Lia Farrell - Mae December 02 - Two Dogs Lie Sleeping (10 page)

“W
ill you please stop pacing, Sheriff?” Dory asked. “It’s like having a wild animal loose in my work area.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben said. “It’s driving me crazy that I can’t interview anyone.” Ben’s jaw ached from clenching his teeth. Being tied to the office wasn’t the only thing that was driving him crazy. He was still upset that Mae was mad at him, although he
’d been completely justified in having July’s house searched yesterday without telling her. He strode back to his office and got busy on the computer. Accessing the Southeastern Tennessee State Library site, he pulled up the newspapers from fifteen years ago in January.

About a half hour later, with a headache from peering at scanned microfiche, he had it. A young man named Ryan Gentry, also a pre-law major, had fallen to his death from the Sigma Chi Fraternity House window on January
3, 1998.

He buzzed Dory.

“Hey, I just had an idea. Can you come back here?”

“On my way.” She appeared in his doorway in seconds.

“Nobody told me I couldn’t investigate the reason Tom Ferris disappeared.” Ben smiled with satisfaction. “I can work on that while Wayne focuses on the Ferris murder.”

“Pretty proud of yourself, thinking of that idea,” Dory said, her
lips twitching.

“Wayne and I both think the Ferris killing is tied to something that happened right before he disappeared. I found an article in the student newspaper about a suicide; the kid’s name was Ryan Gentry. He jumped from the window of the Sigma Chi House to his death on January
third, 1998. I want to talk with the detective who investigated that case. Can you use your contacts to find out who he was and get me a phone number?”

“No problem,
boss,” Dory said. Although Dory frustrated Ben periodically, she was a whiz at finding information he needed.

A
bout an hour later, Dory buzzed Ben. “I have the information you wanted about the original investigating Detective,” she said. “He’s retired now, but his name is Patrick Devlin Pascoe, known as PD. I’ve got the address and phone number.” She read off the information.

Ben called but there was no answer. He left a message about his hunch that the recent murder of Tom Ferris was linked to Ryan Gentry’s death. The phone rang about twenty minutes later
; it was Detective Pascoe. Ben asked if he remembered the case.

“How could I forget?” he said. “It was a bad one.”

Every cop or detective had the types of cases that they couldn’t get over. Often it was the young victims that haunted them. “Would you be willing to talk to me about the case?” Ben asked. When Detective Pascoe agreed, Ben made arrangements to drive out to his house later in the day.

“Do you have pictures? Crime scene stuff?”

“I’ve got the whole case file. Took it with me when I left. Against the rules, but the Department knows where it is if they need it. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“I get the feeling you had doubts about it being suicide,” Ben said.

“I sure did,” the detective said. “I still do.”

Detective Pascoe lived alone in a small cabin off a long graveled two-track, two hours east of Sheriff Bradley’s office. Much of the mile-long driveway had eroded from rain. The sheriff’s police cruiser hit each and every pothole. He could feel the springs bouncing. When he drove up to the little place, Ben was reminded of the cabin that had been his grandfather’s and where he spent many happy days as a kid.

Detective Pascoe opened the door to let the sheriff in before he knocked. The old man was in his early seventies and pale, but he still looked strong.

“Wondered if you would show up,” the detective said gruffly, standing in the open doorway.

“Took me a while to get here from Rosedale. I’m Sheriff Bradley. Call me Ben.”

He held out his hand and the old man took it in a bone-crushing grip.

“I’m PD. Come in, I have some coffee on. How do you take it?”

“Black,” Ben said. He walked inside the large open kitchen and saw a small table covered in papers and photos. “Is that the file?” he asked.

“Yes. I was taking another look. I made you a copy
.” He handed Ben a neatly stacked pile of papers clipped together.

“Treat this confidentially,” PD said.

“Of course. Thanks for doing all this.”

“Sit down
.” He handed Ben a mug.

“So you didn’t think Ryan Gentry committed suicide? Any evidence?” Ben asked.

“Pretty thin, but I knew. Something hinky with the case from the get-go. The family was wealthy. The kid had some trouble with drugs that the father covered up. It happened four years before he died. When he got picked up for the drug offense, he was only sixteen. Dad sent the kid to military school until he was eighteen and could start college.”

“Was he dealing dope?”

“It was pills. Oxycodone had just come on the market. Sometimes kids shared them with their friends. I never heard about any money changing hands.”

“Did the pathologist find any in his system?”

