Erica Spindler (18 page)

A
very went home to regroup and decide on her next step. She sat at her kitchen table, much as she had for the past hour, untouched tuna sandwich on a plate beside her. She stared at her notebook, at the names of the dead.

Such damning evidence. Didn't anyone in Cypress Springs find this rash of deaths odd? Hadn't anyone expressed concern to Buddy or Matt? Was the whole town in on this conspiracy?

Slow down, Chauvin. Assess the facts. Be objective
.

Avery pushed away from the table, stood and crossed to the window. She peered out at the lush backyard, a profusion of greens accented by splashes of red and pink. What did she actually have? Gwen Lancaster, a woman who claimed that a vigilante-style group was operating in Cypress Springs. A number of accidental deaths, suspicious because of their number. Two missing persons. A murder. A suicide. And a box of newspaper clippings about a fifteen-year-old murder.

Accidents took lives. People went missing. Murders happened, as tragic a fact as that was. Yes, the suicide rate was slightly higher than the state average, but statistics were based on averages not absolutes. It might be two years before another Cypress Springs resident took his own life.

And the clippings? she wondered. A clue to state of mind or nothing more than saved memorabilia?

If the clippings were evidence to a state of mind, wouldn't her dad have saved something else as well? She thought yes. But where would he have stored them? She had emptied his bedroom closet and dresser drawers, the kitchen cabinets and pantry and the front hall closet. But she hadn't even set foot in his study or the attic.

Now, she decided, was the time.

Two and a half hours later, Avery found herself back in the kitchen, no closer to an answer than before. She crossed to the sink to wash her hands, frustrated. She had gone through her father's desk and bookshelves, his stored files in the attic. She had done a spot check of every box in the attic. And found nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary.

She dried her hands. What next? In Washington, she'd had colleagues to brainstorm with, editors to turn to for opinions and insights, sources she trusted. Here she had nothing but her own gut instinct to guide her.

She let it guide her now. She picked up the phone and dialed her editor at the
Post
. “Brandon, it's Avery.”

“Is it really you?” He laughed. “And here I thought you might be hiding from me.”

He appreciated bluntness. He always preferred his writers get to the point—both in their work and their pitches. The high-stress business of getting a newspaper on the stands afforded no time for meandering or coy word games.

“I'm onto a story,” she said.

“Glad to hear your brain's still working. Though I'm a bit surprised, considering. Tell me about it.”

“Small town turns to policing its citizens Big Brother-style as a way to stop the ills of the modern world from encroaching on their way of life. It began when a group of citizens, alarmed by the dramatic increase in crime, formed an organization to counter the tide. At first it was
little more than a Neighborhood Watch-type program. A way to help combat crime.”

“Then they ran amok,” he offered.

“Yes. According to my source, the core group was small, but they had an intricate network of others who reported to the group. Citizens were followed. Their mail read. What they ate, drank and watched was monitored. Where they went. If they worshiped. If the group determined it necessary, they were warned that their behavior would not be tolerated.”

“Goodbye civil rights,” Brandon muttered.

“That's not the half of it. If their warnings went unheeded, the group took action. Businesses were boycotted. Individuals shunned. Property vandalized. To varying degrees, everyone was in on it.”

He was silent a moment. “You talking about your hometown?”

“Yup.”

“You have proof?”

“Nope.” She pulled in a deep breath. “There's more. They may even have begun resorting to murder.”

“Go on.”

“The deaths are masked as suicides or accidents. A drowning during a fishing trip, a farmer falling under his tractor, a hanging, a—”

“—doctor setting himself on fire.”

“Yes,” she said evenly. “Things like that.”

“Avery, you're not up to this. You're not thinking clearly right now.”

“I can handle it. I haven't lost my objectivity.”

“Bullshit and you know it.”

She did, but she wasn't about to admit that. “I just want to find out the truth.”

“And what is the truth, Avery?”

“I'm not certain. The story could be a work of fiction. My source is—”

“Less than credible? Unreliable? His motivations questionable?”

“Yes.”

“They always are, Avery. You know that. And you know what to do.”

Follow leads. Find another source. Prove information accurate.

“Not as easy as it sounds,” she said. “This is a small community. They've closed ranks. Others, I suspect, are frightened.”

“I think you should come back to Washington.”

