Murder at Willow Slough (21 page)

Kent called while Jamie was down in Indy, didn’t leave his number, and wasn’t in the book.

Jamie sat in a La-Z-Boy with only the stove light on, listening to Bach, drinking sour mash, waiting for Stone to call; half-hoping the doorbell would ring, but knowing it wouldn’t.

When he’d had too much to drink, he put himself to bed on the air mattress. The smell of Kent’s sheets cheered him. Danny will be here tomorrow.

Kent was here last night.

23  

Danny

The next day Jamie tried Stone one last time, “Get your ass up here right now.”

He showered and shaved, then straightened up the house for Danny and Lynn. He looked in the refrigerator. They would need food. What to buy? He made a list on an old Navane note pad.

Beer; Michelob, he thought. They could always send out for pizza; no one would expect him to cook at a time like this. Breakfast food; he wrote down a loaf of bread, eggs and bacon, sausage and fruit. He couldn’t find an onion, and added that to the list, along with sour cream. Soft drinks; all she had was Diet Pepsi for Arnie.

Arnie! He was sitting down in Indianapolis and didn’t know about Thelma. How to get in touch with him? How to deal with Mrs. Arnie if he reached her instead?

Arnie’s number wasn’t on Thelma’s speed dial. Where would she have put his number, or would she have kept it in her head, or did she never call there because of Mrs. Arnie? Should he wait until Arnie called him?

Somehow this was more nerve-wracking than anything else. Jamie remembered how Ronald’s wife #5 hadn’t bothered to call his sons after he died, pissed off because none of them had kept in touch with their abusive father. Then they’d had to buy her off to settle their grandparents’ estate and God, what a mess.

Poor Arnie. Jamie would call him when he found the number, screw Mrs. Arnie.

The day grew longer. He worried that if he left for a half hour to go to the store, Danny and Lynn would arrive and he wouldn’t be there. Wait, go, who knew? The phone rang. It was Kent. He asked to help. Jamie faxed him the grocery list.

Then he cried again. Kent was too solicitous, which felt wonderful and miserable at the same time.
***

A black, late-model BMW sports car was parked in the driveway when Kent came by. Jamie was hugging a blond man; a blonde woman rubbed Jamie’s back and had a hand on the other guy’s shoulder.

Kent slowed the pickup to a crawl, wishing he’d arrived either sooner or later. Slowly, quietly, he parked and switched off the ignition. The hug ended with the older brother still holding Jamie by the shoulders and talking to him. Kent wished he had an older brother.

Danny said, “We’ve got company.” Jamie looked up, saw Kent. Jamie’s eyes were red. Kent felt his lips frown. He unlatched his door, climbed out of the cab.

Jamie said, “This is the detective I was with when we got the word about Mom. He stayed with me at the hospital and the whole first night.”

Kent stepped over to meet the people. Jamie said tremulously, “Lynn, Danny, this is Sergeant Kent Kessler of the Indiana State Police. He’s an elite homicide detective and task force Commander. He volunteered to do grocery shopping for us. Kent, I present my sister-in-law Lynn Evans, the acclaimed illustrator of children’s books; and her husband, my big brother Dan Foster, who writes for the Denver Rocky Mountain News.”

“How do you do, sergeant?” Danny said, reaching out to shake his hand. “We appreciate your getting this stuff.”

Perfect grammar, just like Jamie. He was five years older; his blond hair was darker, not as thick, he was three inches taller, 40 pounds heavier, husky almost, built nowhere the same; but the family resemblance was striking. He lacked Jamie’s ability to stop traffic, but Danny looked just like him. It was amazing to see them together.

Danny loved his little brother, it was obvious. Jamie loved Danny with all the hero-worship a little brother can summon. A Gay guy, a Straight guy, they were Bro’s.

Which made the Stone thing all the harder.

Kent shook Danny’s hand, said hello to pretty Lynn. “Ms. Evans, I’m sorry we have to meet like this. You must be tired after that long drive. I hope it was uneventful?”

She said ruefully, “For fourteen straight hours.”

“You need help with those?” Danny asked, moving toward the 250’s passenger door.

“No, please, Mr. Foster,” Kent protested. “You just got here. Relax, visit, I can bring this stuff in.”

“Come on, honey,” Lynn said. She turned to Jamie, standing by himself, immobilized. She slipped a hand on his elbow. “Cutie, you got a bathroom in this place?”

“Yes, sure.” He led her into the house, pausing to prop the storm door open so Kent and Danny wouldn’t have to fumble with it.

