Fallen Sparrow

by D. A. Keeley

  “Just exactly who are you?” Stephanie asked.

  “I’m Sherry’s husband, but that’s not important—”

  “Chip,” Sherry said, “I can speak for myself.”

  “No,” he said. “I’ll handle this.”

  “Actually,” Landmark said, “I’m your attorney. I’ll do the talking, Chip.”

  “And Sherry’s paying you,” Chip said. “And from what I see so far, she’s overpaying you. So we’ll do things my way.”

  “This is so typical,” Sherry said, but there was no bite in her voice; she was pleading. “This is my brother—my family—can you let me have control?” She looked away and spoke to herself, but Peyton heard her: “For once, goddamnit, let me have control.”

  “Both of you,” Len Landmark said, “it’s time to be quiet. Stephanie and I will discuss this case.”

  “You’re unbelievable,” Sherry said with finality to Chip, who momentarily glared at her, then turned to stare out the window like a man searching for something.

  “Here’s the bottom line, counselor,” Landmark continued. “Our client was at the Tip of the Hat bar at the time of the murder.”

  “What?” Karen whispered to Peyton. “He told you he was with Nancy Lawrence, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Hewitt turned and glanced at Peyton. She replied by offering a quick shake of the head, which Landmark failed to register.

  Hewitt leaned toward Stephanie and whispered.

  “What is it?” Landmark said.

  Stephanie ignored him.

  “Well,” Landmark went on, “the evidence is entirely circumstantial. And you have no witnesses.”

  Stephanie could be ruthlessly blunt. Peyton had always appreciated her lack of bullshit. But even she was surprised by Stephanie’s next play.

  “I have to be in court in twenty minutes, Len.” She smiled politely, wiping a few gray dog hairs from her blazer. “We’ll talk again later, I’m sure.”

  “So you’re taking this forward?”

  “We have a murder, an arson investigation, and a murder-­suicide,” she said. “I think it’s a safe bet to assume we will take this forward, yes.”

  “They’re separate cases, Stephanie.”

  Stephanie slid her yellow pad into her briefcase.

  “And your evidence in the murder is entirely circumstantial,” Landmark repeated.

  “We have the .22 slug and, according to the ballistics report, the gun from which it was fired,” she said.

  “The killer took my brother’s gun,” Sherry insisted. “Can’t you see that? What’s wrong with you?”

  Stephanie looked at her for a long moment. Peyton thought she saw pity in the DA’s eyes.

  Finally, Stephanie stood. “Like I said, I need to be in court in twenty. Good day.”

  Thirteen

  At 5:15 p.m., the sheen of sweat covering her face was like a welcomed visit from a long-lost friend.

  Peyton was at the dojo. She’d earned her black belt before she’d earned her undergraduate degree. What she was doing couldn’t be called simply “maintaining” her skills. And it wasn’t practice. She was training—the runner who seeks continually to best her time.

  Quiet. That was how she described her mind while at the dojo; bare feet stalking back and forth across the mat, hands slashing in charged movements. But her mind was quiet.

  No work.

  No ex-husbands.

  No struggling sons.

  No stalled relationships.

  No complicated mother-daughter bonds.

  No self-serving middle-school teachers.

  No contradictory alibis.

  Her mind played white noise as her hands and feet found a rhythm, punching and kicking—again and again—the leather mitts held by sparring partners.

  The temperature had dipped to the upper sixties by the time she showered and headed to her Jeep Wrangler. The wind blew hard, carrying the unmistakably bitter odor of the nearby potato-processing plant.

  This was her third Wrangler since college. The canvas top was an option her mother always scoffed at, given Aroostook County’s climate, but Peyton loved the convertible in the summer and was willing to sacrifice (she kept leather mittens and a wool cap under the seat, November through March) in order to enjoy summer months with the top down.

  Off duty, she had something in mind that required Mike Hewitt’s approval: she wanted to arrive unannounced to interview one of the investigation’s players. Hewitt likely wouldn’t go for it for two reasons: it might require overtime pay, and, depending on how the conversation went, the after-hours home visit could be perceived as harassment.

  But if she handled the situation well, Hewitt wouldn’t have to know, and she might learn once and for all where Freddy St. Pierre was the night Simon Pink was murdered.

  She exhaled and pulled onto Route 1, which she followed to State Route 164, knowing full well she’d be late for the dinner date she and Tommy made with her ex-husband, Jeff. She wouldn’t have time to cook anything and would have to grab a pizza on the way home.

  But that was all right.

  It would force Jeff to spend a little time with his son.

  Peyton parked her Jeep Wrangler next to a rusted Volkswagen Jetta, walked to the front door, and rang the bell.

  Nancy Lawrence opened the door, and Peyton saw her eyes narrow in recognition—and saw the front door close slightly.

  “May I help you?” Nancy said.

  “I was in the area and had a couple questions,” Peyton said. “Thought I’d swing by. I hope that’s okay.”

  The house was a small Cape Cod a half-mile down a dirt road. There were no visible neighbors, no streetlights. Peyton looked for dogs but saw none. Maybe her years in El Paso left her leery, but she sure as hell would have a dog if she lived at the end of a rural dirt road.

