Aftermath Page 15

  Fighting to regain control, I said, “I’m going to do more than swear at you unless you explain why you’ve been terrorizing me.”

  “Hey, don’t go all ninja on me again. You’re worse than Wally. I was just trying to get your attention.”

  “Mission accomplished. Can you think of any reason why I shouldn’t call the police and have them throw your ass in jail?”

  She cocked her head. “Seriously?”

  “You also pointed a gun at me in my own home. I think the cops and a judge would take a dim view of that, too.”

  “So, where’d you kick that gun anyway? It’s my daddy’s—he’ll, like, kill me if I lose it.”

  The rejoinders were too easy. I settled for, “Focus. Why did you want to scare me?”

  “I was trying to call you out or whatever. Tell you I knew something sketchy had happened here.”

  “My God, why didn’t you just leave a note?”

  She gestured at her backpack near the front door. “I didn’t bring anything to write with.”

  “Just a knife,” I said, “to carve ‘MURDER’ on my trunk and slash my tires.”

  Tara patted her jeans pocket. “Daddy’s Swiss Army knife,” she said, confirming one of my assumptions had been right anyway. “He said it would come in handy. Same as his camping stuff.”

  I stood up to give me a height advantage and also to be prepared in case I needed to get physical again. “You sound pretty proud for someone who’s in big trouble.”

  “You can’t throw me in jail,” she said. “I don’t have any money for, like, bail or anything.”

  “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.” I pulled the cell phone from my back pocket.

  She shook her head. “So, if you want to find out about Wally and why he did what he did, you need me. I’m the only one who really knew him.”

  I thought I could live with that ambiguity, not knowing all of “the why.” But…my life had changed so completely because of my father’s murder. Wouldn’t turning my back on that key event haunt me? In fact, hadn’t I become a little bit obsessed with finding out the whole truth? Guilty on both counts, dammit. Another dollar for Granny Hazel’s swear jar.

  Tara had done a lot of things wrong, but she didn’t seem to be evil. Anger and grief over Landry’s death obviously still clouded her judgment. When I’d been engaged to Andy, had he murdered someone and been killed afterward, I would’ve gone to any extreme to get to the bottom of it. And flattened anybody who got in my way.

  I paused with the phone in my hand long enough to make Tara appreciate my control over her fate. She didn’t appear contrite exactly, more like a girl struggling between guilt and defiance. However, I understood that as well: it pretty much summed up my emotional life until my mid-twenties. With an exaggerated sigh, I returned the phone to my pocket and sat again.

  Tara slumped into the couch cushions. Between the tears and tension, she looked even younger, like a runaway teen who’d been living on the streets. Or in the woods.

  I glanced at her muddy boots and then the pile of gear beside the front door. “Where have you been camping?”

  “There’s this sort of tree farm close by—I’ve been putting up a tent there at night for the last, like, three weeks and then hiking up here to scope the house. But that gets boring, so I mostly wander around in the woods.”

  “Do you go into town for food?”

  She shook her head. “I packed a bunch of dehydrated food Daddy and I take on long hunts, and water purifying tablets and stuff like that. Plus, there’s a really deep stream where I catch fish. The only time I, like, go into town is late at night, to charge my phone at this outdoor outlet I found.”

  I certainly couldn’t have survived that way for three weeks. The girl was tough, and she also was in distress. Despite our many differences, I could empathize. “Okay, here’s the deal,” I said. “As long as you help me understand Wally and what happened here, I won’t turn you in. We’ll talk, I’ll even spring for lunch, and then you go home. Is it far?

  She laughed. “Yeah, no. It’s only, like, fifty miles. I can hike that in two days easy.”

  I shook my head in wonder. “Change of plans. After we’re done, I’ll drive you home—but only if you cooperate fully.”

  The indignant look returned. “I’m not hiding anything or whatever.”