Danny unlocked the sports car’s trunk, surveyed assorted suitcases, picked up Lynn’s dress bag, a carry-on and a shopping bag full of shoes. “Kent Kessler. Big Ten Player of the Year—for the Wrong School.” Kent smiled; Purdue fans were all alike, they hated IU, which hated them back. “Two and a half years with the Braves. All-Star team, that game-winning catch in the LCS in ’93. I’ll never forget it. It summed up the grandeur and tragedy of sports.”

Danny gathered himself. “I saw you play against the Rockies. You had a great game, a triple and a home run, five RBIs.”

“Against Sant’angelo? I remember that game.”

“I’m a sportswriter. I cover the Broncos mostly.”

“Dan Foster. Hey, I’ve seen you on ESPN.”

Danny was amazed to meet Kent this way, a star athlete who became a police officer. The guy could have lived off his signing bonus, lent his name to a car dealership and a restaurant and loafed for the rest of his life; every other ex-jock did. “Thanks for coming, man.” It was forlorn but Danny didn’t know what else to say. “Thanks for taking care of my Bro.” Kent, with three bags of groceries, followed him into the house. The famed Dan Foster was Jamie’s big brother. “Kitchen’s to your right.”

“Got it.” Kent knew where the kitchen was.

A minute later he helped Danny with the suitcases and deposited a covered plate on the kitchen counter. Jamie, I’m sorry. And your brother’s a reporter too.

But sports, fantasyland, not homicide. Puts things in perspective, don’t it? I know who the star is in this house. Gosh, little man.

Jamie unpacked groceries, was in charge of the kitchen. Water ran elsewhere. Jamie saw the plate. “What’s this?”

Kent looked down at the floor. “A pie. From my Mom.”

“Oh, Kent. That is so nice.” Jamie took the lid off the Tupperware, stared at golden-brown latticework made by hand. “It’s beautiful. Please thank her for us. She didn’t have to do that.” He looked at Kent, then held onto the counter, looked away. “Casseroles every five minutes, Hoosierman.”

Kent made a fist, studied a carton of eggs. “Whatcha got?” Lynn asked, entering the room to look at the pie.

“Homemade,” Danny said. “From Kent’s Mom.”

“What kind is it, cherry?”

Kent said, “Cherry’s the pie she’s most famous for. She grows the fruit herself. Stay out of the way when Mom’s pitting cherries.”

“It’s very considerate of her. Jamie told us how you sped down the highway the other day after you played back the messages on the answering machine.”

Danny said, “And stayed with him at the hospital, when he was all alone, and we couldn’t be there. Thanks, man.”

Kent just felt glum.

“Um, should I make coffee, tea?” Jamie asked. “What do you all want to drink? Lynn? We’ve got beer, wine, booze, soda, juice. Kent, what can I get you?”

“Coffee, I think,” Lynn said. “I can make it.”

“Nothing for me, thanks,” Kent said. “I’ve got to get back.”

“Honey, you want coffee? Or a beer?”

“Beer sounds good. You sure you can’t stay?” Danny asked Kent. “We appreciate all you’ve done for us.”

“Lord, it would help if I’d pay the man,” Jamie scowled. “I’m such a scatterhead. Where’s my checkbook? Lynn, find the receipt.” He went off to the dining room.

“I have to be going,” Kent said. “Jamie, we can do the money later.”

“No, at the rate I’m headed, I won’t remember it two minutes from now and you’ll be out eighty bucks. Here’s my checkbook. Lynn, did you find that receipt?”

“Fifty-four dollars and twelve cents.”

Jamie wrote the check. The phone rang. Danny stood in the doorway. “Jim DeShaies, asking for you.”

“That’s the rector,” Jamie said. “Tell him who you are. Ask about the string quartet.” He handed Kent the check. “The pie symbolizes all you’ve done for us. Not just the groceries, but the hospital. And the camping trip.”

Kent put a hand on muscled shoulder for a second. “You should have told me they weren’t getting here till today. I’d have stayed with you last night.”

Their eyes met. “It meant so much that you came the first night. I didn’t want you sleeping on a hard floor two nights in a row.”

“I’d have come. You shouldn’t have been alone at a time like this.”

“Kent, all day yesterday I took comfort in the fact that you came the first night. And now I’m not alone. But I’ll never forget what you did. Never.”

“Call you tomorrow?”

“Would you? I’d like that.” Jamie walked him to the door, then Kent was gone.

Lynn said, “He seems like a real nice guy.”

