by Debra Webb
“What about my mother?” Sasha looked from one to the other. “Did she have any enemies who might have wanted to hurt her?”
Both shook their heads. “Folks loved her. She was always so helpful with the permits and zoning issues. Anytime anyone wanted a permit to build or change something on their home, they went to Alexandra first even though she was in planning and development. She did it right and she did it fair. None of that playing favorites or making things more difficult than necessary.”
“Your mama was under a lot of pressure that year,” Mr. Martin said. “Her boss had a heart attack and that left only her to oversee everything going on in the county and to keep up with all the inspectors. It was a difficult time. Especially with the hospital and the big-box store going up that year. It was a real mess.”
Frustration inched up Sasha’s spine. These were the people closest to her parents. If they didn’t know of anyone who wanted to hurt one or both, who would? “But there was no one related to her work who might have wanted to hurt her or have revenge for some action she’d taken or failed to take?”
More shaking of heads. Sasha felt her hopes deflate.
“Can you tell me where Mr. Polk lives?” She might as well talk with him, too. She had nothing to lose but time.
“Over at the Shady Pines nursing home,” Mr. Martin said. “He had a stroke some years back and he can’t get around too well, but he can talk. He’s a little difficult to understand at times.”
“I appreciate your help.” Sasha reached into her handbag for a business card. She passed it to Mrs. Martin. “If you think of anything at all that you feel might be useful in my search for answers, please call me. I would really like to find the truth.”
Mrs. Martin saw her to the door. Both she and her husband assured Sasha they would contact her if they recalled anything useful.
If she had to interview every single person who had known one or both of her parents, she intended to do so. Someone had to have seen or heard something.
Murder didn’t happen without leaving ripples.
Chapter Five
The Shady Pines assisted living facility had been around as long as Sasha could remember. As a child her grandmother had brought her here to visit one of her teachers, Ms. Clements, who had been in a terrible accident. She had no husband or family, so she’d had to stay in this facility through her rehab. Three months later she was able to return home but she was never able to teach again. Ms. Clements had been Sasha’s favorite teacher. She was the one to sit in the bathroom with her whenever she felt the need to cry that first year back at school after her parents died.
Sasha should visit her while she was in Winchester. Ms. Clements would love seeing photos of Sasha’s daughter. She smiled to herself as she thought of all the things about her childhood that she needed to show her daughter...including the father her daughter didn’t know.
The realization startled Sasha but there was no denying the truth.
She put her car in Park and shut off the engine. For years now she had been telling herself that she should talk to Brianne about her father. Her daughter had gone through that phase where she’d asked every other day about her father. Sasha had told her that he was a good man but that he didn’t know he had a daughter. So far Brianne hadn’t questioned her mother further but Sasha understood the time was coming. Her daughter was quickly going from a child to a teenager.
The truth was, how could Sasha be so intent on having the truth about her own childhood when she concealed her daughter’s? She had been afraid to tell Branch. Not at first. At first she’d been certain he wouldn’t be interested, so she had chosen not to tell him. Their one night together hadn’t been about love or the promise of a future; it had been about need and happenstance. Neither was a good foundation for a relationship. She had told herself that Branch wouldn’t want to be weighed down with fatherhood and at the time that was most likely the case.
Years later, on a visit to her grandmother, she had run into him again. He, too, was home for a visit and he had talked and talked about how exciting his work was in Chicago. He had been happy, focused singularly on his career. Again, Sasha had told herself that she had made the right decision. But then, two years ago her grandmother had shared Arlene’s concerns about how lonely Branch was. He’d mentioned to Arlene that he worried that he’d waited too long to pursue a real relationship...that maybe a family wasn’t in the cards for him.
Sasha had always intended to find a way to tell him, but time had slipped away. Her grandmother had never advised her either way. She’d said Sasha would know what to do when the time came.
“I’m still waiting for that time to come, G’ma.”
She climbed out of her car, draped her bag over her shoulder and headed for the assisted living center entrance. After a stop at the registration desk, she wove her way along the corridors until she found the room belonging to resident Dennis Polk. Though the facility wasn’t a five-star resort, it was certainly well maintained.
Sasha knocked on the door and a surprisingly strong male voice shouted for her to come in. She opened the door and stepped inside. The room was neat and spacious. Mr. Polk sat in a chair by a large window that washed the room in sunlight. His bed was made, a patchwork quilt folded across the foot, and a small arrangement of flowers sat on the bedside table. The television was tuned to a news channel.
Mr. Polk eyed her over the top of his reading glasses for a moment. His curly dark hair had gone mostly gray now. She vaguely recalled meeting him at a company picnic once. His tall frame was far thinner and his ebony skin sagged from his chin. But his eyes were bright and alert.
“Mr. Polk, I’m—”
“I know who you are.” His words were a little rough and clipped but easy enough to understand. He closed his book and laid it on the window ledge. “You’re Alexandra and Brandon’s girl.”
She smiled and moved a little closer. “Yes, sir. I am. I’d like to ask you a few questions if you have the time.”
