by Gary Parker
Her adrenaline surged and she stretched forward, almost on her tiptoes. She glanced at Tess, looking for a clue, but she revealed nothing.
“Okay,” she pressed, her impatience getting the best of her. “You got me out here. What’s up?”
Tick cleared his throat and rubbed his head. “It’s hard, Connie,” he started. “But . . . but it looks . . . looks like Jack committed suicide.”
This time, she couldn’t stop herself. She collapsed to the ground as if dead, her last thought that a black miracle had occurred, that somehow by a strange twist of evil someone had killed her husband a second time.
CHAPTER
6
When Connie regained consciousness, she found herself under the bedcovers, still wearing her funeral dress. Tick and Tess and Reverend Wallace sat in straight chairs at her side and Daniel perched at her feet. Unlike others she had heard about who couldn’t remember what happened when they fainted, she vividly recalled everything. At first, she didn’t move, just closed her eyes against the light that burned overhead. But her escape didn’t last long.
“Mom?” It was Daniel who spoke. “Are you awake?”
Though not wanting to wake up, Connie couldn’t resist the concerned tones of her boy’s voice. She didn’t know how long she’d been blacked out, but she did know she didn’t want Daniel or Katie to worry about her any longer than necessary.
Opening her eyes, she reached for Daniel’s hand. He shifted and lay himself at her side, his head beside hers on her pillow.
“You fainted, Mom,” he said as if surprised such a thing could happen. “We carried you to the car, me and Tick and Reverend Wallace. Got you home about fifteen minutes ago.” He paused, and Tick took up the story.
“We started to take you to the emergency room, but you kept fading in and out, so we figured it was just the strain of the last couple of days. You feeling better?”
Connie lifted her head and focused on Tick, her eyes searching his face, wondering if he had told anyone else what he told her.
“I’m okay,” she said, her voice weak. “Just a shock, you know?”
Tick narrowed his eyes and shook his head ever so slightly. Connie glanced quickly at Daniel, then back to Tick. Apparently, he hadn’t said anything to the rest. She adjusted her pillow and sat up taller.
“Daniel would you get me some water?” she asked.
“Sure, Mom,” he said. “Anything else you need?”
“Yeah, where’s Katie?”
“She’s in her room with Mrs. Everhart. They’re playing dress-up.”
“Check on her for me. Tell her I’m fine.”
Obviously glad to have something to do, Daniel jumped off the bed and left the room.
Knowing she didn’t have much time, Connie turned instantly to Tick. “I take it you didn’t tell them.”
“Nope, no one but you and Tess.” He tilted his head toward Reverend Wallace. “Not even the pastor here.”
Connie swallowed. “I’m sure the word will get out soon.”
“Yeah, the paper will carry the story in the morning.”
Connie faced Reverend Wallace and spoke matter-of-factly. “Tick told me they think Jack committed suicide.”
Reverend Wallace grunted. “I find that hard to believe,” he said, facing Tick. “Jack Brandon had no reason to do anything like that.”
Tick threw out his hands, a gesture of defenselessness. “I’m not the one who said it,” he offered. “But the guys downtown say they found a note.”
“What kind of note?” asked Connie. “Where’d they find it?”
“Apparently, it’s off his computer at the store. They found it this morning in his truck, wedged under the seat.”
Connie thought a second. She knew the police had found Jack’s truck Saturday morning, parked at a concrete company just past the bridge on the north side of the river.
“Jack never used that computer,” she said. “Everyone else at the store used it, but not him. He was old-fashioned. Still liked to write with a pen and paper.”
“Well, the guys downtown say he used it at least once,” insisted Tick. “You can see it for yourself as soon as you like.”
Connie paused for a beat. Was it possible Jack took his own life? She didn’t think so, but he had been unusually distant in the last few weeks, remote, as if hiding something. Had he given off signals she should have seen and confronted? Was he indeed hiding some dread secret to protect her as he had done more than once in the past? Did that secret haunt him to the point he couldn’t deal with it?
