Mariah Stewart - Last Look

“I don’t remember she was,” Mrs. Randall said thoughtfully. “I remember her being late leaving for school because she had to run upstairs to get something for some project she was working on-whatever project that was due at the end of the week, she and her friends were all working together on it. That’s why she was at Kimmie’s after school instead of coming right home.”

“Did she usually come right home from school?”

“Not always. Shannon was a busy girl, Agent Shields, like most girls at that age. If she didn’t have softball, she’d have Bible class or choir at the church. She was real active in her granddaddy’s church. All our girls were.”

“The reports in the Bureau’s file indicate that Shannon left her friend’s house and went to the church around 4:30,” Andrew recalled.

“That would be about right.” She nodded. “We know she was there, her grandmother saw her. Shannon had stopped there to put the programs together for choir practice later that night. I don’t remember what time my mother-in-law saw her, though, you’d have to ask her. I can give you directions to Mother Randall’s home. I expect you’re going to want to talk to her, as well.”

“We will, yes,” Andrew told her. “When did you realize that Shannon hadn’t come home?”

“Unfortunately, not until the next morning.” Mrs. Randall’s eyes filled again. “I’d gone down to Charleston with my sister, Andrea, to see a movie and have dinner. We didn’t get back until close to 11:30, and I just assumed that everyone else was in already. All the lights were off except the front hall so I locked up the house. Shannon was never later than nine getting back from church, and if she used her study halls, she often finished her homework early. I assumed she’d gone to bed sometime before I got home.”

She bit her bottom lip and added, “I didn’t check on her that night. I was tired from the trip, and just figured she was sleeping.” She looked at Andrew, then Dorsey, with haunted eyes. “I was just too tired to walk up to the third floor to check in on her and Aubrey. If I had, I would have known, I could have called the police sooner, they could have started looking for her, found whoever took her before it was too late…”

“Mrs. Randall, it’s not your fault,” Dorsey told her gently. “Whatever happened was beyond your control. If Shannon had been abducted after she left the church, she would have been long gone. Please don’t blame yourself.”

“It’s hard not to. We all blame ourselves. My husband also blames himself for not checking, but he thought she was up in her room studying when he arrived home from church that night. He’d gone straight into his study, so he wasn’t aware she wasn’t home. And Aubrey figured Shannon was still at choir practice when she went to bed a little before ten. She turned in early that night because she had to get up early in the morning. So you see, we all were neglectful, and Shannon slipped out of our lives because of it.”

“Mrs. Randall, take us through the next day. When did you realize Shannon was gone?” Andrew resumed his lead in the questioning.

“When she didn’t come down for breakfast. I told Paula Rose to run upstairs and tell Shannon to get a move on. She came back down a few minutes later and said Shannon wasn’t there.” Mrs. Randall rose and began to pace, in an effort, Andrew thought, to relieve her anxiety. “Well, I said, that’s just crazy-she’s not down here and she’s not up there-I sent Paula Rose back up to look in Aubrey’s room and the bathroom they shared. Aubrey had a class trip that day, so she left the house very early, close to six, I think.”

“Aubrey’s room was on the third floor as well?” he asked.

“Yes. She and Shannon were both in high school that year, and Natalie was away at college, so we put the two older girls who were still at home upstairs together.”

“Aubrey must have been shocked when she came back from her trip and found out that Shannon was missing,” Dorsey spoke up.

“Yes, she was. And she’s been devastated by this latest news. I swear, she just has not been the same since.”

“Where would I find her now?” Andrew asked.

“She’d be back at her little house in Stephens. About halfway between here and Charleston. She has her own television show down there, you know. Does all sorts of things-cooking and baking and gardening. Just like Martha Stewart.” Judith’s expression softened.

“I’m sure you’re very proud of her,” Dorsey said.

“I am very proud of all my daughters.” She leveled her chin. “All of them. I don’t know who or what led my God-fearing child to a life of sin, but I know she did not go willingly. And I know she would have come home if she could have.”

She turned to Andrew.

“Twenty-four years ago, the FBI sent a man down here to investigate my daughter’s disappearance. We all believed him when he said that Eric Beale killed her and hid the body someplace where we couldn’t find it. A jury believed that as well, and Eric Beale was sentenced to death for killing my girl.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “Now we find out that none of it was true. She had not died. That Beale boy did not kill her. He went to his death knowing he was innocent when everyone else believed he was guilty. I cannot imagine the pain that family went through.”

She looked from Andrew to Dorsey, then back again.

“You find out the truth this time, hear? Whatever the truth might be, you find it. We’ve all been living with a lie all this time. It’s about time we all knew what really happened to my girl, and why that poor boy had to die for a murder he did not commit.”

“We’ll do our best,” Andrew said, and rose from the sofa. “I promise you we will do all that we can.”

“You do that, Agent Shields, then you come back here and tell me what really happened. No mistakes this time. No jumping to conclusions. You bring me facts.”

“Mrs. Randall, do you know where I can find the Beale family?” Andrew asked.

“I surely do not. I don’t know if they’re dead or alive. They moved right after their boy was executed. People in town…well, let’s just say people in town here were less than charitable to them after their son was arrested.” She covered her face with her hands. “God forgive me, I said such harsh and terrible things to Jeanette Beale…”

“Under the circumstances, I’m sure-” Andrew began, but she cut him off.

“No.” She held up one hand as if to ward off his words. “Don’t say it was understandable. The things I said about her boy were unforgivable. It’s all I can think about, him dying for no cause at all.”

She stared at the floor for what seemed like a long time, then looked up at Andrew and said in a steady voice, “Now then, you wait right here and I’ll get you those addresses I promised you.”

She disappeared into the back of the house, leaving both agents in the front hall with the dog, who circled around Dorsey and pawed at her until she knelt to pet him. Andrew stared out the front door, all the while pretending he didn’t hear the muffled conversation-and occasional raised voice-between Judith Randall and her husband. When Judith returned several minutes later, she handed a sheet of notebook paper to Andrew.

“I’ve written it all down for you, names, addresses, and phone numbers of everyone you’ll want to speak with. My daughters, Shannon ’s friends, Mother Randall-everyone I could think of. I imagine as you speak with them, the list may grow. Chief Bowden can help you there, as well.” She bit her bottom lip. “He might even know where the Beales are living. Maybe even contacted them, I don’t know. Someone should do that.”