Tell Me (15 page)

“W
ell, that was a bust,” Morrisette said, collapsing theatrically into the side chair near Reed’s desk. “So Niall O’Henry found God, the one that tells him it’s okay to play with rattlers and copperheads, then finally recants. Great. Just effin’ great.” She ran a hand through her already spiked hair and twisted her lips in an expression of disgust. “I see why he was confused, but why all the change now? He recently loaded up the whole damn family and moved back to Daddy’s farm. What’s that all about?”

“Maybe he just couldn’t afford his house.”

“He left his job to go back to farming. I’m checking to see if that was voluntary, or if he was let go.”

“Could be the old man needed him.”

She snorted. “Calvin and June O’Henry, they’re like a Tim Burton version of
The Brady Bunch.
Yours, mine, and ours, and add in the creep factor. Calvin sues Blondell for the wrongful death of Amity and her unborn child.” She shook her head in disbelief. “What he thought he could get out of Blondell is anyone’s guess, though he did manage to sell his side of the story to one of the tabloids.”

“We have a copy of that?” Reed asked.

“Might be in the archives. Anyway, I think he made some money off it, and he kinda basked in the quasi-fame of it all. Even did a round of talk shows. Paraded his kids on one of our local shows. Milked it for all it was worth until no one was interested anymore.” She spit her gum into the trash. “A scumbag of the lowest order. Played the victim himself. It was all such crap. And now, hallelujah, we get to talk to him again.” Her cell phone rang and she checked the screen. “Not important,” she said. “Bart. Since he doesn’t have the kids, I’m not taking it.” She clicked off and slid the cell into her pocket.

Reed returned his attention to his computer monitor. On the screen were photographs of the original crime scene in the cabin.

“Our job is to build a case against Blondell, or rebuild it, this time without Niall’s testimony,” he said.

“There’s always his sister, Blythe.”

“Five years old at the time, twenty years later. Not credible.”

“But she’s in a wheelchair. A real victim. The judge will connect with her.”

“Not solid enough,” Reed said.

They both knew Morrisette was grasping at straws, that they’d lost the only credible witness at the scene. Other than Blondell, that is, but she was sticking to her story of the masked intruder. Reed had learned that from her new attorney, Jada Hill. Nonetheless, he still wanted to interview Blondell face-to-face, get a little insight on what made her tick. Though he was as disappointed as everyone else in the department about Niall’s change of testimony, he figured if Blondell was really guilty, as she probably was, then they’d figure out a way to keep her behind bars.

“You know there are already protests,” Morrisette said. “I saw it on television. People with placards at the governor’s office, demanding Blondell O’Henry stay in prison.”

“Caught it on the noon news. But there are still some people who believe she’s innocent. They’re out there as well.”

“A sucker born every minute,” she muttered. “If that’s true, what the hell happened to the masked stranger who came in, guns blazing? And why would she never name the father of the child she lost? Why act so distant and cold in the ER after a drive that took way too long, long enough for Amity to die? Blondell’s guilty. That’s all there is to it.” When she saw he was about to argue and play devil’s advocate, she waved him off. “If Flint Beauregard bribed the kid and somehow coerced him to testify against his mother, that’s a problem. But it doesn’t change the fact that she tried to kill all her kids in cold blood. All for the attention of a jerk-wad of a boyfriend.”

“Who hasn’t been located.”

“Do you blame him?” she asked. “Roland Camp is no damned prize, sure, but he thought his nightmare was over.”

“Guess he was wrong,” Reed said.

She reached into her pocket, found a pack of antismoking gum, and popped in a fat, little stick. “So where are we?”

“The lab is working overtime on the blood samples and cigarette butt, anything they can find that might be able to help. They’ve got Blondell’s clothes, which, presumably, still have GSR.”

“Gunshot residue she claimed came in the struggle for the gun,” Morrisette reminded. “Means nothing.”

“We’ve still got the remains of the snake.”

“I sure as hell hope Blondell O’Henry’s incarceration doesn’t hinge on what’s left of a twenty-year-old copperhead.”

