Pitch Black (9 page)
“But everybody loved Steve.”
After an appropriately respectful pause, he asked, “Did Steve smoke?”
She swatted away the idea with a tissue-clutching hand. The movement was lethargic, as if despair had leached away all of her strength. “Heavens no. Never. None of us in this house smoke . . . Jordan’s allergies. I used to have to watch Bobby like a hawk to keep him from smoking around Jordan.”
“Does Bobby still smoke?”
“Oh, yeah, no gettin’ that man to quit.” Underneath the exasperation rode a tone of true fondness, as if she were talking about a beloved, but slightly misbehaving child.
“Had Steve mentioned any incidents lately, someone angry with him at work, a disagreement with a friend . . . anything like that?”
“No, like I said, everybody loved St-steve.” His name came out half-hiccup, half-sob.
Gabe waited for her to regain control of herself, then asked, “How about Steve and Bobby? What was it like between them?”
“Fine.” Her answer came quickly, sharply enough to set Gabe’s intuition buzzing. “They got on fine.”
He let the silence play out, a technique he’d found more useful than beating a person with questions they didn’t want to answer.
Kate touched her nose with the tissue again. “I mean, sometimes they disagreed about what was best for Jordan. . . . Steve didn’t want to take Bobby’s place, he made that clear, but he was tryin’ real hard to help Jordan fit in better . . . sports and things, you know.”
Gabe nodded and waited.
“It wasn’t like they fought over it or anything; don’t get the wrong idea. Bobby wouldn’t hurt anybody—you know him, he wouldn’t hurt Steve.”
“I’m not looking to accuse anyone,” Gabe assured her. “I’m just working to get a sense of what was going on around Steve over recent months.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” she said, her voice quavering. “He was just up there helping those boys. . . . ” Her eyes widened and she sucked in a breath. “You don’t think . . . one of them . . . ?”
“No, no.” He raised his palms to halt her train of thought. Last thing he needed was for rumors to start flying, or a grieving family to start a groundswell of public opinion. “I don’t think
anything
yet. I’m just gathering information.”
She settled back in her chair. “You know we moved Jordan today—to that great place over to Knoxville. Well”—she rubbed her palms on her robe—“I didn’t . . . I just couldn’t. Todd and Bobby took him.” She sighed. “I just don’t know what I’d do without Todd right now.”
“It’s good you have someone here with you. I’m sure it’s good for Jordan, too.”
She nodded.
“What can you tell me about Steve’s relationship with Jordan?”
Her gaze snapped up. “What do you mean? They got on great. He took a real interest in Jordan, that’s why he took all those boys camping, it was for Jordan. He doesn’t fit in very well. . . . We’re hoping he’ll come out of his shell, be more like Todd.”
That statement shot straight through the bull’s-eye of Gabe’s intuition. “So Steve encouraged Jordan?”
“With Jordan it takes a little more than ‘encouraging.’ I swear that boy just has to be pushed sometimes, or he’d spend all of his time in his room. Last summer Todd got him a skateboard and taught him to ride it. They had such a great time together. I think Jordan’s really making strides”—she caught herself in mid-sentence—“or at least, he was.”
“It sounds like both Steve and Todd were doing their best.” He paused, knowing the minefield he was tiptoeing through. “And Jordan, he was comfortable with all of this encouragement and attention?”
“Well, you know teenage boys; they’re almost as moody as girls sometimes. There’s been times Jordan would go through mopey weeks, just like all boys. All in all, Jordan and Steve got on real fine for Steve bein’ his stepdad.”
A qualifier. Interesting.
He stood. “Well, that’s all I have for now. Thank you.”
She walked him to the door. “Dr. Zinn said y’all are holding Steve’s . . .” The words trailed off, as if she couldn’t bring herself to refer to his dead body. “When can we have him back?”
“Dr. Zinn will be in touch.”
“How can we plan a . . . a funeral?” Her lower lip trembled.
He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “I know this is hard. But you want us to catch whoever did this, don’t you?”
She nodded and wiped her eyes. With a look bearing more strength than he’d ever seen in her, she said, “You find him. Find him and make him pay.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Gabe’s next stop was Gray Insurance, where Bobby worked with his father and brother.
They leased the second floor over a storefront that had been the five-and-dime back in the sixties. Now the downstairs housed an independent bookstore. Luckily for the owners of the store, which was truly a mom-and-pop operation, all of the big chains were still too far away to siphon off all of the business.
The warped, narrow stairs that led from the street-level door squeaked and groaned—more reliable than a doorbell, Gabe thought.
The door to Gray Insurance was open. Gabe entered with a soft knuckle rap on the frame, not that he needed it. All three faces in the little office were focused on the door in anticipation, thanks, no doubt, to the incredible moaning stairs.