But what about her and the kids? Suicide gave a clear message that a person had given up hope, had no reason to live. Surely, Jack hadn’t come to that point, had he? Didn’t he love her and Daniel and Katie enough to face whatever troubled him?
Driven by her desire to know the truth, she moved quickly to action. “I need to see the note,” she said, rolling the bedcovers off her legs. “So, if you gentlemen will excuse me, Tess will help me change. Then I want to go downtown. Is my mom still here?”
Reverend Wallace shook his head and took a deep breath. “She said to tell you she had to go. It’s two hours to St. Louis and her flight is at nine.”
Connie nodded, but sadness bit at her. Maybe someday, when she finished with all this, she would go see her mom and try to build some relationship again. But for now, she had to move. She dropped her feet to the floor.
“You sure you’re ready to get up?” asked Reverend Wallace.
Connie moved toward the bathroom. “No, but ready doesn’t matter.” She closed the bathroom door and grabbed her toothbrush.
Ten minutes later she walked out wearing a pair of well-worn blue jeans, a pullover tan shirt, and a pair of cross-trainer walking shoes. With Tick in tow, she left Daniel and Katie with Tess and Mrs. Everhart and drove to the police station. Inside, she took the elevator to the second floor. Tick stayed close to her, his bulky presence an encouragement. He had called in as they drove downtown, alerting the authorities he was bringing her to see the alleged suicide note.
Still weak from her fainting spell, Connie felt glad for his presence. Without his familiarity with things of this nature, she didn’t know how she could endure it. Forcing herself to stay strong, she gritted her teeth. If Jack did indeed kill himself, she might as well deal with it.
Stepping off the elevator and turning left at the end of a narrow hallway, she entered the offices of the Jefferson City Police Department and nodded to a receptionist.
Tick spoke for her. “This is Connie Brandon, we need to see Luke.”
“Sorry about your loss, Mrs. Brandon,” the receptionist said, grabbing a phone and punching in an extension. “I’ve kept you in my thoughts all day.”
A pained smile crossed Connie’s face. People really did seem to care. “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your kindness.”
The receptionist spoke into the phone. “Mrs. Brandon is here.”
She put the phone back in its hook and tipped her head to Tick. “Go on back,” she said. “Luke’s waiting for you.”
Scared, but eager to see the note, Connie eased past the receptionist and followed Tick to a small office two doors down the hall. Stepping back to let her pass, Tick motioned for her to enter. With a deep breath, she walked through the door.
Immediately, she felt herself in the presence of power, but not from the room itself. No, the room held no particular strength at all. No more than twelve-by-fourteen and decorated only minimally, with a bland green drape, a couple of diplomas— one from the University of Missouri and one from the Missouri Bureau of Detectives—and a plastic plant in the back corner, the office looked like the habitat of a man with no sense of style and a budget to match. But there, bulging out of a government-issued chair right in the middle of the shabby decor, sat a man anything but off the rack.
Connie noticed his size first. She was not accustomed to big people, and he looked huge to her, his shoulders as wide as a refrigerator and so tall he dwa
rfed the desk in front of him.
“I’m Connie Brandon,” she said, wrapping her arms around her waist.
Tyler stood and thrust a paw at her. “Luke Tyler. Sorry about Jack.”
Connie tipped back her head, took his hand, and stared up at Tyler. Suddenly, she realized his size wasn’t the source of the power she felt flowing from him. No, even as big as he was, it was his eyes that dominated the man. She couldn’t really tell the color—something like a storm cloud just before it dumps its rain. But they were bigger than any eyes she could remember and they seemed to swallow her up in one glance. Below his eyes, his nose jutted out square but not big, and his teeth, straight and white, fit snugly in the center of a beard as black as coal. He wore a denim shirt without a tie and a pair of khaki slacks.
“You knew Jack?” she asked, pushing down her anxiety.
Tyler smiled slightly. “Sure, most everyone downtown did. Not well, of course, but I bought newspapers in the store from time to time.”
