by Karen Pullen
“Box one,” I said. “Let’s look at every bagged item, every scrap of paper, every interview, and every lab report.”
“Let’s do it,” he said.
We worked all morning. I reviewed Mercer’s autopsy report and the forensics analysis of the crime scene. The interview files contained hundreds of reports from his neighbors and acquaintances, as well as more detailed interrogations. Phone records. Analysis of fiber, DNA, and hair. A purple bird’s-beak knife, Paige’s clothing. The sheer mass of data smothered me. Lost in minutiae I couldn’t afford to ignore, I tried to focus on the key questions: Why was Mercer killed? Why the double attempt on Lincoln Teller’s life? Why try to murder Emilie Soto?
Anselmo was restless; he stood frequently to stretch, sip coffee, or gaze out the window. A few times I caught him looking at me. “What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said, a most aggravating response. There was something, obviously, but I couldn’t read his expression.
“The usual motives don’t seem to apply, do they? Where are greed and revenge in this picture?” Anselmo tapped his pen on the table. “Are the recordings important? How many are there, anyway?”
I froze, then turned away as my face grew pink and warm. “Uh . . .” How did he know about the CDs?
“I’m on distribution for this case. SBI Digital Evidence sent me a transcript and I scanned it. Where did you get them?”
I decided quickly to ignore that question and answer the previous one. How many are there? An excellent question.
I knew the answer. Or at least where it was. I rummaged through the carton of evidence taken from Mercer’s home until I found three large manila envelopes holding the contents of his desk. I’d leafed through the envelopes twice, not seeing anything useful. But as I considered Anselmo’s question, I remembered a small notebook, practically unused, spiral bound, with graph paper inside. On the first page was a list of eleven dates, the earliest February 10, the latest, April 2. Eleven dates. Eleven dated CDs?
I showed it to Anselmo. “Might this be a list of recordings? Look, some of the dates match up with the ones on the CDs.”
“Four CDs I know of,” he said. “Are there more somewhere?”
I turned away and retrieved one of my own files. “Yeah, I know about five more. My grandmother found them in a box in one of Mercer’s closets. Hold on, let me look at my notes.” I was starting to feel entangled in my own sticky web.
He laughed though he didn’t sound amused, but incredulous. “Your grandmother found them? When?”
“I listened to them. They weren’t helpful. Here’re my notes. See? One is a bug on his brother’s home phone. The rest contained conversations between Mercer and other people—he must have worn a lapel mike and just recorded anyone he spoke to. And an hour of random office phone calls. And the dates match up.” I checked off the five dates.
Anselmo was so pleased with this discovery that he dropped the question of how many CDs, when I first heard them, why I hadn’t told him, and whether he wanted to listen for himself. He looked at the list. “The dates are all accounted for except for March 18 and April 2? Two missing CDs?”
I nodded. “I learned about one of them yesterday from Nikki. Kent Mercer had recorded his bookkeeper Ursula talking to her husband about a baby she gave up for adoption twenty-one years ago. On the recording, Ursula calls the baby’s father TJ. Mercer wanted to find this TJ, possibly for blackmail. He approached Ursula’s husband, George, who didn’t cooperate—in fact, he destroyed the CD.”
Anselmo looked at me thoughtfully. “You’ve been busy. When were you going to tell me?”
“I’m telling you right now,” I said. I felt defensive; after all, it had been less than a day since I first heard about the mysterious TJ.
“That’s it? One missing CD? Anything more?”
I shook my head. I wasn’t going to ’fess up to my doings with Bryce, no matter how guilty I felt.
Fern had always explained that guilt was good. It meant my conscience was working.
CHAPTER 33
Saturday midday
After Anselmo left the conference room, leaving me amid the jumble of cartons, I called Ursula’s cell phone and found her in Paradise Keep, spending the day helping her seniors. “Sure, come on over, I need a break,” she said. “I’m in 715. Take the elevator to seven and go all the way to the end.”
Apartment 715 was crammed with dusty furniture. I squeezed past a china closet displaying about a hundred glass figurines and into a living room dominated by a six-piece, turquoise damask “suite.” It was hotter than Hades. “I know, I know,” said Ursula. “She keeps it at eighty degrees. Sit here by the window. I’ve got it opened a crack.”
