“I’ll try to step up patrols in the area for a while,” he told Kathryn. “In the meantime, don’t open your door for anybody you don’t know. Or trust. Whoever did this has a mad on, and a mean streak a mile wide.”
He spent a few minutes giving instructions to the locksmith, whose head bobbed up and down as he nodded assent. Kathryn stood at the picture window, gnawing absently on her bottom lip, and watched as he climbed into the Blazer and drove away.
“Whoo-ee,” Raelynn said behind her, “do we have a mess to clean.”
Still looking out the window, she said, “What do you know about him?”
“DiSalvo? I know I’ve been trying since April to get him into bed, but so far, he hasn’t shown a glimmer of interest.”
“Maybe he doesn’t like women.”
Raelynn threw back her head and laughed. “Trust me on this one, sugar. There ain’t nothing wrong with that man. Everything is in the right place, and in working order.”
“How fortunate for him.”
Raelynn grinned wickedly. “Or whoever gets to him first.”
“What else do you know about him? Professionally?”
“The rumor mill says that our boy Nick is squeaky clean. A straight arrow. A good cop. Easygoing, until you cross him, and then watch out. Italian temper.”
Kathryn fingered the window drape. “Can I trust him?”
“According to the rumor mill? Probably.”
“I know better than to trust the rumor mill. What does Raelynn Wilbur have to say?”
Her friend’s face tightened. “Raelynn Wilbur says that there are two people in this town you can trust. One of them’s me, sugar. The other one just walked out that door.”
Chapter Three
There were certain things in life a man needed in order to survive. A cold beer, a sirloin on the grill, and a little cool Metheny on the stereo could go a long way toward helping a guy maintain his sanity. Dressed in faded jeans and the loudest Hawaiian shirt he’d been able to score during a long weekend last month in Myrtle Beach, Nick turned the steak and listened to the satisfying sizzle of raw meat hitting a hot grill. He uncorked the barbecue sauce and poured on a generous dollop, then returned to his lounge chair and his John Grisham novel.
He made it through maybe half a page before the phone rang. With a sigh, he earmarked the page and picked up his cordless phone. “DiSalvo,” he said.
“Nicky? I didn’t expect to get you. You never used to come home this early. Isn’t it ironic that men always wait until after the divorce to reform?”
A headache sprang to life behind his left temple. “Lenore,” he said. “What do you want?”
“Your mother asked me to call. She’s worried about you.” His ex-wife hesitated. “She says you don’t return her calls.”
A twinge of guilt passed through him. “So she sicced the family bloodhound on me. Remind me to thank her the next time I see her.”
“You don’t have to be nasty. She just asked me to talk to you. She thought maybe you’d listen to me.” Her voice grew coy. “There was a time when I had more than a little influence over you, Nicky.”
The headache increased in intensity. Nick closed his eyes. “How’s Walter?” he asked pointedly. Her new husband was a pharmacist at one of those nationwide chains that was part drugstore, part grocery, part department store. One-stop shopping for all your household needs.
“Walter,” she said, “is just fine. And
he’s
home every night by 5:30.”
It had been a bone of contention between them, would always be a bone of contention between them, that when he’d been working a case, he had put in twenty-hour days, had canceled family vacations, had basically absented himself from the home. Lenore had always resented what it meant to be a cop’s wife. So she’d gone out and found herself a new husband. “What should I tell your mother?” she said.
He rubbed absently at his temple. “Tell her I’ve been busy. My new job’s a headache. Tremendous responsibility. You know how it is.”
Her bark of laughter was brittle. “Crime running rampant down there in Mayberry, is it, Nicky?”
“Knock it off, Lenore. Tell Mom I’ll call her.” He hesitated. “Is Janine there?”
“Yeah. I’ll put her on. It’s been great talking to you, Nicky.”
A moment later, his thirteen-year-old daughter picked up the extension. “Daddy!” she exclaimed.
His heart squeezed in his chest. “Hi, baby,” he said.
“Jenny Giulio’s having a Fourth of July bash at her Gram’s place in Syosset, with a live band and everything. Robbie Morrison invited me, and Mom said I could go!”
Since when had Janine been old enough to go out with boys? “Who the hell is Robbie Morrison?” he said.
“He’s this totally awesome boy in my class, Daddy.”
He didn’t know how to respond. He hadn’t expected this so soon. Gruffly, he said, “You be careful, you hear?”