“I have all the time in the world, young lady.” He gestured to the small sofa. “Please, join me.”
Sasha took the offered seat. “I don’t know if you heard, but my grandmother passed away.”
“I heard.” He nodded to the small radio perched on the table next to his chair. “I listen to the local talk show every morning. They always announce who’s married and who’s passed and so forth. She was a good woman and a lucky one. Her granddaddy made a fortune on a land deal when the dam came in and he bought his wife one of those stately historic homes. They were the first folks of color to own one. Did you know that?”
Sasha nodded. “I did.” Her grandmother had told her the story when Sasha was just a child but she never spoke of it again. Viola Simmons did not believe in rehashing the past. She was a firm believer in moving forward without looking back and dwelling on the things that had already occurred. All the more reason Sasha needed to find the truth—whatever it was—and move on with her life. There was no future in dwelling in the past.
“I was in love with your mama. Did you know that?” His expression was a little sheepish now.
Sasha met his gaze and asked the question burning inside her. “Is that why you got my father fired from his job?”
His eyebrows shot up. “There were folks who believed that was the reason and I have to tell you that I certainly was looking for a reason to give him his comeuppance. But no, I didn’t turn him in on account of how I felt about your mother. I turned him in because he came to the job site drunk. Drunker than a skunk, I’m telling you.”
Hurt speared through her. She had wanted to believe otherwise. “My father wasn’t much of a drinker.” This she remembered quite well, which was why she’d held out hope that the story was wrong.
“That’s true and that’s also why I was so surprised that he came into work at six in the morning with alcohol on his breath and staggerin
g. I took him off to the side and asked him what was going on. He got defensive and told me it was none of my business.” Polk shook his head. “I surprised myself when after all that time of looking for a reason to get him into trouble, I felt sorry for him instead. I knew something wasn’t right. Brandon Lenoir wasn’t a drinker.”
The ache inside Sasha eased. “Did he tell you what happened?”
“He and your mother argued over something. He wouldn’t say what. He just kept repeating that there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t fix it and that seemed to have him awfully upset.”
“Do you have any idea what he meant?”
Polk shook his head again. “I don’t. I tried to talk to him, to reason with him, but he was having none of it. I told one of the other guys to take him home and I warned your daddy to sleep it off and come back the next day. I’ll be damned if he didn’t take a swing at me. Knocked me flat on my back but good, I’m telling you. I thought he’d broken my jaw, but lucky for me the worst damage was to my pride.” He shrugged. “I didn’t have a choice then. I had to fire him but I told him when he got his act together to come back and we’d work something out. The next thing I knew, he and your mama were dead.”
His tone and his downcast gaze told her he felt partially responsible. “Did you ever hear any rumors about what happened? Maybe an opinion that differed from the official conclusion?”
His faded brown gaze lifted to meet hers. “I heard lots of opinions but none of them were any truer than the one the police came up with.”
Her pulse rate accelerated. “So you don’t believe my father killed my mother and then himself.”
Polk shook his head firmly from side to side. “There is no way on God’s green earth that Brandon Lenoir hurt his wife. He loved her too much. He would’ve done anything for her.”
Sasha took a much-needed breath, hadn’t realized she’d been holding it as he spoke. “Then who killed them?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” He stared out the window for a time as he spoke. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t have any enemies. In a small town you hear those sorts of things. Never heard any talk like that about your folks.”
Sasha hesitated. Should she tell him what she remembered hearing? Why not? Maybe it would spur some lost memory of his. “I heard at least one other person in the house that night. It was a man, perhaps two. My father pleaded with him or them to let my mother go.”
Polk’s gaze locked onto hers again. “Did you tell Holcomb about that?”
She nodded. “Apparently he felt my statement was too little too late. By the time I could tell someone they’d already concluded the murder-suicide scenario based on the lack of evidence for any other theory. I can’t really blame the police. You said yourself my parents had no enemies. There was no evidence to support what I heard.”
“It’s been twenty-seven years. Digging at it won’t change nothing at all. Sometimes it’s just best to let sleeping dogs lie.” He reached for his book and opened it, started to read once more—or pretended to.
Sasha recognized the cue. He was through talking. She retrieved a card from her bag and placed it on the table next to him. “If you think of anything else that might help, please call me.”
He gave a single nod but didn’t look up from his book. Sasha left his room. How could everyone be so convinced her father would never do this and yet sit back and let the whole thing go as if it made no difference?
Outside she unlocked her car and slid behind the steering wheel. The question that haunted her now echoed in her brain.
What difference will it make? Dead is dead. Her grandmother had said those words to her once when Sasha was fifteen and demanding answers.
She started the engine, braced her hands on the steering wheel. What now? Who else should she interview? Years ago she should have demanded that her grandmother help her do this. Now the one person who had known her parents better than anyone was dead. How was she supposed to piece together this mystery without her grandmother?
Tears spilled down her cheeks. Despite her best efforts to contain the flood, Sasha surrendered. She laid her forehead against the steering wheel and let them flow. She hadn’t allowed herself to cry—to really cry—since she got the call about her grandmother. She’d been too busy, too shrouded in disbelief to totally break down.