“He’s a prince. Lord, I’d better talk to Father Jim.”

“You’re having a string quartet?”

“I’m paying for it. Something classy, you know? And afterward a sound system in the parish hall, playing Julie Andrews.” Jamie hurried to the phone.

Lynn poured coffee. Danny came behind her, put his hand on her shoulder. “String quartet,” Lynn told her husband. “And Julie Andrews. Is that Jamie or what?”

“Mom deserves it. She loved Julie, he does too. I remember the day, he was maybe five, when he realized Eliza Doolittle sounded just like Queen Guenevere and Mary Poppins and Maria von Trapp. The little shit ran around screaming, ‘See, Mommy? See, Danny? Juwie Andwews, Juwie Andwews!’

“He was so cute—and so obnoxious. He played Mary Poppins so much I told him I’d shove that spoonful of sugar up his ass. Mom finally banned ‘Super-Cali-Fuck-You-Julie’ every day but February 29th.” Danny clapped his hands, dissolved in laughter. “It took him years to catch on. He got totally pissed. Then every leap year, the goddamn cast recordings blasted 24 hours a day.”

Lynn loved hearing stories about Danny’s childhood. “The quartet will be nice. I’m glad he thought of it.” Sadness came quickly back; they were talking about Danny’s

mother’s funeral. Lynn said, “I wonder if he’s heard from Stone.” “Don’t know. With Jamie, maybe Stone doesn’t return messages.” “You call, then.” “No,” Danny spat. “He finds out from Jamie, or he doesn’t fucking

find out.”

24  

Trophy

Stone made the funeral. So, to Jamie’s surprise, did Casey. Danny met him and said, “I know Jamie gets the credit, but the Pulitzer finalist was The Ohio Gay Times. It goes on your résumé too.”

Kent wore a dark blue suit; Jamie asked him to keep Arnie company. Arnie, a retired Army colonel, appreciated having the trooper there. Jamie asked them to sit with the family, but Arnie preferred the row behind. Jamie wrote Thelma’s obituary in the Union-Gazette and the paid ad, where he made Arnie a “special friend.” Arnie liked that. He’d gone with Thelma for fifteen years. Casey glommed onto Kent the minute they met.

The big, stained-glass church was half-full. As the liturgy began, an older couple took a back pew, looking uncomfortable. At the passing of the peace, the Fosters found them and brought them up to sit with the family.

The string quartet was lovely, the pipe organ was impressive, Father Jim was pastoral, and the Book of Common Prayer took care of the rest. A life was celebrated; a death was solemnized. Everyone moved to the parish hall, while the family stopped in the side chapel to make their communion and, as asked in the letter “My Dear Sons,” say together a favorite prayer of thanksgiving for their mother’s life. The older couple were there, but not Arnie, so not Kent.

***

In the chowline, the first number was “Crazy World.” Casey told Jamie, “You should have flung yourself.”

“I still might. He didn’t have to come today. This is pure kindness.”

The worst of the reception for Jamie was having to talk with Thelma’s friends. If he knew their names, they had good stories to tell. If he’d never heard of them, they slapped him upside the head with the same 10¢ greeting card. But he was grateful they came, and they had a need to express themselves. Finally he broke away and joined the family party.

A few minutes later he came and got Arnie and Kent, and proudly introduced them to Norman Nowak, a homely man in a suit that didn’t fit and dentures that slipped. But inside him a gentle radiance could only be called beauty.

Kent smiled, shaking hands, “Hello, Unca Deed. Henry Walker in Hopkins Park sends his respects.” Jamie set about taking photos of his close people with Unca Deed, who wanted to know how Mr. Walker’s corn was doing, ten miles away in that foreign country, Illinoise.

Kent learned that Thelma became Deed’s stepsister as young adults, that he’d watched the Foster boys grow up; in high school Danny was a farmhand under Deed, and once little Stoney ran away from home by riding his 16-inch bike ten miles from town to the farm; but Jimbo always stayed in the house with his Grandma, and was scared of the pigs. He didn’t even like gathering eggs from under the hens, easiest job on the farm. “He could do it, but he didn’t like it. He was scared of the chickens too! But why do you think they’re called chickens?” Deed’s eyes lit up, laughing. “My Jimbo’s smart, though. Went to college at 13 years old, up in Chicaga, all by himself. I couldn’ta done it; neither could you. It ain’t right to keep a boy like that on the farm. A boy like that, you got to do right by him.”

