To Live and Die In Dixie (14 page)

“And he wasn't.”

“He's married to one foxy-looking little blonde, he's got three young kids, including one that can't be six months old. Unless he's got an independent source of money, Jordan couldn't afford to live on his coaching salary, pay alimony and child support, and get remarried to a seventeen-year-old kid. Jordan is a shit-heel.”

“So this guy and Littlefield are your favorite suspects,” Mac said, not bothering to try to stifle a huge yawn.

“Maybe,” I said. “It's too early to tell.”

“It's late for me,” Mac said, raising his arm to look at his watch. “After one. This old boy's got a full day tomorrow.”

“I know,” I said, leaning over to kiss him good night.

“Wait,” I said, suddenly remembering the newspaper clipping in my purse. “I've got something incredible to show you.”

Mac read the article slowly, knitting his eyebrows together as he concentrated.

“Well?” I said, when he'd finished and handed it back to me. “Don't you think it sounds great? I called Kappler's office before I came out here tonight. I want him to get me included in the drug trial.”

Mac nodded, but he didn't say anything.

“What?” I said, sensing his reservation. “This tamoxifen sounds like it was made for someone like me. What do you think?”

“I think I read some stuff that's very exciting, and some stuff that's scary. They think this drug could cause liver cancer, Callahan. You're healthy right now. Liver cancer's a lot nastier than the cancer you've had. And what about the blood clots and uterine cancer? You want my advice, I say ask your doctor about it, sure. But go slow, okay? Will you?”

I switched the light off. In the dark he couldn't see the set of my jaw. You don't tell a woman to go slow when she's staring cancer in the face. I didn't tell him that. I told him good night.

J
OCELYN DOUGHERTY AND Edna sat across the kitchen table from each other, their heads nearly touching, so deep in conversation they didn't look up until I deliberately let the screen door bang shut. “Hi, Mom, I'm home,” I called.

A plate of biscuits lay on the table between the two women and an opened jar of muscadine preserves sent a warm fruity scent wafting around the room.

The television was turned on, tuned to the “Today” show, but nobody was paying any attention to Willard Scott hyping the Iowa City sweet corn festival. It was stiflingly hot in the kitchen, even at eight
A.M.

I pulled out one of the oak ladder-back chairs and helped myself to a biscuit, popping it whole into my mouth.

“Nice manners,” Edna said pointedly.

I chewed contentedly, then got up and poured myself a cup of coffee to wash down a second biscuit. “I take it the compressor's still not fixed,” I said, seated again. “I can't believe you baked biscuits in this heat, Ma. Not that I'm complaining, mind you.”

I looked at Jocelyn closely. A smudge of grape jelly
decorated her chin and there was a light dusting of flour on her navy blue T-shirt. “What brings you over here so early?” I asked.

She ducked her head in embarrassment. “Nothing, really. I was thinking about what you said about helping find the person who took that diary. Maybe you can't investigate my sister's murder, but I sure can.”

Edna and I exchanged quick glances. I hadn't told her of my decision to try to find Bridget's killer. Edna's look spoke volumes. She was always a sucker for every misfit kid any of us brought home from school, making us invite the kid to spend the night or go on family outings long after the kid had ceased to be attracted to the Garrity clan.

I reached for the jelly jar and smeared a layer of the thick brown goo on my biscuit. “As it happens,” I said, trying to sound casual, “I've got assignments for both of you today, if you don't have anything better to do.”

“The mouses have all reported to their assigned houses,” Edna said. “What have you got in mind?”

“We might as well start checking these alibis,” I said. “Littlefield claims he was appraising an estate Saturday afternoon, around the time of the murder. I'm sure the cops have checked it out, but let's do it for ourselves. The attorney for the estate is a woman named Donna Cosby,” I told Edna. “Call her and tell her you work with me. She handled a divorce for a friend of mine. Ask her if she was at the old lady's house the entire time Littlefield was there, and make sure you ask her if he gave her a detailed, written appraisal. In fact, ask her if we can have a copy of it. I want to see if he did an item-by-item list, or if he only gave her an estimate from Donna's description of what was included in the estate.”

Edna was writing as I talked. For once, she was listening instead of interrupting.

“If you have time, drive over to Eagle's Keep, then drive over to the old lady's house. Clock it both ways to see how long it takes, but make sure you do it in the middle of the day, when traffic is fairly light, like it would have been Saturday.”