“She” was Olive, a tiny bird of a woman with puffy ankles, perched in front of the TV. “Don’t touch anything. I told her you could come in but don’t touch anything,” Olive said with a dark look. I folded my hands obediently and sat down next to Ursula.
“See what I have to do to survive?” Ursula whispered.
“Let me get out of your way, then, so you can finish.” I was starting to sweat. “Tell me who TJ is.”
“I need to ask Lauren.”
“Why is it her responsibility? Look, this is a loose end I have to tie up.”
Ursula squinted her green eyes. “Well, I guess . . .”
As I waited, I could almost feel the hairs on my head swelling as they absorbed the damp, warm air.
“It’s not really my secret to tell. But look at the yearbook. He was two years behind me. The picture’s not great but . . .”
I nodded good-bye to Olive and was in the hallway ten seconds later, jogging toward the elevator. Ursula called down the hall to me. “Go easy on him, okay? We were only kids. And Lauren hasn’t called him yet.”
I nodded, realizing the complications. Well, TJ was doubtless a big boy. He could handle it.
Tobias James Allen, class of ’96. Cute, lots of dark hair, and a big grin with a little gap between his front teeth. He’d have been sixteen when Ursula got pregnant, making him thirty-six today. I pointed his picture out to Mrs. Garland, who was intrigued to be summoned into the school library on a Saturday.
“Lives in Simms Fork. Want his phone number?” She pointed to the computer.
“I’d rather have his address,” I said. “I’ll just drop by.”
“Easy.” She typed in his name. “He lives at 990 Bells Lake Road. Here’s a map.”
“You’re a treasure.”
I pulled into TJ Allen’s driveway in Simms Fork, a mill town about a half-hour’s drive from Verwood. He lived in a doublewide up on cement blocks, with mildewed lattice work nailed to the bottom. Pine woods surrounded the trailer, though fifty yards away the highway roared. I went around to the back. Four beagles in a kennel barked hysterically when they saw me. I pulled myself up to look in a window, and saw a rumpled bed, clothes on the floor, and a pile of shoes, dishes, and beer cans. It was nearly five p.m. and I figured TJ would be home soon.
In twenty minutes, a dirty red Ford Ranger pulled up next to my car. TJ didn’t look much like his picture—his hairline had receded about six inches, and his waistline had expanded twice that much. He still had the gap-tooth grin.
“Howdy,” he said. “Do I know you? I’d for sure remember if we’d met. You’re cuter than a speckled pup.” He walked toward me until I had to back up to keep a foot between me and his beer belly. He carried a six pack and a large pizza box giving off warm oregano smells.
I quickly put my ID into his face. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“Whoa there, Nellie! What’s this about?”
“I need to verify some information. If it checks out, you won’t ever see me again.”
“Now that would be too bad, wouldn’t it? Come on in. I’ll get you a beer.” He kicked the door to his trailer open and I had no choice but to follow. He seemed good-old-boy harmless enough, but I’d heard even Ted Bundy was charming. I kept my arms folded, ensuring
quick access to my Sig.
I declined the beer and sat down on the couch. The dog hair made me feel right at home. TJ settled into a sagging recliner and turned on the television. I had the impression the TV would be on until he went to bed, and it didn’t much matter which channel.
“Now, what do y’all do at this state bureau place? Are you a census taker?” TJ popped open a beer. “Pizza?” He offered me the box, and when I shook my head, took a piece and put it halfway in his mouth.
I explained what the SBI did, and the light in TJ’s eyes dimmed a bit. “You’re a cop? Listen, the state has already garnisheed my paycheck till there’s nothing left. Here, I’ll show you. You take this to Brandy and tell her she won’t get no more blood from this turnip.” He dug around in his pocket and held out his pay stub.
“No, no, this has nothing to do with Brandy—” I started to explain, but he interrupted.
“You mean Layla’s after me, too? I was up with her payments. See, that’s my other job.” He frowned. “You won’t tell Brandy I got another job, will you, ’cause she’ll ask for more.”
“You’re supporting two women?”
