Aftermath Page 16

  The kitchen door opened and Gloria asked, “Sorry, were y’all hollering for me?” I didn’t look up, and Tara didn’t say anything, and the door closed again. No doubt word would spread immediately and morph into something like: “Did you hear about Brady’s daughter having a meltdown at the Denny’s? Bless her heart, folks are saying she might go back to New York City as soon as tonight.”

  CHAPTER 15

  I wanted to collect myself in the restroom, but no way would I leave Tara alone. She’d probably hustle up to my dad’s house, break in to grab her camping gear, and disappear. To show that I was calm and cool, I choked down some chicken and carrots, tasting nothing. I said, “Anyway, as soon as the estate cleared probate, I decided to move down here.”

  “So, I guess you don’t have to, like, ever work again?”

  “Tell me what kind of work you did.”

  She smiled, as if my attempt to redirect the conversation actually was a point in her favor. “Babysitting and part-time grocery stuff.”

  “What do you do for fun?”

  “Some art—metal sculpture—but there’s no money in that.”

  “Sculpture? Seriously? Show me some pictures.”

  Rolling her eyes, she tugged a cell phone out of her back pocket. After a few taps and swipes, she slid the screen beside my plate.

  The first photo showed a large sand and grass yard that had been invaded by an iron menagerie: people with wings, creatures with the heads of animals and the bodies of men, a few robot-looking figures, gigantic mechanical bugs, and other fantastical beings. I scrolled through a number of close-ups of complex individual features and panoramic shots showing dozens of sculptures in rust brown. The ability to weld and shape them explained her strength and also showed that quick, creative mind at work. Given an opportunity, she could go far.

  Looking through the plate-glass window beside her, I saw a police car make the turn onto Brady Stapleton Boulevard. Probably the second-shift deputy on a mission to collect fingerprints off the rental car and statue. Tara’s fingerprints.

  I slid the phone back across the table. “Those are amazing. I’ve never seen anything like them—where’d you learn to do that?”

  “So, my daddy’s this, like, welder and ironworker.”

  “What’s your mom do?”

  She began to sculpt the remainder of the mashed potatoes with her fork. Finally, she said, “She sort of took off a while back, when I was a little kid.”

  “I’m sorry. When my mom left my dad, she took me and my brother with her.”

  “Your mother get remarried or whatever?”

  “No, she never did.”

  Tara said, “So, no mom for me growing up, no daddy for you. We both did okay.”

  I wondered if either of us did. Though smart and talented, she had some major anger issues, and apparently I had my own baggage. At least Andy and my other exes had thought so. “I guess,” I said. “Can you get a job where your dad works?”

  She jabbed the fork into her meatloaf and left it there. “Why are you, like, all concerned about how I make money?”

  “In New York, you’re what we call a ‘tough cookie.’ I like that, and I just want to make sure you have something to go home to.”

  “And if I don’t, are you going to set me up for life or something?”

  David’s warnings came back to me, along with his image of an endless line of people with their hands out. I replied, “I’m sure I can get you work in any of the businesses my father built. There’s a fab shop where your welding skills would be a good fit. If you like the outdoors, there’s the tree nursery you’ve been camping in, plus a wood pellet plant and seasonal work in the pecan groves.”

  “So, you kind of feel guilty about what happened to Wally?”

  “No, but I feel bad about you heading back to a place with only limited options.”

  “Uh-huh.” She wobbled her embedded fork and then pushed her plate aside. “Okay, I want a welding job. When can I start, and how much will you pay me?”

  Grinning at what Tim would call her moxie, I wondered if they’d make a good couple. “I’ll talk to the CEO and let you know,” I said. “There’s a B&B owner in town named Cindy Dwyer—she rented a room to Wally, and I’m sure she’ll have space for you.”

  “I don’t have any money. How long will you pay for my stay there?”

  “Wow, you don’t hold back. Are you gonna hit me up for a clothing and toiletries allowance, too?”

  “That was, like, my next question. I’m sort of your personal makeover project, right? Rehabbing the poor but talented hick girl who fell into a murderer’s clutches or whatever?”

  “The way you put it makes me sound awful.” I slid my plate out of the way, my temper rising again.

  Gloria must’ve been eyeing us through the kitchen door. It opened, and she headed toward us. “Y’all didn’t eat that much,” she said. “Wasn’t it any good?”

  Tara replied, “Yeah, no, definitely. It was the best. Can I get a to-go box?”

  “Make that two,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Dessert for anyone? No? Okay, I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She departed with our plates.

  I turned back to Tara. “You’re doing your best to keep me seriously pissed off at you, but I know what it’s like to have my heart broken. The anger you can feel at the world.”

  “But you’re still going to rat me out in case I go all ungrateful on you?”

  I shrugged. “You haven’t exactly given me a helluva lot of ‘grateful’ yet, but, yeah, if you make any more trouble for me, I’m afraid I’d have to get the police involved.”

  “There’s no proof I did anything.”

  “They’re collecting your fingerprints at the crime scene right now.”

  She shook her head. “That’s bogus—I wore gloves. It’d come down to your word against mine.”

