Yeah,” Nikki said. “What’s going on with Paige? Did they find her?”
“Yes, we’re very worried about her,” Zoë added. The little crease reappeared between her eyebrows.
“You have any ideas I could pass on to the search team?”
They exchanged glances and shook their heads.
I asked Nikki how often she went to the Mercers’ house to babysit.
“About twice a week? Sometimes in the evening. I’ve been sitting for them a year or so.” Nikki seemed tense but calmer than yesterday, perhaps because her mother nodded supportively at each of her answers.
“Yesterday, after seeing Mercer’s body, you ran around the house looking for something. What?”
Zoë looked at her sharply. Pursing her lips, Nikki finally said, “A book.”
Really? A book? She wasn’t in custody, this wasn’t an interrogation, and her mother was holding her hand, so I let it go. “You told me you and Kent were lovers. Talk to me about that.”
Squirming, Nikki didn’t answer but turned to her mother. Zoë’s face was cold. “A private matter,” Zoë said, in a voice surprisingly flat. Gone was the sweet drawl. “Do not drag my daughter’s personal life into this case.”
“Not my intention,” I said. “She’s a minor and her identity will be protected. But if she knows something . . .”
“What could she possibly know? I want to consult an attorney before you ask her anything more.”
So far Nikki had told me little, even though she’d been at the Mercers’ house many times in the past year. From my babysitting era I remembered half the fun of the job was eating all the junk food Fern couldn’t afford. The other half was snooping around in the parents’ stuff. Had Nikki poked around? Zoë would probably consider that a leading question so I asked Nikki about other visitors to the house.
“I saw Lincoln Teller there a few times. Temple’s friends.”
“Ever hear anyone threaten Kent?”
“Paige’s grandpa didn’t like Kent. They had some blow-ups about money.”
That would be Wesley Raintree. I was disappointed. The information the girl gave me was superficial. I suspected the two women were holding something back, each protecting the other, and as long as they sat wedged hip-to-hip in the loveseat, clutching hands, I wouldn’t hear much of interest from either one. Time to change the subject.
“What did you know about his drug business?”
Leaning forward, Zoë squeezed her daughter’s hand so hard that Nikki pulled away. “Ow, Mom, quit.”
“This stops now. Come with me.” Zoë transferred her grip to the girl’s upper arm, tugged her to standing. Nikki shrugged and rolled her eyes.
Silently declaring this interview incomplete, I followed them into the lofty hall and reminded Nikki to stop by the sheriff’s department and get fingerprinted for elimination purposes.
“I’ll check my calendar,” Zoë answered, tugging Nikki up the stairs.
Crouched in a corner, Tiny vibrated a throaty growl. So scary. I let myself out.
Before I interviewed Bryce Raintree, I stopped by my house to pick up Merle. My dog softens people up, and from what Wesley Raintree had told me about his son, Bryce was a hard case—a steroid-fueled bodybuilder.
Bryce had told me he’d be at his gym. I got there a few minutes early, and stepped inside to observe. The gym was a huge open space with very high ceilings festooned with ropes and metal bars. Neatly stacked along the sides were tires, jump ropes, weight bars, wooden boxes, kettle bells, rowing machines. Bare walls held white boards with inspirational sayings and
workout times. The place smelled like sweat, with undertones from the Chinese restaurant next door.
A class was in process. About twenty people were doing pushups, deadlifts, jumping on and off the boxes, squatting, throwing massive balls up against a wall. They grunted, groaned, and screamed encouragement at each other. Hip-hop music blared, barbells clanked, sweat flew. Body shapes ranged from pudgy to wiry, ages from twenty to seventy, but they all looked oxygen-deprived, hence confused, and after ten minutes of this, not a few were wobbly. One by one they screamed “time” and collapsed—chests heaving for air, streaming sweat—onto the floor, as a trainer wrote their times on a white board.
I had never met Bryce, so I didn’t know which of the near-dead bodies was his, but after a few minutes the bulkiest of the young men staggered to his feet and waved at me. “Be right with you,” he said in a rusty voice, toweling off his face, arms, and legs. He went into a restroom, then emerged wearing khaki shorts and a t-shirt. “Hey, sorry for the wait.”
