by Ellen Hart
Eureka.
The door was maybe two and a half feet wide by four and a half feet tall, big enough for a person to come through with room to spare. Clicking on her phone’s flashlight app, she directed the beam into the darkness and saw that there was another door directly behind the one in the closet, this one had to be connected to the room behind the office’s reception area. It was all very clever. She was curious to know if Mickler had installed it, or if the original owner had.
Rushing now, she closed the inner door, then the outer one, and finally returned to the front, glad to hear that Cordelia and Mickler were still talking.
“Okay,” said Cordelia, sounding impatient. “It doesn’t have to be that weekend. How about the weekend after that?”
When Jane came in, Mickler glanced up.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said.
Cordelia turned in her direction. “No problemo,” she offered, hooking her thumbs over the top of her waders.
“That room,” continued Jane. “I think it would be perfect for Becca.”
“How is it that you know her?” asked Mickler.
“I don’t actually know her that well,” said Jane. “Kind of a long story.” She slid one of her business cards across the counter to him. “Please, if there’s any way, call me.”
“What time would she be coming in?”
“Her flight gets into MSP around seven on Friday night. She’ll be tired after the flight and the drive up. Saturday will be a big day.”
“I’m sure it will,” said Monty.
“As for the time, she figured she’d make it to Castle Lake around ten, give or take.”
“Nobody’s at the front desk after ten.”
“That’s not a problem. I would be happy to pay for the room with my credit card. I could stop by and pick up a key. That way she can just go in and go to bed.”
Mickler hesitated, studying her for a few seconds. “Let me see what I can do.”
Jane thanked him, eyed Cordelia briefly, and then left.
Mission accomplished.
DAVE
Saturday, October 2, 1999
With Monty riding shotgun, Dave turned his dad’s Ford Pinto onto a rutted dirt road a few miles east of Ice Lake. He stopped when he saw Ty Niska’s weird, sci-fi, piece-of-shit Subaru XT. Niska owned it, so Dave’s loathing was at least part envy.
“Hey, dawgs,” called Niska, walking up to the front of the Pinto and banging on the hood. “Let’s do some bidness.”
Ty Niksa was the supreme badass at Castle Lake High School. He dealt drugs, bragged about the prostitutes he’d slept with, always carried a switchblade inside his boot, and palled around with a couple older guys who enjoyed showing off their prison tats. He also had a kind of jumpy energy that made him seem like a cork in a bottle of champagne, one that was always on the verge of exploding.
“Get in,” said Dave.
Niska slid into the backseat, reeking of weed. “So what can I do for you lads?”
Dave glanced sideways at Monty. “We need a couple of handguns.”
“That right.”
Monty turned around to look at him. “Two revolvers. Have to be the same make and model. And we need a box of cartridges and four blanks.”
“I see. All very intriguing. It’ll cost you.”
“They don’t have to be top of the line,” said Dave, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He was nervous and didn’t want Niska picking up on it. “We want something low cost.”
“You gonna tell me why?”
“Can you get it?” asked Monty.
“I can get anything for a price. When do you need it?”
“A couple of days?” said Dave. “Is that doable?”
“Might cost you extra.”
“How much?” asked Monty.
“Well, ballpark, a couple hundred for each handgun. How many rounds?”
“Say, fifty. Total.”
“Okay, another forty, fifty bucks. And I don’t know about the blanks, but I can ask around. Of course, my help don’t come free of charge. But I got to say, boys, you have me real curious about what’s going down.”
“It’s a prank,” said Monty, offering Niska a mischievous grin. “Dave and Sam Romilly are going to fight a duel. Out in the woods. We’d need your help with that, too.”
“Seriously, lads? Consider me on board. Again, for a price.”
Monty explained that they wanted the ammunition so Sam could practice his shot. Dave wouldn’t need to because on the day of the duel, Niska would be there to orchestrate it. He would be the one to load the revolvers with two cartridges each. Two blank cartridges. He would do the countdown and give the order to fire.