“What else?” she asked.

I hesitated. Edna loves to play detective, but she always bitches about doing the endless grunt work that most of us spend the majority of our time dealing with.

“Pete Vickers, he's one of the people who was bidding for that diary, lied to me about where he was Saturday afternoon. He told his secretary he was going to some kind of Civil War study group in Atlanta that afternoon. Call around and see if any such group met that afternoon, and if Vickers was there. You can start with the Atlanta Historical Society, I think they sponsor a bunch of those groups.” I handed her the slip of paper from Vickers's office. “Call this number and ask for Darryl. See how he's connected to Vickers.”

“What about me?” Jocelyn asked. She'd pulled her hair on top of her head in a waterfall. The hairdo accented the gauntness of her face and frame. She looked about twelve years old. Still, her face fairly crackled with excitement this morning. She absentmindedly picked at the edge of a biscuit, nibbling at the pieces until she'd eaten almost the whole thing.

I eyed her frankly. “Does your shrink know that you're getting involved in this investigation? For that matter, do your parents know?”

Her eyelashes fluttered and she looked me square in the face, her blue eyes suddenly cold and old beyond her years. “Are you afraid I'll flip out over Bridget's being dead? I have an eating disorder, okay? I'm not mental or anything.”

“I know,” I said. “It's just that I don't want to be responsible.”

“You're not responsible. I am. I'm nineteen. I can vote. I can drive. I'm living by myself and eating my Wheaties. My parents don't want to know what happened to Bridget. You know what? I think my parents are glad. That's sick, isn't it? Well, maybe my father isn't glad. Bridge was his pet. It's just that my mother raises all this stink about how disruptive Bridget and I are. I think he lets her get away with all her shit just so he can keep the peace. He's not even home that much anymore. But man, yeah, I think my mom is glad Bridget isn't around to embarrass her anymore. She freaked when she thought Bridget was gonna be an unwed mother.”

“Jesus,” Edna exclaimed. “Jocelyn honey, you don't really believe your parents don't care, do you? I'm a mother and all four of my kids put me through different kinds of hell, but believe me, no matter what happens, parents love their children. No matter what.”

“Maybe,” Jocelyn said expressionlessly. “My shrink says we're dysfunctional.”

“Dysfunctional,” Edna repeated. “I never heard that word before I started watching Sally Jessy Raphael. And I work the
New York Times
crossword with an ink pen.”

“Never mind,” I said, trying to get the subject off the dysfunctional Doughertys and back on the investigation at hand. “I'm going to run to Athens this morning to see the director of UGA's special collection. Peter Thornton, that's the guy's name, had been trying to raise money to bid on the diary.”

“I'll go with you,” Jocelyn offered.

“No,” I said quickly. “I've got something else for you to do, if you're up for it. How do you feel about doing some, uh, fast talking?”

She grinned. “I'm a teenager. Lying is second nature. What do you want me to do?”

“Remember how Kyle Jordan told us he was at soccer camp Saturday, when Bridget was killed? We need to check that out. I want you to call some of the kids who were at that camp, ask them if Coach J was there, what time he got there, that kind of stuff.”

Jocelyn blinked. “How do I find out who the kids were? Who do I tell them I am?”

“All right,” I said patiently. “Call All Saints and tell them you're calling to inquire about summer activities for your cousin who is transferring here in the fall. Ask them about soccer camps. If they give you Kyle Jordan's name, tell them you want to talk to some parents to see if their kids have enjoyed the camp. Then call the kids. Easy. But if that doesn't work out, get creative. Call Jordan's wife. Tell her anything you have to, but get the location of the camp. Then drive down there and look around. Be discreet, but talk to as many kids as you can.”

She still looked bewildered. “Look,” I told her. “You said you want to help out. I'm telling you how. In this business, you have to go with the flow. If one thing doesn't work, try something else. If you want to find something out you have to figure the easiest, least offensive way to get the information you need. See?”

Jocelyn straightened her shoulders. “I guess. Think it would work if I told his wife I wanted to talk to him about coaching an all-star soccer team?”

“Beautiful,” I said, rewarding her with a hug. “Just right. She'll fall all over herself telling you about his camp.”

But Jocelyn still wasn't sure. “What if Coach J is home? What if he answers the phone?”