  I put up my hands to stop her before she got going again. “You’d probably like to freshen up. There’s a full bath down here. Then we’ll talk while we get something to eat.”

  She shrugged and retrieved a less-grimy tee, wadded underwear, and wrinkled jeans from her pack. I led her to the bathroom door, which she closed in my face without a word.

  Listening to the shower run, I consulted my to-do list. Driving her home would kill the rest of the day—and postpone my follow-up visit with Cade—so I reprioritized based on what I thought I could get done on Christmas Eve. I wondered whether the chief would be free that night or if Bebe would try again with him.

  Tara emerged in less than twenty minutes, with her hair still wet, but she looked and smelled cleaner. Then she donned her ripe jacket, undoing some of those hygienic efforts.

  Massive key ring in hand, I returned to my decision from what felt like hours ago: which car to drive? Jag, Beamer, or Benz. Any of the three options would rub salt into a wound for Tara, as if I were saying, “Look at all I got from my dad’s death. What’d you get from Wally’s?”

  If she made a remark, I’d just have to remind her we could’ve taken my modest rental had she not disabled it. I gestured toward the back of the house. “The garage is this way.”

  She looked around again. “My daddy’s gun—I need to find it.”

  “We’re going to Denny’s, not the OK Corral. You don’t need the gun now.”

  “I just don’t want to, like, forget it.”

  “We’ll search the room when we get back. Promise.”

  She scanned the floor and furniture as we walked into the dining room. From the table, I lifted my yellow legal pad of notes and flipped to the page where I’d written the code to open the garage door. Turning away from Tara, I memorized the digits and set the pad facedown.

  Out back, we went down the steps and followed a flagstone walkway to the huge garage. Screening Tara again, I tapped in the code, and the overhead door scrolled upward, revealing four wide bays. The rightmost one was empty except for a mottled collection of oil drips. In the other three, cars had been backed in: a low-slung Jaguar roadster in British racing green, a black BMW sedan, and a boxy silver Mercedes SUV that resembled a miniature armored car. I sorted through my keys and confirmed there only were three for automobiles, but maybe my father had wrecked a fourth vehicle or merely sold it.

  As Tara gaped at the shiny showroom display, I asked, “You have a preference?”

  “The green one. Oh, yeah.”

  The Jag had caught my eye, too. I opened the driver door and was about to climb in, but then I noticed the stick shift between the front seats. “Sorry,” I said, “I don’t know how to use a clutch.”

  “That sucks.” She eased her hands over the curve of a fender, as if petting a wild animal. “My daddy’s pickup had four on the floor. I learned on it.”

  As empathetic as I was to her emotional pain, no way was she getting behind the wheel. She’d pulled a gun on me not too long ago—I wouldn’t become her captive again. I shook my head and tried to look regretful. “Sorry, you’re not on my insurance, of course, and if something happened….”

  “So, do you always, like, play by the rules?”

  I wasn’t about to let her goad me into giving her the keys, but I also couldn’t let the challenge go unanswered. “Definitely not,” I said. “But this time it’s for the best.”

  She stroked the roadster some more. “Can we go in any of the others, or do you need, like, a Geo
rgia driver’s license first?”

  I’d forgotten her wit was as quick as her hands. She was pushing me, trying to rebalance the power between us. I would’ve done the same in her position, but it still pissed me off. Through the side window of the Beamer, I saw a five-speed automatic. “My New York license is good enough. Let’s go.”

  She gave the Jaguar a farewell pet and muttered, “Whatever.”

  After she climbed in beside me, I guided the sedan out of the bay and found the garage door button on the visor to close it behind us. I drove around to the front of the house, where we passed the crippled rental car and jockey statue in the courtyard, and headed down the boulevard.

  The enclosed space made the odor from Tara’s jacket even more evident, and the interior was musty from disuse, so I turned up the fan to vent in some fresh, cold air. I’d barely had time to appreciate the leather seats and smooth ride before we arrived at the Denny’s that my father had opened on Main Street near the turnoff to his house.

