by Jeff Abbott
“Told you so,” Junebug said, a faint smile on his face. “Mama, go get some coffee. I want to talk to Jordy alone for a minute.”
Barbara dithered at this request, but finally acceded. I leaned down close to him.
“You want me to bring you in some books on tape when you’re feeling better? Or shall I have Miss Ludey come in and read to you?”
He managed another smile. “Oh, that hurts. No. Want to talk to you.” The smile faded. “Trey and Clevey-the funeral-I’m sorry I missed it. Should have been there-”
“Gee, coma’s about the worst excuse I ever heard.” I tried joking. “Please, don’t worry about that, of all things!”
“Arlene. Needed-to be there for Arlene. I know now- she couldn’t have hurt Trey. She would never have hurt me. Tell her-”
I put my mouth near his ear and quietly told him what had happened between Sister and Trey. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe I should have left it to her; but I wanted him to know he was right. And telling him about the scrap of fabric from her pants made me feel immensely better.
“You still got that fabric?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Throw it away. It’s just litter.” He closed his eyes again. “Listen, before my mother comes back-”
“Yes?”
“Shot me-know who shot me. Don’t want to talk about it-in front of Mama. Told Franklin.”
I held my breath. “Who?”
He grimaced with the effort of speech; his voice sounded like a boy’s whisper. “Ed. I think it was Ed.”
I left the hospital in a state of shock. I’d walked out of Junebug’s room to find Barbara Moncrief and Sister lingering near the door, consumed with joy over his awakening and his chances for full recovery. I tried to extract a promise from Sister that she wouldn’t stay all night, that she’d come home and get some rest.
“He needs me,” Sister answered. “That’s all that matters. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be here every minute if Candace was here,”
Since Candace seemed prepared to put me in the hospital if I continued my sleuthing, I hoped she’d camp out in the waiting room while I recovered. I kept my thoughts to myself, wished Barbara well, kissed Sister on her forehead, and headed home.
I didn’t go straight there, though. I swung by the Dickensheets house. It was now nearly ten at night, but the porch light was still on and a police cruiser sat in the driveway. Franklin Bedloe was following up on Junebug’s theory. I slowed but didn’t stop, and took the next turn to head home.
Ed shooting Junebug seemed highly improbable. But Junebug had heard a voice call to him as he opened his door, he’d paused, and the gunfire cut him down. The voice had sounded like Ed’s nasal whine, and he’d seen a short, shadowy form in the bushes. (I thought immediately that a killer was likely to squat in the bushes, looking shorter, but I kept my mouth shut.) He said he remembered nothing else until he came around in the hospital, his mama squeezing his hand till he thought the bones would grind together.
It seemed little to go on to me, but Junebug was a trained, experienced policeman. I couldn’t question his hypothesis much, especially in light of what Miss Ludey had told us. Frighteningly, a scenario unfolded before my eyes: Ivalou or Wanda having a direct hand in Rennie Clifton’s death, Clevey uncovering evidence to back the claim, and Ed taking action to silence Clevey. And then Trey must have somehow learned about it. But then why the attack on Junebug? He claimed he’d discovered no new information of value in his investigation.
Perhaps no information he realized was of value. But if the killer believed that Junebug was closing in on him- three down. I took a long hard look at myself in the mirror as I parked in my driveway. What if Candace was right? I could be setting myself up as the next target if I kept poking into shadowy holes. I felt a gentle smile come on my face as I thought of her concern. She was furious with me, I knew, but it was because she cared. Because, despite the difficulties involved in putting up with me on an ongoing basis, she loved me. I didn’t know if I kept up with my investigations whether she’d lose patience and affection for me. But if she didn’t know me, know that I wouldn’t abandon my friends or stand idly by while they were killed, she didn’t truly know me at all.
Candace’s Mercedes was still parked in front of my house. Despite her anger at me, she’d kindly offered to stay with Mama and Mark. I’d dropped Miss Ludey off on the way to the hospital. I had a feeling that Candace had been overdosed with Miss Ludey this evening and I was glad to take the lady home. She’d wished me well when I left her, promising to gargle with salt water to take care of her throat so she’d be set for the cycle of Hans Christian Andersen tales she planned to read as Christmas approached.
