A Judgment of Whispers

by Sallie Bissell

  “Excuse me?” Mary turned to face the man. Though Emily could tell he’d caught her off-guard, Mary’s expression revealed nothing.

  “I think you need to put your own house in order before you tackle the courthouse,” Turpin went on. “One of your clients is a murder suspect, and his mother is on your payroll. Seems to me that’s lying down with dogs and getting up with fleas.”

  The audience gave a low murmur. Emily bit her lip as she waited for Mary to respond. Smiling, Mary addressed her opponent as she might a jury—friendly, but oh so firm.

  “Mr. Turpin, unless you have some inside information from the sheriff’s department, I don’t believe any of my clients have been indicted for murder.”

  Turpin tried to speak, but Mary went on. “Let’s not be coy, though. I’m assuming you’re speaking of Zack Collier, who is among several suspects in the Teresa Ewing case. His mother Grace volunteered to design my signage over six months ago. She has never been on my payroll. Unlike yours, my campaign’s run mostly by volunteers.

  Again, Turpin started to respond, but Mary didn’t give him the chance. “What’s more distressing about your question is that it makes me think you’ve fallen victim to rumor.” Mary turned to the audience. “If Mr. Turpin’s planning on building his cases from clips on YouTube, I’ve got some great footage of a Skunk Ape I’ll send his way.”

  The audience roared. Emily released the breath she’d been holding. This time Mary had nicely dodged the DA’s bullet this time, but she knew Turpin would bring up Zack and Grace Collier again. It was just too sketchy, and neither he nor Pugh were rookie politicians.

  The meeting lasted another twenty minutes. The candidates restated their positions one final time, then started to work the crowd. Emily noted with relief that the knot of people around Mary equaled the knot around Turpin. Like a wallflower at a dance, Prentiss Herbert stood by the speakers table alone, courted by no one.

  When everything finally ended, Mary came over to retrieve her purse. “How many votes did I lose tonight?” she asked, a thin line of worry between her brows.

  “You may have gained a few,” said Emily. “You responded well under pressure. And you were funny. Voters remember funny.”

  “The bastard really blindsided me with that question about the Colliers.”

  “You’d better get used to it, then. I guarantee he’ll use it next time, and he’ll use it better.”

  Mary shrugged. “It won’t change anything. Zack’s my client, Grace is my friend.”

  Emily held out Mary’s phone. “Speaking of your friend, she’s called three times.”

  “Did you answer any of them?”

  “She’s not my client,” Emily replied coolly. “And I wish to God she wasn’t yours.”

  An hour later, Mary turned into Grace’s driveway. Every light blazed inside the house, giving it a strangely festive look. She parked beside a car she did not recognize and hurried up the front steps. Just as she was about to ring the bell, Grace opened the door. She looked in shock, as if she’d just walked away from a bad wreck unscathed.

  “Come inside,” Grace said, her voice wobbly. “You need to see this.”

  Mary followed her into the living room. Distantly, she heard a television and the sound of male laughter. “Zack’s friend Adam is here,” explained Grace. “He and Zack are watching videos.”

  “Adam Shaw? The other suspect at the DNA test?” Mary remembered the slender man who’d stepped between Zack Collier and Buck Whaley.

  “Yes. He’s been a godsend to us these last couple of weeks.”

  Mary shrugged as they walked down the hall. It was nice, Mary guessed, that the boys could still be friends. Jack Wilkins had told her the other families on Salola Street hadn’t spoken to each other in years.

  “This afternoon Adam and Zack helped me take my paintings up to Asheville,” said Grace as she led Mary down a short hall. “When we got back, we found this.”

  She opened the door to a bedroom. Clearly, it was Zack’s—though the décor was dolls and stuffed animals, it smelled of soiled sheets and unwashed man. But the room had been trashed—pictures on the wall had been sprayed with black paint, the stuffed animals lined up on the bed with their heads gruesomely rearranged. A big yellow dog had the tiny head of a pink rabbit; the plump body of a brown teddy bear wore the small green head of a turtle.