  “Questions about Tommy?” Nancy said. “Can’t this wait until I’m at school? I mean, I don’t have any new information for you.”

  Peyton glanced over Nancy’s shoulder. Saw nothing conspicuous. “May I come in?” she said.

  “I’m making dinner.”

  “This won’t take long, Nancy. I promise.”

  “You’re not even in uniform.”

  “But you know I’m not here to talk about Tommy.”

  Nancy admitted nothing, just stood staring at Peyton.

  “This is pretty informal, Nancy. Just a couple quick questions.”

  Nancy Lawrence wore a skirt shorter than the one she’d had on at school, and her white blouse was tight with three buttons undone.

  “That’s a pretty blouse you’re wearing. You must have plans.”

  Before she caught herself, Nancy nodded, but then said: “No. This is just what I wore to work today.”

  “Really? You wore that to work today?”

  Nancy shuffled her feet. Would Peyton check to verify that statement?

  “Actually,” Nancy said, “I just threw it on tonight. Hey, I’m not doing anything. Sure, come right in.” She held the door. “You can go to the living room.”

  But when Nancy went to the stove and stirred a pot of boiling pasta, Peyton followed her to the kitchen and took a seat at the table, which, interestingly, was set for two, complete with a bottle of red wine and a sliced loaf of Italian bread.

  “Who’s joining you?” Peyton asked.

  “No one.”

  Peyton glanced at her watch. She couldn’t play games all night. And Nancy Lawrence wasn’t tough; she was used to dealing with school kids all day, so Peyton said simply, “Nancy, who’s joining you.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m curious. I haven’t had a date in months,” Peyton lied. “Actually, I’m envious.”

  Nancy looked at her, wondering. Was she on the level? Just two single
women talking now?

  “Just a friend,” Nancy said and sat across from Peyton. She moved a fork an eighth of an inch, making sure it was perfectly positioned.

  “You’re not dressed to see ‘just a friend.’” Peyton offered a discreet just-between-you-and-me smile. “Hoping he becomes something more?”

  Nancy looked down shyly, suddenly a teenager who’d been asked to the dance by the star quarterback.

  “Actually, it’s a doctor from TAMC.”

  “Lucky girl. A doctor from The Aroostook Medical Center?” Peyton gushed. “My mother would be kicking me under the table, if she were here.”

  Nancy’s proud smile widened.

  “Been seeing him long?”

  “On and off for a month.”

  Peyton nodded casually, looking around the kitchen. She didn’t like lying, even when it led to necessary information. The appliances were stainless steel and didn’t go with the room’s decor. They looked new and, having just furnished a kitchen herself, they looked expensive.

  “Nancy, tell me, how does Freddy St. Pierre feel about you dating someone else ‘on and off for a month’?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Peyton smiled. “Where were you Monday night?”

  Nancy looked at the plate before her and realigned the salad fork again. Then she stood and went to the stove to stir her pasta, her back conveniently to Peyton.

  “Monday?” she said over her shoulder. “Why do you ask?”

  Peyton heard Nancy’s voice shake ever so slightly, indicating that Nancy realized two things: she’d been walked down the road, and the next question would force her to decide how badly she wanted to remain Freddy St. Pierre’s alibi.

  “Where were you Monday,” Peyton repeated, “from seven p.m. until Tuesday at seven a.m.? And please know that I won’t be the only one who’ll ask you this.”

  Nancy gave the pasta one final whirl, then set the wooden spoon down, and took three strides toward the table. Standing before Peyton, she lifted her wineglass, poured some from the chilled bottle, and took two large drinks, her eyes never leaving Peyton’s face. Nancy set the glass on the table and licked her lips slowly.

  “I was … um, with Freddy.”

  “Fred St. Pierre Jr.?”

  “Yes.”

  “All night?”

  “Yes, that’s correct. A one-time thing.”

  “A one-night stand?”

  “You’re making me uncomfortable,” Nancy said, examining the toes of her black shoes. They were heels, a little too high for teaching fifth graders, but just right for a night out—or a very sexy night in. Peyton didn’t own anything like them.

  “I’ve got to say,” Peyton said, “you don’t seem like the type to have one-night stands. In fact, Freddy says you two are dating.”

  Nancy opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it and stood thinking, glaring at Peyton.

  “Is Freddy wrong, Nancy?”

  Nancy shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  “Were you at the Tip of the Hat Monday?” Peyton said.

  “No, here. All night.”

  “He met you here?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” But then Nancy’s face reacted as she’d been pinched. “No, that’s wrong.”

  “Which is it?” Peyton said. “I’m not asking tough questions. Just answer truthfully.”

  Nancy pursed her lips. Peyton hadn’t realized how pale the middle-school teacher was.

  “We met at the Tip of the Hat,” Nancy said, “and came here after.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Nancy nodded.

  “I mean,” Peyton said, “I don’t want you to say anything you didn’t agree to say.”

  “What does that mean? I don’t follow you.”

  Peyton smiled and offered silence. Nancy couldn’t hold her stare. She looked down, and the toe of her right three-inch heel started tapping against the linoleum tile floor.

