The Complete Mystery Collection

by Michaela Thompson

“Clara Trent,” Coby repeated slowly.

  “She was married to Ronan Trent, the airman that killed Mama.”

  “I see,” Coby said. “And what does she want exactly?”

  “She says she’s trying to understand what happened, and she’d like to meet me and talk.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  Vickie Ann shrugged. “I told her I didn’t know. And she said she understood, and she left her number for me to call if I decided to meet her.” She paused. “If I do meet her, Patsy will be real mad.”

  “Well, we’re not going to worry about Patsy,” Coby said. “I’m telling you now to call that woman— Clara— and set it up to talk to her. All right?”

  “I don’t know,” Vickie Ann said in a small voice.

  Coby leaned closer. “Vickie Ann, this is your daddy telling you. You set it up to talk to her, and you find out exactly what she’s doing here, and where she’s staying at—”

  “She’s staying at the Villas,” Vickie Ann said. “Patsy says that’s awful, that she’s staying there.”

  Coby shook his head in apparent wonderment. “At the Villas. Damn,” he said. He went on, “You meet with her, and you find out every single thing you can about what she’s up to. Can you do that for your daddy?”

  “I guess so,” Vickie Ann said.

  Coby dug into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a piece of paper. He gave it to Vickie Ann and said, “This is my cell phone number, all right? You call me when you’ve talked to her, and we’ll set up a place to meet. I know I can’t come in the house, because of old Jim.” He hesitated, then said, “Where’s he at right now, by the way?”

  “Sleeping,” Vickie Ann said. “I had a feeling you’d be here tonight, so I gave him an extra pill.”

  “Good girl.” Coby patted her arm. “Now, we’ve got that to discuss, and there’s some other things I want to talk to you about. So are you going to call me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Make it soon, all right?”

  Vickie Ann nodded. “Soon as I can.”

  “All right, then.” Coby patted her arm again. “I got to go, baby.”

  “Daddy?” Vickie Ann said.

  “What?”

  “You never came back, all those years.”

  Coby shook his head sorrowfully. “Aw, Vickie, I told you I couldn’t. Don’t you think I would’ve been here if I could?”

  “But you thought about me? During all that time?”

  “I thought about you every single day. Every single day. Now, I got to go. You talk to that lady, Clara Trent, and then you call me.”

  “I will.”

  Coby left and moved rapidly around the side of the garage toward the alley. Vickie Ann followed him out and stood watching as he crossed the alley and disappeared into the shadow of the trees that lined the vacant lot.

  2

  Clara turned left on the highway and drove toward town. It was an overcast day, gray waves unfurling on the beach, the heaving water the color of steel, clouds scudding across the sky. She was on her way to meet and talk with Vickie Ann Rhodes, Alice’s daughter. And perhaps she would meet Jim Tuttle, Alice’s father, too, although Vickie Ann had seemed hesitant on that score.

  Clara had been so stunned by finding the Warning from a Friend yesterday morning that she couldn’t decide how to proceed. Should she show it to Aaron? If she showed Aaron the Warning from a Friend she would also have to show him The Book of Alice, and Clara expected that Aaron would see The Book of Alice as further proof of Ronan’s guilt. Ronan, Clara believed, had been sent or given the message, and he had concealed it in The Book of Alice. Was this an indication of his guilt? Of his fear of having this episode in his life uncovered at last? Until her own thinking was clear, she wasn’t ready to have that discussion with Aaron.

  Yesterday, after trying to assess the situation and getting nowhere, Clara had done what she often did when she needed to escape. She had gone out to do some sketching. With her sketchbook and pencils she had walked down to the beach, where she spent time drawing the dunes, palm trees, driftwood, shells, seagulls. The concentration it required took some of the pressure away from her other problems. When, somewhat refreshed, she returned to the Villas, she had decided to call Vickie Ann Rhodes.

  On the phone, Vickie Ann had sounded withdrawn, uncertain, and shy. Although she wasn’t hostile, as Merle Evans had been, she was not encouraging about the possibility of a meeting and had taken Clara’s number with obvious reluctance. Clara had been very surprised this morning when Vickie Ann, still sounding unenthusiastic, had called and invited her to come over at ten a.m. Clara was on her way there now.