“He’s still got a lot of farm in him. He’s got a lot of his Grandma, and his Unca Deed.”

“The smart one spent his time with my Mom. That proves how smart he was. I’m sorry these boys have to go through losing their mother. I know what it’s like.”

Kent had his mother but not his Dad. Then Deed had to get back, so Danny talked sports with Kent, told Arnie who Kent was. Arnie was more interested in law enforcement. Then he cut out too, and though Jamie was disappointed, he knew that was Arnie’s way.

So Danny and Kent got to talk more, and afterward Danny came up to Jamie. “I want to do a column on him, he’s a heck of a guy. The last thing most retired jocks do is put their butts on the line for 26 grand a year.”

“I’d love to see that column. He utterly deserves it.”

“He had an offer to anchor sports on local TV. Didn’t take it, and the way he explains it I don’t blame him. He asked himself what he most missed about baseball—his teammates, the camaraderie. Should he work at this lousy entry-level TV station, or fall back on his other career like he always planned? Lots of teammates with the State Police; challenges every day. Besides, maybe it was time to give something back, after all the free rides athletes get.”

Jamie looked away. “Values. Clear-headed thinking.”

“He’s a typical athlete, an overgrown kid, always ready to play. But there’s more to him, an intelligent adult who wants to contribute. TV wouldn’t have satisfied him.”

“I’ve seen his intelligence. He’s working a serial murder, but won’t fit his facts to a pre-existing theory.”

“He told me how poised you were at the hospital, making the toughest decision a son can ever make. He thinks the world of you, Jamie.”

“Don’t make me cry, Bro. I don’t go for Straight men.”

So Danny understood what Jamie was struggling with. “I respect what you do, Bro. I could never do it. Be safe for me, okay? And thanks for taking care of Mom. I know you excelled at it. You always excel. Thanks for being with her. I’m sorry you had to do it alone.”

They hugged hard, as Danny made them both cry. Jamie loved being held by his brother.
***

Stone and Jamie didn’t talk, till Stone crooked his arm around his little brother’s neck, “You done good, Bro,” as Stone headed out the door for southern Indiana.

They were the first words he had uttered to Jamie in a dozen years. “Bye, Bro!” And Stone, escorting his chippie-of-the-month, threw him a little wave over his shoulder. Poor Stone. You’re the most bereft of all.

Then dancing broke out, Casey and Jamie together for “Le Jazz Hot.” Kent grinned, watching them. For the first time he figured that Gay must mean happy.

Or sad, just trying to dance through it.
***

At Father Jim’s suggestion, the family toured the garden where their mother’s ashes would be buried. A small but grand Gothic arch separated the courtyard from Ferry Street, and a plaque on the church wall recorded people’s names. There would be room to lay flowers when the time came.

Back inside, Jamie sipped tea until the music got much louder, commanding attention. The song’s opening flutes made him wince. Jamie broke away, his back to everyone as he felt every note. At the dramatic change in the third verse—no more breves, building up to the climax— Danny clasped him on the back and they sang together, while in London Julie gave the stereophonic performance of a lifetime, “I Could

Have Danced All Night.”

After that, there could be no more music.

Kent finally approached Jamie. “I know it’s family time, but I’m the only person you didn’t talk to.”

“I’m sorry, I wanted to. I’m deeply pleased you came. This adds even more to the hospital and the camping trip.”

“You put on a beautiful service, Jamie, a work of art. I’ve never been to anything like it.”

“Thank you for being with Arnie and Unca Deed.”

“I liked them. Deed’s never lost his innocence.”

“He’s the closest thing we have to Grandma. What I wouldn’t give to have back those days with Grandma.”

“What was best about her?”

“Her kindness. She was selfless. She loved children.”

Kent glimpsed a child who wasn’t always loved.

“Unca Deed lost his dad at a young age, the middle of five sons; but he took over as Grandma’s breadwinner. He never left her. We see her purity of heart in him.”

“We’re lucky in our families, huh?”

“For the most part.” Jamie’s eyes shone moistly. “And our friends. Very lucky.”

Kent hugged him, a few seconds of bliss in male arms. “I’m not like you, Jamie. I want to be friends.”

“Stupidest thing I’ve ever said. Man, you’re priceless.”

They stepped apart, and Kent went to shake hands with Danny, say goodbye to Lynn. Casey handed Kent a copy of The Times with Jamie’s story. “Thanks, I’ll read it as soon as I get home.”

Jamie watched Kent go; then Lynn came up and said, “How ’bout we all get drunk?”

