Hard Truth (21 page)

She waved as he passed by and wasn’t particularly surprised when he failed to wave back. She stood out in the drive for a few minutes, watching the stars fight their way through the haze of clouds, then went inside the house. In the dining room, she sat at her laptop and prepared the accounts payable and receivable reports for several clients and transmitted them via email. She’d gotten halfway through a profit-and-loss statement when she realized she was close to falling asleep at the table. She saved her work, turned off the computer, and locked up the house.

Lorna made her way upstairs, mentally compiling a list of things to do in the morning. Finish the P&L for her client, make a run to the supermarket—and oh, yes, take her mother’s ashes down to the pond.

Lorna was still drying her hair with a towel when the phone rang. The clock on her bedside table read eleven-thirty. She reached across the bed to grab the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Lori? It’s Rob.” He cleared his throat. “Is this too late to call?”

“No, no. I just got out of the shower. It’s fine, Robbie,” she assured him, wondering what was up. Rob never called. “How are you? Is everything all right?”

“Sure. Fine. Listen, I keep seeing all this stuff on the news out here, about this Body Farm thing. It’s our farm, right?” His voice held a hint of the incredulous. “It seems so surreal.”

“Tell me about it. And yes, it’s our farm, and surreal is exactly right. Law enforcement agencies—Callen PD, the county detectives, the FBI—everywhere you look, media vans parked all along the roadway. Mostly I ignore them, but I know they’re there. And I’ve stopped watching the news. I don’t want to see any more.”

“Well, these guys—these dead guys—they have any idea who killed them?”

“The FBI thinks it’s someone local, someone who lived here then who still lives here now. I don’t suppose I’m giving away any secrets by telling you they’re concentrating on the guys who were around the nights Melinda and Jason disappeared.”

“Like who?”

“Like the Keelers, like Dustin Lafferty.”

“Oh, good.” He added somewhat hastily, “Makes sense that they’d suspect the guys who were around those nights. Yeah, that makes sense.”

“It’s a starting point.”

“One thing the media hasn’t said much about is Melinda. Do the police believe she was killed by the same person who killed all those guys?”

“I don’t think anyone really knows right now what happened to Mellie. No body’s been discovered, but then again, there’s a lot more to dig up in the field. And why someone who seems fixated on boys of a certain age would want to kill a nine-year-old girl, that doesn’t really add up.”

“Unless she saw something the killer didn’t want her to see,” Rob said softly.

The hair on the back of Lorna’s neck rose.

“Rob, what do you think she might have seen?”

“Nothing. I mean, I don’t have anything in mind. I don’t know why I said that.” His laugh sounded tinny, false. “It was just a thought. Anyway, the real reason I called was to apologize. I was mean to you when you called Monday. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. I pretty much forgot about it, to tell you the truth. I figured I woke you out of a sound sleep and chalked it up to that.”

“Thanks, Lorna. You always were the best.”

“Well, if not the best, then a damned close second.”

He laughed, and it sounded more natural this time. “Gran used to say that all the time.”

“She did.”

“How are you moving along with the sale of the house?”

“I’m not.” She hastened to add, “But I will be. As soon as I can. Things have been a little hectic here, and with all the notoriety surrounding the property, I don’t know that this is the best time to put it on the market. We might get a better price if we wait.”

“I guess a real estate person could give you a better idea of that. When you can get to it. I know you have your business to take care of, too. I guess Andrea and I are lucky that you’re there to handle all of this for us. I don’t think I thanked you, but I’m thanking you now.”

“I appreciate that, Rob. In the meantime, if you need cash, you can always borrow from Mom’s savings, then pay the account back after the property is sold.”

“That would be great, Lori. I could use a little help right now. I’m starting a new job in another week, a new restaurant down near Brentwood, but in the meantime, I’ve got some bills backed up.”

“Give me your account number and I’ll have the bank make a wire transfer.”

He put the phone down while he looked for his banking information, then gave her what she’d need.