“I can't do that. Not yet. I have to pursue this.”

“Why's that, Avery?”

Because of her dad
. “It'd make a good story,” she hedged. “And if it's true, somebody's getting away with murder.”

“It would make a good piece, but that has nothing to do with why you want to go after it. We both know that.”

In her editor's vernacular, admitting the story had potential equaled a green light. “It's the stuff Pulitzers are made from,” she teased.

“If what you're telling me is true, it's the stuff that fills morgues. I want you back at your desk, Avery. Not laid out on a slab.”

“You worry too much. Got any suggestions?”

“Look closely at the facts. Double-check your own motivations. Then go to people you trust.” He paused. “But be careful, Avery. I wasn't kidding when I said I wanted you back alive.”

A
very took her editor's advice to go to people she trusted. She decided to start with Lilah, who she had been meaning to pay a visit to anyway.

She parked her rental in the Stevenses' driveway and climbed out. Their garage door was open; Avery saw that both Lilah's and Cherry's cars were parked inside.

Avery made her way up the walk, across the porch to the door. She rang the bell. Cherry answered.

“Hey,” Avery said.

The other woman didn't smile. “Hey.”

“I stopped by to see how Lilah was feeling.”

Cherry didn't move from the doorway. “She's better, thanks.”

Avery had been meaning to call Cherry and apologize for the way she'd snapped at her at her father's wake, but hadn't. Until that moment, Avery hadn't realized just how badly she had hurt the other woman. Or how angry she was. Her reaction seemed extreme to Avery, but some people were more sensitive than others.

“Cherry, can we talk a moment?”

“If you want.”

“I'm sorry about the other night. At the wake. I was upset. I shouldn't have snapped at you. I've been kicking myself for it ever since.”

Cherry's expression softened. In fact, for the space of a heartbeat, Avery thought the other woman might cry. Then her lips curved into a smile. “Apology accepted,” she said, then pushed open the screen door.

Avery stepped inside and turned to the younger woman who motioned toward the back of the house. “Mother's on the sunporch. She'll be delighted to see you.”

She was. “Avery!” the older woman exclaimed, setting aside her novel. “What a pleasure.”

Lilah sat on the white wicker couch, back to the yard and its profusion of color. Sun spilled through the window, bathing her in soft, white light—painting her the picture of Southern femininity.

Avery crossed, bent and kissed the woman's cheek, then sat in the wicker queen's chair across from her. “I've been worried about you.”

She waved aside her concern. “Blasted allergies. This time of year is such a trial. The headaches are the worst.”

“Well, you look wonderful.”

“Thank you, dear.” Lilah shifted her gaze to her daughter. “Cherry, could you bring Avery an iced tea?”

Avery started to her feet. “I can get it.”

“Nonsense,” Lilah interrupted. “Cherry's here. Would you mind, sweetheart? And some of those little ginger cookies from the church bake sale.”

“No problem,” Cherry muttered. “Got to earn my keep, after all.”

Avery glanced at the girl. Her features looked pinched. Avery cleared her throat. “Really, Lilah, I can get my own dri—”

Cherry cut her off. “Don't worry about it, Avery. I'm used to this.”

After Cherry left the room, Lilah made a sound of frustration. “Some days that girl is so testy. Just miserable to live with.”

“We all have bad days,” Avery said gently.

“I suppose so.” Lilah looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. When she lifted her eyes, Avery saw that they sparkled with tears. “It's been…difficult for Cherry. She shouldn't be taking care of us. She should have a family of her own. Children to care for.”

“She will, Lilah. She's young yet.”

The woman continued as if Avery hadn't spoken. “After Karl left, she changed. She's not happy. None of my children—”

Lilah had been about to say that none of her children were happy, Avery realized. Hunter she understood. And to a degree, Cherry. But what of Matt?

Avery reached across the coffee table and caught Lilah's hand. She squeezed. “Happiness is like the ocean, Lilah. Sometimes swelling, sometimes retreating. Constantly shifting.” She smiled. “Sudden swells are what make it all so much fun.”

Lilah returned the pressure on her fingers. “You're such a dear child, Avery. Thank you.”

“Here you go,” Cherry said, entering the room with a tray laden with two glasses of tea, sugar bowl and plate of cookies. Each glass sported a circle of lemon and sprig of mint.