  Before we could go at it some more, Gloria returned with takeout boxes. She said, “Thanks for coming in, Ms. Wright. And for bringing a guest,” she added without turning to Tara. “We hope to see you again real soon. I’ll have some unsweet tea made from now on.”

  I reached for my purse, but Gloria said, “There’s no charge. Mr. Stapleton owned this franchise, so I reckon you do now.”

  “Yes, but don’t I have to pay for her meal?”

  Gloria shook her head. “Mr. Stapleton paid a lump sum at the first of the year that was good through December to cover him and anyone he brought in.”

  “Oh, that’s kind of a relief. I pictured him eating here all alone.”

  “Good gracious, no. Other people eat here sometimes, out-of-towners mostly. And he was in lots of times with, um, a guest.” She glanced at Tara with a critical eye, but then she seemed to catch herself. Looking back at me, she touched the padded leatherette near my head. “We saved this-here booth for him—he always sat just where you’re sitting.”

  That gave me a creepy feeling, as if I were becoming my father. Plus, the look she’d directed at Tara started my mind churning in unsettling directions. I shivered and slid to the edge of the booth to retrieve my coat.

  Gloria retreated a few steps to allow me to stand. She handed over my to-go box, letting Tara fend for herself. We exchanged holiday wishes, and I put a twenty on the table for her and the cook and headed to the door before she could protest.

  Outside, the temperature hadn’t budged. The thick gray clouds looked lower and darker than earlier, definitely promising snow. “Door’s unlocked,” I said.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” Tara got in and set the box between her feet.

  I put mine on the floor mat behind my seat and slipped behind the wheel. Crazy theories crowded my thoughts, based solely on Gloria’s “guest” comment and the hairy eyeball she’d given Tara. What if this girl knew my father, had hung out with him? Maybe she had convinced him sh
e was his daughter from a long-ago love affair and teamed up with Wally on his murder, hoping to discover tons of money stashed in the house. What if she really was his daughter—making her my half-sister—and knew something no one else did about his murder? What if…what if….

  As I guided the car up the boulevard toward the house, I asked in a conversational tone, “How long did you know my father?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “How many times did you eat at the Denny’s with my dad?”

  She turned in her seat to face me. “So, I never even heard of your daddy before he got Wally killed. Why would you go all accusatory on me?”

  I let the “got Wally killed” comment go, deciding to focus on the new mystery. “Gloria seemed to know you. Why?”

  “She was giving me the bad eye since we walked in. That was the first time I was ever there.” She pulled her bangs lower and stared at them, as if to recheck the color. “Maybe she’s not a fan of, like, individualism.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Can I relax now, or is the inquisition going to continue?”

  Rounding the final bend, I noted the police car stopped behind my rental and a thirty-something deputy huddled in a massive coat with a badge pinned to the outside. Despite being encumbered by thick gloves, he delicately skimmed a brush over the trunk lid. At his feet were a Styrofoam cup and a plastic case the size of a tackle box, which probably held his fingerprinting kit. I glanced at Tara and said, “Hey, it might just be getting started.”

  “Are you, like, kidding?”

  “Yeah, no, maybe.” I stopped behind his vehicle and shut off the engine.

  We left the car with our takeout containers in hand. I approached the deputy while Tara hung back. “Thanks for coming out,” I said to him. “I’m Janet Wright.”

  “Yep, I know.” He set his tools on the pea gravel and straightened. Behind him, the black rental car trunk bore over a dozen pale ovals, as if I’d sped in reverse through a cloud of moths. “B.J. Tindale,” he said in a twangy tenor. A wad of chewing tobacco pushed out the skin under his lower lip. B.J. pulled off his right glove, shook my hand, and then quickly covered up again. He probably regretted not wearing earmuffs under his Smokey Bear hat.

  When the deputy looked past my shoulder, I introduced Tara to him. She merely waved from where she stood and called, “Finding anything?”

  “I got a bunch of prints, yeah, but who they belong to is anybody’s guess. You a friend of Ms. Wright’s? I ain’t seen you around town.”

  “We just met,” I answered for her, “but we know some of the same people.” Despite her lack of gratitude, I really did want to help Tara. Hopefully, she’d appreciate the good-faith effort I was making to keep her in the clear.

  B.J. shook his head. “Nobody comes to town for months, then all of a sudden we got not one but two new folks—and trouble again.” He tilted his face down and to the side, hollowing his cheeks as if about to spit, but then seemed to remember whose courtyard he was about to deface. After depositing a stream of brown goo into the Styrofoam, he tipped his hat to me and said, “’Scuse me, ma’am. I ought to get back to this so I can report to the chief.” He cleared his throat. “Before I go, would you mind if I got me a set of your prints for comparison purposes?”

  “Of course not—I’m sure most of the ones you found already are mine.”

  He looked past me again and asked, “You touch this car at any time?”

  She held up her hands as if in surrender and laughed. “Yeah, no, I never laid a finger on it.”

  “Mind if I print you, too, just in case?”

  “No problem.”

  “All-righty then.” He crouched, lifted the bottle of fingerprint powder and its brush, and resumed skimming the trunk lid.