“Oh, Dad, don’t be a dork.” Janine paused. “I miss you,” she said.
“I miss you, too, lambchop.”
“How come you don’t ever call?”
Guilt twisted inside him. “I’m sorry, baby. I’ve just been so damn busy. I’ll try to call more often, okay?”
Janine sighed. “Okay,” she said.
“Hey, kiddo, maybe you could fly down and visit me sometime.”
“Right. Mom would probably have a bird.”
The steak was burning. He could smell it. “We’ll work around Mom,” he said. “Listen, sweetheart, I have to go, I’m in the middle of cooking supper.”
“Okay. I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too, baby.”
He managed to salvage the steak, but his mood, and his appetite, had taken a nosedive. He ate his supper halfheartedly, left the dirty dishes in the sink, then showered and changed and drove out to Dewey Webb’s.
Dewey’s was a roadhouse just outside of town, with a reputation for loud music, free-flowing liquor, and fast women. It was the kind of place the pastors of Elba’s two dozen churches vilified from their respective pulpits on Sunday mornings. Folks went to Dewey’s to sin, and tonight, Police Chief Nick DiSalvo was in a sinning mood.
He ordered a beer and wandered out to the back room. A few of the locals eyed him warily. Most people still weren’t quite sure how to take him, so they greeted him with uneasy formality. “Evening, Chief,” one of the men said, and the others, not to be outdone, chimed in with lukewarm greetings.
He played a couple rounds of pool, and the atmosphere relaxed a little. Afterward, he drank a few beers with Linc Stempel and Gus Hoyt, two old-timers who spent most of their days sitting outside Carlyle’s Barber Shop, chewing tobacco and talking about the old days. But tonight, there was just one topic of conversation. He couldn’t escape the woman, no matter where he went.
“I hear that McAllister woman’s back in town,” Gus said. He raised his bottle to his mouth and glugged down half of it, then let out a loud belch. “She’s gonna be a thorn in your side, boy.”
“We’ll see,” Nick said.
“Folks around here,” Linc said, “don’t cotton to the idea of some murderess running around loose.”
“Her conviction was overturned,” Nick said amiably.
Gus snorted. “On a technicality’s what I hear. Don’t mean diddly ‘cept them lawyers screwed up somehow, and now she’s walking free.”
“It was new evidence,” Nick said. “A new witness came forward.”
“And she’s come back to rub our faces in it.”
Nick tore at the label on his bottle of Bud. “You guys think she did it?”
“Don’t matter what we think,” Linc said laconically. “The jury said she did it. That’s what matters.”
“Somebody trashed her house this afternoon,” Nick said.
Gus leaned forward, always eager to hear a new sliver of gossip. “Do tell?”
“Stove up the furniture, broke dishes, upended plants, emptied the kitchen cupboards all over the floor.”
Linc shook his head. “People hereabouts ain’t gonna make it easy on her. She’d be better off going back where she come from. ‘Round here, we take care of our own. And Michael McAllister was one of our own.”
Nick clapped him on the shoulder. “Right you are, my man. Listen, if either one of you hears anything, I’d appreciate a call.”
He bought both of the boys a round of beer before he went out into the muggy night. The air was thick and heavy and hard to breathe. He drove through the streets of Elba slowly, with meticulous care. It wouldn’t do for the new police chief to be arrested for driving while intoxicated.
He’d already pulled up in front of Kathryn McAllister’s house before he realized it was where he’d been headed all along. Her living room light was on, and soft music drifted out the open windows to mingle with the night air. Classical. It all sounded alike to him, but it was nice. Pretty. Soothing.
He rang the bell and tucked his hands in his pockets like some high school kid on a first date. Footsteps approached the door, and then her voice, cautious, asked, “Who is it?”
“Nick,” he said. “Nick DiSalvo.”
There was a moment’s hesitation, and then she unlocked the door and opened it. Her hair was damp, and she was wearing a white terry cloth wraparound robe that tied around the middle. The front of it plunged in a shadowy vee, and as far as he could tell, she wasn’t wearing anything under it. “What do you want?” she said.
He wasn’t really sure what he was doing here. Christ, he must be drunker than he thought. He struggled to bring her into focus. “Coffee,” he said.
She eyed him long and hard. And then she stepped back to let him in. “I think that’s probably a good idea,” she said.