“You and a million other people,” said Tick.
Tyler kept his gaze on Connie. “From all I knew of him, Jack Brandon was a good man, an honest man. Not enough like him.”
For a second, no one said anything else. Connie felt a rush of tears coming. Tyler cleared his throat.
“Here, have a seat,” he said, obviously noticing her distress and pointing her to one of two chairs opposite his desk. “I’m sure you’re tired and don’t want to stay here any longer than necessary.”
“I came to see the note,” said Connie, her voice no more than a whisper.
Tyler lowered himself into his chair again and leaned back. The seat groaned under his bulk. Connie and Tick took the seats across from him, their posture more erect. Tyler pulled a toothpick from a box on the windowsill beside his chair and stuck it into the corner of his mouth.
“You sure you’re up to seeing the note?” he asked. “It can wait if you’re not.” He locked his hands behind his head, and his black hair curled into his fingers.
Connie didn’t hesitate. “I want to see it,” she said. “I don’t think Jack killed himself, but I can’t know for sure until I see the note.”
“It’s not much,” cautioned Tyler. “May not tell you enough to make that kind of decision.”
Her patience wearing thin, Connie placed her hands on the edge of Tyler’s desk. “I don’t know what it’ll tell me,” she said. “But I need to see it.”
Tyler rocked forward and reached for a desk drawer on his right. “Okay,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure.” He pulled a blue folder from the drawer and flopped it on his desk. “Here’s a copy,” he said. “Original is entered into evidence.” He opened the folder and flipped to the second page.
Turning the page around, he pushed it across to Connie. Her hands shaking, she pulled the paper closer, then stared down at the printed words. She heard herself catch her breath, but it sounded far away, as if someone else had done it. She read the first word of the note:
“Sunset.”
She choked, jerking her palms up and over her face. Jack alone called her that. He had given her the nickname on their second date eighteen years ago, a late afternoon hike on a trail near the Lake of the Ozarks. Just as the sun slipped below the western horizon, they had paused for a breather. Jack faced the sun and she faced him. The sun’s last rays fingered her auburn hair, making it glisten and shine. Jack stared at her as if in a trance.
“It’s a sunset,” he said softly.
Connie turned and faced west. “Yep, it happens every day about this time,” she joked.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said.
She turned back to him. He reached out his hand and touched her hair. “This is a sunset,” he said.
“You should be a writer,” she murmured, mesmerized by his sensitivity.
“I am a writer,” he told her. “But nobody knows it yet.”
“I do.”
“You’re the first I’ve told. One day I’m going to write the great American love story.” He kissed her then, and she belonged to him from that moment. From that moment, too, the name “Sunset” belonged to her, but only he used it.
She felt a hand on her shoulder, then turned and saw Tick staring at her, a worried scowl creasing his bald head.
“You okay?” he asked.
Slowly, she nodded, reminding herself she had to do this. Lowering her hands, she turned back to the note.
I don’t know what to say. But I can’t go on like this, too many secrets. Can’t face you and the kids. Please remember—I love you and always will. Take care of Daniel and Kate and ask them to forgive me.
Jack
For several long moments, Connie stared at the note. She reread it three times, digesting the words one at a time, trying them on, testing them to see if they sounded real or not, if they carried the tone of Jack’s thoughts. She tried to hear him saying them, tried to inflect each of them with the sound of his voice. Though she couldn’t quite identify why, she found something false in them, something different from the way he spoke, something alien, other than Jack.
She raised her eyes and found Luke Tyler staring at her.
“What’s your verdict?” he asked, rolling his toothpick from the left to the right corner of his mouth. “Is it legitimate?”
Connie tried to imagine Jack in his last minutes, hoping to get some sense of what would have made him do such a thing, if indeed he had. Time slowed down as she pondered Tyler’s question. The seconds dripped by, one torturous moment after another. But no clear answer rang out at her.
“Jack didn’t use a computer,” she said, clinging to the one answer she knew for sure.
