Authors: Creston Mapes
Let her go. Just let her go into the nursing home!
Maybe it would be best. They wouldn’t have to worry about her drinking around the girls, locking all the doors, freaking everybody out …
“Mom,” Pamela said as calmly as she could, “we want you to be with us.” She gently squeezed her mother’s shoulder. “I need you. You need us. Believe me, Granger Meade is not going to bother us. I know it. I promise you.”
Margaret pursed her lips and shook her head. “You know what happened to me … in college.”
Pamela nodded.
“I still think I see him.” Margaret spoke as if in a trance. “I imagine what he would look like now, all these years later. I can see him so clearly.”
Her mother’s fear and hatred were palpable.
“The smell of him. That gaunt face. Those crazy eyes.” Her head dropped. Her shoulders bounced.
Pamela took her mom in her arms and let her cry. Margaret dropped the address book and embraced her. “Oh, Ben,” she moaned. “Why did you leave me? What am I supposed to do?”
“Daddy would want you to be with us, Mom.”
Margaret cried harder.
“You know that. He wouldn’t want you to go right into St. Edward’s—not yet. He’d want you with Rebecca and Faye, with me and Jack.”
Margaret leaned back and examined Pamela. “I won’t sleep.” Her mascara and tears mixed. “You don’t know what I’m like. You haven’t lived here in years. You don’t want the girls to see that.”
“Mom, the girls adore you. They accept you, no matter what.”
Pamela snatched a tissue from a nook in the kitchen and handed it to her. Margaret wiped the tears and blew her nose.
“I can’t go.” She shook her head and her mouth curled into a frown; she fought back more tears. “I would have a nervous breakdown. Trust me. It would be much more trouble than you bargained for.”
Pamela tried to reason with her, to assure her they could deal with anything. But Margaret bent down, retrieved the address book, and reached for the phone.
Pamela’s heart broke.
Chapter 12
It had stopped snowing. Derrick relished the rays of sun poking through the dark gray sky as he drove to Trenton City’s east side once again. This time he was heading to the home of Spivey Brinkman, the man who was supposed to know a great deal about the alleged misdoings at Demler-Vargus.
Derrick went through a mental list of the odds and ends he had to tie up before the evening deadline at
The Dispatch
and his date with Zenia. He had finally talked her into trying La Gloria’s, his favorite Cuban restaurant. But he was running behind because he’d spent most of the morning trying to track down the whereabouts of Barb and Emmett Doyle and Amy Sheets.
He hadn’t had any luck on the Doyles but, oddly enough, had almost surely tracked down Amy’s mother on Facebook. With the help of the city search, he found a Rebekah Sheets in Columbus, Ohio. Although she had posted no photos and only had sixteen friends, she listed herself as the mother of Amy, Bruce, and Brendon.
Derrick sent Rebekah Sheets a message on Facebook, introducing himself as a
Dispatch
reporter and stating that he was trying to track down Amy for some input about a story he was working on. He sent a similar message to Amy’s brother Bruce, who also had a Facebook page; the other brother seemed to be invisible. If Derrick didn’t hear anything quickly, he would search further for phone numbers, but he had run out of time.
The nav indicated he was almost to Spivey Brinkman’s house. He recognized the street he and Jack had turned on the day before to get to the Randalls’ place. Sure enough, Spivey’s double-wide was just behind the Randall property.
Derrick parked in front near the beige plastic mailbox. He headed for the door and heard dogs barking all around in the distance. Smoke from nearby furnaces and fireplaces permeated the air. It was a wooded neighborhood dotted with trees a hundred feet tall. Derrick figured that the smooth, unblemished blanket of snow covered a multitude of unkempt lawns, dirt, toys, and junk. Near Spivey’s trailer sat an old red clunker was parked with a torn ARMY bumper sticker and one that read
Horn Broke—Watch for Finger
.
He went up the wooden steps and rapped at the aluminum door. The muffled beat of rock music reverberated from the rear of the small dwelling. He knocked harder.
Finally the door opened, and Derrick got the full force of the music.
“You must be Mr. Whittaker.” A young woman reached up from a wheelchair with neon pink wheels to shake hands. “Sorry about the music.”
Derrick smiled and shook her hand. “Call me Derrick.”
“Come in.” The girl backed her wheelchair away from the door. “My dad said you were coming.”
Derrick entered and took his hat off. The pulse of the music pounded from the back of the house. “And you are …”
“Jenness. Sorry about that.” She wheeled over to a small living area with a couch, two chairs, and a fake fireplace that was turned on. “Have a seat.” She was a slender girl with light skin, a beaming smile, and a beauty mark at the top corner of her mouth. “My dad should be here soon. He’s running errands.”
“Okay.” Derrick wished she had told him at the door that her father wasn’t home. He wouldn’t have gone in, alone with a young girl; it didn’t look or feel right.
“Do you know Jack Crittendon?” she said.
“Sure, yes. He and I are good friends. We work together.”
Derrick smelled something. Not cigarettes or cigars … marijuana?
“He wrote a story about me in your paper.” She smiled brightly and curled her shiny brown hair behind an ear.
“Oh yeah, that’s right.” Her gray Yale sweatshirt made sense now. “You’re the Yale girl. Criminal law, right?”
“That’s me!”
The bass from the music rumbled beneath Derrick’s feet. It was The Pretenders, some seriously old stuff.
“So you graduate this fall?” He practically had to yell.
“From East High.” She nodded. “I can’t wait. Pardon me for a moment, will you?”
“Sure.”
She shot Derrick a forced smile and wheeled down a narrow hallway toward the back of the house.
In about thirty seconds the volume went down, and Derrick heard two female voices.
Jenness rolled back into the room and stopped near the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink? We still have coffee on. I’m actually surprised my dad’s not back; he’s usually quite punctual.”
