Jeff Abbott - Promises of Home

“Goddamn it, goddamn it,” Junebug fumed at the floor.

“What the hell am I gupposed to do, Jordy? Ignore that she’s conveniently disappeared while Trey’s shot dead?”

“Wait a second! You can’t think she did this!” Hypocrite. Don’t pretend the thought didn’t cross your mind.

“Look. I have to consider every suspect. Arlene’s his ex-wife and she’d publicly feuded with him. I can’t cross her off the list just because you and I know she couldn’t do it.”

I turned away from him. What kind of sorry brother was I, thinking even for a nanosecond that my sister could be a killer? Of course it was ridiculous. I took solace in that thought. The shock of seeing Trey dead had made me imagine the worst. Of course Sister was incapable of killing a man in cold blood. There had to be a reasonable explanation for both her absence and the cloth. Perhaps the cloth came from someone else’s pants, although I thought that unlikely. I’d ordered the trousers from a store in Boston I’d frequented during my publishing career and I didn’t think it likely another pair of trousers with that unusual fabric was haunting Mirabeau. Perhaps she’d gone over to see Trey again this morning-why? To apologize for hitting him? Possible but unlikely. To warn him off her son again? Probable. To kill him? I made myself turn back to Junebug. Not telling was lying, wasn’t it? I knew it was.

I kept my voice calm. “Someone wrote ‘two down’ in Trey’s blood. Clevey’s murdered the day before. Do the math, dummy. Don’t you think you ought to follow that angle instead of worrying about where my sister is?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Junebug sank into a chair. “Clevey and Trey hadn’t been in touch for years. What could they have in common? Why’d anyone want to kill them both?”

“We don’t know that they hadn’t been in touch,” I said slowly. “I don’t think Clevey would have told me if he’d been talking to Trey. I would not have taken that news well.”

“He had all those clippings on Rennie Clifton’s death,” Junebug said. “Clevey was there when we found her body.

So was Trey. Maybe he had been in touch with Trey, researching an article on Rennie.”

“And found something worth getting himself and Trey killed over? Where the hell does that leave you and me? And Ed and Davis? This is idiotic, Junebug. Rennie Clifton’s death was an accident. She got killed by flying debris.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Can’t you find three other words to overuse?” I snapped.

“Don’t get mad at me, Jordy,” Junebug said. “Okay, let’s say that those hidden notes Clevey had about Rennie Clifton had nothing to do with his death. Or maybe there’s no connection between Clevey’s murder and Trey’s murder. But someone still wrote that message. Maybe there’s been another murder we don’t even know about yet.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Junebug said, just to irritate me. “Take your nephew home, Jordy, and if I were you, I’d lock the doors. Call me if Arlene shows up. Or I’ll call you when we find her.”

It was a horrible end to a horrible conversation.

What do you do with evidence in a murder case-when you’ve decided turning it in to the police isn’t an option? And here I always considered myself a good citizen. By the time I got a silent Mark home, that scrap of batik was searing a hole in my drawers, and if those fibers had a voice, they were whispering in my ear: You should give this to the police. You know you should. Those mystery shows, where the town busybody doesn’t tell the police what he knows, you hate them. So why aren’t you telling?

And my answer was: Because she’s my sister.

I pulled the car into the driveway. The rain had ceased, leaving a wet, cool day in its wake. Clouds lingered overhead, gray with weight, promising more inclement weather. Mark had been silent all the way home.

“Mark”-my voice sounded raspier than usual-“I want you to know something. I love you. I love you very much, and if you want to talk to me about any of this, if you want to cry, if you want to get mad, whatever, I’m here for you.” I reached out and touched his shoulder. I’m not a huggy person by nature, but I felt his need for human contact.

Or so I imagined. Mark shrugged off my hand. “Thanks, but I don’t need any help. I’m fine. I got a history test on Monday to study for.”

“A test?”

“Yeah. American history.” He opened the car door. “Not my best subject, you know. Who cares about all those dates and stuff?” Unbelievably, he grinned at me. “I guess you care about it, since you used to edit those history textbooks. You don’t got any pointers for me, do you, Uncle Jordy?”

I managed to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “No, Mark, I don’t. Look, let’s not worry about your exam right now, I don’t think you’ll be going to school on Monday anyway.”

He swallowed. “Why wouldn’t I go?”

“Mark-”

“Look, I was upset at first about Dad, it was pretty awful seeing him shot like that, but you know, I like hardly knew him. He didn’t even look the same, all thin and with that stupid beard and being in a wheelchair. It wasn’t like he cared enough about me to call me, or to be a part of my life.”

“But you begged me to take you to him-”

“I gotta study, Uncle Jordy.” He got out of the car and loped along to the house. I turned off the engine and sat quietly for a moment. Well, I’d decided Trey wasn’t worth mourning over; apparently so had Mark. But Trey was his father, and considering the avalanche of emotion Mark had shown, this sudden freeze didn’t bode well. It was as if the Do Not Disturb sign had been hung out on Mark’s face while his mind’s room was being tidied up.

I went inside. Mama’s nurse, Clo Butterfield, was reading a two-day-old newspaper to Mama, who rocked back and forth, humming tunelessly with a smile on her face. Clo folded the paper with a snap.

“Mark didn’t say how it went with his daddy.”

I went to the phone, not answering her, and dialed the cafe. Neither Sister nor Candace had returned. I asked Suzie to tell them to come straight to the house when they got back.

Mama was once again exploring the unnavigable frontier of her own mind, so I briefly told Clo what had happened. I omitted the bloody score painted on Trey’s wall and the remnant of Sister’s clothing I’d found at the scene.

Horror filled her dark face. “My God. That poor child. But he seems a lot calmer than I thought he’d be.”

“He was wailing like a banshee an hour ago. Now he’s acting like nothing’s happened. Mark’s always been a kid who showed what he felt.”

“Uncle Jordy?” Mark peered at me from upstairs, just glancing above the railing. “You’re right, I don’t feel much like studying. Can I ask Bradley over to watch TV?”

“Sure, Mark. But let me call the Foradorys.” He smiled vacantly and went back upstairs.

I turned back to Clo. “Well, that’s a good sign. At least he’s not doing schoolwork like it’s a normal day. Maybe seeing Bradley will help.”

“Quit deluding yourself, Jordy.” Clo coughed. “He was smiling like a game-show contestant who don’t know the answers. He shouldn’t be smiling. He should be crying. He’s not.”

“People grieve in different ways, Clo. He hadn’t seen his father in six years. Maybe this is normal.” I wasn’t doing a good job of convincing myself.

She touched my arm with the same gentleness she used on Mama. “It’s not just that his daddy died, Jordy. His daddy died in front of him. His dying words to Mark were ‘I love you.’ I think Mark’s just not wanting to deal with any of this. You got to get him some counseling.”