So they went home and told Mom stories and laughed and cried and ate casseroles and cherry pie and got totally wasted. Maybe they had to get drunk to get through the final ritual—watching an old video of the pageant. Her sound didn’t compare to the great star’s; it was throatier, without the amazing range. But by changing the key and the phrasing, and visualizing her joy if she got to go to college, Indiana’s Thelma Rees nailed the high note and brought down the house with “I Could Have Danced All Night.”

Danny and Jamie bawled like little boys.
***

The next day they visited the lawyer and signed new signature cards at the bank, but Danny wouldn’t take anything of Thelma’s, had no interest in profiting from his mother’s death. Finally Lynn shyly admired the fancy sewing machine and stand, which Jamie, in charge of the trust, gave her on the spot. It was a good few days for the brothers, but soon Danny had to get back home to cover the Broncos game. So everyone left and Jamie sat alone in a La-Z-Boy all weekend, staring into space. On Monday, all he could do was work.

He woke his PowerBook as Casey called to say that a report of Jamie’s story moved on the AP state wire for Sunday morning, but only the Dayton Tribune and a second-tier chain printed it. The Tribune credited The Times and added original reporting, which was fine; Casey read him the wire version, which mentioned The Times in the second graf, along with the serial connection.

They hung up so Jamie could check the Indianapolis Sun—nothing; amazing. The Lafayette paper had two grafs in the agate, page A-8:

Slough Victim Named

A body recovered in Willow Slough State Fish and Game Area a week ago is that of Glenn Arthur Ferguson, 29, of Indianapolis, according to a published report quoting Indiana State Police Sgt. Kent Kessler. Ferguson, a marketing manager for the Indiana Pacers, was strangled, and police believe he was murdered elsewhere, then transported to the isolated Newton County park.

The report, in a newsletter catering to the Gay community in Columbus, Ohio, could not be directly confirmed, but a state police spokesman in Indianapolis told the Associated Press it was “substantially accurate.” Kessler, of the West Lafayette post, could not be reached for comment.

“‘Substantially accurate’?! A newsletter? Try getting the victim’s name right. And no mention of the serial connection! How can you call yourselves reporters?”

He called Casey back for a joint fume session. “There’s only one thing to do, Jamie.”

“Right, man. Go out and beat ’em.”

“That’s m’boy.”

***

“I read it right after the funeral. You reconstructed his movements prior to the crime,” Kent said, setting the clipping on top of the fast-growing Ferguson file. “One day after your mother dies? That’s awesome.”

“There’s a lot more to learn, and for that I need to go back to Indy. What have you been up to?”

“Taking phone calls from reporters. Your article really had an impact. Papers in Dayton, Cleveland, Toledo, Cincinnati, Akron, I don’t know where all. TV and radio stations. A ton of people from Columbus. Oh, and the paper in Richmond, but they’re the only ones in Indiana.”

Jamie frowned, “Richmond is in Dayton’s TV market.”

“The reporters all know you. The AP guy said, ‘What’s Jamie onto this time?’ You’re famous there, aren’t you.”

“I report news, not make it. Who called from the Dayton Tribune?”

“Josephine Hansen. She knew a lot more and asked much tougher questions. She congratulated you on your scoop—then complained about it. ‘I’m a police reporter, when did that turn into the Jamie beat?’”

“Go Jo. She’s a dynamite writer, the only one who’s cared.” She was also Bisexual and working on a series of detective novels featuring a beautiful blonde Lesbian insurance investigator. “Any other progress?”

“Two things. We have proof that Mr. Ferguson was not killed on-site. Um…”

Jamie shuddered. “Forensic entomology?”

“A guy at Purdue’s a national expert in it. Those were southern Indiana bugs.”

“Southern? Start from Indy, kill him south, then drive him north?”

“The hills down south have a different soil composition.”

“Gruesome. Go to point two.”

“Trooper Campbell and I interviewed everybody who lives on State Line Road; Mr. Walker and LeRoy gave us separate positive I.D.s on the photos of Ford. Plus we found a teenaged girl who remembers an old, brown Toyota without prompting.”

“Great. Did she have the date?”

“Day after Labor Day,” Kent said emphatically. “Not bad, huh? He was out late. That and White skin made him noticeable. Nobody else goes into the park at night.”

“Great work.” Jamie made a fist and blew into it. “I find myself wondering why he picked Mr. Ferguson. He doesn’t fit the pattern. This killer has relied for years on the obscurity of his victims, it’s part of his plan.”