“Yeah. Well, three kids, two moms. Child support. Here’s their pictures.” He pulled a couple of dog-eared photos out of his wallet. Two little TJs grinned out at me from one, and a blond doll in a pink dress smiled sweetly from the other. “But I’m living alone now. How’d you like to move in here? Save you some on rent, I bet. You got a boyfriend?”
“Cute kids,” I said, “but this has nothing to do with child support. I want to know where you were on Monday, April 9?”
“Why?”
“I’m investigating a murder. Man named Kent Mercer.”
TJ stopped chewing and frowned. “Never heard of him. Got nothing to do with no murder. Anyhow, Monday’s my day off. I would have took my dogs and went and shot some squirrels. People don’t eat much squirrel any more but it makes a good stew.” He gestured toward a walnut cabinet in the corner. “Wanna see my guns?”
Did I? Yes and no. He was the first person I’d come across in this case who professed a working relationship with guns, and I’d been shot at three times by someone with a decent aim. If he’d been shooting at me, would he offer to show me his guns? Was it a ploy—another opportunity to finish me off?
My desire to look outweighed my caution, but to be safe, I asked him to give me the key to the cabinet, then step back to the opposite wall. “Not that I don’t trust you, TJ, but I prefer to be the only one in the room with a weapon,” I said. He raised his eyebrows, but gave me the key.
I unlocked the solid walnut cabinet. It appeared to be quite old, and was beautifully crafted. I wondered how it, and the guns, had escaped the auctioneer’s gavel as Layla and Brandy squeezed their due out of TJ. Inside were three rifles and two shotguns. TJ moved toward the cabinet and I slammed the door shut. “Stay back,” I said.
“Ain’t none of them loaded,” he said. “I’ll tell you about them. They’re most all my daddy’s.”
“Tell me from there,” I said.
“Sure. Calm down, would ya? You’re jumpier than a polecat. That one’s a Krag bolt-action army rifle. Used for deer and bear. And the double-barreled shotgun’s for turkey and pheasant. But the rifle’s better; it’s a Browning semi-automatic. And a collector’s gun—the Winchester model twelve.”
I’m no expert but I thought the Krag might use .30 caliber ammunition, like the sniper had used at the Brenner Creek trailhead. I picked it up. “I’m going to borrow this for a few days. For tests.”
He bristled and moved toward me. “You can’t take my gun. Don’t you need a warrant or something?”
I shut and locked the cabinet. “Nope, it was in plain view and you invited me in. Now back off.”
He sat down, red-faced and defeated. I had the feeling that repeated legal bouts, and no doubt a few run-ins with the law, had taken the fight out of TJ. I would ask Hogan to do some due diligence on him, check for prior convictions, particularly gun-related.
However, he was certainly not the source of the fifty thousand dollars in Mercer’s bank account. And while the existence of a grown daughter might be a big surprise to him, he wasn’t going to see it as a social embarrassment, a liability to be hushed up. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to run his gun, and a bullet I’d dug out of my back seat, past ballistics.
CHAPTER 34
Saturday afternoon
Fern didn’t need my guacamole for her house-warming party. She had enough friends bringing potluck to feed fifty people. All I had to do was show up.
“Where are the ruts? The holes?” I wondered aloud to Merle as my car rolled smoothly down Fern’s long lane, now evenly graded and covered with a layer of gravel. Someone had whacked down the brambly blackberry bushes but left the azaleas, blooming profusely in every hue of scarlet, pink, and purple.
The lane curved around a stand of black walnut trees. And there was the new porch. Gone were the two-by-four barricades blocking off rotted steps, the buckets to catch leaks. The once-sagging floor was level and painted dark green. The porch rail and balusters gleamed shiny white, and two fans swirled lazily from a sky-blue ceiling, pushing a breeze down onto white rocking chairs. Pots of red geraniums decorated the steps. The scene lacked only a dog and a pitcher of lemonade, and I had brought the dog.
The lemonade was inside on a new red countertop. Fern spun with open arms. “Ta da!” She’d sewn herself a sundress in the same apple green as the kitchen walls. Tied round her waist was a black and white scarf in a checkerboard pattern matching the new vinyl floor. But the most amazing sight was the new stove, an ordinary four-burner gas stove. I felt like kneeling and kissing the little glass rectangle in the oven door, caressing its knobs, fondling each burner.
