by Julia Keller
Wonderingly, as if the puzzle pieces were slowly falling into place, Ellie said, “There was one evening … she came to my door. She was … not herself. She must’ve been searching for her son—for Alex. But I didn’t know that. And I didn’t know she was suffering, either. If I had—I could’ve been there for her and—”
“No, Mrs. Topping,” the sheriff said. “You’re the last person in the world she ever would have confided in.”
“But our sons—we’d both lost our boys—we could’ve helped each other.”
“No. She didn’t want your help. She was filled with rage and sorrow over what had happened to her family. She was desperate. And finally, it was just too much for her.”
Ellie touched her forehead with two fingers.
“All that hate,” Ellie murmured. “How she must’ve hated us. Me just as much as Brett. It’s so clear now. She despised both of us.”
“Given that reality, maybe we ought to be grateful that she didn’t kill you, too.”
“Oh,” Ellie quickly replied, “but she did. Can’t you see that, Sheriff?”
Chapter Thirty-two
A few hours after Harrison broke the news to Ellie Topping in the doll room, Bell and Jake settled themselves into Rhonda’s courthouse office.
Jake had scooted his wheelchair to the right side of the big desk. Bell chose one of the chairs facing the desk.
“You two did a hell of a lot of work in a very short period of time,” Rhonda said. She set three cans of Diet Coke on the center of the desk. “I’m much obliged. Sandy Banville was booked and fingerprinted twenty minutes ago. Made a full confession.” She handed a can to Bell, and another to Jake.
He stared at the can as if it were a peculiar artifact someone had unearthed from an archaeological dig, and he was in charge of figuring out to what use the now-vanished civilization had put it. “Diet Coke?” he said.
“Do you like Pepsi better?” Rhonda asked. “Or maybe Dew? I can send over to JPs.”
“No, no—this is fine.” Jake smiled wanly. She’d misunderstood him. He simply couldn’t figure out why you’d have a gathering to express your appreciation and serve … soda pop. Where was the Rolling Rock?
“Okay. Good,” Rhonda said. She leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “So Sandy Banville’s attorney is driving over from Blythesburg. Until she gets here and the interrogation can begin, I thought we’d take a moment. We’ve still got some unanswered questions—but at least we’ve got Brett Topping’s killer in custody.” She opened her own soda and took a long swallow.
“I know there’s not a lot to be happy about,” Rhonda went on, “because this is a tragedy. A man’s dead. A woman’s life is ruined. Two families have been torn apart. But we did our jobs. We’re going to make sure justice is done.”
“Maybe we should try to Skype with Nick Fogelsong,” Bell said. “Get him in on this, too. He was a big help.”
“He’s probably out on his fishing boat right about now,” Jake said. He’d opened the can and taken one sip to be polite, and then set it on Rhonda’s desk. “Blue skies. Sunshine. Beer in the cooler.” He sighed.
“Maybe we’ll see Nick at the wedding,” Rhonda said. “I invited him and Mary Sue. They’re not sure yet if they can make it.”
Jake snickered. “Hell, Rhonda—you’re not sure yet if you can make it.” The many cancellations had become a bit of a joke. In the wake of Sandy Banville’s confession, Rhonda had called her church and requested yet another short delay.
Rhonda winced at Jake’s dig. “Okay, okay.” She sat back in her chair. “I’ll admit it—I was plenty worried once Foley was eliminated as a suspect. But now we know who did it. A confession is the best outcome of all. Not that we’re done. Not by a long shot. We still need to get our hands on that file. It could help us shut down Foley’s network for good. Believe me—even with that scumbag laid up in the hospital, his business will still be going strong.”
Sheriff Harrison appeared in the doorway.
“Pam,” Rhonda said. “Come on in. How did Ellie Topping take the news?”
“Not sure she’s fully grasped it yet,” Harrison answered. “She’s in pretty bad shape. Deputy Brinksneader is taking Tyler over to be with her right now.” She took off her hat and sat down on the small couch. “First she loses her husband. Then she finds out that her neighbor’s the one who did it.”
