Aftermath Page 21

  In the early morning hours of July 8th, he was working the first half of a double shift. He’d offered a week of vacation to the third-shift deputy after an especially raucous Fourth of July weekend that had J.D. racing all over town, making arrests for domestic violence and settling drunken brawls nonstop. Rather than saddle B.J. with two shifts, Cade had volunteered to do the late one and then his usual daylight eight hours. The police chief had been more succinct about it in his report, but I could read between the lines: he was the good leader, taking one for the team.

  At 3:27 a.m., the security alarm sounded at my father’s house and sent an automated call to Cade’s cell. He responded immediately. As he drove across the courtyard and pulled up to the front of the house, he heard the alarm blaring. He discovered the front door jimmied open but found no one downstairs.

  As the chief headed up to the second floor, the first of a succession of gunshots cut through the clamor. He determined they were coming from the master suite. Once inside the study, with service weapon drawn, he saw movement through the open bedroom door. That space was lit by a strobing security alarm. Entering with firearm ready, he identified himself as a police officer to the man standing at the foot of my father’s bed, and told him to drop what appeared to be a pistol in his hand.

  The man raised his gun and Cade shot him twice in the upper chest. With the assailant down and unmoving, the chief found the switch for the overhead lights and illuminated what must’ve been an unholy massacre, but, in the report, he blandly stated his discovery of Brady Stapleton in bed, with multiple gunshot wounds to the head, torso, and legs.

  He identified the assailant as Wallace Landry. After kicking away the man’s pistol—which, it turned out, no longer had any bullets—Cade rolled him onto his stomach and handcuffed him to ensure he no longer was a threat. He then checked Landry for vital signs. A weak pulse and gurgling breath soon ceased and didn’t recur.

  Cade confirmed my dad was dead as well. He removed the cuffs from Landry, rolled him onto his back again, and used the bathroom sink to wash Landry and Brady’s blood from his hands. Then, with the alarm still blaring, he hurried outside to phone the county sheriff’s office, which in turn contacted the county coroner. He also called B.J. with orders to report to the bottom end of Brady Stapleton Boulevard and block anyone from entering except county officials.

  While Cade waited for the sheriff, he rechecked the house and grounds to make sure he hadn’t overlooked anyone. He eventually liaised with the county lawmen and coroner and submitted to extensive interviews while officers processed the crime scene, which included collecting his firearm and swabbing his hands for gunshot residue. The sheriff determined that Cade could continue his duties while the investigation proceeded.

  An attached supplemental report from Cade, also entirely in caps, provided some background: Cade knew Brady had hired Wallace Landry in late June to do handyman chores around the property—my dad had told the chief and his deputies not to be concerned if anyone saw Landry on the grounds.

  The week before, Cade had spoken to Landry after hearing stories from others who’d paid the out-of-towner for yard work. Apparently, Landry had been insolent and aggressive toward them, but Cade’s discussion with him had not revealed any threatening behaviors. Nonetheless, he’d cautioned my father, who merely said, “He’s just a spirited young buck. I can still handle myself.”

  Further into the stack of paperwork, I found a ballistics report connecting all of the gunshot wounds in my father to Landry’s emptied gun, which had been tampered with sometime before the murder to make the serial number unreadable. Also, a follow-up report from the county sheriff declared Cade’s killing of Landry a righteous shoot and determined that Georgia Bureau of Investigation involvement was not warranted. Case closed.

  So, the police chief was exonerated, the evil tyrant was dead, and even the murderer got his comeuppance. But was Cade really the hero in this story? He’d lived in Graylee long enough to know what happened annually: a seventeen-year-old girl handpicked in March or April, the arrangement finalized with her family during the summer, the installation of the Scholar in my father’s home for her senior year. Driving through town in her new car, taking her meals with my dad at Denny’s and elsewhere, she would’ve been a constant reminder to everyone that yet another young woman had been cursed with the terrible honor.