These kids today. Microwave popcorn, programmable VCRs. They want everything handed to
them. “Hang up and figure out something else,” I said.

Just then I glanced idly at the television. “Turn it up,” I said. During our strategy session, Willard Scott had been replaced by C. W. Hunsecker, standing awkwardly in front of police headquarters with Ricardo Hill sticking a microphone in his face.

C. W. had obviously had a long night. A thin grayish stubble covered his chin and there were layers of bags under his light-colored eyes.

“Captain,” Hill said excitedly. “We understand you've made an arrest in connection with the slaying of Bridget Dougherty. Can you confirm that for us this morning?”

Hunsecker looked annoyed. “No, Ricardo, as I've told all the media people this morning, we've made no arrest for that young lady's murder.”

Hill looked confused, glancing down at his little official reporter's notebook, then up at the camera, then back at Hunsecker. “But you have made an arrest for something,” he insisted.

“We've made lots of arrests,” Hunsecker said wearily. “Which one do you want to know about?”

Hill glared at him, and Hunsecker gave in. “I can tell you we have been questioning a man, a transient, who lived in and around Inman Park, in connection with an assault late last night on a young girl who was walking her dog.”

“Was the girl murdered? Were there any signs of sexual activity? Do the police think a serial thrill-killer is loose in Inman Park?” Ricardo Hill's juices were flowing.

“No, no,” Hunsecker finally said. “The girl was assaulted, but she's fine. She wasn't even bruised. There was no murder, no rape. The suspect jumped out at her from some bushes, knocked her down and was attempting
to get her watch off her wrist when the dog's barking alerted neighbors who called the police. One of our patrol officers apprehended the man about a block away from the crime scene.”

Hill was closing in on big stuff now. His voice lowered, confidentially. “Captain, our sources tell us this transient, a man we understand is named Gordon Allan Madison, is also being considered a suspect in the killing of the All Saints coed, Bridget Dougherty. We understand he knew the young woman, and that your officers are even now combing the places Madison stayed, looking for evidence to link him to the slaying. Can you confirm that for us, Captain?”

Hunsecker's lips set in a thin, disapproving line. “I can't comment on an ongoing investigation,” he snapped, then he turned and marched away from the cameras and into police headquarters.

“Oh man,” Jocelyn whispered. She'd been standing in the kitchen doorway, her eyes fixed on the television. What little color she had in her face had drained away. Once again she was the walking cadaver I'd seen the day of Bridget's funeral.

“Oh man,” she repeated, sliding to a lump on the kitchen floor. She scrunched her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around her legs, pressing her face into her knees.

I knelt down beside her. “Jocelyn, are you going to be all right?”

She kept her head buried, but the sobs seemed to wrack her body for a long, long time. Then she looked up, turning from Edna to me, searching for answers.

“This is it?” she said tearfully. “Some old wino killed my sister? Why? Bridget didn't have any jewelry. Did he rape her? Did he? My mom won't tell me.”

Tears were streaming down her face and she was
rocking to and fro, the tears making dark blue splashes on her T-shirt.

I felt totally ineffective there, kneeling on the kitchen floor, trying to comfort this strange child, stroking her hair and trying to find words that would deaden the pain.

“Is this it?” she demanded. “Is it?”

“I don't know, Jocelyn,” I said truthfully. “I'll have to check it out. But I do know one thing. That rape stuff is just television bullshit. Your sister was not raped. She wasn't.”

With my finger, I lifted Jocelyn's chin so she could see I was telling the truth. “I promise,” I repeated. “Bridget wasn't raped.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice wobbly. “I believe you. I do. You think I should call my mom? She always does her Jane Fonda exercises about now. I don't want the cops to be the ones to tell her.”

Over Jocelyn's head Edna raised her eyebrows in surprise. Maybe Emily Dougherty was a zombie, but her surviving daughter still felt some concern for her mother. It was a good sign, I thought.

I stood up stiffly, then offered her a hand, but Jocelyn scrambled to her feet unaided. “Maybe I better go over there,” she said.

“Good idea,” Edna said.

“I'm going to make some phone calls and check out this Gordon Allan Madison guy,” I said. “These TV clowns get wild hairs sometimes. This whole thing could just be a figment of their imagination.”

I patted Jocelyn on the shoulder again. “Go see your folks. Then call me later on and I'll let you know where we stand.”