The office was a single large room with four desks, he assumed one for each Gray and one near the door for the receptionist/secretary and her copy/fax machine. Hanging on the wall over her head was the mounted head of an eight-point buck. This was mountain country—a taxidermist’s dreamland.
The receptionist grinned up at Gabe, her false teeth perfect and white beneath her perfectly coiffed gray hair. “May I help you?”
Bobby was already heading in his direction. “I imagine the sheriff is here to talk to me.” As he and Gabe shook hands, he said, “Am I right?”
“If you have a minute and don’t mind.”
“No problem.” He waved an arm in the direction of his desk, which had a plum view of the Fashion Nook across the street. “Step into my office,” he quipped.
Gabe took one of the two seats in front of Bobby’s desk, not missing the glare he was receiving from the other Gray present. Bobby’s brother, Brooks, didn’t make the slightest effort to conceal his disdain. He walked to the front of his own desk, leaned back, crossed his ankles and arms, and looked at Gabe as Al Gore might a belching smokestack. Gabe had a feeling if the elder Gray had been in the office, he’d be parked right next to his son, sending matching hate signals.
Bobby waved a hand toward his brother. “Don’t you have work to do?”
Brooks didn’t move.
“My apologies for my brother’s manners. Sometimes he forgets that I’m grown now and don’t need him to protect me.”
Gabe ignored the apology and the brother. He didn’t bother to pretend that news didn’t travel faster than flies to roadkill in this town either. “I assume you’ve heard that it appears Steve McPherson’s death was no accident.”
“Kate told me this morning. She’s so torn up that she won’t even leave the house.” He ran a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know what to do to help her. And Jordan . . . Jesus, what a mess.”
Gabe nodded in understanding. “I’m going to have to ask you about your whereabouts on Saturday.”
Brooks shot off the desk as if somebody had branded him. “We were hunting, up on the ridge. First day of bow season. We always spend the first Saturday hunting”—he nodded toward the empty desk that Gabe assumed belonged to the elder Gray—“the three of us.”
Gabe shifted his gaze from Brooks’s angry face to Bobby.
Bobby said, “It’s true.”
“Have any luck?”
Bobby’s brow furrowed.
“Deer. Did you get any deer?” Gabe’s gaze scanned Bobby’s desk. There was a pack of Marlboros sitting beside a lighter and an ashtray filled with a dozen filtered butts.
Leaning back in his swivel chair, Bobby crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. “No. No luck.”
“And you were with your brother and father all day?”
Brooks piped up. “Hell yes. And just ’cause we didn’t bag a deer, don’t mean any one of us killed McPherson—”
“Brooks!” Bobby leaned forward, raising a hand to halt his brother’s comments. “I didn’t kill Steve. You sure it wasn’t an accident? The man liked to do dangerous stuff.”
Gabe stood. “I’ll let y’all get back to work.”
He got in his truck and made a few notes. Bobby and McPherson disagreed about Jordan’s upbringing. Bobby’s alibi: a defensive brother. Bobby’s brand of cigarettes: Marlboro.
It wasn’t much, but it was the first thing that pointed away from the boys . . . from Ethan and Jordan, to be more specific. And it gave Gabe just a little hope.
A
T NOON ON THURSDAY, Gabe stopped just before he pulled open the glass door to the deli.
Maddie stood with her back to him, placing her order at the counter. They hadn’t spoken since he’d delivered Ethan home from his midnight misadventure at the hospital. And things hadn’t gotten any less complicated since then.
He stood there for a long moment with his hand on the door.
He should go; come back later.
He went in.
At the sound of the little bell on the door, she turned. The way her face instantly brightened when she saw him made his chest tighten.
“Oh, hi,” she said. There was an unusual awkwardness in the way she said it.
“Speak of the devil,” Mrs. Conway called from behind the counter. “I was just trying to sell this young lady a piece of my homemade Oreo cheesecake—told her you can vouch for it; it’s one of your favorites.”
Was Maddie blushing?
Gabe held her gaze while he answered Mrs. Conway. “Why yes, I can. Oreo has recently become my favorite flavor in everything.”
Mrs. Conway said, “I figured she’d listen to you, since y’all are dating.” She rushed on before he could respond. “These girls today all want to be shaped like pogo sticks. But a man wants some curves on his woman, right?”
He loved the way Maddie’s eyes pleaded with his for intervention.
Finally she turned back to Mrs. Conway. “Actually, the sheriff and I aren’t dating. We’re just friends.”
“Sure y’are.” Mrs. Conway winked.
Gabe chuckled. “So, Ms. Wade, what say you on the Oreo cheesecake?”
She scowled at him. “No.” Then she smiled at Mrs. Conway. “Thank you.” She snatched up her order receipt and walked over to sit at a small table situated by the front window.
Gabe placed his own order and then joined her.