  Fifteen minutes later she was pulling into the driveway of a modest brick bungalow, and it was ten o’clock on the dot when she rang the bell. The woman who opened the door was stocky, with limp brown hair and small brown eyes, wearing a loose shirt and a drab gray skirt. She did not look anything like her mother, Alice. She said, “Hello,” and stepped back to let Clara in.

  Clara said, “Are you Vickie Ann?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Vickie Ann seemed apprehensive. Talking with her might prove a challenge. Clara said, in as reassuring a tone as she could muster, “I’m Clara Trent. Thank you for seeing me.”

  Vickie Ann ushered her into a living room with a sofa and two chairs upholstered in a navy blue plaid and a couple of matching end tables topped by matching lamps. The room had an atmosphere of not being used very often, and Clara thought the real life of the house must take place elsewhere. In fact, there was a television playing not far away.

  At Vickie Ann’s invitation Clara took a seat on the sofa. Vickie Ann said, “Can I get you some iced tea?”

  Clara shook her head. “No, thanks.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Vickie Ann said, but without urgency. When Clara declined a second time, Vickie Ann sat down in one of the upholstered chairs, folded her hands in her lap, and looked at Clara, waiting.

  Clara cleared her throat. “I want to tell you how sorry I am about— what happened to your mother. This tragedy has been a big shock for me, and I guess I’m trying to comprehend what happened. I never had any idea about it until after my husband died. He had never discussed it with me, or even mentioned it.”

  Vickie Ann was silent so long Clara wondered if she would respond at all, but at last she said, “I wasn’t but three years old at the time. I was living here with my grandparents, Daddy Jim and Mama Sissy, and my brother Donnie. I don’t really even remember my Mama, except to see pictures.”

  “You were very young,” Clara said.

  Vickie Ann nodded. “My brother Donnie, he remembered, and he used to tell me things about her— and my daddy, too. But Donnie died in a motorcycle accident years and years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Silence fell. Vickie Ann looked down, making pleats in her skirt with her fingers. Eventually she said, “Are you talking to some other people?”

  “I want to talk to as many as I can,” Clara said. “I understand that there are people who aren’t willing to talk to me at all, so I’m really grateful to you.”

  “Some people don’t understand,” Vickie Ann said. “They think you’re coming here just to bother us, and remind us of what happened. But I never forgot what happened. You can’t remind me, if I never forgot.”

  “I guess that’s true,” Clara said. “I don’t want to make you or anybody else unhappy, though.”

  Vickie Ann was silent for a minute. Then she said, “Where do you live?”

  Clara reached into a pocket of her handbag, pulled out one of her business cards, and handed it to Vickie Ann. “I have an art gallery in Luna Bay.”

  Vickie Ann took the card and studied it. Without looking at Clara she said, “I heard you were staying out at the Villas. Why are you staying there?”

  Clara shook her head. “I’m not even sure,” she said. “It’s part of trying to comprehend what happened. I thought staying there would br
ing me closer to the past, help me figure things out. I mean, that’s all I want. To understand.”

  “And has it helped?” Vickie Ann said. “Helped you to understand?”

  “No,” Clara said. “At this point, it really hasn’t.”

  “Who in the hell are you?” an angry voice said.

  Clara, startled, turned and saw a very old man with floating white hair leaning on a cane. He was standing in the doorway to what she guessed was the kitchen, and he was staring at her.

  “Oh, Lordy,” Vickie Ann said. She stood up and said, “Daddy Jim, you’re missing your program! Don’t you want to go back and see how it comes out?” To Clara she said, “That’s my grandpa. He doesn’t mean to be rude.”

  Ignoring Vickie Ann, the old man made his laborious way further into the room. When he was closer to Clara he fixed his eyes on her and said, “What’s your name?”

  Clara was vaguely aware of Vickie Ann making a shushing gesture, but she looked directly at Jim and said, “My name is Clara Trent.” She wanted to be as clear as she could, so she added, “I’m the widow of Ronan Trent.”

  Clara heard Vickie Ann say, “Oh Lord,” and in the next moment Jim Tuttle started swinging his head back and forth in a very large No.