Candace was watching the local news out of Austin. Mark, exhausted, had retired early; Mama had taken her medication and, fortunately, was fast asleep.
“How is he?” she asked.
“I think he’s going to be okay. He’s coherent, and he seems strong.”
“Could he say anything about what happened?”
I debated telling her. I knew Candace wouldn’t repeat anything I said. Knowledge, to paraphrase a wise person, is about the most dangerous commodity around. I didn’t want her to be in peril. But she ought to know.
“Yeah, but obviously don’t repeat this. He thinks Ed shot him.”
Candace’s eyes widened. “Ed Dickensheets? Oh, that’s ridiculous. Ed’s a little goofball and wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Unless maybe his family was threatened. Kind of puts an interesting spin on what Miss Ludey told us.”
She opened her mouth and then closed it with a click of her teeth. An angry flash filled her eyes and she crossed her arms. I prepared myself for the lecture.
“About Miss Ludey. Don’t you think she manufactured that whole tale to get back at Ivalou and Wanda for dying to ship her off to the nursing home?”
I shrugged. “Maybe so. In fact, if it hadn’t been for what Junebug said about Ed, I don’t know if I’d have taken what Miss Ludey said very seriously. Not turning up at someone’s house during a storm is hardly evidence you committed a murder. And she could have manufactured the whole story about the heated discussion between Ivalou and Wanda that she claims to have overheard. I think, though, that I ought to tell Franklin Bedloe about it.”
Candace agreed, and I called and left a message for Franklin at the police station. He called me back fifteen minutes later, sounding tired and ragged. I relayed Miss Ludey’s story to him.
“My God, if that ain’t a corker.” Franklin sighed.
“So what’s the deal? Did you question Ed?”
“Yeah, and he claims he was with Wanda when Junebug was shot. As for the times when Clevey and Trey were killed-he claims he was alone at that Elvis store of his, taking stock in the back.” I could nearly see Franklin shrug. “I haven’t arrested him yet ’cause I don’t have sufficient cause. Junebug can’t say with certainty that it was Ed Dickensheets that shot him. Ed don’t even own a gun.”
“I think you and I both know if you want to get hold of a gun in this country, it’s not that hard. And both guns used to kill Clevey and Trey are missing.”
Franklin cleared his throat. “True enough. But I’m not convinced that the attack on Junebug’s connected to the other two murders.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Think about it, Jordan. Junebug’s arrested a lot of fellows in his life. Men that have beaten their wives, or gotten drunk, or vandalized property. It’d be easy to see one of ’em holding a grudge against him. I tend to think that’s where we’ll find our culprit-out of Junebug’s background in law enforcement.”
“Odd that some old enemy would rear his head now,” I commented. “Right after two friends of Junebug’s are killed.”
“Coincidence,” Franklin said. “Listen, Jordan, I’m in sore need of some coffee. Thanks for the information that Miss Murchison gave you. I’ll be sure and follow up on it.”
I thanked Franklin fo
r his time and hung up. I felt dismissed and uneasy. I wasn’t quite so ready to accept Franklin’s theory about Junebug’s shooting; a vague tickle of apprehension nagged at me.
“What’d he say?” Candace wanted to know.
I smiled thinly. “He’s got it all under control, Candace. Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll make an arrest soon and this’ll all be over. You can quit worrying about me.”
“Good.” She eased against me in a hug. I hugged back, thinking that Christmas would be approaching and perhaps tomorrow I should start my shopping early. After all, Mama always was a big Elvis fan.
The next morning I called the hospital; Junebug was continuing to improve. Sister had spent the night there but came home around six to collapse onto the couch. I sternly lectured her that she’d make herself sick if she didn’t get some rest, and then would be of no help to Junebug, but she was too busy softly snoring to pay me any heed. I carried her up to bed, put a quilt over her, and told Clo that I didn’t want her disturbed for any reason.