“I really appreciate this, Lori. I really do.” He paused, then asked, “But you’ll tell me when they make an arrest, right? You’ll let me know when this is over?”

“Of course I will,” she assured him. “Rob, are you sure there isn’t something bothering you?”

“Positive. Look, you just keep me up-to-date with what’s happening out there,” he said, suddenly his old self again. “You’ll send me some money, and I’ll let you get some sleep. Love you, Lori.”

“Love you, too, Rob.” The phone went dead in her hand, and as she hung up, Lorna couldn’t help but wonder what that call had
really
been about.

T
wenty

For Lorna, the next several days passed in a blur of spreadsheets and profit-and-loss analyses, bank reconciliations, and conference calls. She’d managed a quick trip to her favorite Amish farm stand, where she picked up tomatoes, corn, peaches, eggs, and green beans. She bought extras of everything and packed several bags of produce to drop off at the Eagans’, where they toasted Billie’s status as a free woman with glasses of iced herbal tea.

For the first time in a week, she’d been grateful to have the house to herself and the time to devote to her business. Her involvement in the investigation had been engrossing, in a macabre way. For a few days, she’d gotten to be Nancy Drew. But however much she’d enjoyed her stint as an amateur detective, she had a business to run, and needed to refocus on the needs of her clients. She’d spent years building her reputation and expanding her client base. She couldn’t let it go untended, as appealing as her chance to play Miss Marple had been.

And it
had
been appealing. Especially partnering, however briefly, with T.J. She smiled to herself as she poured water into the coffee pot. Now, that had been a fantasy fulfilled. Zipping around country roads in that sexy little sports car in the company of a totally hunky PI—it was the stuff of daydreams. And if she felt a little like Mrs. Walter Mitty, who could blame her?

But now it was time to return her focus to reality. She had work to do, a property to sell. A life to get back to.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and took it into the dining room, where she emailed a client to confirm a meeting he’d requested for the end of September. She paused to wonder where she’d be then. Would she still be here, in Callen, or would she have returned to Woodboro? So much depended on the speed with which the case was resolved, and how much all the publicity hurt her chances of getting a good price for the farm.

Her memo and her coffee both finished, she hit the
Send
button on her email and walked to the window. Stretching out the kinks from having sat too long in one position, she raised the window sash to let in the fresh morning breeze. A front that had blown in this weekend had brought cooler air and lower humidity. She filled her lungs, and decided to take a walk outside. A little exercise in mid-morning was a good thing, she reminded herself as she grabbed her running shoes and unlocked the back door.

The view over the back field was a familiar one. Delicate Queen Anne’s lace and sturdy cornflowers had turned the field into a study in white and blue, with a few wild black-eyed Susans thrown in for accent. The corn Gil Compton had planted in the far field was well over six feet tall, and Lorna wondered when the police would let him on the property with his tractor to harvest it.

She sat on the bottom step and exchanged her flip-flops for the Nikes. She’d just finished tying them when she remembered she’d brought the second of her mother’s urns downstairs on Saturday to take it to the pond, but hadn’t gotten there yet because of the rain. Today would be the day. She went back inside and picked up the urn, locked the door behind her, and set out for the pond.

Palmer’s Pond, as locals still referred to it, had at one time been a watering hole for the cattle, sheep, and horses that the earliest Palmers had raised. When cash crops like corn and wheat became more profitable, the pond was marked strictly for swimming and fishing. Mary Beth had told Lorna of many lazy summer days spent reading a favorite book on the banks, floating along mindlessly in a rowboat, and taking a dip with her friends to cool off from the heat. As much as her mother had loved the pond, it had come as no real surprise to Lorna that Mary Beth would want some bit of herself to remain there.