“But what’s the point?” he asked, “if nobody’s going to get hurt?”
“Sam will be so nervous he’ll be shitting bricks,” said Dave.
“I’m hoping for a good old nervous breakdown,” said Monty with a laugh.
“You guys are nasty. I like the way you think.”
“For the whole thing,” said Monty. “How much?”
“Say, seven hundred.”
“How much?” asked Dave, turning all the way around.
“It’s a deal,” said Monty.
“No,” Dave countered. “It’s too steep.”
“I’ve got the money. It’s fine.”
“Your little bookie business still going strong?” asked Niska.
“Never mind where I got it. How fast can you get us the stuff?”
“Might take a couple of days.”
“Two days,” said Monty. “If it takes any longer, the deal’s off.”
“Oooh, can I really be in the presence of Dirty Harry? You’re a freakin’ poser, Mickler. Always have been. Anyway, when is this duel happening?”
“Next Saturday morning,” said Dave. “We’ll get you the details later.”
“I intend to take off as soon as it’s over. If there are any repercussions, I wasn’t there. You hear me?”
“We hear you,” said Dave. His hands were sweating as he gripped the steering wheel. He hated this almost as much as he hated what he’d done at the party. It was a nightmare, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t wake up. Monty had been there for him, like always. He needed Monty at his side right now, someone who never judged, just cared about him.
“Well, nice doing business with you sons of bitches,” said Niska, pushing the door open with his boot. “I’ll be in touch.”
32
On Thursday morning, Jane arrived at the bank just before nine and was directed to Wendell Romilly’s second-floor office. She found him seated behind an oak desk, wearing a three-piece suit and looking deeply wrinkled, tanned, and wizened. Oddly, the suit—even the collar of his shirt—seemed too big for him. She wondered if he might be ill.
“Ms. Lawless?” he asked, standing.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
“Have a seat.” He resumed his chair. “This won’t take long.”
She wondered what he meant by that.
The walls were painted a cream color, the lower third covered in a beautiful oak wainscoting. What appeared to be an original oil painting, a landscape with billowing clouds, something inspired by Constable no doubt, hung on the wall behind him. A built-in bookcase covered most of the wall across from his desk. Three narrow, arched windows at the far end of the room provided some natural light. She could easily see herself happily spending her working life in a room like this.
Fixing her with a dour stare, he said, “I think we can cut to the chase.”
She’d been about to ask him if he minded if she recorded their interview. “Pardon me?”
“You’re here because you want to get the dirt on me and my son. I know you’ve been scooping up all the gossip you can find.”
She wouldn’t have put it that way, but of course he was right.
Tapping his fingertips together, he went on. “I didn’t murder my oldest son, Ms. Lawless. We had our difference
s, to be sure, but nothing that would have caused such an overreaction on my part. I can’t prove it one way or the other. I’m also sure you have no evidence of my guilt because none exists.”
Again, she couldn’t argue the point.
“Perhaps you could enlighten me about something. Why is it that you think my younger son, Scott, had something to do with Sam’s death?”
“Well,” she began, crossing her legs, “shortly before Sam died, he and Scott were seen fighting, wrestling each other in Victory Park. Later, Sam said that Scott was about to do something which he thought would ruin his life. Whatever it was, Sam apparently tried to talk him out of it.”
He stopped his finger tapping. “I thought it might be that.” Rolling his chair closer to the desk, he folded his hands and gave himself a minute to think. “People have been whispering behind my back for years. They’ve obviously blown what happened out of all proportion. That’s why I’m going to tell you something I’ve never talked about before. It’s nobody’s business, but to end your little foray into my family’s past, I think it’s necessary.” He squared his shoulders. “The summer before his junior year, Scott started a small business—cutting people’s lawns. He earned a nice chunk of change for his efforts. One of his clients, a teacher at the high school—Nicolle Chapman—spent her summer trying to seduce him. She succeeded, Ms. Lawless, because Scott was young and stupid and, like most kids his age, wanted desperately to get laid.