The dawn brought rain again, leaving Mirabeau dank, gray, and muggy. Clouds veiled the entire sky, not offering a glimmer of blue. The sun’s outline barely glowed through the haze, offering scant warmth. It was a day to crawl into bed with a good book or a ready lover and while away the hours.
After getting Sister settled, I drove a rather quiet Mark to his counseling appointment over at Steven Teague’s medical office. I felt uneasy about Mark seeing Steven, but I really had no reason to put the brakes on Mark’s therapy. Plus, I thought I could deal with Steven with one well-placed sentence to show him Jordan Poteet was no fool.
Mark surprised me as we drove. “Do you think I’m a shit, Uncle Jordy?”
“Good Lord,” I said as I turned into the small parking lot where Steven’s office was. He and a dentist had converted an older Victorian house into office space, with Steven occupying the first floor. “Why on earth do you say that?”
“I don’t seem to want to be around folks much. Bradley keeps calling, wanting to come over, and I just think he’d be awful tiresome to deal with.” Mark ran his finger along the condensation of the car window. “I’m tired. My stomach hurts, and I can’t sleep good. But Bradley, it’s like dealing with a baby sometimes. He doesn’t understand.”
“You don’t have to. Tell him you’re not up to company. If he doesn’t understand, Davis or Cayla will explain to him,”
Mark stared out the window. “Then there’s Scott. He’s always trying to be nice to me, but it’s like he’s trying to be too nice. It makes me feel weird. He’s always wanting to go off on long hikes in the woods, even in this crappy weather. And he keeps wanting to tell me about these terrible nightmares he has about Dad. I really don’t want to talk about Dad much with Scott.”
“Look.” I made him turn his face toward mine. “Scott’s a good kid. But he’s been through a lot, like you have. I think he tries to deal with it by hanging around people. You seem to want to be alone more. It’s just different ways of dealing with grief, Mark. Neither one is right or wrong.”
“My last session, I told Steven that I felt jealous of Scott. He got all that time with Dad that I didn’t. I ought to hate his guts, but I don’t.” He looked earnestly at me. “I sometimes think maybe Scott’s jealous of me. I don’t get it, when he had Dad in his life and I didn’t.”
“Oh, Mark.” I drummed fingers against the steering wheel, wondering how to respond. “It may be hard for you to see how lucky you are if you put it in those terms. Yes, Scott had time and more with your father. But Scott couldn’t ever be Trey’s son. And he doesn’t have the most stable life. He’s been moved all around and he’s got Nola for a mother. I know Hart says she’s just grieving, but I think she’s a little erratic, to say the least. You’ve got a family, and roots, and while your mother and I may be driven nuts sometimes, we’re not likely to create scenes at funerals.” I nearly amended that; Sister had created a doozy of a scene at Clevey’s wake. Oh, well, maybe Nola wasn’t so nuts after all.
“Scott’s nice to Bradley, too,” Mark mused. “One way to decide if I like a kid is how he treats Bradley. Some people aren’t so nice to Bradley, y’know.”
I thought of the particular viciousness children display to one who is different and I squeezed Mark’s shoulder. “Well, then, I’m glad to know Scott likes Bradley. Speaking of Bradley, you don’t know why he reacted the way he did at the funeral, do you?”
Mark shrugged. “I guess Nola upset him. He doesn’t like violence. Kind of makes him jumpy.”
“I agree with him. Listen, I have an errand to run, so I’m not going to sit in the waiting room while you have your session with Steven. That okay?”
“Yeah. But you’ll be there when I’m done, won’t you?”
“Absolutely. Let’s go in or we’ll be late. I want a word with Steven before you talk to him.”
The entry hall on the bottom floor served as a common area, but the waiting room for Steven’s patients was thoughtfully private; it was the former dining room of the old house. Oversized chairs and coffee tables covered with scattered back issues of national magazines and the Mirabeau and Bavary newspapers provided a sense of coziness. I told the receptionist that Mark Slocum was here for his appointment. She said that Steven was not yet in, but she expected him any moment. Mark slumped in a seat while I paced nervously.
“See. No crazy people here but us,” Mark said, his voice sounding scratchy.