“So why did Sandy confess?” Jake asked.
“I guess she realized we were closing in,” Rhonda replied. “Thought it might be better to get out in front of it. The noose was tightening. Bell’s friend at the ATF found out that the Banvilles had purchased a firearm six months ago—and a family membership at the Hawksbridge Mountain Shooting Range. We’d asked Sandy about it.”
Jake looked at Bell. “So that was your theory all along? Sandy Banville did it? Because she was distraught over her son’s addiction?”
“My theory doesn’t matter anymore,” she answered. “We have a confession.”
He looked distinctly unsatisfied. “But that’s where you were heading?”
Rhonda spoke before Bell could. “Damned right it was. Both Rex and Sandy had a reason to hate the Toppings, or so they thought—their belief that Tyler had lured Alex into drugs—but Rex had an alibi for the night of the murder. Sandy didn’t. And when I interviewed her friends, they said she’d been behaving erratically lately. They mentioned specific threats against the Toppings.
“It’s the trifecta,” Rhonda concluded. “She had motive, means, and opportunity. She knew we’d be on to her soon. Better to confess and hope that buys her some leniency.”
“Speaking of means,” Bell said. “What does Sandy say she did with the murder weapon?”
The sheriff lifted a hand, meaning that she’d take the question.
“She said it went missing,” she said. “Her guess is that Alex stole it from the house. Probably sold it for drug money. Standard behavior for him these days, apparently. Sneaks in from wherever, robs them, and then takes off again. They find him and he’s all apologetic and says he wants to get clean.” Harrison shrugged. “He got out of rehab a few days after the shooting. Then it’s right back in again. Vicious circle. Chances are, we’ll never find the weapon.”
“We’ll be commissioning a psych eval, first thing,” Rhonda said. “Sandy Banville’s been through hell. The trauma of watching her son slide into drug addiction, plus blowing through the family’s retirement savings to pay for one rehab stay after another—that kind of pressure would’ve broken anybody.”
Bell motioned to Jake. She’d eyed the intimidating pile of paperwork on Rhonda’s desk and remembered what that was like: always, always, another item on the list.
“The prosecutor and the sheriff have a lot to do,” Bell said. “Let’s get out of the way.”
And then the two of them headed side by side down the courthouse corridor, the woman walking and the man pushing himself in his wheelchair—exiles, each for a different reason, from this place that both of them had loved and served.
“Need a ride?” Bell asked.
“I’d be much obliged.”
She followed him down the ramp at the side entrance to the courthouse. “So I guess Tyler Topping will be going home again. As long as Foley’s laid up, he’s not much of a threat.”
“Funny thing,” Jake said. “Kid claims he wants to hang out at my place for a while. Says he’s making real progress for the first time in a long time. Getting his head on straight. Must be my sparkling personality. Truth is, we have some good talks. In between chores, that is. I don’t let him get by with any bullshit. The schedule we keep, he’d get more rest if he was in Marine boot camp.” He shrugged. “Anyway, it’s fine by me. He can stay as long as he likes.”
Chapter Thirty-three
“This isn’t what I had in mind. Not even close.”
“But it’s still good, right?” Bell said. “It’s your special day, Rhonda. Come on.”
Rhonda sighed and nodded. She look
ed beautiful but not altogether comfortable in a complicated wedding dress that included mother-of-pearl buttons cascading down the front, a low neckline, and a great deal of frilly white material sprouting from her backside.
“So relax,” Bell added.
It was a week later and the Chimney Corner had never looked more festive. The staff had done its level best, pushing back the tables and chairs, draping swags of sparkly bunting across the crown molding, lowering the lights to create a romantic glow. Don’t know about any dadburned RO-mantic glow, crabbed one of Rhonda’s older relatives, who had sidled up next to Bell and demanded to know why the damned lights were so damned low. Just reminds me of macular degeneration.