  “Whoa,” Mary whispered.

  “Look on the floor,” said Grace.

  Mary turned. At the foot of Zack’s bed, someone had constructed a bizarre tableau of Barbie dolls, all in sexual poses, legs spread wide, arms above their heads. Mary felt the hair lift on the back of her neck. She turned to Grace. “Are you sure Zack didn’t do this?”

  “No. I came in here about five minutes before we left for Asheville, to get him a clean shirt. His room was messy, but not like this.” She leaned against the door, defeated. “This is new. Not like the other stuff.”

  Mary frowned. “Other stuff beyond your mailbox?”

  “Phone calls night and day,” said Grace. “Dead animals arranged in the yard.”

  “Dead animals?”

  “Squirrels and rabbits, mostly. Some are roadkill, but most have been shot. The worst day we found a dozen posed around the bird feeder. Adam can show you a picture of that.”

  Mary couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Jeez, Grace, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What could you have done? The people come at night. Occasionally I hear their footsteps in the driveway, but by the time I look out the window, they’re gone.”

  Mary tamped down a flash of anger. Grace was a lot smarter than this. “Did it ever occur to you to call the police?”

  Grace backed up a step. “And have Detective Whaley come over here? No thanks. That’s why I called you. Somebody needed to see this, but not the cops.”

  “Yes they do, Grace. Now.” Mary flipped out her phone and started to call Jerry Cochran.

  “Wait!” Grace grabbed her hand. “Please don’t call them. This room is the one place Zack feels totally safe. If the police come in here in the middle of the night, he won’t sleep for months.”

  “Grace, there could be fingerprints on these dolls—evidence pertinent to the Ewing case. The cops need to know what’s been going on out here.”

  “Couldn’t you just take the dolls to the police station?”

  “No. Is that his pal Adam’s Toyota in the drive?” asked Mary.

  Grace nodded.

  Mary dug in her purse and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “Give Adam this and have him take Zack to the late show at the Brew N View,” said Mary. “Then he won’t be here when Jerry Cochran comes.”

  Two hours later, Jerry Cochran had Grace Collier sign the complaint she’d made. He’d taken pictures of the room, bagged up the Barbies, and studied the little notebook Grace had whimsically titled “How I was Driven Crazy, Volume 4.” The current vandals, Jerry determined, had jimmied the lock on the back door to gain entry to the house. How they knew the house would be empty for several hours was up for grabs.

  “Is Adam Shaw always with you when these incidents occur?” asked Cochran.

  Grace nodded. “He was today, when we went to Asheville. Mostly, he’s helping his parents get ready to move.”

  “Does he come here often?”

  Mary noticed Grace stiffen slightly. “He comes by evenings, to watch videos with Zack. Look, Sheriff, stuff like this happens every time the paper runs a story about Teresa Ewing. Adam Shaw hasn’t been in Pisgah County since he was a kid.”

  Cochran made a note and went on. “Any other people come here on a regular basis?”

  “Only Clara Perez, Zack’s hab-tech.”

  Cochran frowned. “Hab-tech?”

  “A caregiver, provided by the State. She watches Zack during the week, while I teach. She’s worked here two yea
rs.

  “You have her phone number?”

  “Please don’t call her, Sheriff. She’s a sweet girl, and Zack loves her.” Abruptly, Grace teared up. “If you start investigating her, then she might quit. It’s almost impossible to find good people to work with autistic adults. Most of them just camp out in front of the television and eat Cheetos all day.”

  Cochran nodded. “I understand.” He checked his notes, then closed his notebook. “We’ll take these dolls for evidence and bump up the patrols along this road. In the meantime, I urge you to get an alarm and an unlisted phone number. Put a good dead bolt lock on the back door and a floodlight for your front yard.”

  Grace sighed. “I moved out here because I thought we’d be safe. I guess I was wrong.”

  “You never know what goes on in some people’s minds,” said Cochran. “I wish I could tell you otherwise.”

  Mary followed Cochran as he returned to his car. “What do you think?”

