Picture Them Dead (18 page)

Jennifer leaned forward and I thought she was about to argue, but after a glance at Denny's face she nodded.

“Clear,” I said, but I wasn't happy about it. If Esme knew about Denny's great-aunt, it would change things. Now he was swearing me to secrecy, which was so unfair. All I'd have to do is tell Esme that Denny knew and he was okay with it and everything would be smooth sailing.

“I can see what you're thinking,” Denny said with a knowing smile. “I've got a little bit of a gift myself. But I mean what I say, not one word.”

“Not a word,” I said with an exasperated sigh. “But I don't like it.”

eighteen

I got home a little after nine and the house was dark and quiet except for the light we leave on in the kitchen. Esme had apparently already gone up to bed. This was not a good sign. Esme and I are both night owls. Wired on the two cups of coffee I'd sucked down during Denny's lecture, I rousted her from her warm bed and lured her down to the kitchen with the promise of a juicy story. I brewed up some chamomile tea while I waited for her to get into her robe and slippers and come down.

Once we'd settled over our tea, I recounted the story Miss Lottie had finally divulged about how Samuel Wright died. Then I told her about somebody trying to run Luke and me off the road.

“Why in heaven's name are you telling me that second? You should've told me that right off. Are you sure you're okay? Look here at me. Oh, your poor nose. Why in the world would somebody do that?” she asked, putting her hand to her chest. “Was it a drunk driver?”

“I'm okay, though I'll be sore tomorrow. And no, I don't think it was a drunk driver. This was deliberate. Luke swears he can't think of anybody who'd be after him, but I've got to wonder if maybe Sherry's troubles in Miami followed her here. Maybe somebody thinks Luke knows something, though he swears he doesn't. Not about her business down there, anyway. But I've got something else to tell you.”

I shared what Luke had told me about the fateful prank call Sherry and her posse had made that set up the chain of events leading to Claire Calvert's accident all those years ago.

Esme's face contorted. “All that happened to Claire because she expressed concern about a troubled teenage girl? When I get to the Pearly Gates I'm gonna have a long list of questions I want answered.”

“Me, too,” I said. “Such a stupid, spiteful goof, and it caused so much pain. I did some dumb things when I was a kid, but I hope nothing that caused any real harm. Can you imagine? Poor Laney, she must feel so ashamed. She was so emotional when we visited River's place. Now I'm realizing that it wasn't all nostalgia. What a load of guilt that must have been all these years.”

“But she didn't feel guilty enough to come forward during all this time,” Esme said, her lips pinched. “And how about the two boys? Never a peep out of either of them.”

“No,” I said with a sigh. “Up until a few years ago Bryan was still thinking he'd make it big as a professional golfer. I'm sure he wouldn't have wanted anything to tarnish his image.”

“What about Gavin? He certainly didn't have to worry about his image,” Esme said.

“No, but Gavin wouldn't have wanted his part in it to come out. Remember, Quentin Calvert is his uncle.”

“I knew Gavin came over to cut Claire's grass and do little odd jobs around the house,” Esme said, “but I just assumed she paid him to do it. I never knew they were kin.”

“Maybe she does pay him,” I said. “Or maybe he does it out of regard for her, or out of guilt. In any case I'm going to have some questions for Gavin first chance I get. I can't tell you why, but I've got a hunch that was his car that ran us off the road.”

“What do you mean you can't tell me why?” Esme said.

“I mean, I don't even know myself why I believe it was him, or his car anyhow. I really didn't get that good a look at it. But his car is the right size and shape, and it's dark gray. It fits our general description—along with a hundred other cars in the area. But there was something I can't quite . . .” I snapped to attention as it came to me. “Sticker in the back window—a Wolfpack decal. Gavin went to NC State briefly. I think I caught a glimpse of that decal.”

“Are you sure?” Esme asked.

“Not remotely,” I said with a grin. “But Gavin doesn't know that.”

“You should call Denny,” Esme said. “Let him have a talk with the boy.”

“No!” I said, the word coming out sharper than I'd meant it to. “No, Esme, I really don't want to do that. Gavin's got enough problems and I don't want to get him in any more hot water if it wasn't him.”

“Gavin heats up his own water, Sophreena. He'll end up in trouble one way or the other.”