“I’ve got Lyons searching for the new addresses of all the players from back then.” A junior detective, Denisha Lyons was the latest addition to the unit, smart as a whip, twenty-six, and eager to make her mark. “I’ve also got a call in to Acencio in Phoenix. He was out of town, but I spoke with the secretary for the Phoenix Detective Unit, and she said he should be back tomorrow.”

“Hopefully he can shed some light, since Beauregard’s no longer with us,” she said, chewing thoughtfully. “I’m thinkin’ we’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

 

“I know, Mom. I’m late, I get it. I’m on my way! You and Ariella can figure out the problem with the chairs!” Nikki clicked off and tossed her cell into the passenger seat, then swore a blue streak, hitting the gas.

“Calm down,” she told herself, easing off the accelerator a quarter mile later. There was no reason to drive like a madwoman through the city and hit a bicyclist or pedestrian like that ass who’d nearly hit her earlier—all because the color ivory wouldn’t go with white.

She shook her head in frustration. She really didn’t care about all the silly details that her mother found so important. All she wanted to do was get married in a simple ceremony, which she should have arranged to have done at the local courthouse. If she’d wanted something more romantic, she would have eloped to Fiji, Barbados, or Timbuktu. She could have gotten married anywhere other than her mother’s church, and she certainly didn’t have to have a reception at her father’s stuffy old country club.

She’d pointed all that out for the last time in late August when she’d dropped by to talk about the wedding with her mother and found her sister and niece already at the house, Charlene in the kitchen squeezing the last of the tea out of bags she’d had steeping in the sun. Pressing hard against the bags with a wooden spoon, Charlene watched the dark tea swirl into the already-amber water inside a glass Pyrex pitcher as Nikki had breezed in, armed with all kinds of excuses as to why the wedding needed to be scaled back.

“Hi, Mom,” Nikki had said, tossing her purse onto a bench in the entry hall and pressing a kiss into her mother’s pale cheek, seeing Lily and Phee already at the table.

“Were your ears burning? We were just talking about you,” Charlene said.

“That we were,” Lily agreed, grinning that secretive smile Nikki found so irritating.

“Aunt Nikki!” Phee ran toward her aunt to be swung off her feet. Her dark hair was untamed by pink barrettes that were barely visible in her mop of wild curls. Ophelia was six years old, full of questions and irrepressible energy, and Nikki adored her. If she’d ever thought she might not have children of her own, Phee had changed her mind completely. The little girl was definitely the apple of her eye.

Lily had never named Phee’s father, preferring to raise her daughter on her own. She loved being anti-establishment, loved butting up against her oh-so-traditional parents. Her hair was nearly long enough that she could sit on it, though she braided it and pinned it in an unruly coil on the nape of her neck.

Lily always looked so perfectly rumpled that Nikki bet she took pains to achieve that slightly unkempt style. In Nikki’s biased opinion, it was as time-consuming and self-involved as primping for the prom.

Nikki had played with Phee for a little while, chasing her through the house while her mother poured the tea over sugar and ice in the large glass pitcher her own mother had once used.

“Okay, sweetheart, I’ve got to talk to Grandma for a while,” she said to her niece.

“Why don’t you draw something for Aunt Nikki?” Lily had asked, and Phee flew to the table, where crayons and art paper were already waiting.

“A horse!” Phee proclaimed, her dark eyes sparking. Her skin was olive in tone, her eyes a light brown, nearly gold in color, her hair thick and near-black, unlike anyone else in the Gillette family. Obviously the dominant genes in Phee’s makeup came from her father, but on that topic Lily had remained mum since the day she’d broken the news to her parents that she was going to have a baby, and that the delivery would be without any husband or known boyfriend waiting in the wings.

Big Ron and Charlene had been scandalized, of course.

Lily, at least outwardly, hadn’t given a damn.

When the precious little girl had been born, however, all perceived shame had disappeared into thin air. Of course, there had been questions about the baby’s paternity, but Lily had blithely refused to name the baby’s father and had kept the secret close to her vest.

After years of prodding, Charlene had finally quit asking questions or speculating or even being ashamed of the circumstances of Phee’s conception, because she adored her slightly precocious granddaughter, as did Nikki. No child was more loved, even if there wasn’t a strong father figure in Phee’s young life.