“He didn’t know how?” asked Tyler.
“No, that’s not it. He knew how, at least a little. But he didn’t use one. Used to say that the first time a computer sold a book to a customer, he would get ten of them. But until then, he wouldn’t, he’d let someone else do that part of the work.”
“But he knew enough to use it if he wanted?”
Connie thought a moment, not wanting to admit the truth. But she couldn’t avoid it. “Yes, if he wanted, I guess he knew enough.”
“So it’s possible for him to have written the note.”
Though she hesitated, Connie knew Tyler was right. Jack could have written the note.
“It’s possible,” she admitted, feeling as if she had betrayed him. “But I don’t think he did.”
“Why not?”
A bite of anger rolled up in her throat. Did Tyler really think her husband killed himself? Was he going to take this note as final proof of that and pronounce the case closed? But that didn’t make sense. Why would Jack take his own life? After all, he had her, didn’t he? Wasn’t that enough reason to live? Wasn’t she enough, their life together, the love they shared?
Her face flushed, but a sense of determination surged through her, and she glared at Tyler.
“I don’t think my husband killed himself because he loved me!” she insisted, her teeth clenched. “He loved me and the children he fathered! He loved this town, he loved his church and his God. He loved his work. When you add it all up, it makes no sense. Jack worked all his life, through all kinds of hardships to achieve what he achieved in the last few years. Why in the world would he give it up now?”
Her emotion spent, she exhaled deeply and rested against her chair. Tick stayed silent, his eyes focused on Tyler. Tyler played his toothpick on his tongue and studied Connie as if she were under a microscope. After a couple of beats, he reached for the folder on his desk again.
“What if I told you Jack was having financial problems?” he asked, his voice measured.
Again Connie heard herself gulping. “I wouldn’t . . . wouldn’t believe, believe you,” she stammered.
Tyler pushed a sheaf of papers from the folder across to her. “Read these.”
Feeling like a fighter hit with too many blows, Connie lowered her eyes to the papers. Though not clear what she held
at first, she recognized the logo of the Capital City Bank at the top of the first page. She glanced up at Tyler, then over at Tick. Neither of them moved. She studied the papers again, hurriedly reading them. It didn’t take long to grasp the gist of the documents. The first paper detailed a loan for $25,000 Jack had taken out near the middle of February!
Connie gulped. She knew nothing about this loan! Jack hadn’t told her about it. What in the world did this mean? Jack didn’t operate this way, taking out loans behind her back.
“Did you find this at the house?” she asked, trying to divert attention while she gathered her thoughts.
“No. The bank . . . well . . . the bank gave us the information.” Not wanting Tyler to know of her confusion, Connie ignored her question about the legality of such an act and turned her focus to the second page of the papers. Though not particularly adept at numbers, she recognized the sheet as a summary of an accounting ledger for the bookstore for the first quarter of the year. From all she could figure from the numbers, sales had nose-dived after Christmas, and Jack’s business reserves had dropped to almost nothing. Other than the inventory of the store and the equity they held in their home, the Brandon family owned little else. In hard terms, she was broke.
“Did you know about these problems?” Tyler asked softly. “The loan . . . the financial condition of the store?”
Connie didn’t answer for a couple of seconds. She couldn’t read Tyler. Was he just doing his job? Or did she read a hint of satisfaction in his voice, almost as if he wanted to find out something bad about a genuinely good man? Not knowing the answer to her own questions, she decided to evade Tyler’s.
“Jack took good care of our business,” she said, her words clipped.
“The loan tells a different story. And the balance sheet shows he’s had some tough months.”
“You’re suggesting he killed himself because the store had a bad first quarter?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“Not with Jack.”
“You sure of that?”
Connie took stock. She had to acknowledge Tyler had shown her some shocking news: Jack took a loan without her knowledge, the store balance sheet disclosed some low numbers, and someone wrote a note and addressed it to Sunset. None of it made sense. But she wouldn’t let Tyler see her doubts.