  Yet Cade had done nothing. Less than nothing—he’d gunned down the real hero of Graylee, the man who’d finally ended Dad’s hold over the town. The age of consent in Georgia was sixteen, but surely my father had broken other laws to get what he wanted. Extortion, racketeering, something. Why hadn’t the chief stopped him long before Landry did?

  A memory of Cade surfaced, the casual sliding back of his sleeve to check the time on a chic and expensive-looking watch. Even the lawman had been bound with golden handcuffs. Plus, he was employed solely at the pleasure of the mayor, who had been in office forever thanks to my father. Going after Brady Stapleton would’ve meant forfeiting his relatively cushy job and maybe returning to the mean streets of Atlanta to battle gangbangers and drug pushers.

  I recalled Cade’s haunted face as he drove us up to my dad’s house, his look of dread even before I pointed out “MURDER” etched into the frosted car window. Maybe Landry was in fact evil, as Paulina had insisted, or maybe he was just an opportunist who murdered a genuinely evil man in order to make a life for himself and Tara. In either case, he’d miscounted the number of shots he fired, not realizing he used up all of his bullets, and Cade was forced to end him. Now the chief lived with the knowledge that, essentially, he’d killed an unarmed man. In the police car with me, perhaps he’d read Tara’s message as she’d intended it: a condemnation, but aimed squarely at himself.

  Still so much I didn’t know, and the questions kept mounting. My gaze drifted around the bedroom and settled on the luggage where I’d stored the case file. Something continued to bother me about the incident report. I wondered what it was until I noticed the gun vault beside the suitcases.

  Why hadn’t my father retrieved one or both pistols to handle his own protection after Landry triggered the security alarm? Digging deeper through the paperwork, I finally found the reason in a toxicology report. My dad had gone to bed with a blood alcohol concentration of nearly one percent. A quick Google search on the tablet showed that he could’ve been arrested for a BAC of just .08%—his was more than ten times higher. Soon after he’d hit his pillow, he would’ve been figuratively dead to the world before Landry had made it a literal fact.

  When I’d explored my father’s house, I didn’t see a formal bar setup, and my rummaging through the kitchen cabinets in search of dinner hadn’t uncovered a huge stash of liquor. It was possible those bottles had been cleared out when the basement photos were taken away, but I didn’t think anyone would bother. If my father routinely drank himself into a stupor, he would’ve had cases of booze around, but I’d only found a few new bottles of scotch, brandy, and the like in a kitchen cabinet. I had to assume he’d gone out drinking that night, a real bender.

  While I’d never been so intoxicated, I sometimes imbibed too much when I was younger. From my roommates’ jibes, I knew that—besides being a foul-mouthed, hair-pulling kind of drunk—I always forgot to lock the apartment door when I finally staggered home. Sometimes I wouldn’t even bother to shut it. My only focus had been crash-landing on a soft surface.

  It didn’t matter whether my dad had been a big man who probably held his liquor pretty well. The thought of him driving home without incident and then studiously setting the alarm before he struggled into pajamas and collapsed in bed wasn’t believable. Especially the alarm part. Not in a town where most people didn’t even lock their doors.

  Someone must’ve been with him that night—a person who would know, or could get access to, the security code. A friend who’d set it for their best bud before heading home, presumably less drunk than
Dad. My father’s lawyer, Mr. Pearson, might’ve kept that code on file, and Tim had said he’d gone to work in that office in July. But no way was Tim going to be Brady Stapleton’s drinking partner. It was much more likely to have been Mr. Pearson himself.

  If that were the case, he and I shared a bond: we’d both seen someone on the day they would be killed. As a young girl, I had reflexively told my brother, Brady Jr., to be careful before he headed to his high school classes; that night he died, apparently drunk and trying to beat a train at a crossing. In July, Mr. Pearson would’ve watched Brady Sr. clump up fifteen stairs before he set the alarm that would fail to save his friend and client, but would summon an avenging—albeit corrupted—lawman.

  As I ruminated on that, a gunshot sounded outside my window. I dove off the bed and used it for protective cover. Another shot and then one more, followed by a crash and a thump.

