The Old Deep and Dark (21 page)

“I'm not positive, but I think so, yes. He was never gone at night, but he was often away in the late afternoons. I didn't pay much attention at first. Eventually, it began to occur to me that he'd leave wearing, say, jeans and a polo shirt, and come home in shorts and a T-shirt. So I asked him about it. He told me, in no uncertain terms, that it was none of my goddamn business.”

“Did Kit know about this new man?”

“I doubt it. I mean, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe something else had captured his attention, but if so, I have no idea what it could be.”

“That could explain where he went the night before he died.”

Tommy finished his drink, then set the glass down hard on the table. He was clearly angry. He may not have realized he'd given up a compelling motive for murder, but Jane did. Just because the police had released him, didn't mean she was having lunch with an innocent man.

“I think I've said enough,” said Tommy, eyes rising to hers.

If Jane had been his lawyer, she would have stopped the conversation before it ever began.

 

22

That afternoon, Booker found his sister's door open. Pausing at the threshold, he watched her pack up three suitcases spread across her bed. Since she had on jeans, an oversized sweatshirt, and a baseball cap with her hair pulled into a stubby ponytail and threaded through the back, she didn't look like she was leaving imminently. “Going somewhere?”

She turned and frowned. “The family love fest is officially over.”

“You mean, now that Tommy's been arrested, we can all get the hell out of Dodge.”

“Couldn't have put it better myself.” She stepped over a chest of drawers and began to clean it out.

“You don't exactly travel light.”

“Shut up.”

“Mind if I come in?”

“You already are in.”

He stepped over to a window and gazed down at the driveway. “Archie's here.”

“When is he not here? Mom asked him to give one of the eulogies at Dad's funeral.”

“Has she set a date yet?”

“Mid-November in Nashville. That's all I know.”

Booker flopped down on a chair. Next to it was Chloe's journal—always a bad sign. She only journaled when she was depressed. “When does your flight leave?”

“Haven't booked one yet. That's the next thing on my list.”

Scratching his chest through his shirt, he said, “You don't find it weird, and perhaps worthy of comment, that Tommy—of all people—apparently murdered our father?”

“You think it's weird?”

“What was his motive?”

“He stole money.”

“So? That was more than a year ago. And what did our father do about it? He sent him to rehab.”

“Then it's something else—more secrets.”

“I've been thinking about Dad's novel. Do you suppose Tommy might be ‘Nathan' in the story—the gay country singer's longtime and long-suffering lover?”

“Not good-looking enough.”

“He was when he was younger. And remember, real life is different than fiction.”

“Nah. No way.”

“I'm just saying, none of this makes any sense to me.”

“Murder isn't supposed to make sense.”

He hated it when she got all smart-assed and flip. Since she wasn't in a reflective mood, he opted to switch subjects. “Listen,” he said, watching her fold up a sweater and tuck it neatly into the suitcase. “You remember Erin O'Brian, right?”

“Erin from high school? Jesus, what made you think of her?”

“Have you heard from her recently?”

“Why would I?”

Erin had said she'd called Chloe, left her a message. “You two were pretty close.”

She stopped and stared at him. “Where's this going?”

“She's in town. I thought maybe you'd want to invite her over to the house.”

“Um, no, not really.”

“Did she and Dad … I mean, were they especially friendly?”

“Friendly?”

“No, I don't mean it like that. Can you think of any reason why they'd be in contact?”

“When?”

“Recently.”

“Were they?”

He nodded.

“Guess you'd better ask her.”

“I was hoping you'd do it for me.”

Glancing over at him, she said, “I'm leaving, Booker. You're not fifteen anymore. Be a man and do it yourself.”

He went back to scratching his chest. “She's changed.”

“You saw her?”

“I ran into her at Cordelia's theater. We ended up going to lunch.”

“My God, you've still got a crush on her, don't you.” She hooted.

“Don't be ridiculous.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed, crossed her legs, gave him one of her most serious, sisterly looks. “You've really got to grow up, Book. I'm telling you this because I love you, and because … well, nobody else is gonna do it. You think you're the strong, silent type, that you mask your emotions so well that nobody can guess what's going on inside you. That's bullshit, babe. Maybe, for those who don't take the time to actually look, for people who are too caught up in their own lives to give it some basic thought—”

“You mean our parental units.”

“I read you just fine, Book. And since we're on the subject, this act you've perfected, the one about being a deeply conflicted, complicated badass, dark and mysterious and tortured, always dropping broad hints about the horrible creature living inside you that's just aching to explode, a monster you're barely keeping under control, and on and on and on. It's utter crap, bro. Total daytime TV melodrama. You're one of the nicest guys I know.”

“A nice guy wouldn't have done what I did.”

“In
high school,
Booker. I did stupid things, too.”

“So we're both sick and twisted.”

“We're human.” She got up and stepped over to the closet, turned her back to him. “I'm still mad.”

“Mad about what?”

“That our dad couldn't let sleeping dogs lie. I can't believe he put everything that happened in that goddamn book of his.”

All subjects, for his sister, led back to the manuscript. “Chloe, listen to me. I already told you. We don't have to worry about that. We burned all the hard copies, and the hard drive is gone. It's been handled. End of story.”

“I wish.”

“You worry too much.”

“What if we forgot something?”

“We didn't.”

“Nothing is ever that simple.”

He began to fidget in his chair. Not feeling like he wanted to stick around and have his sister analyze his every twitch, he rose to leave. As he moved past the window, he caught sight of a man walking purposefully toward the house. “Like a lamb to the slaughter,” he said under his breath.

“What?” said Chloe. “Who's out there?”