I know people who work out—some fellow agents are in the gym every day—but I’d never been up close to a body like his, bulging with muscle everywhere. His smooth, golden skin and even features, so much like his half-brother Kent’s, must have come from Sunny. His hair was gorgeous: thick, honey blond, cascading over his shoulders. His expression was wary, neutral. He didn’t have a record—I’d checked—but he gave off a suspicious vibe.
I shook his hand cautiously, and invited him to sit in my car. He slid the seat all the way back. Quivering with friendliness, Merle wedged himself between us, tilted his head to receive a pat. Bryce scratched between his ears.
“I’m very sorry about your brother’s death,” I said. “I want to find out what happened as much as you do.”
“Thanks.” Bryce reached under his t-shirt and lifted it to scratch, showing me his six-pack. Close-up, his skin wasn’t so uniformly golden. Spots, chapped lips, and dark circles around his eyes hinted at a late-night lifestyle. I was surprised to see him take out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Bodybuilders are usually health-conscious.
“No smoking in my car, please. Tell me about Kent.”
He frowned. “He was a cool guy. Helped me with stuff. Gave me a job at Clemmie’s. Then he fired me.” Merle pressed his chin firmly against Bryce’s shoulder, focused on the sensations coming through his skin as Bryce rubbed his ears.
“What for?”
Bryce twisted his mouth into a smirk exactly like Wesley’s. “I didn’t show up a few times. It wasn’t like anybody cared or anything. He was being a jerk.” Bryce turned to face me. He didn’t seem sad or upset. “So you’re a cop? You don’t look like one.”
I ignored that. “Who do you think killed your brother?”
Bryce hesitated. “Dunno. Burglars?” He looked at me intently, as if to say, you tell me. His left leg jiggled. Bryce wasn’t as cool as he seemed.
I shook my head. “Talk to me about Kent and drugs.”
“Uh, ma’am, nothing there.” Polite all of a sudden. He was knocking his knees together, like he had to pee. Merle, attuned to body language, retreated into the backseat.
“Come on, help me out here,” I said.
He raised both arms. “Hey, I don’t know. I stay away from that stuff. My trainer would kill me.”
Yeah, right. I suspected his trainer had a good idea what Bryce ingested. “Did you find another job?”
Bryce nodded. “I’m working nights at a nursing home. Friend of my dad’s owns it.”
I wondered if Bryce would make it. He had little education and his ambition seemed absurd, but a father who cared was more than many kids had. “Do you know Nikki Truly?”
“Yeah. The babysitter. Why?”
“You ever see her at your brother’s house?”
“I don’t go there much. Kent said I made his wife uncomfortable.” He upended his water bottle and drained it.
“How do you know Nikki if you didn’t go to the house?”
“I met her a few times. Kent brought her to Clemmie’s on her birthday. It was, like, a party. Right after I started there. August? I bussed. No one talked to me.” He shrugged his shoulders, I don’t care, but Bryce wasn’t fooling me. His tough layer was a brittle scab covering confusion and hurt.
“One last question—where were you yesterday between one and three?”
“Right here, at the gym.”
I let him go and he got into a shiny red Mustang with white leather seats. It looked new, and I wondered how he paid for it. Wesley didn’t seem like the kind of dad who’d indulge his son’s automotive fantasies.
I went into the gym and talked to a trainer. He clicked through yesterday’s gym usage records and confirmed Bryce’s alibi.
Anselmo called and updated me on the search for Paige Mercer. Since Temple’s TV appeal, people had been swamping the call center and providing enough work for the police for weeks, once they sorted out the false leads and crank calls. “But help is on the way. The Feebies are sending a team,” said Anselmo.
“How’s the sheriff feel about that?” The last time the FBI “helped out” in Essex County, they were investigating the disappearance of a ton of marijuana in police custody.
“It’s fine with him, as long as they buy the donuts,” said Anselmo. He told me the divers searching in the lake had found nothing.
“Good.” But Paige had been missing for a day and there’d been no ransom call. We both knew the odds were diminishing that she would be found alive. I felt a particular, familiar sort of agony, one I’d lived with for twenty-two years, ever since my mother vanished when I was five. The mixture of hope, fear, self-blame, frustration that Temple must be feeling was all too imaginable to me. But I was an instant believer in Paige’s wellbeing when, an hour later, my phone chimed and I saw this text:
She’s okay, listening to dad read goonight moon, sorry
“She” had to be Paige. “Listening to dad” struck me as creepy until I realized it must mean a recording, like the Clifford CD I’d found on the lake shore. How many people knew Kent had recorded himself reading stories for her bedtime? That Paige wouldn’t be parted from her boom box?