  The sounds were farther away than I first thought. When I mustered the courage to peek through the glass, I saw a pile of twisted pine limbs at the end of the yard. With a series of bangs, more snow-covered branches toppled to the ground. Ice, I realized, was putting too much weight on the weak ones. Their splintering sure as hell sounded like gunfire, but all was not as it seemed—maybe like the puzzle I was trying to solve.

  Still in my clothes, I gave in to sleep again around two in the morning and awoke before seven. Though I’d managed to dream through more tree limbs breaking, no one could’ve snoozed through the racket Cindy made in the kitchen. She probably did it on purpose, since my room was on the other side of the wall.

  The sun hadn’t risen yet. However, houselights from neighbors revealed a litter of icy branches at the base of the pines. An inch of glittering snow covered everything. With Cindy occupied, it would’ve been the perfect time to sneak out of the house without another confrontation—since I had no way to pay for my “stay in gracious luxury”—but I had no coat, the footing would be treacherous, and I had two suitcases and a gun safe to haul around.

  Creaking and clumping on the staircase signaled a pair of guests coming down for breakfast. A further distraction for Cindy. She had landlines in the house, so I could contact someone to ask for help. My inability to pay for anything eliminated both the motel and the cab to get me there or anywhere else. Having entered cell numbers for Tim, Cade, and David into my now-dead phone, I thought I could remember them—thanks, Dad—but who would be the best one to call and beg for a ride?

  Tim’s sedan wouldn’t fare well on the slick streets, so he’d be trapped at home. Cade probably had endured a long night and, assuming he wasn’t still working, would be trying to catch a few hours of sleep before going back on snow patrol. That left David. From the Azteca parking lot, I knew one car he owned, but surely the richest man in town also had something more rugged at his disposal, a macho toy for off-road adventures.

  After packing away the case file, tablet, and toiletries, I pulled the low chest of drawers aside and unlocked and opened the door. Voices echoed down the hall as Cindy made small talk with a woman and man in the dining room. For the first time, I noticed the closed door across from me. It had the same kind of deadbolt as the memorial room upstairs. Fortunately, this one was unlocked and, as I hoped, gave me access to Cindy’s bedroom suite. Apparently she’d put me in Dutch Modern hell to keep me within sight and earshot as well as to distance me from the secret on the second floor.

  The woman must’ve loved teak, low profiles, and horizontal lines, because she’d decorated her rooms in a nearly identical fashion to mine. Everything was neat and orderly, as if her living space were just another guest bedroom. However, she had quite a few more accessories, including a cordless phone on her nightstand. Just to be spiteful, I sat on her perfectly made platform bed as I dialed David’s number.

  After a few rings, his deep voice said, “Tell me a story, and make it a good one.” A beep followed.

  “Hi, it’s Janet. I’m at Cindy Dwyer’s. We’re, uh, not exactly hitting it off, so I want to take you up on your offer of a place to stay. I know you’re writing now, but if you could pick me up here, I’ll make it worth your effort.” Another ploy that had worked wonders since I was a teenager, when I discovered what that pledge immediately conjured in most guys’ imaginations. “I’m going to be barricaded in my room—”

  Behind me, Cindy said, “Not anymore.”

  I cussed and nearly dropped the phone. Turning to look at her, I said into the mouthpiece, “Correction: I’ll be wandering the snowy streets like the Little Match Girl. Hopefully you’ll find me before I freeze to death.” I clicked the Off button and told her, “I really had hopes for a reconciliation between us.”

  “Coming in here uninvited and sprawling across my bed is not endearing you to me.” In her hands she didn’t hold a gun exactly—she held my gun vault.

  I replaced the handset in its cradle and smoothed the comforter. “Sorry, my cell phone is dead, and I needed to call someone.”

  “David Stark. I caught the ‘writing’ reference. It’s fitting that y’all would end up together, the richest ones joining forces against the rest of us.”

  “I’m not against anybody. Is David?”

  “He never put Graylee’s interests ahead of his own. We hardly even see him anymore—sends that actress bimbo to run all his errands.” She gave me a once-over. “His tastes must be changing.”