On one side of the room, a long buffet table featured a row of silver chafing dishes. At the end of the table was a carving station, behind which a knife-wielding Chimney Corner employee in a white chef’s hat and white tunic and black-and-white-checked trousers waited expectantly, his eyes fixed upon the steamship round of beef as he planned his next attack upon its freshly exposed, deep-pink flesh.
On the other side of the room, a four-member band—lead guitar, bass guitar, drums, and vocalist—in matching powder-blue suits and ruffled shirts offered a selection of soft rock tunes from the 1970s, that being roughly the period of time whose music stuck in the groom’s brain.
It was Rhonda’s surprise gift to him. “I know that’s the music he loves best,” she had murmured to Bell, as the reception began and a certain sameness gradually became apparent in the band’s repertoire. It was, Bell realized, a good working definition of love: When you love someone, you know what they love best in all the world.
So the band played the music of The Grass Roots, Paul Revere & the Raiders, The Monkees, Tommy James & the Shondells.
Over and over again.
Rhonda took a quick swig from her champagne glass and then handed it to Mack Gettinger. His face revealed that he’d be willing to accept her empty glasses with joy for the rest of his life.
“Yeah,” Rhonda said, turning back to Bell. “Not my dream venue. But the best I could expect, after canceling with the church three times. Or was it four? I lost track. Anyway, this last time was the charm.”
The ceremony had been a short one. Rhonda’s grandfather, a retired Baptist preacher named Enoch Lovejoy who sported a white beard nearly as wide as he was, had presided, and unlike most of his ilk, he moved things along at a brisk pace. He asked Rhonda and Mack to come to the center of the room, and then he sprinkled a few things biblical upon the assemblage and told Mack to give his bride a kiss. And it was done.
Rhonda and Bell now stood at the rim of the crowd, watching as people shifted and shimmied to a halfhearted cover of “Last Train to Clarksville.” Mack had departed for a moment to procure more champagne.
“Every time I called the church to postpone it,” Rhonda went on, “I had to go to the back of the line. I think at this point, my turn for the sanctuary and the fellowship hall was set to come up sometime in the spring of 2027.”
“Not your fault,” Bell said. “Those cancellations weren’t just some crazy whim. You had a major case under way. Cut yourself some slack.”
“Well, Mack was tired of all the delays. He just wanted to go ahead—and so did I. By this point, we would’ve been happy to have the ceremony up at the Highway Haven, if it had come to that.”
Two young women bounced up to congratulate the bride, alternating squeals with hugs. While the three of them chatted, Bell looked around the room. Through a twinkly haze of low lights and shiny decorations, couples swayed and dipped to vaguely familiar music. She caught a glimpse of Jake Oakes, who seemed to be enjoying himself.
Rhonda had finished with her friends. She turned back to Bell.
“Mack’s on his way with our refills. So I’ll need to make this quick.”
“My, my. Keeping secrets from your husband already.”
“Yeah—but not the fun kind.” Rhonda lowered her voice. “Sandy Banville’s attorney plans to plead diminished capacity.”
“Why are you whispering?” Bell asked. It was hard to hear her over “Crimson and Clover.”
“I promised Mack I wouldn’t talk shop at our wedding,” Rhonda replied. “Couldn’t resist, though. I know you’ve dealt with this kind of situation. Sandy was under a ton of stress. But I still think the minimum sentence should be—”
“Hey.” It was Mack. Rhonda hadn’t seen him coming up behind her. “I distinctly heard somebody say ‘minimum sentence.’ Not a phrase you expect to hear at a wedding. Unless you’re marrying one of the Manson girls, maybe.” He handed his wife a new glass of champagne and kissed her cheek. “So I’ve got to ask. Did you break your promise? Were you and Bell talking shop?”
A moment swept by, punctuated by the opening guitar riff to “(I’m Not Your) Steppin’ Stone.”