“Thanks for the help,” she said dryly.
“Hey, I like the idea of us dating. You’re the one who has the problem with it.”
“We haven’t had a date yet.”
“We had breakfast.”
“Breakfast is not a date. People don’t go out for breakfast on their first date.”
“It depends on how long that first date lasts. Besides, in this town, the only reason two people of the opposite sex eat breakfast together is because they climbed out of the same bed.”
“You’re enjoying this! I have a reputation and a son to think of. You promised me we would go slow; you wouldn’t push.”
“
I’m
not. I can’t control what the rest of the town thinks.” Even though, for Maddie’s sake, he probably should—especially now. But it felt so good to leave the load of his job behind and just simply enjoy the woman.
Mrs. Conway brought over their orders and placed them on the table. Included was a large slice of Oreo cheesecake on a plate with two forks.
Maddie rolled her eyes at him, pushed her sandwich aside, and picked up a fork. “As long as it’s here . . . ”
Gabe would never in his life be able to look at a bag of Oreos and not think of her sweet mouth. The cookie of his childhood had just taken on some very adult associations.
As they ate, her banter disappeared and she fell unusually quiet.
Finally, she said, “I want to thank you again for interceding on Ethan’s behalf the other night.”
He just nodded. This was a road he didn’t particularly want to travel right now. He was enjoying his break from being Sheriff Wyatt.
“I mean—”
“Maddie. Let’s just have lunch and leave everything else until another time.”
Her relief was visible. “Deal. Just two friends having lunch. No parent talk. No sheriff talk.”
“We’re entitled,” he agreed.
And they were. Maddie was under plenty of stress dealing with Ethan. And Gabe had been living and breathing this investigation every waking hour. He didn’t want to delve into
why
Ethan had gone after Jordan. He didn’t want to probe about those cigarettes he’d found in Ethan’s jacket. He didn’t want to have to dance around, avoiding giving away too much about the case while digging for details about her son.
They both deserved a brief reprieve from reality.
So why did it feel as if he was neglecting his duty?
ETHAN STOOD AT HIS LOCKER
at the end of the day on Thursday. Colin Arbuckle’s locker was directly across the hall. Ethan kept his back to the group of freshman boys that had gathered around Colin’s big, blabbering mouth.
“Like I said,” Colin boasted, “I know what went down on that mountain—”
Ethan slammed his locker door hard enough that all of the guys huddled around Colin looked startled when they turned around and saw Ethan right behind them. Most of them got busy looking other places.
Ethan inched closer, his hands twitching. This school made a big deal out of any violent contact.
Zero tolerance. Zero tolerance.
He kept the mental chant going. He couldn’t forget. This wasn’t Philly.
Colin didn’t take the hint and shut up. “I could have told the sheriff it wasn’t no accident—but my mom was right there, cryin’ and stuff. But I knew it the second I looked at Mr. McP, saw it right off. And I know who—”
Ethan slammed his hand against the locker right beside Colin’s head. It had taken everything in him not to actually slam the guy’s head. He was in enough trouble with M as it was. “Yeah, yeah, you saw all right”—Ethan leaned closer to Colin’s face—“while you were
puking in the creek.
”
Was it possible that Colin actually did see . . . ? No, no way. He’d have spilled his guts by now.
It had only taken about five minutes for Ethan to figure out that Colin Arbuckle liked to be the center of the universe. He always put on a show. Now it was clear the guy would say anything to get attention.
And his diarrhea of the mouth wasn’t just here and now. Ethan had overheard a bunch of kids talking in the cafeteria at lunch. Colin had started mouthing off as soon as word got out that Mr. McP had been murdered.
A couple of the kids slipped away, moving down the hall. Others stood stock-still, waiting for a fight.
Colin said, “Hey, man, chill. I was just talkin’.”
Ethan clenched his jaw. The look of disappointment on M’s face when the sheriff had brought him home Tuesday morning filled his mind. He gave a disgusted shake of his head and stalked away.
“Stupid bastard,” he muttered. Who knew what he’d say next.
Dear Editor:
Since you came so recently from a crime-ridden, drug-laden gangland, we can see how you might misinterpret a single, tragic incident as a widespread problem. We all know the Internet is probably to blame for Zach Gilbert’s unfortunate death. With the click of a button, our kids are so easily victims of drug dealers and pornographers—people
outside
of our community.
You can take your high-and-mighty attitude, your fancy foreign car, your big city views, and your lies about our kids, and go back to where there is plenty of crime and drug use. We don’t want you polluting our town with your suspicions and ugly thinking.
We here in Buckeye take the word of Jesus Christ Our Lord and Savior to heart. We take care of our own and have since long before you swept in here with your city ideas and your city assumptions. We
do not
need someone like you to turn us against one another and our own kids.