by Dixie Davis
“Did they have a funeral?”
“Yeah, after about six weeks, her parents finally accepted that she wasn’t coming home, so we had services for her. Probably the saddest funeral that church has ever seen.”
Lori couldn’t even imagine what that would be like. Giving up on ever seeing your daughter again. Not knowing what had happened. Not even being sure she was dead. How did you handle that kind of loss and come out still liking the person everyone else seemed to blame?
“Did the town think Mitch did it?”
Kim pressed her lips together, twisting them to the side. “Let’s just say there was some nudging away from that.”
Lori read between the lines: Kim had put her prodigious skills at cultivating the town’s gossip mill to good use — and actual good, this time. “You didn’t tell people she’d committed suicide, did you?”
Kim shook her head quickly. “None of my business if she did, and that was just speculation.”
That hadn’t often stopped Kim before, but Lori buttoned her mouth.
“I was just very good at pointing out that there was no evidence, physical or circumstantial, that even proved she was dead. Habeas corpus and all that.” She threw around the Latin phrase like an old court hand.
“Do you still have her journal?”
Kim’s gaze fell to the tile floor. “It was too personal. I gave it back to Mitch.”
Lori nodded slowly. “Did you ever let Ray and Katie see it?”
“Oh, no, no, no. They had a hard enough time as it was. I mean, I was friends with Mitch, too, so the things she said about him in the diary, I could see his side too. But her parents? They’d never see him the same way, and they needed each other’s strength to get through this.”
Lori remembered Ray’s hinting at violence the first time around.
Why was everyone hitting Mitch? Why was he just taking it? Wouldn’t an innocent person stand up for themselves?
But now they could all see he was innocent of the first “murder.” What did that mean for the second?
Kim’s eyes rested on Lori, full of compassion. “I know this isn’t easy for you. Nobody says you have to look into this one.”
Lori decided not to argue with her, studying the scratches on her countertop.
“Even if I did have the journal,” Kim continued, “I don’t think I’d want to turn it over. It’s just too prejudicial.”
Again with the legal terminology. Lori hadn’t seen this side of her friend before — or the side that protected someone’s privacy. “Why do you say that?”
“Like I said, if you didn’t know Mitch, if you’d never heard his side of the story, you would think less of him.”
“I thought you said it didn’t make him look guilty.”
“I said it didn’t make me think murder. But the way she talked about needing to escape her life, feeling like the walls were closing in, and all the while, Mitch refused to listen or even argued with her . . .” Kim grabbed a rag and swiped at an invisible spot on the counter. “He couldn’t see what she was saying, and she probably wasn’t telling him in a way he could understand. He wanted to stay near her parents — they’ve been like parents to him for the last twenty-some years — close to everything they’d always had, close to the life they’d built. She felt like that life was suffocating her.”
“You saw all this happening from the outside, right?”
Kim shrugged.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“She didn’t tell me everything. But she talked a little about this. After she was gone, that was when I got Mitch’s perspective.”
“And what did you think? Was her life unbearable?”
“I thought she was unhappy, but there wasn’t a reason. There doesn’t have to be a reason to be depressed.”
Lori almost startled. “You think she was depressed?”
“Her journal makes it sound that way. And I don’t think anyone in their right mind could kill themselves.”
Perhaps not. Lori rolled the information around in her mind. All that evidence probably would have made her think Mitch did it, if she only had the diary, or that Debbie had committed suicide.
But now they knew neither were true.
“So it looks like she . . . ran away instead?”
Kim looked away, and Lori caught a glimpse of the tears glistening in her eyes. “I guess so. I just wish . . . I would have helped her, you know? I mean, I’m not a psychologist or anything, but if I’d really understood what she was feeling, I would have done anything to get her help.”
In that moment, Lori realized just how hard this must be for Kim — who’d been there to comfort Lori all along. Kim had lost her best friend and for nearly a decade assumed that she’d killed herself. Now, she’d discovered that the friend she loved and wanted to help had rejected Kim along with her own parents and husband and everyone else she’d ever known.
And for what?
Unlike every other person she’d actually talked to about Debbie, though, Kim wasn’t angry. She was just sad — for what might have been, what she might have been able to do, how she’d failed.
The creak of the middle stair carried through the kitchen wall, and Lori and Kim both turned toward the sound. “Looks like my guests are ready for dinner.”
Kim patted her shoulder. “I’ll let you get to work. Let me know if I can help with anything else.”
Lori thanked her and let her out the back door before heading to the parlor to intercept her guests if they hadn’t already left.
Instead of the Besases, however, Lori found Shawn in the parlor, bleary-eyed as if he’d just overslept both lunch and dinner. Maybe sleep was the only vacation he could get from losing his wife.
“Feeling any better?” Lori asked, though her tone betrayed her — obviously he wasn’t.
Shawn rubbed his eyes. “Do you have any recommendations for dinner?”
“My standby is Brunswick stew at the Salty Dog, with hush puppies, of course.” Half a second too late, Lori remembered she should throw some business Kim’s way as a thank you. “The Mimosa Café has some great soups and salads, too.”