That day in August when Nikki had driven to her mother’s to explain about her feelings on the wedding, Phee had finally wound down and was coloring at the table, Lily standing at the island of their mother’s kitchen and rearranging a vase of roses and gardenias while enjoying the argument brewing between Nikki and their mother.

Charlene Gillette’s appearance was frail, as it had been for the past five years, but her hands were steady as she had carefully poured them each a glass of sweet tea. “Lemon?”

“None for me. Look, Mom, I just don’t want it to be such a big show,” Nikki had said. “I think a wedding should be personal, between two people.”

“Why even bother?” Lily snagged her glass and stirred it with a long spoon she’d found in a drawer. “It’s just a formality, you know. Nothing more than a piece of paper.”

“It is not!” Mother had been highly offended, her cheeks coloring, her eyes snapping fire. “I don’t know where you get your obscene ideas! Marriage is an institution, a sacrament!”

“If you live under Pope Pius the Fifth in the sixteenth century, maybe,” Lily replied lazily. “But come on, Mother, we’re not even Catholic, and the last I checked we’re in the new millennium.”

“Don’t get so high and mighty with me.” Despite all her health issues, Charlene Gillette still had a lot of spunk. “I’m just saying that a woman needs a man, legally, socially, and morally. Marriage is the answer.”

“Not for me. Not legally. Nor socially, and especially not morally,” Lily said.

“I’ve heard all about your marching to a different drum, Lily, but it’s not for everyone, dear.”

“Nor is marriage.”

Their mother had carried her tea into the family area and sat in “her” chair, an apricot-hued, tufted wingback with a tiny ottoman that, separated by a small table, was dwarfed by her deceased husband’s recliner. Though Big Ron had been dead for four years, his La-Z-Boy, complete with favorite throw and empty cigar humidor, stood at the ready, as if the judge were expected to burst through the door at any second.

Charlene had eyed Nikki as she’d joined her in the family room. “We’ve already reserved the country club and spoken with Pastor Mc-Neal. It’s too late to back out now,” she’d said. “Besides it’s expected. You’re Judge Ronald Gillette’s daughter.”

“It’s not his wedding,” Nikki had pointed out.

“No, you’re right,” her sister said as she’d reached for her pack of super-long, black cigarettes. “Apparently it’s Mother’s.”

“Oh, Lily, for the love of God, don’t smoke in here.”

“Dad did.”

“He smoked on the veranda,” Charlene said tightly.

“Whatever,” Lily dismissed. “Watch Phee for a second, will you?” She slid her gaze from her sister to her mother. “I’m going out to the
veranda
,” she said, carrying her cigs and glass of tea.

 

The memory faded. Nikki had lost the battle over the country club, conceding to her mother’s wishes more as a means to keep peace in the family than because it was anything she wanted.

Now she pulled into the long drive of her mother’s home and parked behind a white van decorated with images of happy brides painted on its sides. The script over the sliding doors read A TO Z WEDDINGS, ARIELLA ZONDOLA, THE WEDDING PLANNER.

Nikki inwardly groaned. This was so not her. She should have probably tried harder that day in August, but she hadn’t had the heart to destroy Charlene’s dream of watching at least one of her children walk down the aisle. Andrew was dead, Lily a lost cause, and who knew when, or if, Keith would even have a girlfriend. Nikki, in her mother’s eyes, was her only chance.

Switching off the ignition, she picked up her phone and speed-dialed Reed. He answered on the second ring. “I was wondering if I would hear from you.”

“Wondering or dreading?” she teased.

“What’s wrong?”

“Care to drop everything and come over to Mom’s to discuss chairs and the color of slipcovers with Ariella?”

He groaned audibly. “Is that where you are?”

She glanced at the house, where her mother was just turning on the lamps and gazing out the window. “Uh oh, the jig is up. Mom’s seen me.” Charlene was standing on the other side of the glass, impatiently waving her inside.

“I think I’ll take a pass.”

“Chicken.”

“You can handle it.”

“Why do I feel abandoned?”

“Because I’m bagging out on dinner tonight too.”

“Again?” she asked, disappointed.

“But I’ll be over later, if I’m still welcome.”