  “Friend to friend?” replied Jerry.

  “Of course.”

  “If I were you, I’d get them both out of here. None of my squads can get out here in under thirty minutes, and this could get ugly.”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking,” said Mary. “Do you have any idea when the DNA report might come in?”

  “I call Winston every day. They say soon.” He opened his door, slid in behind the steering wheel. “You know, I’ve never seen anything like this case. It happened when we were in grade school, but people act like the girl died yesterday.”

  She thought of the years of anguish she had endured, before she found out who killed her mother. “I guess an unsolved murder just sticks in the collective craw.”

  “I know it sticks in Whaley’s. Probably Jack Wilkins’s too. The whole thing is like trying to catch smoke. Every time you think you’ve grasped a clue, it vanishes. Unless we get a hit from the DNA, I don’t think we’ll ever solve this one.”

  “God, I hope that’s not the case,” said Mary. “Grace and Zack deserve some kind of closure.”

  “Don’t they all?” Cochran replied. He turned the engine on. “You be careful, okay?”

  “Tsutshintasti,” she answered in Cherokee.

  She watched him go down Grace’s driveway, the taillights of his Camaro squinting a demonic red in the darkness. When she returned to Grace’s house, she found her sitting on Zack’s bed, her hands shaking as she tried to match the right animal torso with its proper head. Mary came in and sat down beside her.

  “Grace, we need to talk.”

  “I’ve got to get these things back together,” she said, tearing off a strip of gray duct tape. “Zack sleeps with them at night.”

  Mary put her hand on Grace’s, stopping her frantic restoring of the toys. “Grace, you and Zack need to relocate. It’s dangerous for you to stay here. Sheriff Cochran said so.”

  “We’ve been over that before, Mary. I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

  “I might have a place for you.”

  Grace looked up from the stuffed rabbit. “Where? Jail?”

  “A cabin. It’s part of an estate I’m settling. I’m going to call the owners and see if they’re agreeable to having you and Zack stay there.”

  Grace shook her head. “You don’t understand, Mary. I don’t have any extra money and we can’t do cabins, anyway. We need electricity. Indoor plumbing. A TV Zack can watch his tapes on.”

  “It’s got all of that,” said Mary. “And the heirs don’t need the money.”

  “Why don’t they want to use it themselves?

  “Because it’s in Rugby, Tennessee. The absolute middle of nowhere.” Mary picked up the head of a penguin. “Pack up your stuff. I’m calling them tonight, when I get home. I’m pretty sure they won’t mind.”

  “But what about my job?” Grace cried. “And Clara’s job? She needs to work too.”

  “Call in sick. Use some vacation days. Tell Clara this is just until the DNA results comes back.”

  “And when will that be?” she said, growing angry. “How long will our lives be in this limbo?”

  “As long as the lab in Winston takes, Grace.”

  “I don’t know.” Her hands trembled as she held the little rabbit. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

  Mary took the toy from her grasp. “Grace, these are dolls. With some tape and thread, we can fix them. Next time, it might be you and Zack. You two won’t fix so easily.”

  For a long moment Grace just stared at the rabbit, then she gave a great sigh. “Okay. I’ve got two weeks of vacation, plus some sick leave. I guess we can go for a little while.”

  “Good,” said Mary. “There’s just one thing you’ve got to remember. You can’t tell anyone—not Clara or Adam or anybody—where you’re going.”

  Grace suddenly gave a wild laugh. “Crazy is where I’m going, Mary. And everybody knows I’m pretty much already there.”

  Thirty-Two

  For the first time in years, a middle of the night phone call awakened Jack Wilkins.

  He grabbed the phone automatically, barking, “Wilkins,” just as he had when some gunshot or stabbing would get him out of bed. But instead of a police dispatcher, Mary Crow’s voice came over the line.

  “Jack? I’m sorry to wake you up, but I need your help.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, flattered that she’d thought of him.

  “Some thugs are coming down pretty hard on Grace and Zack Collier.”