  “It was not no Ronan Trent!” he cried. “How many times have I told you it wasn’t no Ronan Trent.”

  “Daddy Jim—” Vickie approached him, but he swung his cane at her. “It wasn’t no Ronan Trent! It was Coby! I told you it was Coby!”

  “Oh, Daddy Jim, why do you keep saying that?” Vickie Ann sounded very near tears.

  “This is my fault. I’m sorry,” Clara said. She stood up, with a vague idea of helping Vickie Ann subdue him.

  At that moment, the doorbell rang.

  Vickie Ann looked like a trapped animal. A moment later there was a strident knocking on the door. Vickie Ann said, “Lord, help us,” and went to open the door.

  The woman who walked in was tall and heavyset, with bouffant hair dyed a brassy blonde. She wore elaborate gold-rimmed glasses and a leopard-print dress. She engulfed Vickie Ann in an embrace and said, “It’s all right, Vickie Ann. I’m here with you now.” To Jim, who seemed to have forgotten his rant, she said, “Hello there, Mr. Jim! I came around to see how you were doing today!” Jim, leaning on his cane, stared at her and said nothing.

  The woman advanced on Clara. “My name is Patsy Orr,” she said.

  Clara remembered the name. Patsy Orr was the co-worker who, along with Merle Evans, found Alice’s body. Clara had tried to call her. “I’m Clara Trent,” she said.

  Patsy nodded. “I heard you were in town, Mrs. Trent. When I saw a strange car in Vickie Ann and Jim’s driveway, I had a feeling it was you. They’re too polite to say this, but I will. You have no call to prey on Vickie Ann and Jim.”

  “Patsy, listen—” Vickie Ann said.

  Patsy ignored her. She leaned toward Clara with a confidential manner. “Mrs. Trent, I’m the person that found Alice Rhodes’ body. All these years it has been a nightmare.”

  Already, Clara didn’t like the way this was going. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Maybe I’d better be—” She leaned down to pick up her handbag for a judicious retreat.

  Patsy said, “I even had a dream predicting what would happen. I was walking up to Alice’s front door at the Villas, and a man opened the curtain and looked out. I told Alice about that dream and said she should be careful. She laughed at me. But the dream was right. It haunts me to this day.”

  Clara edged sideways. “I really think I’d better go,” she said.

  As Clara approached the door Patsy raised her voice: “Let me ask you this, Mrs. Trent. Are you trying to find some justification for what your husband did? Trying to say he’s innocent, or he didn’t mean to? Because people have suffered.”

  “Patsy, I invited Mrs. Trent to come here!” Vickie Ann cried in an anguished tone.

  This was a disaster. Clara had no interest in further conversation with Patsy Orr. She started for the door, murmuring, “Thank you, Vickie Ann,” on her way out.

  As she was leaving, Jim Tuttle came to life again. “It wasn’t no Ronan Trent!” he cried as the door closed behind her. Clara rushed to her car, imagining Patsy Orr in pursuit.

  Still, on the drive back to the beach it wasn’t Patsy Orr but Jim Tuttle who lingered in Clara’s mind. It wasn’t no Ronan Trent. It was Coby. I told you it was Coby. Jim Tuttle, Clara remembered, had always believed Coby Rhodes, Alice’s estranged husband, had killed her. And even now, although his mental faculties were obviously impaired, he seemed to believe it still.

  Clara pulled into her parking space at the Villas. The sun had come out and the humidity had settled in. It was time to change out of her good clothes and get into shorts. Her encounter with Vickie Ann, Jim, and Patsy Orr had worn her out. It seemed to her now, more than ever, that things were happening beneath the surface that she did not understand. It was time to have a talk with Aaron.

  3

  Sitting at Clara’s dining table at the Villas, Aaron was still processing what she’d told him. Her visit to Vickie Ann and Jim’s ranting about Coby were par for the course. So was Patsy Orr horning in and acting like the busybody she was. But on the table in front of him was something entirely different— the Warning from a Friend Clara had found in The Book of Alice, and, just as dumbfounding, The Book of Alice itself.