“I don't want to believe that,” I said. “I'm gonna go talk to him tomorrow.”

“I don't like that idea,” Esme said. “I'm going with you. I'll stay in the car, but if it really was him that tried to run you off the road, you don't know what he might do.”

“We'll see,” I said. “In the meantime, let's both get some sleep.”

Esme caught my hand as I passed by. “Is there something you aren't telling me?” she asked.

“Probably,” I said, skirting the question. “I'm so tired I'm probably leaving out a lot of details. We'll talk again in the morning.”

“All right, darling,” Esme said. “I'm so thankful you're okay. You get some sleep. We need to talk, but it'll wait until tomorrow.”

*   *   *

Esme was still morose when she came down the next morning. She was dressed in her church finery, but she was clearly downhearted.

“Is Denny going to church with you?” I asked.

“I didn't call him,” Esme said.

“Really, Esme,” I said, tiptoeing along the razor's edge of my promise to Denny. “I don't think Jennifer will say anything to Denny.”

“Unless she gets struck dumb, she'll say plenty,” Esme insisted, then turned abruptly to look at me. “Do you know something I don't?”

“I daresay I know a lot of things you don't,” I said, trying for a grin.

“Yes, you daresay,” Esme said, narrowing her eyes at me. “Are you going to church?”

“Not today. I'm going out to see River this morning to fill him in on the story of how Samuel Wright died. I'm sure Luke has told him the gist of it, but since this was our gig, I'd like to give him our take. I have some information about the unit Samuel served with and I found a diary online this morning that was written by a member of that unit contemporaneously. There are some bloodcurdling descriptions of what they went through. I think that might help put what happened to Samuel into perspective.”

Esme nodded. “I'll probably see Claire at church and I think I ought to tell her what we've learned about who made that phone call.”

I frowned. “I don't know,” I said. “I mean, I think Luke might like the chance to tell her himself.”

“She's got a right to know,” Esme protested.

“Yeah, she does, but please, just hold off and let me talk to Luke first, will you?”

Esme nodded. “I'll wait a little while. But if he hasn't spoken to her by nightfall, I'll be telling her.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “And speaking of nightfall, I won't be here for dinner. Jack and I have a date.”

“A real date?” she asked, her eyes lighting up.

“A real date,” I assured her. “He's taking me to Olivia's for dinner.”

“ 'Bout time. Hallelujah and longtime comin'!” She continued to smile, but I could see a hint of sadness in her eyes, too, and I knew she was back to stewing over the situation with Denny. But, curse Denny's hide, there wasn't much I could do about it. Not if I wanted to stay in his good graces.

As soon as Esme was out the door, I ran upstairs and pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and headed for Gavin's apartment. I wasn't worried about Gavin being dangerous and I hadn't actually agreed to wait for Esme. She'd be ticked, but if it wasn't this, she'd be ticked about something else, and I was tired of dancing around her. I wanted some answers.

It was ten o'clock on a Sunday morning and I had every reason to believe Gavin would still be in bed, but I mashed the doorbell anyway, and held it down for a while for good measure. I wasn't the least bit concerned about his beauty rest.

Finally he opened the door, looking none too well. His hair was sticking up in spikes and he was glassy-eyed. I waved my hand in front of his face. He was having trouble focusing and I hoped it was only because I'd awakened him from a sound sleep.

“We need to talk,” I said, pushing past him into his apartment. It was shockingly tidy. I'd expected to find a grungy space littered with pizza boxes and empty cans, but it was neat as a pin. The furnishings were sparse, but of decent quality, and he had some well-chosen framed prints on the walls. It threw me. I had to take a moment to adjust.

Meanwhile, Gavin was holding his head as if it might fall off his shoulders and frowning at me like I was an alien who'd dropped into his living room. “Soph­reena? What are you doing here? Has something happened? Is Joe okay?”

“Joe?” I asked. “Yes, as far as I know, Joe is fine.”

“Well, then, what the—” Gavin held up a hand, then hustled toward the back of the apartment. I could hear him “worshipping at the porcelain throne,” as the partyers in my college days used to call the morning-after ordeal.

He came back out a few minutes later, cradling his head in a wet washcloth. “Why are you here?” he asked again.