“That’s just one of the things that was off in this case. The family refused an autopsy. The old pathologist, Doctor Lewis, wouldn’t push for it. I tried talking with Gentry’s mother and his older sister. They were willing, but the father was completely opposed. He said he had religious scruples.” The old man snorted. “That man hadn’t seen the inside of a church since he was christened.”

“Was there a suicide note?”

“No note. College kids were just getting computers in those days and we checked Ryan’s. There wasn’t a printer in the room and nothing was on the screen.” He took a deep breath and looked out toward the sun-dappled woods, clearly discouraged.

“The pathologist saw the body and wrote a report, I assume?”

“He did. Three lines. I can still quote the report. ‘Body of a young white male. Died from consequences of a fall from upstairs window. Bruises around his waist.’ ” Detective Pascoe made a disgusted sound.

“What did you make of that?” Ben asked.

“I thought Ryan Gentry was looking out the window and somebody came up from behind him and heaved him out. The screen was underneath his body.” PD shook his head. “I’ve never seen anyone kill themselves by jumping through a window screen.”

“Who did you suspect?”

“Well, I talked with his roommate, Tom Ferris, but I dismissed him as a suspect right away. He’d just gotten back from Christmas break, and he said he didn’t believe Ryan would kill himself. There was something odd about his demeanor, though. He seemed frightened of something or someone.”

“Was there bad blood between Tom Ferris and Ryan Gentry?”

“No, the opposite. Ferris was almost in tears, all shaken up. The Gentry kid’s father was friends with the police chief and I got a not-so-gentle warning to back off. I tried for another couple of weeks. I talked to the housekeeper—her name was Nellie Franz—and later the housemother, a Mrs. Trula Godfrey. She was the person who told Tom Ferris about Ryan’s death. She moved his room that day. Didn’t want him looking out the window at all the police activity, she said. Both women’s addresses are in the case file.”

“What did the
housemother say about the suicide?”

“She was totally confused by it. She told me Ryan was a nice kid, good grades, plenty of friends. She never had a clue he was depressed.”

“What about the housekeeper?”

“She just kept going on about her bucket being moved. She said she’d been mopping the hall when it all went down. She ran downstairs to see what happened. When she came back upstairs, the bucket was in a different place.”

“What’d you think about that?”

“I assumed there’d been a struggle and somebody tried to clean up. We didn’t have
Luminol with us. And by the time I got around to talking to the housekeeper, she had dumped her pail out. No chance to test it for blood.”

The men sat quietly, sipping their coffees. It had clouded over and the
re was distant thunder. A few minutes later rain pelted against the windows, looking like tears as it ran down the panes.

“Did you know Tom Ferris left town right around then and hadn’t been back for fifteen years?” Pascoe nodded. “When he returned he visited his parent’s old house
, where he was killed—shot in the back.”

PD looked into Ben’s eyes. “I read about his death in the paper. If you hadn’t called me
, I was going to try to reach you. There has to be a connection.”

“Why did you think Ferris left town?”
Ben asked.

“I think he saw something incriminating. Someone must have warned him off and he got the hell out of Dodge.”

“Sounds about right,” Ben said. “Any idea who?”

Detective Pascoe handed Ben a list of the names of the thirty-five college men living in the Fraternity. “One of these guys is a murderer,” he rasped out.

“And now he’s struck again,” Ben said. “Ferris’ murder was done to silence him.”

“Yup,” Pascoe said. “Hope you can find a connection between the guys on this list and the people in the house when Tom Ferris died.”

“That’s my intention,” Ben said. “You’ve been very helpful. Thanks for all this.”

“I want to be there when you get him,” Detective Pascoe said. “I could die a happy man if you solve it. I haven’t got long.” He ran a jerky hand through his hair. He had a distant, empty stare.

“Are you sick, Detective?”

“Prostate cancer. I’ll be dead before the year is over.”

“Sorry to hear that, sir.”

PD nodded his head. “Just get this solved.”

Driving back down the twisting washboard driveway, Ben felt something starting to give in this case. They had dismissed the Powells as suspects. There was no gun in July and Fred’s house and no blood or gunshot residue had been found on any of Fred Powell’s clothing. Fred’s semi-automatic had been locked in the shooting club when Ferris was killed. The lab was processing the materials, but it looked like he was in the clear.