Lorna tucked the urn under one arm and trudged along the edge of the field until she reached the family graveyard. She walked around the fence and down the slight incline to the pond. The rowboat was still tied up where her mother had left it two years ago, and Lorna held on to its rope and pushed it out into the shallow water to see if it leaked. When it appeared to be watertight, she pulled it back to shore, placed the urn on the bottom of the boat, and climbed in. With the single oar that rested across the seat, she pushed off from the edge, and finding one oar a difficult steer, decided to simply let the boat drift aimlessly. Once it arrived near the middle of the pond, she removed the lid from the urn and held it over the side of the boat and tilted it slightly. Ashes sprinkled out in a thin shower of gray and floated singularly and in clusters on the rippled surface.

When the canister was empty, she filled it with water, replaced the top, and dropped it into the dark water.

“As you wished, Mom,” Lorna said. “Two down, one to go.”

She lowered herself to the bottom of the small boat, leaned back against the wooden seat, her hands locked behind her head, and looked up to watch the clouds gather into shapes. A dog morphed into a large bird. A tree changed before her eyes into a castle with three turrets. A sailboat fashioned itself into a snake. She closed her eyes, letting the gentle motion of the boat rock her to sleep, and take her where it would.

The bang of the boat against something solid woke her, and she sat up with a start. She’d drifted across the pond and struck the last remaining pile from the old dock. She sat up and grabbed hold of the rope that hung from its side, then pulled the rowboat to shore. Once on land, she tied the small craft to the piling and got out. Her mission completed, her break over, she started up the rise to return to the house.

At the top of the rise stood Fritz Keeler.

She startled when she saw him. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.” He was smiling and holding a huge bouquet of roses. “I knew you had to be here someplace. I stopped at the house and saw your car, but no one answered the door, so I thought maybe you were out for a walk. I’d been just about everywhere else. This was my last stop.”

He held out the roses. “I was afraid I’d have to take these back with me. They’re going to start to wilt pretty soon, without water.”

“They’re lovely, Fritz. Thank you.” She reached for the flowers. Their scents mixed, spicy and floral, and she inhaled deeply. “Simply beautiful. Your mother would be proud of your green thumb.”

“And not much more, I’m afraid.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “That FBI agent just left my house. He thinks I had something to do with those killings out here. I can’t believe anyone would think I could . . .” He shook his head. “Anyway, he had some other agents come and they searched my house and took stuff—I don’t even know what all they took, they were making a list of items.”

“They had a warrant?”

“No. He asked if they could search the house and I said sure. I have nothing to hide. What’s the worst they could find? The love letters my dad sent my mother from Vietnam?”

He shook his head again, almost imperceptibly this time, and looked beyond her. “I’ve never been suspected of any crime in my life, Lorna. The thought that anyone could believe I would hurt someone else is killing me. I don’t know what to do.” He tried to laugh. “So, of course, when in doubt, take flowers to a pretty lady. Take flowers to a friend.”

“I am your friend, Fritz.” She held out her hand, and when he took it, his own was shaking. “Let’s walk back to the house, and you can tell me what happened.”

“The doorbell rang and this tall guy was standing there and he asked me if I was Francis Keeler and I said I was. He introduced himself as an FBI special agent and asked if he could come in.” Fritz shrugged. “What do you say? So I let him in. And he started asking me questions. A lot of questions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, did I ever hear of a gay bar outside of Wilmington called the Purple Pheasant.” His face looked ashen. “Well, so much for my efforts to remain safely in the closet, where I’ve been all my life.”

“Fritz, you know, it’s a different world than it was when we were kids. People are more accepting now—”

He held up one hand. “People in general, yes. People who are members of your own family, not necessarily.”

“You mean Mike?”

Fritz nodded. “And my mother. I tried years ago—many years ago now—to talk to Mom about this, but she went absolutely insane. To be
that way
is an abomination, she said, how could I humiliate her by being
that way.
She made me promise that no one in Callen would ever know, and that I would do my best to make it go away.” He laughed. “Can you imagine? ‘Francis, make it go away. We will not speak of it again, but you must make it stop.’ ”

“I’m so sorry.” Lorna placed a hand on his arm for comfort.