He nodded absently, as if he wasn’t listening at all.
“Would you like me to order something for you?”
Shawn looked at her, as if he’d just remembered she was there. “Uh, no, no, I can get it myself. Thanks, though.”
Lori let him out the front, making sure he had his keys, and locked the door behind him. But no sooner had she closed it than the Besases came downstairs, still looking like they’d absorbed the sun’s brightness. Such a contrast from Shawn. They headed out to eat, but before Lori could close the door, a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped onto her porch. He looked to be about her age, maybe a couple years older. “Do you have any vacancies?” he asked.
“I do,” Lori said. She quoted the man her rates, but he was already nodding before she even finished.
“I’ll take it,” he said, pulling out his wallet. “Two nights.”
“Wonderful.” Lori read his credit card: Jared Lehanneur.
Where had she heard that name before? “Oh,” she exclaimed once she’d placed it. “Do you have family in the area?”
“I used to,” Jared admitted. “Hey, do the Watsons still own the shop across the street?”
“Yes, they do.”
His smile held something Lori couldn’t quite put her finger on, but whatever it was, it didn’t quite sit well with her. She should refuse the booking, really — she was no fool, though she’d never had occasion to exercise that right before — but her investigator sense told her Jared might know something helpful. “Let me grab a form to get your info,” Lori said. “I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be here.” Jared grinned again.
Again, a chill swept over Lori’s scalp.
The next morning, the cherry tarragon sausages were a hit with the Besases, and Jared seemed pleased. It was
hard to tell whether he meant his compliments or was mocking her with the sinister bent to his smile, though.
But even Shawn managed to choke a couple patties down, so that had to mean something.
The Besases headed off to explore historic downtown, Shawn was bound for the Salt Marsh Boardwalk, and Jared was going to . . . church? Lori tried not to act surprised, though it wasn’t all that often her guests — vacationers — headed off to visit a congregation and a pastor they’d never met before. But Lori just smiled and bid her guest goodbye.
Once she had the breakfast dishes in the sink and linens in the laundry, Lori changed into her favorite fluttery yellow skirt and headed to church herself. She wasn’t entirely sure it was wise for her to attend church either after all that had happened the last few days, but if anyone needed comfort now, it was her.
Unfortunately, she didn’t find it. Pastor Bill walked to the pulpit and began his sermon with some thoughts on Palm Sunday today. Lori’s attention wandered a bit until Pastor Bill suddenly captured it again with a scripture: “‘For I was hungry and you gave Me food; I was thirsty and you gave Me drink; I was a stranger and you took Me in; I was naked and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison and you came to Me.’”
Lori flinched inwardly. This was why she’d felt out of sorts. Yes, she wasn’t making progress with the case, and obviously she couldn’t discount the emotional impact the turmoil of the last two days had on her. But in the end, she’d abandoned Mitch when he needed her.
He deserved for her to at least try to talk to him about what happened.
She knew how awful it was to sit in that jail all weekend, your humanity eroding away as you sit alone, behind bars, even the basic dignity of using the bathroom taken from you.
If he wasn’t going to see her, she was just going to have to insist.
She stood up, edged past Lillian Hunter and Tina Mendez, and headed straight for the car.
The drive to the county jail was only about half an hour, but that was plenty of time to contemplate what she might say to Mitch when she saw him.
It wasn’t enough time, however, to decide whether that first sentence should be “I’m sorry I haven’t been here” or “What on earth happened?”
Lori filled out the forms and settled in a hard, plastic chair in the waiting area. A comfortable guest parlor this was not. They may be criminals behind the bars — Mitch wasn’t one, was he? — but did their guests have to be punished too?
After what felt like an eternity on that hard chair, Lori stood up. What could be taking so long? He wouldn’t really turn her away if she was already here, would he?
Of course not.
Surely it didn’t take this long to go and get him. Her own stint in jail was short enough that she hadn’t really had a chance to get visitors — and the only person who would have visited was the one who’d put her there. Mitch would want her to visit, would want her support. Right?
Unless he did this, and he was taking the punishment just as he’d absorbed Chip’s punch two nights ago.
Lori realized she was pacing and plopped down in the hard, plastic chair again. The jolt racked through her bones.
After a few more minutes, and a few more rounds of pacing the room, the door to the waiting area swung open and a uniformed guard stepped in. He looked vaguely familiar — had Lori met him when she was a prisoner? Did the women’s wing use the same guards as the men’s?
“Um, Miss Keyes?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry, but the prisoner doesn’t want visitors right now.”
For a moment, defeat smothered her thoughts.
But she wouldn’t give in. She’d just have to convince Mitch — and this guard — to let her see him anyway. “Excuse me?” Her tone of voice very clearly turned to that of a mother reprimanding a child.
The corrections officer stepped back a bit, his face showing chagrin. But it wasn’t him she was trying to reprimand. She crossed the room toward the guard, trying to figure out whether she should bully or plead with him.