  Apparently, it really had been his personal eatery because there were no other diners. The lone server, mid-fifties and heavyset, even held the door for us as we entered. “Hey, Ms. Wright,” she said, “I’m Gloria. Thanks for coming in.” She led the way to a booth that literally was spotless. In fact, the whole place looked new.

  Trembling with obvious nervousness, Gloria seemed anxious to make herself useful. She hung up my coat alongside the booth and then went to pour our requested glasses of iced tea. I had to make do with the sweetened kind—apparently no self-respecting Southerner asked for sugar-free, so she didn’t have any prepared, nor had a fresh pot of coffee been brewed.

  On her return, she recommended several items on the menu as her favorites. I pictured her and the cook eating there alone every day since my dad’s death. No doubt she had a good idea of the house specialties. We ordered based on those, and Gloria hustled back to the kitchen.

  Tara had slung her jacket beside her on the padded bench seat. Her short-sleeved pullover showed off bodybuilder arms. No wonder she could carry that camping gear with ease. She crossed them on the tabletop and said, “So, you’ve eaten here lots of times?”

  “Never, why?”

  “She, like, called you by name.”

  “Everyone’s been doing that. They all know who my father was, and word got around fast when I came to town two days ago. You’re probably the only one in this part of the county who was in the dark about that.”

  The kitchen door opened again. Instead of Gloria making another appearance, a lumbering, bearded man in a John Deere ball cap and clean apron waved a spatula at us, as if we were family who’d come into his back yard for a cookout. He shouted over the vacant booths and tables, “I’ll have it right out, Miz Wright. Don’t you worry none.”

  “Thanks,” I yelled and waved back before the door closed again.

  Tara shook her head. “This is crazy weird.”

  “They’ve got to be worried about their jobs. My dad probably kept the place open for his use. They’re hoping I’ll do the same.”

  “Why not just hire a personal chef, or whatever, instead of wasting a ton of money on a whole restaurant?”

  “Maybe he thought he was providing another option for the town—though everyone else might’ve seen it as his place, not theirs.” I sipped my achingly sweet iced tea. “Lots of people here are resentful of my dad: happy to have good-paying jobs, of course, but apparently they didn’t like being beholden to the guy who controlled nearly everything.”

  “And now you control nearly everything?”

  “I guess, but I haven’t really thought about that,” I lied.

  She folded her straw wrapper over and over onto itself and then drew it out and pushed it back together, a paper accordion. “If it was my money,” she said, “I’d, like, give it all away. Do some good with it.”

  “I might.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

  She slurped some tea. “In the car, you kept rubbing your butt cheeks on the leather seat like you were coating two ears of corn with butter.”

  I was about to retaliate, but goading me was just another way for her to reclaim some control. Plus, she probably was right, even if I hated the image—the leather seat had felt great. I let my temper settle and said, “Tell me more about Wally. What was he like?”

  “So, he could be, like, really sweet, you know? Considerate, loving. He cooked me meals sometimes, gave me breakfast in bed or whatever.” She looked away, and her face flushed so much it matched her raspberry highlights. “It’s not like we were living in sin or anything. I just mean—”

  “Tar, I don’t want to go all woman-of-the-world on you, but I’ve slept with men. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  She relaxed and took another long pull of her drink. “He was funny, too. Had this really warped way of looking at the world. I laughed, like, all the time.”

  I thought about the details Cade had shared with me and some earlier comments she’d made. “All the time?”

  Staring into her glass, she murmured, “He did get angry, you know, now and again. Like any dude. Shouted and swore. Threw stuff when things weren’t going his way.”

  “Did he ever get physical with you?”

  “Unh-uh.” She looked relieved when Gloria came over with a pitcher to top off our tea and promised our meals would be out shortly.

  After the waitress returned to the kitchen, I leaned forward and asked as gently as I could, “How many times did he hit you?”