Apparently there was no holding it back any longer. She pawed through the console of the rental car looking for a tissue or a napkin, anything with which to wipe her eyes and nose. The more she searched for something to dry her tears, the harder she cried. By the time the stream had slowed, she was exhausted and weak with an odd sort of relief.
She finally found a pack of tissues in her bag. She cleaned up her face as best she could and took a long, deep breath. She would get through this. As much as she had wanted to have her grandmother around forever, that wasn’t possible. But what she could keep for the rest of her life were the memories. Memories that she would pass down to her daughter.
Sasha put the car in Drive and rolled out of the parking lot. The most important thing she could do for the memory of her family was to prove her father’s innocence and to see that the person who murdered her parents was brought to justice.
If that person was still alive. Twenty-seven years was a long time. He could be dead or in prison or in a nursing home.
But, if he was alive, he had gotten away with murder for more than a quarter of a century. It was well beyond time to rectify that wrong.
* * *
THOUGH IT WAS still hours until dark, the sun had dropped behind the trees, leaving the old Lenoir home place cast in shadow. Sasha parked in front of the house and climbed out. She had her cell for all the good it would do. Cell service in the area was sketchy at best.
She unlocked the house and tucked the key into the hip pocket of her jeans. First, she walked through the downstairs and turned on lights, chasing away a portion of the creep factor. It was impossible to shake the idea that the deep, dark woods that surrounded the house appeared to be closing in a little more each year. She should probably have a service come out and clear the yards back to the original boundaries.
Upstairs she noted a few dark spots on the ceilings. The roof was deteriorating. She had to make a decision about this place soon or it was going to collapse into a heap. Her grandmother hadn’t cared. She never wanted to come back here. But Sasha had cried each time she spoke of selling it. Some part of her had hoped one day she would wake up in her bed in the room she’d slept in as a child. That her parents would be gathered around the breakfast table, smiling and wishing her a good morning.
But she was not a child anymore. All the hope and wishing in the world wouldn’t bring her parents back. It was time she did what needed to be done.
That would mean clearing out her parents’ things as well as her childhood possessions. She felt confident there was someone she could call to donate whatever remained usable.
But first she had to determine what, if anything, she wanted to keep. Her grandmother had left most all their worldly possessions right here in this house. There were photo albums and keepsakes. The family Bible and a million other things that Sasha needed to consider before walking away.
She started with her parents’ bedroom. The bedside tables were first. She went through each drawer, her mind instantly conjuring a memory connected to each object she touched. From her mother’s favorite lotion to her father’s wallet. She thumbed through the contents of the wallet. On the very top inside was a photo of Sasha and her mother. It was worn from being stored in his wallet but the images of their smiling faces said it all.
Happiness.
What had happened to change that?
Another thought occurred to Sasha. She glanced around the room. Where was her mother’s purse? She summoned the image. White leather trimmed, a sort of tan-colored bag, some straw-like material since it was
summer. The end of June.
Sasha searched the closet, looked under the bed, and then she went to the single shared bath on the second floor. No purse. Downstairs, she started with the small mudroom off the kitchen. Her mother’s sweater hung on one of the hooks near the door. A windbreaker that had belonged to her father was there, too. She checked the pockets. A piece of peppermint candy was in her mother’s right pocket. Beneath the sweater was her purse. Her wallet was there. Staring at the driver’s license photo made her stomach hurt. The pressed powder compact, a brush and lipstick cluttered the bottom of the bag. A receipt from the local grocery store dated two days before her death.
Sasha walked through the kitchen, checked under the table and in all the cabinets, though she couldn’t see her mother storing any big secrets in the cabinets. Then she moved on to the dining room and living room. She checked under tables, behind chairs and in bookcases. No surprises.
The same in the entry hall. An umbrella stood in the corner.
Her mother’s office was cluttered and as dusty as the rest of the house. Framed accolade after framed accolade filled one wall. Her mother had graduated from architecture school at the top of her class. She’d spent two years in Nashville working but then she’d fallen in love with Sasha’s father and she’d come home to marry him and to start a family. It wasn’t until Sasha was in kindergarten that her mother took the position with the city in planning and development.
Sasha surveyed the rolls and rolls of plans on her mother’s desk. There were dozens of notes in a stack next to the phone and more on the bulletin board; all appeared to be about work.
One by one she scanned the notes on the bulletin board. All were related to upcoming deadlines at work. A stack of file folders waited on one corner of the desk. Her mother had made notes on call sheets and forms attached to the folders. Most looked like copies, not originals. Sasha assumed she had a working copy at home and the originals at work. Her fingers stalled on the photos tucked under the glass on the desk. Sasha’s green eyes and big smile beamed out from the one in the middle. There was another of her parents in a hug, their lips just touching. Her heart squeezed. How had two people who seemed to love each other so much and who had everything necessary for happiness ended up dead in such a violent, heinous manner?