“Didn't you always wonder why Mom was so interested in the opposite sex? There was Dad, and then there was the guy she had on the side. I suppose she thought, since we were kids, that we never noticed. At least we know now that it wasn't all her fault.”

“Meaning what?” She joined him at the window. “Oh.”

“Lover Boy's back.”

“You think he's after Mom? How tacky is that.”

“Other way around, Chloe. Mom's got her sights locked on poor Ray Lawless. One day he'll look back and realize he never knew what hit him.”

*   *   *

As soon as Ray walked into the living room, Kit could tell by the hard set to his jaw that something was wrong. Her first instinct was to ask Archibald and Beverly to leave the room, though before she could get the words out, Ray announced that Tommy had been released.

“That's … wonderful news,” said Kit, sensing that her smile was too bright. “What was the bail set at?”

“You misunderstand,” said Ray. “He's not being charged. The arraignment was canceled. He was let go.”

“But … I thought—” She lowered herself onto the couch.

Ray took a seat on the opposite end of the room, on the piano bench. “I just left DePetro's office. Here's the story, as I understand it.”

Archibald sat on the couch next to Kit. His eyes rose to Beverly, who remained standing by the fireplace.

“DePetro spent several hours yesterday morning personally going back over the crime scene at Bayview Park. As he was nosing around, he discovered a button on the side of the running path. He assumed that, since it was brown and blended in with the leaves and dry grass, it had been overlooked. He asked for and received a second search warrant for this house. When one of the patrolmen found Tommy's coat and saw that it was missing the button in question, they arrested him.”

“So why let him go?” asked Beverly.

“DePetro's team finally looked at the photos taken at the scene on Sunday morning. In those photos, no button was present. That means, in case I need to spell it out for you, that the button DePetro found yesterday morning was planted. Planted by someone who had access to Tommy's coat. Who had access? You did. All of you, including Chloe and Booker. The conclusion DePetro reached was inescapable: In trying to point the finger of guilt away from the people in this house, the exact opposite reaction was achieved. If he's able to pull a print off that button, one of you is headed for jail.”

When Ray's gaze landed on Kit, it felt like a blow. She fought to keep her eyes level with his.

“It was a craven act in and of itself,” continued Ray. “But in the larger scheme of things, you've all moved to the top of DePetro's suspect list. My congratulations.”

“Feel free to lose the sarcasm,” muttered Beverly.

“I don't suppose you'd like to tell me who planted it? Doesn't matter if you did it to protect yourself or someone else. I'm here to tell you that it was an insanely stupid move.”

Kit nodded for Archibald to get up and close the French doors that led to the hallway. When he'd resumed his seat, she said, “All right. You've made your point. I have no idea who did it and furthermore, I don't want to know because there's nothing we can do about it. Tell us what happens next.”

“One of you will be arrested,” he said.

The coldness in his voice made her shudder.

Waiting a beat, Ray said, “Why didn't anyone tell me Jordan was gay?”

“Where did you hear that?” demanded Archibald, placing his arm protectively around Kit's shoulders.

“Are you saying I've got it wrong?”

“Of course it's wrong. Jordan was—”

“Stop it,” said Kit, shaking off his arm and getting up.

Ray's expression hardened. “If I was blindsided by that kind of information in court, it could easily mean the difference between an acquittal and life in prison. Do I make myself clear? Do you
get
it?”

“Don't talk to her like that,” said Archibald. “You have no idea what she's been through.”

“The police will want to question all of you again,” said Ray. “If you thought the questioning was harsh last time, just wait.”

“You're angry,” said Kit. “You have every right to be and I'm sorry. Don't blame the others. It was my decision. After so many years, it's a knee-jerk reaction. The children didn't even know about Jordan until a few days ago. You remember what I said to you about winning the battle but losing the war? The war is that secret.”

“I understand, but to the police, it will look like just another lie.”

“If you don't tell them, how would they find out?” demanded Beverly.

“Joji Mura, the lawyer my daughter spoke with this morning. He plans to phone DePetro later today. He's an old friend of Jordan's. Sounds like he knows pretty much everything. Face it, Kit. It's inevitable. It's going to come out.”

Kit's mind began to spin. There had to be a way to maneuver through this minefield. She simply had to find it.

“What I need you to understand,” continued Ray, aiming the comment directly at her, “is that when the police learn about the divorce and about Jordan's sexuality,
you
will become, from that moment on, their prime suspect. You had the most to lose.”

“I did not murder my husband,” she all but screamed.

“Sweetheart,” said Archibald, rising and taking her hand. “Calm down.
Please.
The stress isn't good for you. No one will believe you had anything to do with Jordan's death.”

This was the horror she'd worried about for years. The secret she and Jordan had spent a lifetime protecting would be out in the open, dissected in the tabloids, chewed over on the evening news, and spread in lurid, fabricated detail from one end of the Internet to the other. Then again, nobody had mentioned that wretched novel. She hoped everyone in the room understood that, at all costs, it needed to remain a secret. Meeting Ray's eyes, she asked, “Does this mean you're done as my lawyer?”

“This is what I do, Kit. I'm a defense attorney. Of course I'm still on board.”

“You're saying it's your job to defend the guilty.”

“I defend
people,
guilty or innocent, in order to keep the wheels from coming off the justice system.”

“But you think I'm guilty.”

“I told you. It doesn't matter what I think.”

“It
does.
I lied to you, okay, but not about that. You can't believe I would ever murder my husband.”

“You want my advice,” said Beverly, her voice overflowing with disgust. “Get rid of Lawless. He obviously doesn't trust you. You need someone on your side. Someone who believes you're innocent.”

“I couldn't agree more,” said Archibald. “Why use some local yokel when you could hire yourself a nationally known defense attorney.”

Ray stood. “It's your decision, Kit. Say the word and I'm gone.”