  Tara swallowed hard. “He never did, I swear.” She played with the straw wrapper again, glanced up and then back down at her hands. “So, how’d you know? Was your fiancé that way?”

  It was an obtuse sort of confession, but probably all she’d allow herself. I said, “No, but I’ve had friends in similar situations. I usually go for older men. If they’re assholes, it’s because they’re emotionally abusive, not physically.”

  “Wally was older than me by a few years.”

  “I mean a little older than that.”

  “Ah.”

  Tara stared at me in such a frank, appraising way, it was my turn to look relieved when Gloria backed out of the kitchen door with two large plates. The waitress said, “I hope that didn’t take too long,” and set meatloaf with mashed potatoes and white gravy in front of Tara and grilled chicken with steamed veggies before me. Tara’s meal looked much tastier.

  After we’d promised Gloria everything was perfect and nothing more was needed, she left us again, and Tara asked, “So, why do you go for the oldsters?”

  “Hey, it’s not like I’ve dated any grandfathers.” Another lie. I couldn’t help it if some men had children early in life and their kids followed suit.

  “I’m not, like, judging you or whatever.”

  I put down my fork and knife. “Not that I owe you any explanations, but I’ve always found older men to be more interesting. They’re better read, well-travelled, and have had fascinating life experiences. And they’re usually more mature and good conversationalists.” She was sculpting the mashed potatoes with her fork, practically ignoring me, so I added, “They can be much more considerate lovers, too—focusing on your needs first, if you know what I mean.”

  She blushed again and hid her face by taking another slurp of tea. Gloria opened the kitchen door once more, but I waved and said we were fine. When I turned back to Tara, she’d set down her glass and was gorging on meatloaf. I asked. “Were you two together a long time?”

  “Like forever, practically a whole year. Was your fiancé older?”

  “He was fifty-five.” To keep from thinking about Andy, I focused on my meal, which wasn’t half bad: moist chicken with just enough char from the grill, steamed, buttery carrots, and green beans that weren’t too soggy.

  “Oh,” she sai
d, “I’d pictured you with some, like, ninety-year-old dude.”

  I snorted. “Now that’s gross.”

  “Totally. Still, you have major daddy issues. I’m just saying.”

  “I do not.” It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that, but I wouldn’t put up with being psychoanalyzed by a fetid, fluorescent Freud-wannabe.

  She shrugged. “So, if he was this mature, globetrotting, intellectual love machine, why’d you two split?”

  “Let’s keep the focus on you and Wally.”

  “Come on, why?”

  I finally saw the tit-for-tat game she was playing. She wouldn’t give unless I did, so I replied, “Things he never mentioned when we were dating seemed to get on his nerves more and more after we got engaged.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like everything. He said I was clingy and needy and jealous all the time. And insecure and every other damn thing. He kept calling me out, and we fought a lot.”

  Time had lessened the intensity of my feelings, but anger, humiliation, and heartbreak still roiled together inside me. I wanted to stop, but Tara had primed the pump, and it had been forever since I’d talked it through with anyone. “We’d picked the church and set the date, but I came home from the office one day in July, and he met me at the door and said it wasn’t going to work out. He’d packed my things already—they were all waiting for me in boxes and bags. When he asked for the ring back, I threw it down the hall.”

  As I relived the scene in my head, sweat popped out along my hairline and across my chest and back. “Keep in mind that this was after what happened with Wally and my dad, which means Andy knew I was coming into a big inheritance. And still he told me to find another place to stay. That night.” My voice echoed across the empty restaurant. “I’d become so repulsive to him that the sonofabitch wouldn’t even marry me for my money.”

  My eyes burned, and I balled my hands into fists to stay in control. Tara reached over and patted my wrist, but somehow that small bit of sympathy made things worse. I was not going to cry. Absolutely not going to give in to self-pity. I was over him. Done. And abandoned and ugly and unloved and completely, hopelessly alone.