There was virtually no evidence of this afternoon’s devastation. She’d covered the torn furniture with blankets, repotted the houseplants that were salvageable, swept up the glass and the potting soil and the corn flakes. He followed her to the kitchen, watched as she stretched up on bare toes to reach the cupboard. “It’ll have to be instant,” she said. “It’s all I have.”
He cleared his throat. “Fine. Whatever you got.”
She filled the teakettle, turned on the burner beneath. “Been to Dewey’s, have you, DiSalvo?”
“Great detective work, McAllister.”
“It isn’t hard,” she said, turning and leaning against the stove with her arms crossed, “in a town that has twenty-three churches and one bar. I doubt that the First Methodist has taken to serving boilermakers at its Wednesday-night prayer service.”
He wondered what her hair would feel like if he ran his hands through it. Soft, like a burnished cloud, tangled and damp from the shower she’d just come from. He already knew what it smelled like, sweet and tangy, like the scent of a fresh-peeled orange, and he wondered if her skin would taste that same way if he touched the tip of his tongue to the soft hollow at the base of her throat.
The kettle wailed, and she busied herself making coffee for both of them. It must be Lenore that had him so edgy tonight. Until his ex-wife called, he’d forgotten how long it had been since he’d been with a woman.
Kathryn turned to look at him. “Cream and sugar?” she said.
In the background, soft piano music played. “I think I better go,” he said.
She just stood there, saying nothing, her face expressionless. And then she nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I think you probably should.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t belong here. Not tonight.”
He wove his way to the front door and fumbled with the lock. “Nick?” she said softly, behind him.
He looked over his shoulder. Swaying slightly, he said, “Yeah?”
“Let me get dressed and drive you home.”
He swung the door back and forth a couple of times. “Nah. I’ll be all right. I don’t live far.”
The corners of her mouth settled into a frown. “You won’t be all right if you wrap your truck around a tree.”
“I won’t wrap it around a tree.” He stepped through the door, paused on the porch to look back at her. “Remember what I said about keeping your doors locked. Don’t let anybody in.”
One slender hand went to her hair and tucked it behind her ear. “I let you in,” she said.
“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly your garden-variety rapist.”
“Good night, DiSalvo,” she said. “Drive carefully.”
And she shut the door in his face.
The clerk at the Rowley County Courthouse was helpful and efficient, pulling out all the property map books for Elba and stacking them on the table next to Kathryn’s chair. The books were musty from disuse, and some of the pages had yellowed with age. She paged through them slowly until she found the map that showed Wanita Crumley’s property. It was bordered on the north by the pig farm of Ellis Jenkins, whose two children had both been in Kathryn’s fifth-grade class a few years back. To the south and east, Wanita’s property butted up against that of Neely and Kevin McAllister.
No surprises here. Both the Crumley and the Jenkins properties had been carved out of acreage that had belonged to the McAllister family since before the Civil War, when the antebellum plantation had supported several thousand acres of cotton and tobacco, worked by a small army of slaves. Subsequent to President Lincoln’s 1863 emancipation mandate and The Late Unpleasantness, as the war was known to many in these parts, the family had begun selling off chunks of the land that had once been an asset but had now become a liability. Without all those slaves to work the land, a number of families suddenly found themselves land-rich but money-poor, and had been forced to sell off pieces of their once-glorious plantations in order to put food on the dinner table.
Kathryn closed the heavy book and set it aside. As an afterthought, she drew it back across the table, opened it back up, and began paging through it in search of the Chandler place, curious about the identity of the property owner who was letting the place disintegrate. She found it on page 83, and began scanning the fine print.
Two-acre lot bordered on the south by Francis Trimble, on the east by Ridgewood Road, on the north and west by Harriet Slocum. Property owners Kevin and Neely McAllister.
She stopped abruptly. Backed up to reread it, certain she was wrong about what she thought she’d read. But there it was, in black and white. Kevin and Neely McAllister owned the house where Michael had been murdered. They were the absentee owners who were allowing their son’s home to go to ruin.
It made no sense at all. Why would the Judge have bought the Chandler place after his son had died there under violent circumstances? Why would they want the constant reminder? If Kathryn had been the one whose child was brutally murdered, she would have wanted to burn the place down. Instead, the Judge and Neely were letting the house die a slow and ugly death.
She drove back into town and parked in front of the First National Bank of Elba. Wendy Sue Mortimer, John Chamberlain’s buxom young secretary, looked up from her typewriter and her eyes went wide with recognition. “I’d like to see Mr. Chamberlain,” Kathryn told her.