  The sketchbook was open to a drawing of Alice Rhodes, her hair tousled, sitting up in bed with a sheet pulled to her chin, smiling broadly. “That’s Alice Rhodes, all right,” he said to Clara, who was sitting in the chair next to his. “And I guess you’re sure that Ronan drew these pictures.”

  “Absolutely,” Clara said. “There’s no doubt at all.”

  “Given these pictures, there’s also no doubt they knew one another.”

  “I would say there’s no doubt they were lovers.”

  Clara seemed pretty calm about it, Aaron thought. Curious, he said, “It doesn’t bother you?”

  Clara shook her head. “Not really. I believe Ronan was in love with Alice before he met me.”

  “But back in seventy-five he lied to us about knowing her.”

  “Yes.”

  “I would say he lied to us because he killed her.” Aaron watched Clara closely.

  Clara leafed through the sketchbook before meeting Aaron’s eyes. “I know it seems that way,” she said. “These pictures are obsessive, I can see that. He was in love with Alice, obsessed with her. They were lovers. Lovers are obsessed. Aren’t they?”

  Aaron was taken aback at the question. He had worked on a lot of domestic violence over the years, and the people involved were usually obsessed. But were they lovers? Not by any definition he could summon up. He thought back on his personal experiences, which were limited. There were high school crushes, and then there was Stacey. He had loved Stacey, he was pretty sure. He had loved her enough to marry her. But obsessed? “I don’t really know,” he said.

  Clara turned another page of the book. “This is just my opinion, but I knew Ronan and I know his work,” she said. “Ever since I’ve known him, his paintings have been powerful but disjointed. Full of— well, full of anger, you could argue. Very different from these images. There’s love in these drawings, passion. But they’re gentle. It’s hard for me to imagine Ronan harming Alice Rhodes.”

  “Maybe she did something that made him mad. It happens.”

  “Maybe she did.” Clara’s voice had a hollow sound. She went on, “I know you think these pictures make it worse for Ronan. That’s why I didn’t want to call you— because for me, it’s the opposite. The pictures make it harder for me to believe he killed her. I don’t doubt the DNA. I don’t doubt they made love that night. I just— it’s difficult for me to go that additional step.”

  “I understand,” Aaron said, and was surprised to realize that he did. She wasn’t taking such a big leap. She wasn’t denying the obvious. She was making a rational argument, which— a
lthough he didn’t agree with her— he thought was worthy of consideration.

  He turned to the anonymous message. “What about this, then? What do you think?”

  Clara bit her lip. “It’s disturbing. How did Ronan get that message? They are going to come after you for the murder of Alice Rhodes. Who could’ve sent it?”

  Aaron shrugged. “Everybody in the department knew I was reopening the Alice Rhodes case. So did Vickie Ann and Jim, and whoever they might’ve told. There aren’t any secrets in St. Elmo. I wouldn’t say we broadcast it, but quite a few people probably knew.”

  “But— why send this to Ronan? Do you have an explanation?”

  “Not yet I don’t. But I intend to find one,” Aaron said.

  Clara gave him a sideways glance. “There’s an explanation that occurred to me, but you won’t like it.”

  Aaron sat back and crossed his arms. “You’re thinking this warning means that Ronan didn’t kill Alice and somebody else did, and the real killer doesn’t want you stirring things up. Does that about cover it?”

  “That covers it.”

  “Well, you said I wouldn’t like it and I don’t,” Aaron said. “But I don’t like anonymous messages either.”

  “Neither do I.” In a softer voice Clara went on, “I hate to admit this, but I’m scared.”

  Aaron was surprised. That kind of remark was not like Clara. If she told him she was scared, she must be really scared. He was saying, “Maybe we can—” when his cellphone rang. He said, “Sorry,” and checked. It was the rehab place in Tallahassee. He looked an apology at Clara and she nodded to go ahead. He stood and walked a few steps away to take the call.

  It was a short conversation. His mother had taken a turn for the worse. The nurse on the line advised him to get there as soon as he could.

  Aaron put his phone away and took a deep breath. This was the call he’d been expecting and dreading. To Clara, sitting at the table looking up at him, he said, “It’s an emergency. I’ve got to go to Tallahassee, right now. My mother is very sick, going downhill.”