Pleading would probably come off better for her. The man doubtlessly dealt with enough bullying on a daily basis that she couldn’t hope to do a better job than the people in this prison. “Officer, please. He’s been through something terrible — I was with him when he found the body — but I really don’t think he did it. I can’t be sure, though, unless I get a chance to talk to him. Is there any way you can get him out here?”
The guard frowned. “I’m afraid it’s his choice, ma’am.”
“Well, how long until he gets bail then?” When Lori had been arrested, late on a Friday, she’d had to spend the full weekend in jail until a judge set her bail and she could leave. She imagined it would be the same for Mitch.
“His bail will be set tomorrow, but I wouldn’t hold out hope. The judge might not give him bail, and if he does, it’s going to be high.”
“Familiar with the case?” Lori asked.
He nodded. “My wife went to high school with Debbie.”
Lori winced. “And Mitch, then, too.”
“Yeah.”
The undercurrent in his voice was unmistakable. “You don’t think it looks good for Mitch?”
“I don’t know, just what I’ve heard around here, but seems like most of the jail has already made up its mind about him. Probably did years ago.”
“So did Chief Branson,” Lori pointed out. Hopefully if this guard knew Debbie, he’d know of Chip and Mitch and their rivalry — and how this could very well be the antithesis of justice.
“Listen, I know he’s not taking visitors. But — please — I’m worried about him. I need to see him. Can you let him know?”
She hadn’t planned to say that, but the words just tumbled out of her. When she heard her own voice echoing back to her, the words struck Lori to the heart. Because they were true. Maybe she didn’t know what to think about Mitch and what he had or hadn’t done, but she was worried about him. She did care. She did need to see him.
The officer nodded slowly. “I’ll try to convince him. Again.”
“Thank you.” Lori mustered a small smile, then fell back into pacing once the door closed behind the corrections officer again.
Immediately, she also set to worrying. What if he didn’t want to see her? What would she do then? What would that mean? That he’d done it? He was guilty and didn’t want her help, didn’t want her to waste her time? Or that he just felt guilty, like he probably had for the last ten years, like he might forever?
Of course, it was entirely possible that he didn’t want to see her because he didn’t want to face his inadvertent attempt at bigamy.
Lori realized the sharp staccato tapping of her heels across the floor meant she was more marching than pacing, trying to burn off that frustrated energy. Without much success in this cramped little cage, unfortunately.
The wait gave her a chance to revise her half-formed plans, though. Now, she was certain that the first thing she’d say to him was, “What were you thinking?”
It was a good thing this room was security-proofed, because she might have punctuated that question with a projectile if everything weren’t bolted down.
At last, a knock came at the door, and the officer poked his head in again. “He’s willing to talk to you.”
This time, Lori was sitting down, and she hopped to her feet. “Really?”
“Wasn’t easy, but I convinced him.”
Lori was fairly certain he had more important things to be doing than persuading an inmate to meet with a girlfriend — or maybe ex-girlfriend — so she was doubly grateful. “Thanks for talking to him.” She tried to beam at the guard to convey the depth of her gratitude, but she probably just came off looking like a deranged cartoon hyena, she was so on edge.
At least she was getting out of the waiting room. The corrections officer led Lori down a short hallway to a large room dipped in white paint. She sat at a c
afeteria table, the kind with its benches connected to the tabletop, and waited.
She was so pleased to get out of the waiting room, only to end up waiting here instead. Although the bench was a little more comfortable on her hips than the hard, plastic chairs had been.
The corrections officer briefed her on the proper behavior — no touching, no arguing, no shouting, etc., etc. — before leaving her there to wait.
It seemed to take years for Mitch to finally emerge from the other doorway in the room. He was handcuffed and dressed in a faded orange jumpsuit, looking for all the world like he’d already been convicted in more than the court of public opinion.
A surge of emotion filled her chest, and Lori stood, biting back tears. “Mitch,” she said, the name soft on her lips again.
He couldn’t look at her but shuffled over to the table where she sat.
“Are you okay?” she asked. Not what she’d planned on leading with, but now, seeing him dressed as an inmate, it was the most pressing question.
Mitch shrugged. “Not exactly Club Med in here.”
Lori managed an almost soundless laugh, settling on the bench again. “Believe me, I know.”
“I remember.” Mitch sat at the table across from her, his eyes fixed on the faux wood-grain veneer. “Why did you come?”
Wasn’t that obvious? Lori leaned in, a quick glance at the guard to make sure this was okay, and lowered her voice. “Listen, I’ve been doing some digging —”
“Why?”
She startled and stopped short. “What do you mean, ‘Why’? Did you plan on going to jail for this?”
“I don’t know anymore. I didn’t kill her, but . . . I’m not sure I don’t deserve this.”
Lori pulled back. “What are you saying? What does that mean?”
Mitch’s hands, large, rough, talented, the hands she’d held so many times, now rubbed at one another, his only answer.
“Did you . . . did you do this?” she barely breathed.
“No.” Mitch’s voice was quiet but clear. “I didn’t kill Debbie. But . . .” He heaved a deep breath. “I drove her away.”