“I know, I know,” Fern said. “You like the stove.”
“I want to marry that stove.” I gave her a long hug, ignoring the complaints from my aching rib. She smelled like lavender from the soap she’d always used. When your name is Lavender, that’s what your friends give you. “Show me the rest,” I said.
I oohed and aahed over the smooth, golden boards of the refinished pine floor in the living room, admired the gas-log fireplace. Fern pointed out the floor vents that would carry cool air into the room come July. “Of all the changes, that’s my favorite,” she said. “No more noisy window units!”
The second-floor bedroom used to be mine. I’d spent my childhood there, dreaming, dozing, peeling away layers of floral wallpaper. At fourteen, in a decorating frenzy, I’d painted over the entire mess in bubblegum pink, found a remnant of black carpet for the floor, and tacked an Indian bedspread to the ceiling to hide water stains. Pink, black, and batik.
Now, I couldn’t believe it was the same room. The walls were smooth and pale blue, with creamy white paint on the trim and beaded-board ceiling. Sunshine poured through newly glazed windows. Above the bed hung Fern’s painting of my old toys.
“Is the bedspread new?” I asked. The thick white chenille was inviting and soft as a basket of kittens.
“I found it in the attic.”
“It’s beautiful.” Money can buy happiness. The improvements had entirely changed my perspective on Fern’s living out here by herself. No longer would I worry about Old Ironsides blowing up, or an AC window unit frying the knob-and-tube wiring, or food poisoning from egg salad stored in the old refrigerator that shuddered at the end of each cooling cycle. Fern wouldn’t step through a rotten porch floorboard and snap her ankle. She would be warm in the winter and cool in the summer. For a few moments I forgot about my case and savored a rare peace of mind, purchased for only twenty-eight thousand dollars.
More guests arrived. Joseph, the art appraiser who’d made all this possible, squealed “Eeeks!” as he smooch-smooched my face. “Ziss plass er mervlus! Und zoo er zexy!” He slid his hands around my hips and squeezed.
“Eeeks yourself,” I said, removing his hands. “What’s in the bag?”
He handed
me a loaf of dark bread and a chunk of cheese. I pointed him in Fern’s direction and went back to the kitchen to find a slicing knife and a platter. I was sawing away at the bread when Iggy Curran, my favorite inquisitive house cleaner, came in.
“Bless your heart, Stella, working away in the kitchen when everyone’s outside having fun. Where’s the sugar?”
I handed him the sugar bowl. “Who else is here?” I asked.
“Painting-class people. Zoë Schubert. Ursula Budd. Temple with both her babies. And Joseph—do you know him? He’s so weird, isn’t he? I think he’s a man, with a name like Joseph. But he could be a woman, the way he looks. Except he’s so tall, like a man. He kissed me—can you imagine?”
“Where?”
Iggy giggled. “On the cheek. Both cheeks.”
“Oh well, he’s European, that’s the custom. And he’s definitely a man.”
I took a chocolate sheet cake from Ursula Budd. She and George had brought their son, Phillip, with them. He had probably been a cute child once—he had beautiful, long-lashed brown eyes—but puberty had given him bulk, zits, and stiff hair he’d pinched into spikes with gel. His t-shirt bore a scary image of a scythe-wielding creature with dripping teeth. If clothes make the man, Phillip was a bat-eared ghoul. I gave him the pitcher of lemonade and told him to walk around and refill glasses.
I spotted Sam Norris, also with his son. This child was adorable, about three years old, with a crew cut and chin dimple. “Garrett, say hello,” Sam said. Garrett didn’t speak, just chewed on a finger. Sam looked a little sun-burnt, and I was about to ask him if he’d been fishing when Hogan walked up and put his arm possessively around my shoulders.
“Uh, Hogan, you remember Sam,” I said, sliding from under his arm. After TJ and Joseph, Hogan was the third man to invade my space this afternoon and I was getting tired of it. “Sam did all the remodeling work on Fern’s house.”