  I started to respond, but Cindy dropped the gun vault to the floor. She said, “I rolled your bags onto the porch. This one’s too heavy to lug, but it’s a good idea for you to carry a gun—with the way you behave. You can wait outside with it until David or Bebe fetches you.”

  Looking down at the big black case, another detail unexplained by the file sprang to mind. “Did you ever see Wallace Landry’s gun?”

  “No, but I didn’t think it was right to make myself at home in his bedroom, unlike some people.”

  “How about—”

  “Enough.” She gestured at a dressing table that displayed a row of petite perfume bottles. “Get out right now, or I’ll start throwing these at you.”

  She looked serious. Despite being in yesterday’s clothes, I probably would smell better as is, rather than doused in Obsession. I hefted the gun vault and tried to sweep past her with as much panache as I could manage while burdened with a twenty-pound weight in one hand. She marched close behind me, so I let the momentum of the case swing my arm back to force her away.

  I walked past the staircase, where the tabby sat on the third step, watching me, tail swishing. Dining room chatter paused as, coatless, I fumbled with the front door knob, shoved the screen open, and then strode onto the porch. Behind me, the door slammed hard enough to rattle its diamond panes. In all likelihood, I’d ruined my chances for a book club invitation.

  My breath puffed out as the cold settled into me. True to her word, Cindy had left my roller bags near the front steps, which she’d scraped clean for the safety of her guests. The cloud cover had departed, allowing for a sunrise that made the snow and ice blinding. My sunglasses, of course, were in my purse. Maybe Tara was wearing them on her way down the Florida coast or wherever she’d chosen to escape with my car, my money, and my peace of mind.

  From deeper in the neighborhood, I heard kids laughing and hollering and dogs barking. Sledding and snowball fights, no doubt, with hot chocolate and warm, dry clothes awaiting them afterward. The images made me shiver and bounce in place. I couldn’t bear standing around, hoping David would show up before hypothermia claimed me. Better to remain in motion.

  Squinting in the glare, I carried the gun vault and luggage, one piece at a time, down the steps and hid them in the space between a waist-high row of snowy azaleas and the foundation of the house. So far, the footing wasn’t bad despite my city-girl boots, which were intended for pavement, not cross-country treks.

  Out on the street, though, I started to slip and slide. Overnight, people wit
h four-wheel-drive vehicles had taken the opportunity to live out their tundra fantasies. They’d turned the inch or so of glittering powder into overlapping ruts of densely packed ice. After falling twice, I hobbled onto the pristine white canvas of the sidewalk, brushed snow off my bottom and knees, and made my slow, careful way toward Main Street. I swore I’d never make fun of winter in the South again.

  David would be able to track me down; he could just follow the footprints. In the meantime, maybe I’d encounter Cade or one of his deputies or someone else who would invite me to sit in the heated bliss of their car or truck. The fantasy kept me going as I waddled along on numb feet, my bare hands held out from my sides for balance. I had to keep checking to make sure they were doing their job because I couldn’t feel them anymore. My face, too, had lost all sensation. So much for my imperviousness to the cold—I was a Southern girl after all.

  Once on Main Street, the going was easier because awnings and porticos over front doors had blocked much of the snowfall. I stomped my boots a few times to knock off the white stuff and wake up my feet. I saw only one truck ahead, parked in front of the Law Office of Philip P. Pearson, Esq. As good a place as any to warm up, and possibly he could help me clear up a mystery or two. If nothing else, we could compare notes about what it felt like to be with someone who was destined for a violent death.

  CHAPTER 21

  I knocked a couple of times with cold-numbed hands before I tried the doorknob. Locked—just my luck. I resorted to kicking the brass plate at the bottom. A drape stirred to my left, and then the door was opened not by Mr. Pearson, but by Tim, dressed for work in a suit that no doubt concealed superhero boxers.

  “Hey, stranger,” I said, trying to mask my chattering teeth with good cheer. “Long time, no see.”

  He stepped aside, ushered me in, and closed the door. With a glance at his cell phone, he asked in his soft voice, “What are you doing out in the cold before eight? And with no coat on?”