Jeff Abbott - Promises of Home

Mark shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter to me what Nola does. She doesn’t bother me none.”

“My mom, she’s not a bad person at all.” Scott tried again, and I could see the pain in his eyes. He had to be horribly humiliated by Nola’s antics. “But you probably don’t believe that.”

Mark shrugged again. “My mom’s done goofy things when she’s upset. Uncle Jordy says women are like that.”

“I did not!” I bristled. I was glad Candace wasn’t around to hear that little divulgence.

“Anyhow, just so everything could be cool, I brought you this.” Scott pulled a Swiss army knife out of his pocket and held it out to Mark. “Like I said, I’m sorry about all the fuss with my mom. I hope you and I can still be friends.”

Mark blinked, taken aback by Scott’s generosity. Finally he reached out, took it, and started a detailed examination of the gift. “Wow, it’s a nice one. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Thank you, Scott, that’s very kind,” I said.

“You want some pie?” Mark offered, slipping into the role of host and pocketing the knife. Scott nodded and the two boys headed off to the kitchen. I sat down heavily after Hart declined my offer of coffee.

“I’m beat,” I told Hart. “You’re still hosting the Kinnards?”

Hart shook his head. “I can’t say I care much for Nola. Scott’s a good kid, but that woman is a trial. She’s one of those ladies who doesn’t quite know how to manage without a man in her life. I’m afraid she must’ve leeched onto poor Trey. She’s already casting about for the next victim.”

“Are you a candidate?” I asked boldly.

He laughed softly, his voice rich-timbred. It was a good laugh, the kind my dad had used. “Hardly. I made that clear to her right quick. But she’s sure sniffing around old Ed Dickensheets. Stupid of her to be chasing after a married man.”

“He says he’s not interested,” I said.

“Would you be? Lord, that woman’s a sight.”

“That’s a shame. Scott seems rather lonely. I think he needs a family and friends. I was there when he found out about Trey. He took it like his heart had been ripped out.”

“I feel for the boy,” Hart said, “but I imagine you won’t have to concern yourself with him too much longer. I don’t think his mama will be staying in Mirabeau if she doesn’t land Ed or some other fool as her next conquest.”

“May I ask you something entirely off the subject of Nola?”

He nodded.

“Do you remember a girl named Rennie Clifton?”

I saw it in his face. Sudden shock at the name’s mention. “Good Lord, yes. That poor girl that died in the hurricane when you and Trey were little boys. Her mama used to clean house for me. What on earth has brought her name up, Jordy?”

I postponed answering his question. “Did you know her?”

He shook his head. “Not well. I remember meeting her a couple of times when she came to help her mama out. But I can’t say I knew her better than to say hello to. She didn’t always come with Thomasina. Why?”

“I just wondered if you remembered her. Her name came up when I was reminiscing with Davis today- talking about other tragedies our group of friends has faced.” I really surprise myself with my facility for fibbing sometimes. It’s good I have an honest heart. “We were trying to remember who her friends were in town.”

He shrugged. “Fraid I never knew the young lady well enough to answer that. Speaking of Davis, what spooked his boy today at the funeral?”

“I don’t know. That certainly wasn’t typical of Bradley. I’ve never seen him act that way.”

“Death makes us all act odd, Jordy. Bradley’s no exception. Maybe a boy with a delicate mind like his, he just found two funerals overwhelming.”

It sounded good, but I wasn’t convinced. There was more to Bradley Foradory’s dismayed scream than grief.

A call to Sister at the hospital revealed no improvement in Junebug’s condition. He was still breathing on his own, his heart pumping strongly-but he was still asleep and wasn’t waking up. I wondered what we’d do if he never roused. It was a thought I didn’t want to dwell on.

Candace had gone to tend to business at the Sit-a-Spell, and Mark was upstairs watching television. I fretted about him being alone, but he seemed fine and I decided to respect his privacy. I remembered after my daddy died I’d needed time alone, intervals without well-meaning folks hovering over me like flies swarming above honey. I could hear the drone of the little black-and-white TV in his room.

I felt restless, despite my exhaustion, and I opened a cold beer and paced around the living room. Someone had broken in and searched my house for something damned important to them. And I thought I knew what it was.

One event, as far as I could see, had triggered two murders and the attack on Junebug: Trey’s arrival home. Regardless of whatever side issues might be attached to this case, Trey’s homecoming seemed the hub that the entire case turned upon, the firecracker thrown into the crowd to stampede them into action. So the ransacking of the house had to be related to Trey’s return. The only link I could see was Scott’s shocking claim that Trey corresponded with Mama. The people present when Scott made that announcement were my family, Candace, Eula Mae Quiff, Wanda Dickensheets, Hart Quadlander, Steven Teague, and Bradley Foradory. The only reason I could think of for a burglary where nothing was taken was that someone was looking for Mama’s correspondence with Trey-perhaps because a letter of Trey’s might have very well mentioned why he left Mirabeau. And that secret, too long in shadow and threatening to be brought to light, might have been the reason for his and Clevey’s deaths.

So, I reasoned, our burglar had to be one of those present-or someone they’d told with a vested interest in rinding the letters. Bradley might have mentioned Scott’s news to his parents; Wanda could have told her mother, Ivalou, or her husband, Ed. I doubted that Hart would have told Nola that he’d brought Scott to our house, but perhaps Scott had finally told her about his burgeoning friendship with Mark. It didn’t do much to weed out the suspect list.

Suspect list, I thought in some disbelief. Because not only had I been prepared to believe that my sister had a hand in murder, I was now ready to accuse people I’d known my entire life. I set my beer down on the table. Ridiculous, I told myself, you’ve watched too much Murder, She Wrote.

But the house had been searched. That was undeniable.

I could pare the list down further, I thought, by bringing Rennie Clifton into the equation. Who could have had motive to kill her twenty years ago? I’d found that she’d worked occasionally for Hart Quadlander and regularly for Ivalou Purcell; she’d secretly wooed a boy Wanda Dickensheets claimed; and although I couldn’t discern a connection between her and Steven Teague, he’d left town shortly after her death. If her alleged white beau, Glenn, was still alive, I’d have wondered about him as well, but he’d already gone to his reward.

The phone ringing interrupted my mental ramblings. It was Candace, sounding overly polite and none too pleased.

“Get your butt over here right now, Jordan Poteet.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Never you mind. You and I are going to have a conversation.”

“Aren’t we doing that right now?”

“No. Get over here, please.”

“Look, I’m not leaving Mark and Mama here. Not after our house was broken into yesterday!” Whatever bee had gotten in her trousers was going to have to just buzz.

“Fine. We’ll be over in a bit, just as soon as I close up.” She slammed the phone down before I could answer.