  “Freddy doesn’t seem like your type, Nancy.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, for one thing, he’s not a doctor.”

  “That’s a judgmental statement. I could ask why you don’t help your son more with his homework.”

  Peyton grinned. “Of course you could. Let’s wrap this up. To review, on Monday, you met Fred St. Pierre Jr. at Tip of the Hat, came back here, and spent the entire night with him. Here. And neither you nor he left at any point during the night.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re willing to testify to that?” Peyton said.

  “Testify? I have to testify?”

  “It’s likely.”

  Nancy looked at her for a long time, then moved her eyes down. Peyton watched her blond bangs sway ever so slightly as she shook her head.

  “Damn it,” Nancy said, under her breath.

  “I need an answer, Nancy.”

  “Yes. Fine. Then it’s true.”

  The obviousness of the lie made Peyton smile. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll show myself out.”

  And she did, pausing at the end of Nancy Lawrence’s driveway. She swatted black flies and wondered why the woman agreed to lie for Freddy St. Pierre, even when faced with a court testimony.

  It was 6:45 p.m. when she entered her kitchen, glanced at the counter, and sighed. Jeff had offered to “bring dessert.” A box of eclairs and a two-liter of Coke were on the counter.

  Which meant Thursday-night dinner consisted of pizza, eclairs, and Coca-Cola.

  She put the pizza box next to the soda and wondered—for the millionth time—if she’d mistakenly put work ahead of her responsibilities as a mom. The detour to Nancy Lawrence’s house yielded information: Nancy’s version of her relationship with Fred St. Pierre Jr. (a one-night-stand) didn’t jive with Freddy’s version (she was his girlfriend). But at what cost had that information been gained? She was about to serve Tommy hamburger-and-green-pepper pizza (green pepper being the only vegetable he found palatable) and eclairs for dinner. (The Coca-Cola would go unopened and leave with Jeff, thank you very much.) If she’d come straight home, there would have been time to make spaghetti sauce, as planned. Now, though, the only one getting spaghetti (and who knew what else?) was Nancy Lawrence’s doctor from TAMC.

  Peyton heard the TV in the living room and went to see what Tommy and Jeff were watching.

  Tommy was alone on the couch, holding his Nintendo DS, a fishing show on TV.

  “Hey. Where’s your dad?” she said.

  He looked up. “Huh? I don’t know. His phone rang. He said it was important.”

  She turned and crossed the kitchen, moved past the first-floor half-bath, and found Jeff in the office—her office—seated in her leather chair, talking on the phone. He’d taken the liberty of helping himself to her scratchpad. She saw he’d written $147,500, 2BR, 1.5 BA. Fixer-upper. Resale value???

  He held up his index finger and smiled. “Almost done,” he whis-

  pered.

  “Take your time, Jeff. Your son, who hasn’t seen you in three weeks, is only sitting alone in the living room.”

  She turned and walked out, closing the office door on him.

  Self-doubt can be like an annoying itch.

  And as she set three plates at the table and put the pizza in the oven to warm, she scratched that itch: Jeff had infuriated her by ignoring Tommy (once again) for business. But hadn’t she done nearly the same thing by stopping at Nancy Lawrence’s?

  The Southern border had been a great place for an agent, but a late-night shootout told her it wasn’t so great for a single mom. So, with her career on the rise, she’d left for the slower Northern border. For Tommy. Was she losing sight of that decision? Had she on this night?

  “Tommy,” she called into the living room, “come out here, please.”


  He shuffled across the kitchen and sat on a stool at the island.

  “Tell me about your day.”

  “It was fine.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I hate school,” he said.

  “Why?”

  The office door opened, and Jeff walked out. “Sorry, pal. You’ll understand when you grow up,” he said. “Got to stay ahead of the competition. You understand, right?”

  Tommy was looking down. “Sure, Dad.”

  “I feel like nobody talks when we eat dinner with Dad.”

  Peyton was upstairs with him at nine o’clock. Tommy was in his PJs, under the covers, and she’d just finished helping him read a chapter from Peter and the Starcatchers.

  Perceptive as hell, she thought.

  “You and your dad talked at dinner,” she reminded him.

  “No. Not really, Mom. He asked what my favorite sport is. He already knows that.”

  Or should, she thought.

  “You and Dad didn’t talk,” Tommy said.

  “Sure we did.”

  “No. You only talk to Mr. Dye.”

  She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I talk to lots of people, sweetie, including your dad. Now get some rest.” At the door, she clicked off the light, and said, “You know how much I love you?”

  “Yes, Mom. You tell me every day.”

  And every day is never enough, she thought, for maybe the thousandth time.

  Fourteen

  What is it about friendships that continuously draw us back? Peyton wondered, as she climbed out of her service vehicle Friday morning shortly after eight.

  She was, in fact, realizing that some friendships, a select few, never end; even when you thought they were dead, it turns out they were just teetering on life-support for more than a decade.

  Sherry St. Pierre, now Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall, Ph.D., had called, sobbing, and asked to talk. So Peyton was answering the call.

  The bell chimed as the door to Gary’s Diner shut behind her. Peyton went to a window booth and slid in across from Sherry.