“She was married, though for work reasons, her husband was away more than he was home. I don’t know all the details, but Scott told me she was unhappy. He also said that they were in love and would be together forever—nothing I could say would ever change that. Now, this is the first I’ve heard that Sam knew about it. If my sons fought, it was because of Scott’s relationship with Nicolle Chapman. As soon as I learned about it, I went to see her. I told her that if she didn’t stop seeing Scott, I’d report her behavior to the school board. She would have been fired and she knew it. I also gave her a thousand dollars to keep her mouth shut. I didn’t want there to be any repercussions for my son.”
“How did Scott take that?”
Drawing a circle with his finger, he said, “Not well. But he got over it. Life went on.”
“The morning Sam died—”
“Scott was home. I’d gotten up early that morning, around five. I couldn’t sleep, so I went downstairs to make myself a sandwich. While I was sitting at the kitchen table, I heard footsteps coming down the stairs. A short time later, the front door opened and shut. I finished eating and went upstairs to see which one of my kids had gone AWOL. Scott was asleep in his bed. Sam was gone. I showered, shaved, and dressed, and, as I walked past Scott’s bedroom a second time, I checked in on him again. He was still snoring and hadn’t moved a muscle. He’d been out late the night before, drinking. His pity party lasted several more weeks until I told him that if he didn’t straighten up, he’d have to find somewhere else to live.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because,” he said, barely concealing his contempt, “I know that if I tell you the truth, it will have the same effect as putting a full-page ad in the local paper.”
“I see,” she said.
“I doubt you do. Are you a parent?”
“No.”
“You make my point for me. I’m finished with you, Ms. Lawless. You can leave.”
It seemed pointless to thank him. He was going to say his piece no matter how nicely she’d asked. When she reached the door, she stopped and turned to face him. “You’re a thoroughly unpleasant man, Mr. Romilly.”
“So I’m told.”
“I feel sorry for your children.”
“I do too, Ms. Lawless.” He waved her away and returned to the work on his desk.
* * *
Jane’s sluggish brain cried out for caffeine, but she didn’t want to be late for her Skype call with Becca. She found Emma in the lake house kitchen, standing at the counter eating a piece of toast. “Oh, you made coffee,” she said, quickly getting down a mug and pouring herself a cup.
“Where were you?” asked Emma, licking jam off her finger.
“I had to interview someone in town.”
“Someone?”
“Wendell Romilly.”
“Ugh,” she said, dropping another piece of bread in the toaster. “Let’s not talk about that family.”
Something in the tenor of her voice made Jane stop. “What? Did something happen?”
“Just another one of Scott’s epic texts. His third. This one started out with a proposal of marriage. He plots out our entire life together, how great it will be. The last one was all about how we could convince Verity to come live with us. And the one before that was a rumination on how he could permanently eliminate Philip from my life.”
“Did he threaten him?”
“Not in so many words. But that man is obsessed.”
“I want to hear more,” said Jane, “but right now, I have to run upstairs. I’ve got a Skype call at ten.”
“Oh, just so you know, Ted Hammond’s coming by to give me his thoughts on that electrical repair. I’m going to ask him to look at a few other things while he’s here, so if you hear banging or whatever, that’s what it is.”
“Thanks,” said Jane.
Once upstairs, she tiptoed past Cordelia’s door and entered her own bedroom, closing the door behind her. Sitting down at a small desk next to the window, she opened her laptop. She checked her email while she waited. At exactly ten, the call came in.
Jane clicked on the Skype icon and the page opened.
“Jane?” asked Becca.
“Thanks for calling.” Becca was a plump, middle-aged woman with shoulder-length straight dark hair and glasses. Her clothing, what Jane could see of it, was tailored business attire.
“Of course.” Her voice was low, her affect somewhat flat.