I called Hogan right away with the sending number and asked him to trace it. Then Anselmo. “I think it’s real,” I told him. “OK if I contact Temple? She could verify the recording. Good Night Moon.”
“Or a hoax? Some jerk winding you up?”
“But why me? A random person following the case in the media wouldn’t know to contact me, wouldn’t know about the CDs Mercer made for his daughter. Ergo, it’s genuine.”
“Ergo?” He laughed.
“My pretentious side.” I started to laugh too, and it came so easily I surprised myself. It had been a while since I felt like laughing. Surely the text meant Paige was alive. “I want to tell Temple.”
“She’s talking to the media all the time, and if it gets out, there will be copycats. Wait until we know more.”
I had been handed a smidge of hope, but why? I thought a moment, then texted back:
Where is she? I’ll come get her, no questions asked.
There was no reply.
CHAPTER 8
Tuesday afternoon
I drove to the farmhouse to check on the plumbers, a stop-and-go trip due to road construction. The highway between Silver Hills and Verwood was being widened to four lanes, and long stretches of raw red clay lay exposed. Sprawl around Raleigh was moving west to engulf Essex County, ruining the pleasant rural drive with a clutter of housing developments and strip malls. As a treat for Merle, I’d brought him with me—he loves the fields and woods, smells and creatures, of my grandmother’s place.
I thought about Kent Mercer’s murder as I drove, mumbling out loud to Merle now and then. “My instinct is asleep. No hunches. Family members? Temple’s got an alibi. Wesley Raintree, the stepdad? Maybe. But he seems honorable, not the type to murder a fellow just because he doesn’t like him, for pete’s sake.” I ruffled Merle’s ears. “Wh
at’s your theory?”
Motives for murder—greed, jealousy, passion—hovered in the background, though as my criminal psych professor used to say, murder doesn’t have to be rational. Mercer’s killer could have walked in and said, “I’ve had enough of your cheating-thieving-lying-irresponsible ways.” Mercer might have laughed or shouted or yawned, triggering rage. The killer then forced him outside, onto the deck, down the steps to the flagstone patio, where he knocked Mercer unconscious, rummaged around the house for a half hour, then sliced Mercer’s arms, scooped up the toddler, and disappeared.
It didn’t scan, especially the part about Paige and the interval between knocking Mercer unconscious and his murder. As for the motive—if being a jerk resulted in murder, a third of the population would be dead and another third in jail. I could only hope that investigation, lab work, and time would reveal a few more cold hard facts.
Three very muddy men stood in Fern’s front yard, watching a fourth push dirt around with a small backhoe. Merle bounded up to them and barked a greeting, then dashed around the house to search for critters.
When the backhoe driver saw me, he grinned and cut the machine. “Chris, you’re under arrest,” I called to him. Back in high school, Chris and I had served after-school detention together. He was now married and the father of three. Or four? I’d lost track. Skinny, stubbled, he raked in dough as Essex County’s busiest plumber.
“Howdy, Stella,” he said. “We found the problem, look here.” He picked up a piece of rusty iron pipe. “Collapsed drain. We’re replacing the line. Be done tomorrow.”
“Great. Do you need those three to stand around at seventy-five bucks an hour each?”
“That’s funny,” he said, “and you’ve got some other problems. Last time I pumped the septic, I noticed a leak in the flashing around a dormer. It’s not been fixed. I’ll show you.”
He pulled off his boots and we went into the house. Fern had closed off the second floor and nailed up plastic sheets to save on heating expenses. I tugged the plastic aside and we climbed the stairs, then crouched through a mini-door to the attic, a musty, cobweb-swathed space running the width of the house. It smelled of mouse and ancient dust. Fern had placed a washtub in a dormer alcove to catch leaks. I could see daylight through the rotted siding and the window frame itself was nearly gone. The lower panes of glass had fallen out and Fern had tacked more plastic over them. Another repair problem she didn’t want to deal with.