Miranda Stackhouse had also been eliminated as a suspect almost immediately. She was on her way to dinner with her husband and friends when Ferris was shot. Wayne had talked with George Stackhouse, thinking he might have resented his wife pouring out thousands of dollars in a fruitless search to find Tom Ferris and get him to sign over the house. However, the man was completely under
the thumb of his wife, Miranda. Plus he still felt guilty that her inheritance had paid to start up his business. He figured he owed his wife, and if private detectives made her happy, he was content to pay for them. Both Miranda and her husband had been crossed off the list.

His remaining suspect, Bethany Cooper, had been in the Booth Showhouse the day before Tom Ferris was killed and again on the day of his murder. They still didn’t know why, but Wayne was pushing on her hard. She would crack soon and tell them the reason she was there, but neither he nor Wayne felt she was a likely killer. They still had to talk with her husband, Dan.

Thanks to Detective Pascoe, Ben now had a new direction. Somebody in that fraternity fifteen years ago was connected to someone in the Booth Showhouse. Maybe the man was married to one of the designers. A tiny hunter’s grin lifted one corner of Ben’s mouth. He was getting closer. It would be a distinct pleasure to inform Captain Paula of their “solve.”

Now if he could only get back in
to Mae’s good graces. He dialed her number and left a long message. After he’d helped her clean up the puppy messes, they hadn’t discussed the search of her sister’s home. She’d been very short with him all evening, so after Matthew was in bed, Ben went home. Mae wouldn’t give him a good-bye kiss and she hadn’t answered his calls today. Hopefully she and Matty were having fun, he thought, and headed back toward the office. He wanted to be there for the second interview with Bethany Cooper.

A
fter cleaning the lake house and starting a load of laundry, July called her mother.

“Hi,
sweetheart.” Suzanne’s warm voice flooded her daughter with remorse.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I should have called you earlier. How’s Livy doing today?”

“She’s good. How are you?”

July closed her eyes. “I’ve been better. Could you do me a favor?”

“Of course. What do you need?”

“I’m out at the lake house. Can you pick Nate and Parker up from the Beckwith’s and bring them out here with Livy? I’d need you to go by my
place and pack some clothes for them, too. My housekeeper, JoBeth, is there cleaning this morning. I assume Fred’s at work.”

“No problem. I’ll go get their things together now. Can you call and let Carol Ann know I’m coming?”

“Thank you so much, Mama. I’ll call her as soon as I’m off the phone.”

“Hang in there,
sweetheart. See you in a couple hours.”

Suzanne pulled into the lake house driveway just after lunch. July watched from the kitchen window as her lanky, dark-haired twins exited the car, followed by their six-year-old blonde sister. Nate and Parker had turned nine in June. Lately they both seemed to grow an inch a week. The two boys jostled each other and ignored their little sister, as usual.

“Where’re the dogs?” Nate
called out.

“Where’s Dad?” Parker asked, in an even louder voice.

Olivia and her grandmother walked in, each carrying a suitcase. “I’m helping, Mommy,” Olivia announced.

“Hi Livy, I can see that.” July smiled at her youngest. “Boys, go get the rest of the bags out of Zana’s trunk please.” She turned to her mother. “Any problems?”

“Of course not. Your housekeeper was very helpful. She said the place was a disaster when she got there this morning, though.” Suzanne raised her eyebrows and looked questioningly at her oldest daughter. “Anything I need to know?”

July nodded. She cringed inside but knew
she couldn’t keep her mother in the dark. “Let me get the kids settled in. Do you have to go back right away?”

“I turned my column in yesterday. Your father’s on a fishing trip, and I asked my neighbor’s teenage daughter to take care of my dogs this afternoon. I can stay as long as you want.”

The boys came back in with the rest of the bags. There was a loud crack of thunder and then a sudden summer downpour. Rain blew in through the half-open door.

“Close that, Parker. Please take your stuff to your bedrooms. I’ll start a movie for you downstairs, okay?”

“Okay, but where are Daddy and the dogs?” Nate looked confused. He bit his lower lip.

“Your dogs are at Aunt Mae’s, and your father’s at the office, sweetie. I thought we’d come out here for one last time before school starts, that’s all.” Three pairs of eyes, the twins’ dark and Olivia’s light blue, regarded her with confusion.

Suzanne shooed them away. “Go on—all of you,” she said with a smile. “I’ll make you some popcorn.”

After her three kids were settled in front of the basement television with popcorn and juice boxes, July looked around the room. She was glad they’d left the lake house as it was when they bought it—aside from some fresh paint and new carpet for the basement. The basement was a walkout, and through the rain she could see their dock and a little bit of the cove.