“You’re not crazy at all,” I said forcefully. “After what you’ve been through, you’d be crazy not to see a therapist,”
“You haven’t,” he noted.
“Well, I am crazy. Haven’t you ever noticed?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.”
He was quiet for a moment, looking into my face for traces of insanity.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He paused, embarrassment coloring his face. “Well-I don’t want to make you feel like a goob.”
“Tell me.”
“I heard you-the other night. When you were talking to Candace. About Dad.”
I didn’t answer for a moment. “Well, Mark, I was upset. You know that your father’s friendship meant a great deal to me.”
“Yeah.” He looked at me with eyes that were twins of Trey’s. I ruffled his hair affectionately and he ducked away from the attention, embarrassed at his stupidly sentimental uncle.
He picked up a tattered Sports Illustrated, shifted his gum to the other side of his mouth, and flipped the pages. The picture of a perfectly normal kid. Except he was a kid that might have a hurt so deep, so penetrating, that he’d never be whole again.
Impatiently, I paced the room. (This is a habit that Candace finds particularly grating. As if I do it to annoy her.) I wandered near the window and saw a harried Steven Teague parking his rain-spotted black Volvo. Finally. I didn’t want to keep Mark waiting.
Teague stepped out, testing the air with his hand to see if the drizzle demanded an umbrella. He decided not and slammed his car door.
Suddenly Nola Kinnard was there, pressing herself against him, speaking to him with undeniable insistence. She had hold of his coat, her head shaking, her eyes wild in her face.
He put her a step back, holding her shoulders, talking to her, shaking his head. She shook hers in answer, and the tight, painful frown on her face suggested she was near tears. I moved closer to the window, Mark ignoring me completely.
Steven shook his head again; this only agitated her further. Her hands clawed on his shoulder and she broke, her head hanging, rain or tears wetting her face.
I couldn’t see his face, only hers, but he leaned close to her, speaking-I could see the outline of his jaw moving. I hoped he was telling Nola not to make such a spectacle of herself.
Those apparently weren’t his words. She leaned in closely, quickly, and drew him into a kiss.
He either savored her lips against his for the first moments, or was so surpr
ised that he couldn’t move. His face was away from mine. The kiss broke when he pushed her, gently but decisively, away. He said a few more words, then turned and headed toward the front door. Nola stood there in the windblown mist, staring after him. Her eyes were dark hollows in her weathered face, pensive and wanting. She was still standing there when I quickly resumed my seat.
Steven came in smiling broadly, attired in raincoat and tweed and looking every inch the polished counselor. He mopped at his lips with a handkerchief and I saw a smear of red. He ran a hand through his gray-shot hair. “Good morning, Mark. Why, hello, Jordan, it’s nice to see you as well.”
“I’m Mark’s ride today.” I smiled. “But I wonder if I might speak privately with you for a moment.”
“Certainly. Mark, why don’t you go on into my office and I’ll join you in a moment.”
“See you,” Mark said to me, and went into Steven’s office, shutting the door behind him.
“How’s Mark doing?” I asked.
Steven spread his fingers expansively. He was one of those people who talked as much with his hands as with his voice. “He hasn’t wept yet in therapy. He still has a lot of anger, a lot of denial to work through.”
“He doesn’t want to be around people much. He says so himself.”
“Mark’s doing his best to live up to what you and your family expect from him: strength, resilience, dealing with his own emotions.”
“He says he wants to be alone; being around other people, even boys his own age, seems to make him uncomfortable.”
“Mark’s feeling as though he’s different from everyone he knows. He’s been through a terrible experience that he feels others don’t share. I’m concerned about how this may isolate him. If he doesn’t express his grief, his shock, it can turn in on him. Painfully.”
I didn’t feel reassured by his prognosis. “What can I do to help him?”
“Make him understand it’s okay to have these feelings-the grief and the rage.” He straightened his eyeglasses. “I think Mark is very much like you in some ways, Jordan. Strong, determined to be independent. He doesn’t want to need anyone right now. Let him know that you’re there for him.”