  “Oh?”

  “Somebody broke into their home and demolished Zack’s bedroom. Decapitated all his stuffed animals and arranged his Barbie dolls in a kind of sex scene.”

  Wilkins cringed at the notion of a grown man having Barbie dolls at all, but he pushed the thought aside and refocused on Mary Crow. “Did they call it in?”

  “Yeah. Jerry Cochran came out and promised to up the patrols.”

  “Then how can I help you?”

  “I have an idea that somebody’s trying to scare Zack Collier into a confession. People have battered their mailbox, put dead animals in their yard, and they’re getting phone calls. Little girls call Zack during the day, pretending to be Teresa Ewing. A man makes threatening calls to Grace at night.”

  “Did she tell Cochran all that?”

  “She did, but she didn’t want to. She’s afraid of the cops. According to her, Buck Whaley comes over, hassles Zack every month or so.”

  Wilkins frowned. “And you think Whaley’s behind all this?”

  “No, no,” said Mary. “But I think that whoever’s doing this to the Colliers knows a lot about Teresa Ewing’s murder. If we can find them, we might finally learn the truth about what happened.”

  He stretched the shoulder that always stiffened when he slept. “So what do you need from me?”

  “I just called in a favor from some other clients of mine. I’m relocating the Colliers to some of their property tomorrow morning. I want you to find out who’s doing these things while they’re gone.”

  Wilkins thought of the hours and days and years he and the rest of the department had devoted to this case. “I’m sorry, Mary, I can’t work to exonerate Zack Collier. It would be like, I don’t know, betraying my friends.”

  “But you’d be trying to find out who’s stalking a fifty-something woman and her autistic son. That’s a crime, right there. Anyway, if my idea holds water, then you just might be the one to crack this case.”

  He looked at the red numerals glowing on his clock radio. 1:23. He hadn’t been awake at this hour in years. It made him feel not sleepy, but youthful—as if the universe had reversed itself and was giving him another shot at catching the person who killed that child.

  “Okay.” He grabbed a pen and the crossword puzzle book he worked every night, ready to write in the margin. “Tell me when and where.”


  That had been six hours ago. Now it was just past dawn and the smell of coffee was wafting in from his kitchen. It was time to get up. Not to tend chickens or play golf, but to go somewhere and do something with meaning and purpose. He shaved and dressed, fixed the dog a bowl of kibble and himself a bowl of bran flakes. Then he let the chickens out of their coop, gathering four eggs in the process. After that, he went into the room that served as his office. Slowly he opened the lap drawer of his desk and pulled out his PI license. Though he hadn’t carried it for two years, it had not expired, and his ID photo still looked more or less like him.

  “Who knew?” he whispered, glancing at his picture of nine-year-old Teresa Ewing. “All this time, and it’s still you.” He closed the drawer and wondered if he ought to get his Smith & Wesson. At first he thought, no, he was too old for fireworks. But then he changed his mind and grabbed the gun. You never knew when you might need protection, and these days a lot of nitwits sported their Second Amendment rights locked, loaded, and ready to go.

  He strapped on his gun then zipped up the light tan jacket he wore on the golf course. As he headed for the back door Lucky followed him, tail wagging, bright eyes hopeful of inclusion. Jack had planned to leave him shut up in the kitchen with food and water, but then he changed his mind.

  “Come on, boy,” he said. “You dug up the first clue in this old case. Maybe you can dig up the next one today.”

  He drove to the address Mary had given him. Grace Collier’s house was a modest rancher, set back off a county road at the end of a gravel drive. Not totally isolated, but definitely out of the way to those unfamiliar with the area. The front yard was lush with flowers and bird feeders; a tall privacy fence hid the back yard from view. Jack saw Mary’s Miata parked near the garage, so he pulled up beside it. Leaving Lucky in the truck, he walked to the front door. Grace Collier answered his knock. He recognized her dark Cherokee eyes and high cheekbones right away. Though her hair was still black and her olive skin unlined, her mouth was drawn, and she looked at him warily.