  Tara and I walked up to the house. I unlocked the front door and stood aside so she could enter first. No way could I focus on any of the things I needed to get done until she was somewhere else. I said, “Have a seat while I see about a welding job for you. Then I’ll call Cindy Dwyer to get you situated.”

  “While you do all that, I’ll look for my daddy’s gun.”

  I resisted replying, “You’re welcome,” as I carried the to-go boxes to the kitchen and stored them in the fridge. Then I tossed my coat over the luggage I’d left near the front door and opened my purse. There was still plenty of time to thank me after everything was squared away. I found Jeff Conway’s business card and called the CEO. He didn’t respond at his office number, but I got him when I tried his cell.

  We exchanged greetings while Tara checked behind sofa cushions and crawled around, looking under furniture. I said, “This is my first chance to make a pain of myself, but I’m sure it won’t be the last time.”

  “Anything, Ms. Wright. Just name it.”

  Thinking about the culture at the plant and the scarcity of women, I said, “There’s someone I met today who’s an exceptional welder, a real artist, and is looking for work. I’m hoping you—I mean we—have an opening.”

  “Uh, sure, I reckon our payroll could take a hit for this friend of yours.”

  “I promise I wouldn’t ask if this person wasn’t well-qualified. You won’t be sorry.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be great.”

  I let that pass. “Thanks. What does the job pay?”

  “Starting salary is thirty-five.”

  “Hold on.” I tapped the mute icon, walked into the great room, and asked Tara, “How does thirty-five thousand dollars a year sound?”

  She popped up behind the chair where I’d sat during our confrontation. “Forty.”

  “You’re negotiating? Seriously? What chance do you have to make even thirty where you come from?”

  “Forty.”

  I sighed and unmuted the phone. “Sorry,” I said, “could we go as high as forty?”

  “He must be really good,” Conway said loudly and slowly, as if for the benefit of others nearby. “Yeah, I guess we could survive having a new welder start at forty.”

  I imagined the eye-rolling and muttering around him. No doubt I just lost any good will I’d generated the day before. “I really appreciate it,” I said. “What would be a good start date?”

  “We’re closed between Christmas and New Year’s, so why don’t we say January second?”

  “Okay, that’ll work.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “It’s Tara Glenmont. Thanks again!” I ended the call before he could respond.

  From her knees, Tara said, “So, I can’t figure out where it went.”

  “I just got you a job that pays more than all your previous work put together. You can go home for the holidays and then start work on the second.”

  “I’m, like, totally grateful.” She looked at me for a beat and then went back to scanning the room again.

  My conversation with Cindy Dwyer wasn’t a negotiation but merely canceling my reservation and holding a room for Tara starting on January first, with me footing the bill for the first thirty days. I didn’t bring up Tara’s connection with Wallace Landry—I figured she’d do that on her own, after she burrowed in like a tick.

  Tara wasn’t bad, I reminded myself, just self-absorbed and irrational, like any young person. After searching around and within the fireplace, she stood, wiped her hands on the seat of her jeans, and studied me. I must’ve glanced above her head, because she turned and looked up at the mantel. Without a word, she grasped the lip of the wood ledge and did an effortless pull-up to peer along the top.

  After dropping to her feet, she whirled on me. “So, you knew all along, didn’t you?”

  I tried to sound surprised. “Is it up there? I guess that was the only place left.”

  “It totally stinks that you didn’t say anything.” She grabbed the back of a leather chair and pushed it toward the fireplace, the woo
d feet scraping across the flagstones.

  I jogged over and blocked her path. “Get your camping gear. I’ll retrieve the gun and give it to you when I drop you at your home.”

  “No, I’ll take the Jag.” She pushed the chair, and the seat cushion pressed against my knees.

  “You’ve taken all you’re going to get from me.” I leaned forward and grabbed the overstuffed leather arms to brace it. “You’ve got a great job and a place to stay until your first paycheck. That’s a helluva lot.”

  She bumped my knees again with the cushion, despite my effort to keep the chair in place. “So, how do I, like, get to work on January second?”

  “Bum a ride off someone.” I felt my feet sliding backward on the stones as she continued to force the chair against me. Damn, she was strong—I couldn’t stop her.

  “I’m not a bum.”

  Despite bearing down, teeth gritted, I still moved in reverse. Panic sweat pricked my face, and I snarled, “You sure smell like one.”

  “You suck.” She gave the chair such a shove it knocked me onto my butt, and she kept pushing until the wood frame clipped my chin.

  I sprawled, and my head bounced once on the smooth stone. Thick wood legs imprisoned me on both sides. I blinked up at the gray fabric stapled under the chair.

  Instead of following through with more violence, Tara dashed past me. Tilting my head back, I watched her move, seemingly upside down, to the mantel. She did another pull-up but this time got her elbows onto the ledge and levered herself even higher as she reached to her left.

  Afraid of being an easy target once Tara had her gun, I started to push the chair toward my feet so I could wriggle free. I heard a click and then, with a sound of stone scraping against stone, the floor square beneath me began to descend. The surprise temporarily paralyzed me as I continued to sink, still surrounded by the chair. My father’s trapdoor-elevator that had scared the shit out of David was doing the same to me.