She set the tray on the coffee table. The cookies, Avery saw, were arranged in an artful fan, atop a heart-shaped doily. “How lovely,” Avery exclaimed. “Cherry, you have such a gift.”

She flushed with pleasure. “It was nothing.”

“To you, maybe. I could no sooner put this tray together than run a marathon in world record time.”

“You're too sweet.”

“Just honest. Join us?”

“I'd love to but there are some things I wanted to do this afternoon. And if I don't get to them, it'll be dinnertime and too late.” Cherry turned to her mother. “If you don't need anything else, I'll get busy?”

Lilah waved her off, and for the next few minutes Avery and the older woman chatted about nothing more weighty than the weather. When the conversation lulled, Avery brought up the subject most on her mind. “Buddy told me that back in the eighties you were part of a civic action group called Seven Citizens Who Care.”

She drew her eyebrows together. “Why in the world did he do that?”

“We were talking about Cypress Springs. How it's such a great place to live.” Avery reached for a cookie, laid it on her napkin without tasting. “Said you enacted real change in the community.”

“Those were difficult times.” She smoothed the napkin over her lap. “But that's ancient history.”

Avery ignored her obvious bid to change the subject. “He said Pastor Dastugue was part of the group. Who else was a member of The Seven?”

“What did you say?”

“The Seven, who else—”

“We didn't call ourselves that,” she corrected sharply. “We were the CWC.”

She had struck a nerve, no doubt about it. Ignoring the prickle of guilt, she pressed on. “I'm sorry, Lilah. I didn't mean to upset you.”

“You didn't.” She smoothed the napkin. Once. Then again. “Of course you didn't.”

“Was there another group called The Seven?”

“No. Why would you think that?”

“Your response…it seemed like The Seven might be something you didn't want to be associated with.”

She went to work on the napkin. “Silly, Avery. Of course not.”

“I stopped by the
Gazette
this morning,” Avery said. “Rickey Plaquamine offered me a job.”

“Outstanding.” Lilah leaned forward, expression eager. “And? Did you take it?”

“Told him I'd think about it.”

She pretended to pout, though Avery could see she was delighted she hadn't outright declined the offer.

“We'd all be thrilled if you decided to make Cypress Springs your home, Avery. But no one more than Matt.” She brought her tea to her lips, sipped then patted her mouth with her napkin. “Buddy told me you and Matt seemed to be enjoying yourselves at Spring Fest.”

Avery thought of the other night, of dancing with Matt under the stars. Of how comfortable she had felt, how relaxed. Although she hadn't seen him since, he had called every day to check on her.

She smiled. “We did. Very much.”

Avery offered nothing further, though she could tell the woman was eager for details. And assurances, Avery supposed. About her and Matt's future. Ones that she was unable to make.

“Rickey looked great. He said he and Jeanette just had their third.”

“A handsome boy. Fat. All their babies have been fat.” Lilah leaned toward Avery, twinkle in her eyes. “It's all the ice cream Jeanette eats during her last trimester. Belle from the Dairy Barn told me Jeanette came every day, sometimes twice a day, for a double-swirl hot-fudge sundae.”

A smile tugged at Avery's mouth. Poor Jeanette. Small-town living—life in a fishbowl.

Avery refocused their conversation. “Until today, I hadn't known Sal was gone. I was so shocked. Dad knew how I felt about Sal, I'm surprised he didn't tell me.”

Lilah opened her mouth, then shut it. “This year,” she began, struggling to speak, “it's been difficult. Our friends…so many of them…passed away.”

Avery stood and crossed to the woman. She bent and hugged her. She felt frail, too thin. “I'm sorry, Lilah. I wish I could do something to help.”

“You already have, sweetheart. By being here.”

They chatted a couple moments more, then Lilah indicated she needed to rest. They stood. Avery noticed the woman wasn't quite steady on her feet. It alarmed her to see her this way. Just over two weeks ago, she had seemed the picture of health.

They reached the foyer. Lilah kissed Avery's cheek. “Stop by again soon.”

“I will. Feel better, Lilah.”

Avery watched as the woman made her way up the stairs, noticing how tightly she gripped the handrail, how she seemed to lean on it for support. She found it hard to believe that seasonal allergies would cause this dramatic change in the woman, though she had no real frame of reference for that belief since she had been one of the lucky ones who had been spared them.