“Guilty,” Rhonda said. “Look, sweetie, I just needed to get her advice about—”
“Not a problem.” He winked at her. “I knew you couldn’t do it. In fact, I think I would’ve been a little disappointed if you had been able to pull it off. That’s not the gal I married. Oh—almost forgot,” Mack said, turning to Bell. “Ran into a friend of yours who was just coming in the door. He’s hanging up his coat. Said he’d be right back here to find you.”
“Really? Who’s that?”
“Lemme see now.” Mack tilted his head back, scratched his chin. “Not sure I caught it. Might’ve been one thing, might’ve been another. It sounded like—” Mack grinned and shook his head. He couldn’t stretch out the joke a second longer. He’d recognized the new arrival right away—just as had everybody else who had spotted him. “It’s Nick Fogelsong.”
* * *
He was older, of course, but the passing of time hadn’t changed him in any substantial way. Bell spotted him across the room. He was parting the sea of people in party clothes. It hadn’t been a terribly long interval since she had last seen him, but even a brief gap offered a new perspective.
Nick’s face had a few more lines in it, and he’d put on some weight, but it gave him a sort of courtly gravitas. He was wearing a dark suit and a pressed white shirt, with no tie. He looked good. Like always, though, Bell was slightly jarred when she saw him out of a sheriff’s uniform, even though he’d not worn one in almost half a dozen years.
Everyone wanted to shake his hand. Everyone wanted to say hello. Everyone wanted to tell him how good he looked and how much they’d missed him and how often they’d …
“Appreciate it, folks, I really do,” Nick said, glad-handing his way across the edge of the dance floor, moving deftly between the swaying couples who were trying to sync themselves to a too-slow version of “I’m a Believer.” “Hi, there. Hello. Good to see you folks. Well, thanks—you’re looking pretty good yourself.”
All at once he was standing in front of Rhonda. He gave her a big hug.
“Congratulations,” Nick said. “You look so pretty tonight, honey.” As soon as he’d finished with the bride he gave the groom a handshake and a big grin. “Mack, you’re the luckiest sonofabitch in the state of West Virginia—and maybe the whole USA.”
“You got that right,” Mack said.
And then came one of those amazingly tender moments that Bell could appreciate, even while fully understanding that she herself would most likely never be a participant in such a moment ever again. Her role from now on would be to rejoice on behalf of her friends who were participants in such moments—and that was fine. That was more than enough:
Rhonda put the back of her hand on Mack’s cheek and stroked it. He lifted his hand and took hers in his own. He turned over her hand and kissed her palm.
“Save it for the honeymoon!” someone yelled from across the room, and there was a spurt of laughter.
Mack laughed, too, and waved at the crowd, drawing more cheers and a few whistles.
“I never dreamed you’d be able to come,” Rhonda said, giving Nick a playful shove. “’Course you missed
the boring part. The vows and such. Got here just in time for the champagne and the buffet supper, you rascal.” She looked around. “Did Mary Sue come with you? Where is she?”
“No,” Nick said. “She couldn’t make it.”
Now Bell saw it: Something was wrong.
She knew Nick Fogelsong well. And she realized that this wasn’t a social call.
“Nick?” Bell said.
He looked at her, and then back to Rhonda. “I’m very happy for you,” he said. “You make a beautiful bride. I’m so pleased I could see you tonight, here with your family and all your friends. I want you to know that. But I have to be honest. That’s not why I came.”
Rhonda looked confused. “What?”
Mack had moved even closer to his wife, as if he sensed that whatever Nick had to say, it was going to involve some degree of distress for Rhonda. It was his job henceforth to help mitigate that; such was the message sent when he put an arm around her waist.
“Say what you need to say,” Rhonda declared.
Nick put his hands in his pockets, sweeping back both sides of his unbuttoned suit coat to do so. He looked around the room. The band had started up again, which was fortunate; everyone but the four of them had returned to the festivities.
He moved his gaze back to Rhonda.
“Sandy Banville didn’t kill Brett Topping. Her confession is false. Whoever killed him is still out there.”
Two and a half years previously
Henry was home now, in his apartment in Charleston.