“No thanks. Maybe I should call him?”
“You can if you want. So you’re here to talk about Demler-Vargus.”
“That’s right …” Derrick reached for his phone.
“Give him another minute. I’m sure he’ll be right back.” Jenness rolled over and parked closer to him this time. “They really are hurting people, you know. It’s not right. My dad knows a lot of people whose lives have been ruined by Demler-Vargus.”
“That’s what I want to talk to him about.”
“My dream is to come back here someday and make things right for all our neighbors who’ve been adversely affected.”
Derrick liked her spunkiness. “So you’d file a lawsuit against them …”
“You’re darn right. I’ve told Daddy that if someone would take the time to research back far enough, it could be a class-action lawsuit where all these poor people around here finally get redress for their suffering.”
A girl in her early twenties slinked into the room like Catwoman. Derrick had the impression she had been standing silently in the hall, listening.
“Hey.” Colored tattoos swirled up her arms, around her neck, and on her calves. She had short jet-black hair with a white streak on one side, a diamond nose stud, and various silver hoops dangling from her ears. She swirled a red Tootsie Pop in her mouth. “You’re a reporter.”
Derrick stood. “Derrick Whittaker.” He reached his hand out. She eyed it, then his face, then simply gave his hand a soft pet, rolling her fingers over it. She gyrated to the window and peered out. “Another beautiful
day in paradise.” She wore a bright aqua T-shirt and tight black knee-high yoga pants that showed off her figure.
“This is my sister, Tatum,” Jenness said with a pink face.
“So …
Derrick
.” Tatum turned back to the small room. “What do you want to talk to my daddy about?”
“I told you—Demler-Vargus,” Jenness said.
“Since when is the
Dispatch
interested in Demler-Vargus?”
“Tatum, don’t start.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to help the poor guy. Save him some time.”
Jenness pursed her lips.
“They must not have a heck of a lot of faith in you.” Tatum’s mouth curled sarcastically, and she lowered her gaze at Derrick.
Derrick squinted. “Pardon me?”
Tatum laughed. “Anybody they’d send out here on this wild goose chase must be a real prize—”
“Don’t listen to her,” Jenness said. “She does this to everybody.”
Derrick was almost certain he smelled pot.
“What?” Tatum threw her hands up. “He should know what he’s getting into.”
“You’ve said enough.
What he needs to know,
Daddy will tell him. I’m sorry, Mr. Whittaker. It seems like that’s all I ever do is apologize for Tatum.”
“She does have my curiosity up,” Derrick said. “What do you know about Demler-Vargus, Tatum?”
“It’s just some in-family talk”—Jenness shot a glare at Tatum—“that I’m sure our father will tell you all about.”
Tatum worked her way over to Derrick. “I see you’re not married, Derrick.”
“Engaged,” he said, feeling especially uncomfortable now that Catwoman had come closer. “Jenness, can I get your dad’s cell number? I’m going to give him a quick call, make sure he’s on his way.”
He punched the number Jenness dictated and got an automated response telling him to leave a message. He walked away from the girls, toward the window. “Hey, Mr. Brinkman, this is Derrick Whittaker with the
Dispatch.
I’m at your house for our appointment. I waited as long as I could, but I’ve got to run. Give me a call, and we’ll set up another time, okay? Thanks.”
He clicked off and looked at his watch.
“I’m going to take off. I’ll reschedule with your dad and probably see you girls again, okay?” He handed each of them his
Dispatch
business card. “Anything at all about Demler-Vargus, give me a call.”
He got to the car, started it, got the heat cranking, and went through the messages on his phone. Nothing important. Then he checked Facebook and found a message from Amy’s mom:
Mr. Whittaker,
We have not had contact with Amy and are unsure of her whereabouts. Sorry we could not be of help.
Rebekah Sheets
Derrick punched in a quick response:
Mrs. Sheets,
Thank you for your prompt response. May I ask Amy’s address the last time you knew of her whereabouts? And when that would have been?
Thank you again for your help.
Derrick Whittaker
Derrick scanned the snowy neighborhood one last time in hopes of seeing Spivey Brinkman driving up, but no such luck. Jenness’s face was pressed low against one of the windows, which was half covered in condensation. She saw him looking back and waved. Derrick shot a wave as he rolled away.
That Tatum was a piece of work. What had she meant about a wild goose chase? Those girls knew something. Derrick needed to see Spivey Brinkman.
His phone rang.
Cecil.
“Whittaker.”
“Where the heck are you?”
“Heading back from the east side.”
“A train derailed in Royston. I need you over there pronto. You got your camera?”
“Yeah. Where in Royston?”
“Take Highway 21 all the way. After it intersects with Bowman, go to mile marker 138. You’ll see it.”
“On my way.”
“Whittaker.”
“Yeah?”
“An hour a day on Demler-Vargus, you got me?”
“Got it.”
“No more.”
Chapter 13
Travis had never cared for Roxanne, LJ’s ex-wife. Even before LJ married her, Travis had a feeling deep in his skinny bones that she was trouble. Now she bustled about their kitchen, fixing things up and chattering away as if she were part of the family again. She claimed she’d heard about Daddy’s poor health and rumors of the break-in and had to get over and see what she could do to help. Of course, nothing stayed a secret too long in Trenton City, and Travis was convinced she was just there to confirm the latest gossip.
They were all there—Daddy, pleased as peaches to be sprawled out on his corduroy recliner with a stomach full of Roxanne’s peanut-butter pie; LJ, still stomping and steaming over everything that had happened the past two days; Bo, following his momma around like a long-lost pup; and Roxanne, with her tight Wranglers and frizzy brown hair, teasing old LJ, who still really loved her, deep down.