“Not that you asked for my advice, Gavin, but should you really be out drinking and partying, considering you're still on probation?”

“I wasn't,” he said. “I must be coming down with a bug or something.”

“Where were you last night, Gavin?” I asked.

“Out,” he said. “Why? Oh God, what's happened now? What are they looking to pin on me? Whatever it is, I didn't do it, I swear.”

“Did you drive your car last night?” I asked.

He dragged the washcloth down his face and brightened somewhat. “No. My car's been sitting out front, right where I left it when the cops released it to me after they got Sherry's things out of my trunk. I biked to work.”

“How'd you go out last night if you didn't drive?” I asked.

“A friend picked me up,” Gavin said.

“A friend?” I said.

Gavin was getting aggravated and I could see he was going to start arguing, so I tried to head him off at the pass. “Look, Gavin, I'm trying to be a friend. Some things are happening and you need to answer my questions so I can help you. Who was the friend?”

“A woman,” he said.

“You're seeing someone?” I asked.

“What are you, my mother?” he snapped, cradling his head in his hands.

“Thankfully, no,” I said. “Just hang in a minute more, and I'll explain. Who is this woman? Were you with her all evening? What time did you get home?”

“Her name's Francesca. And if you want to know, she asked me out. I'm not a total loser, you know. She made me dinner, then we went to a late movie, then back to her place for a while. I got in about midnight.”

“Do you ever let anyone borrow your car?” I asked.

“No, nobody,” he said, getting up to go to the front door. “I'm telling you my car has been parked right there.” He pointed out the door, then frowned. He walked out to the end of the sidewalk, hobbling a little as his bare feet found pebbles, and stared at the car, a strange expression creeping onto his face. There was red dust on the tires and fine gravel was stuck in the treads. The bottoms of the door panels were likewise dusted in red. Otherwise the car was spotless and polished to a high sheen.

I looked in the back window. Sure enough, a Wolfpack decal.

“You didn't run me and Luke Mitchell off the road last night?” I asked Gavin.

“What? No!” he said. “Wait, who's Luke Mitchell?”

“Does it matter?” I asked, irritated that my question hadn't hit home with Gavin. “He's Sherry's brother.”

“Oh yeah, that kid. I forgot he had a different name,” Gavin said, and again clutched at his head. “You're not making any sense, Sophreena.”

“Could anyone else have used your car to run us off the road?” I asked.

“You keep saying run you off the road,” Gavin said. “You mean like bad driving or on purpose?”

“On purpose,” I said firmly.

Now Gavin wouldn't look at me. I pushed. “Gavin, I'm trying to help you.”

He rounded on me and I saw fire in his eyes, a white-hot anger that made me step back. “You're not trying to help me,” he hissed. “You're just like all the others. You're trying to put something on me I didn't do. What's the use, once you've got the rep you're into it, you can never get out. Everything you try just makes it worse. Just leave me the hell alone!”

*   *   *

As I drove to River's house, I was shaken. I'd rarely seen Gavin lose his temper.

A lot of people regard Gavin as a dimwit, and I understand why. It's a persona he cultivates to keep people's expectations low. He was a below-average student in school, but I happen to know he's a really smart guy. He always scored well on standardized tests, like off the charts, teachers-whispering-to-one-another-in-wonderment scores.

Was he playing me? Was going on the offense his defense? Did the anger come from being caught and cornered? Or had he really had no idea? Was he that good an actor?

With all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, I hadn't had much time to process what Luke had told me about the phone call that led to Claire Calvert ending up in a wheelchair. It had caused great harm then, but it still wasn't over. Even all these years later, it was still hurting people.

If this became public, Laney Easton was in for some deep embarrassment. Even if she hadn't been the instigator, she'd held guilty knowledge for all these years. And she and Claire were friends and worked together frequently. Then there was Bryan. He needed to be well connected and well regarded among those well off enough to belong to the country club set. This wouldn't be good for him either.

Gavin was Quentin Calvert's nephew. He definitely had some explaining to do if this came out.

Still, while it might be painful, it didn't seem the kind of thing a person would commit murder to forestall, right? Surely this long-ago mischief by a bunch of immature kids couldn't have anything to do with Sherry's murder.