“Oh, that’s not even the best part. My brother had come into the house and made the mistake of walking through the room at that moment, and she turned on him. ‘Don’t you ever be what he is, Michael. Promise me. Swear to me you will never be what he is.’ ”

Fritz’s eyes filled with tears.

“As if
what I was
was something more horrible than she could bear.” Fritz visibly shivered. “That was the single worst moment of my life.”

“How old were you then?”

“Young. Fourteen, fifteen, maybe.”

“And yet you stayed with her, took care of her, all those years.”

“It was never discussed after that day. Never. And, she was, after all, my mother.”

“I wish for your sake she’d given you the respect you gave her.”

“That’s very sweet, very good of you.”

“What did Mike say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? He walks in on an argument like that and says nothing?”

“I guess he was as humiliated as I was, as my mother was. I always look back on that as a bad day for everyone, all the way around.”

“Did you tell this to the FBI agent?”

“No.” He shook his head. “He wasn’t interested in family dynamics. He wanted to search my house, and he wanted to know about the nights the Eagan kids disappeared and where I go when I leave Callen every other week. Like in case I’m running around the country killing young gay men and burying them in the first available field or woods I can find.”

“Where
do
you go?” she heard herself ask, at the same time wondering about the wisdom of permitting the authorities carte blanche to look through your belongings.

“I go to St. Louis. I have a house there, which I share with the same man I’ve shared it with for almost sixteen years. He has a florist business there—a family business he took over about twenty years ago—and I have my business here. So we have our separate lives and our shared life. It may not work for everyone, but it works for us.”

“He never comes here?”

“Are you crazy?” Fritz laughed. “My mother would rise from the dead and raise holy hell. No, we keep it this way. I’m more comfortable, not dealing with that here in Callen. I’m afraid I’m really quite a coward, Lorna.” He sighed heavily. “Though I suppose those days of anonymity are over now. I’m sure my brother will have plenty to say, once this gets out.”

“I’d expect Mike to be more understanding. You’re his brother.”

“He had the fear of God put into him by the very best of ’em. My mother could scare the pants off anyone. Mike hasn’t forgotten what she said, what she made him promise. In return, he made me promise to keep that part of my life to myself. And I always have.”

“I wish I could say something that would make you feel better.”

“Just you listening without censure makes me feel better, Lorna. You really are a friend.”

They reached the barn, and turned the corner. In the middle of the drive were two black-and-white patrol cars, along with Chief Walker’s vehicle.

“Uh-oh,” Fritz whispered.

“Hey, Fritz,” Chief Walker called out, then to acknowledge her presence, added, “Lorna.”

“Chief Walker. Long time no see.” Fritz tried to appear unconcerned that the police had apparently followed him to the farmhouse.

“I need you to come down to the station with me, Fritz,” Chief Walker said. “There are a few items that were taken from your attic that we need to talk about.”

Fritz frowned. “What kind of items?”

“Oh, just some things we’re having a hard time identifying. You mind coming with me? I’ll have someone drive your car to the station.”

“All right.” Fritz shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, though Lorna suspected he was churning inside. “Don’t forget to put those roses in water right away, Lorna. And an aspirin in the bottom of the vase will keep them fresh for an extra few days.”

“Thanks, Fritz.” She watched him walk away with the chief at his side.

“You are one lucky woman.” Brad Walker stood behind her, speaking softly.

“What do you mean?” Lorna turned around to face him.

“Let’s just say my heart was in my mouth when I drove past here and saw his car in the drive, and then you not answering the door. We were just about to break a window to get inside, when you came down the drive here.” He took off his hat and wiped sweat from his forehead. “Thank God we got here when we did.”

“Brad, none of this is making any sense.”

“It would if you could see what all we took out of his attic.” Brad pointed toward Fritz, who was getting into the back of the chief’s car. “We’ve got this case locked, Lorna, no question about it. We got ourselves the killer . . .”