Hunter had claimed his mother was addicted to painkillers and booze. Substance abuse took a terrible toll on health and emotional stability. Could that be what she was seeing?

Cherry appeared in the study doorway, to Avery's left. “Mother's going up to nap?” she asked.

“Mmm.” Frowning, Avery shifted her gaze to Cherry. “Is she all right?”

“She's fine. The allergy medicine takes it out of her.”

“You're certain? She's not having any other problems, is she?”

“Of course not. Why do you ask?”

“I'm concerned. She was so strong just two weeks ago.”

“Her bouts are like this.” Cherry shrugged. “Mom just doesn't bounce back like she used to.”

Avery lowered her gaze. Cherry held a gun, some sort of revolver. She returned her gaze to the other woman's. “Not to be too nosy, but why the—”

“Gun? I'm heading out to the practice range.”

“The practice range?” Avery repeated, surprised. Girls in rural Louisiana grew up around hunting and guns, though they were less likely to know how to use one than to bake a peach pie from scratch. “You shoot?”

“Are you kidding? With Matt and Dad as role models? How about you?”

“I'm a bunny-hugging pacifist.”

“You want to come along anyway?”

“Why not?”

Avery followed Cherry into her father's study. His gun closet stood open. It held no less than a dozen guns and rifles. Cherry helped herself to a box of bullets, closed and locked the closet. She slipped the key into her pocket, fitted her revolver in its case and snapped it shut.

“Ready?”

She nodded and they headed out, Avery following in her own car. The gun range was actually a cleared field ten miles outside of town, not far from the road to the canning factory. On the edge of the field sat a dilapidated chicken coop and three bales of straw, each set a dozen feet apart, standing on end. The land looked what it was: abandoned and overgrown.

They climbed out of their cars. “This was part of the Weiners' farm, wasn't it?” Avery asked.

“Yup. Sold the whole thing to Old Dixie Foods. Moved up to Jackson.”

Avery wrinkled her nose. “What's that smell?”

“The canning factory. Wind's just right for it today.” Cherry opened the gun case, took out the gun and began to load it. “Give it a minute, you get accustomed to the smell.”

Avery had a hard time believing that. “What kind of gun is it?”

“Ruger .357 Magnum with a six-inch barrel.”

“The Dirty Harry gun, right? From the films?”

“Close. Detective Harry Callahan carried the .44
Magnum.” She laughed. “Even
I
don't need that much firepower.”

Avery watched as Cherry slid six bullets into the chamber, then snapped it shut. “What do you shoot at?” she asked.

“Whatever. The chicken coop, tin cans, bottles. Dad has a hand-operated skeet thrower, sometimes we shoot skeet. For that we use a hunting rifle or shotgun.”

To that end she popped open her trunk and took out a cardboard box filled with tin cans. While Avery watched, she crossed the field and set the cans on top of the straw bales and along the chicken coop's window ledges and roof.

She jogged back. She checked her gun, aimed and fired, repeating the process six times. The cans flew. She missed the last and swore.

She glanced at Avery. “I heard what you asked Mom about. That old group, the CWC.”

“Do you remember it?”

“Sure. I remember everything about that time.”

Avery frowned. “It's so weird, because I don't.”

Cherry reloaded the revolver's chamber. “That's not so weird. My family's the reason I remember so clearly.”

“It was a rough time, your dad said.”

“Rough would be an understatement.”

She fell silent a moment, as if lost in her own thoughts. In memories of that time.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.” Cherry grinned. “Sorry, I couldn't help myself.”

“Did you know Elaine St. Claire?”

“Who?”

“The woman who was murdered.”

Cherry sighted her mark. She pulled the trigger. The bullet exploded from the gun. She repeated the process five more times, then looked at Avery. “Only by reputation.”

“What do you mean?”

Cherry cocked an eyebrow. “Come on, Avery.
By reputation
. She'd seen more mattresses than the guy down at the Sealy Bedding Barn.”

Avery made a sound of shock. “The woman's dead, Cherry. It seems so callous to talk about her that way.”

“I'm being honest. Should I lie just because she's dead? That would make me a hypocrite.”

“Ever hear the saying ‘Live and let live'?”

“That's big-city crapola, propagated by those intent on maintaining status quo and contentment of the masses. You have to live with the bottom-feeders.”