Before Jane broached the subject of recording the conversation, she wanted to get a feel for who Becca was. From what Kurt had said, she valued her privacy. Asking up front about a possible recording might put her off, or even worse, spook her into being less forthcoming.
“Kurt emailed me yesterday,” Becca began. “He’d already told me about Sam, about what the police found in the graveyard. I was surprised, of course … and, frankly, pretty devastated. Sam was one of the good guys in my world back in Castle Lake.”
“Are you coming home for the reunion?”
“No interest in that.”
“You live somewhere out east?”
“I live in DC. I have a law degree from Columbia. After I graduated, I began working for RAINN. Are you familiar with that?”
“I am,” said Jane. The Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network was the nation’s largest anti sexual-violence organization, which made total sense.
“I head a committee on national policy. I also do pro bono work when time allows.”
“You’re married?” Jane had noticed a gold band on her left hand.
“Happily married, with an amazing daughter. I’m sorry I don’t have much time this morning. Before we get started, there’s a question I’d like to put to you.”
“Sure,” said Jane. “Fire away.”
She hesitated, but only for a second. “Do you think Sam’s murder was somehow tied to my rape?”
Jane had changed her mind about Becca’s affect. It wasn’t flat, it was decisive and to the point. “Yes, I’m afraid I do.”
“I’ve always wondered about that. Everyone said he’d run away. Now I wish he had.” She looked down, straightened some papers on her desk. “Okay, what did you want to ask me?”
“I’m wondering if you’d allow me to record this.”
“For your podcast.”
“That’s right.”
“No,” said Becca firmly. “Depending on what happens with the official investigation, we might be able to revisit that later.”
“I entirely understand,” said Jane, glancing
down at her notes. “Okay, so first, I’d like to know if, after the fact, you told anyone what happened to you. I mean, I know Sam and Kurt were both there.”
“To clarify. Unlike Sam, who pulled Dave off me, Kurt didn’t actually see the rape occur, only the aftermath. Sam was the only witness. I told my mother about the rape the next day, but I didn’t say anything to my father. A couple days later, I opened up to my closest girlfriend. In terms of documentation, which I think you’re after with your question, I wrote about it contemporaneously in my diary—or, I should say, I wrote about my reasons for not going to the police. Even as a kid, I knew I wouldn’t be believed. Dave’s dad was a high-ranking police officer in town. And I’d been drinking. That was, in my youthful opinion, enough right there to preclude any further investigation. If I put myself through this secondary horror, as I called it in my diary, I felt it would scar me almost as badly as the rape had. I’ve thought long and hard about my decisions over the years. For instance, I was incredibly stupid to drink as much as I did that night. You may not believe it, but it was unusual behavior for me.”
As Jane scratched a few notes, she said, “But Kurt told you about Monty Mickler, right? That he was adding vodka to your Coke back at the house?” She looked up.
All expression had died on Becca’s face. “What?”
“Mickler was purposely getting you drunk.”
She cleared her throat, looked off to her right. “No, he never mentioned that.”
Jane was a little surprised but forged on. “Mickler was also there when Dave attacked you. Kurt thinks he wanted to watch. I would assume, since he softened you up, that he felt he deserved to see the results of his handiwork.”
Becca looked back at Jane, her lower jaw quivering. “I’m trying to find some way to express myself without resorting to my usual explosion of swear words.”
“Feel free,” said Jane.
She pressed a fist to her lips and gave herself a few seconds. “To be fair, you should know that shortly after I returned to school that fall, I told Kurt I didn’t want to talk about what happened anymore. He responded that he worried about me and needed to know I was okay. Of course, I wasn’t okay, but I agreed to let him walk me home once in a while so we could talk. That’s how we became friends, and that’s where we left the discussion of the assault. I wish he had let me know those details, but I understand why he didn’t. But, wow.” She looked up. “What a—” After biting her lower lip for a moment, she continued, “That explains a lot. Tell me, do you think Dave—and Monty—had anything to do with Sam’s murder?”