In contrast to their palatial house in town, the lake house was small and rustic, with the only TV in the basement. There were no videogames here, so the focus was on outdoor activities. The kitchen was original to the forty-year
-old house, and there were only two bathrooms, as compared to six in their Rosedale house. July always found it restful at the lake.

She walked back up the narrow, pine-paneled staircase to her waiting mother. “Let’s go
sit on the porch and watch the storm. I need to talk to you.”

Suzanne grabbed a bottle of white wine out of the refrigerator
and opened it. Filling two generous glasses, she handed one to July. “It’s a bit early in the day, I know, but you look like you could use a drink. I’m right behind you.”

It was cooler on the screened porch. The pouring rain had already
lowered the temperature to a much more comfortable level. It was still coming down at a steady clip. July sat on the old glider and cleared her throat. She took a long swallow of her wine and looked at her mother. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing herself in the future. Like July, Suzanne had dark eyes and smooth, dark hair. Suzanne’s was cut shorter and just starting to show gray at the temples.

“What’s wrong, July?”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Are you and Fred having problems?”

“Yes, but that’s not the reason I wanted you to come out here.”

“Is it about Tommy?” Suzanne looked intently at her daughter. Then
, in one of her characteristic flashes of intuition, she asked, “Did he say anything to you before he died, honey?” July didn’t answer. “You can tell me if he did. I won’t tell anyone, you know.”

July sucked in her breath. “He said he was sorry and that he’d written me a letter.”

“Did you ever get a letter from him?”

“No, I never did. Mama, you know I thought we were going to get married. We slept together, right before we both went back to school. And I never saw him again,” tears sprang to her eyes
, “until I found him dying on the floor.”

Her mother was looking at her with such pity in her eyes.

It was hard enough to tell her that we slept together. I can’t stop now.
“I hadn’t heard from Tommy in almost six weeks when I found out I was pregnant. His parents had died. I had no way to get in touch with him. He’d disappeared. I didn’t know what to do. I waited a few more weeks, and then I started bleeding. One of my friends took me to a doctor, and he said I’d lost the baby.”

July’s mother came over and sat next to her daughter.
Putting her arms around her, she said, “We always wondered what happened, July. You were so thin and pale when you came home that spring. You never wanted to talk about Tommy, and we didn’t want to force the issue. We thought you were still grieving over him disappearing. You wouldn’t go back to Ole Miss in the fall, and you were just so quiet until you met Fred.”

“And now Fred’s a suspect in Tommy’s murder
,” July blurted out. “Our house was trashed by people Ben sent from the sheriff’s department. They had a warrant. They were looking for blood stains on Fred’s clothing.”

“Oh my God
! That’s why it was such a disaster when your housekeeper got there.”

July nodded. “When Fred got home last night we had a huge fight, and I left and came out here.” Her mother released her
, and July leaned back into the faded cushions with a green ivy design. They were both in tears.

“Oh, Mama, what do you think I should do?”

“Do you believe Fred could be involved in Tommy’s murder?”

“No, but he’s been acting strange for a while. I caught him going through my email a few weeks ago, and he keeps asking me questions. It’s like he doesn’t trust me anymore.” July sniffled. “I’m going to get a box of tissues.”

When July came back to the porch her mother hadn’t moved. She was staring out the window at the sheets of rain streaming down, her glass of wine untouched on the table in front of her. July set the tissue box down in front of her mother, picked up her own glass and took another gulp, without really tasting it.

“How long will you stay here, July?”

“The kids’ school doesn’t start until the sixteenth, so we can stay at least a week, maybe a little longer.”

“What about Fred?”

July frowned. “I’m here to get a break from Fred. He knows that.”

Suzanne tilted her head. “Do the kids need a break from him too?”

“Of course not, but he’s at work every day. Now that I’m done with the project at the Booth Mansion, I don’t have another design job until after Labor Day.” She was silenced by a vehement head shake from her mother.

“I don’t think it’s fair to your husband not to give him a chance to work things out with you or see his children. You need to remember how you felt when Tommy disappeared. Is that how you want Fred to feel?”

July stared at her mother in shocked disbelief. “You can’t possibly compare the two situations, Mama. I still don’t know why Tommy left, or where he went. Fred knows perfectly well why I came out here, and I told him where I was going.”

“All right,” Suzanne held her hands up. “Just tell me you’ll call him soon and give him a chance to explain himself.”

July sighed. “I’ll think about it. That’s really all I can promise right now.”