Aftermath Read online

  Cruising by the courthouse, I considered stopping to get the investigative report Cade had tasked his deputy with copying for me. It could’ve been a welcome distraction. However, I was too worn out to delve into those details. Besides, collecting the file in the morning meant another encounter with Cade. Even in my depressed state I was curious to see where that would lead.

  My consideration of a potential new romance so soon after the humiliating episode with Abby left me feeling unworthy and dirty, on top of everything else. What the hell had I become?

  I lost myself so completely in these churning thoughts during the drive up Brady Stapleton Boulevard that I missed something strange about my rental car when I parked beside it. Not until I had to return to Tim’s Hyundai to retrieve my purse—forgotten in my fog of recrimination—did I notice how much lower my sedan sat. All four of the rental car tires lay puddled on the pea-gravel drive, as if the intense moonlight had melted the rubber. Someone had slashed them.

  I flashed back to my brief glimpse of the blond guy watching me and Mr. Pearson from the woods as we leaned on the second-floor balcony. Whirling around, half-expecting to catch the SOB sneaking back into the stand of trees with his switchblade still out, I noticed the depth of the shadows around the house. If not for the moon, the hill would’ve been in total darkness. And there I stood, totally exposed and vulnerable. I hopped back into Tim’s car, locked the doors, and kept pressing that switch to ensure they stayed locked. Who would do such a mean, crazy thing? If someone were still pissed at Dad, even after his death, why take it out on me?

  No way was I going to stay in the house overnight. The day before, about the time my stalker had shown himself, Mr. Pearson mentioned a motel out on the highway. I did a jittery Internet search on my phone, finally found their website, and called them to confirm they had a room free. While I talked to the desk clerk, I watched through the quickly fogging car windows, dreading an attack. After I entered the motel address into my GPS, I fired up the engine and switched the defroster on full blast.

  The whole way back through town, I expected a maniac with a knife to appear in my high beams. I realized I was picturing Wallace Landry, except with a blade instead of his gun. Was it possible he not only hadn’t been killed by Cade but now was coming for me, too?

  A ridiculous notion, but I couldn’t stop my imagination. Or my shaking.

  CHAPTER 8

  The unshaven motel clerk sold me a flimsy, cellophane-wrapped toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste and took down my credit card details before handing over a key. Then I shuffled back out into the cold and re-parked my car in front of the room I’d been assigned.

  Once inside, with the locks and chain in place, I set the alarm on my phone to wake me at 6:00 a.m. so I could return to my father’s house. I would need to see if any other damage had been done, and then get cleaned up and put on fresh clothes. For a quiet town, Graylee was wearing me down fast.

  After a lukewarm shower with not enough water pressure, I hoped sleep would come, but the bed smelled of mildew and cigarettes—despite the “No Smoking” sign—and my nerves were still jangled because of the tire slashing. Turning to Facebook for solace, I shared that experience along with the few positive highlights of my day, trying to avoid a totally doom-and-gloom tone. However, my pessimistic New York friends seized on the vandalism and once again begged me to “come home.”

  The trouble was, I wanted to make Graylee my home, at least for a while. Even if I liquidated all of my new assets, somehow managing to find buyers for everything, the cost of living anywhere in New York—hell, even New Jersey—would gobble up my after-tax wealth in a matter of a decade or two. In Graylee, I could live in comfort for the rest of my life. I could make a difference in the community, write my mother’s story, and hopefully get to know someone who would make me forget all about Andy and the other men who’d made New York radioactive for me. I didn’t want to consider that place as “home” anymore.

  Recalling David Stark’s surprising insight about me, I typed my reply to them: “I want to make this work. I might be screwed up in a hundred different ways, but one thing I’m NOT is a quitter. Once I decide on an action, I stick with it until I get what I want.” I posted the rah-rah pep talk, written mostly to reinvigorate myself, and waited for the “likes” and the “you go girl” words of encouragement to pour in.

  A few thumbs-up appeared from people I didn’t even know but who somehow had become my Facebook friends. They were the kind of people who clicked “like” no matter what someone posted, from stirring declarations to suicidal pleas for help. My real friends didn’t respond. It was just after 10 p.m., but maybe all of them had early-morning meetings and decided to go to bed even before their kids did. Yeah, right.

  The stupid tally by the stupid thumbs-up icon stayed fixed at a stupid three, plus a “YGG” reply from some twit whose profile selfie looked like a mugshot. Grumbling, I set the phone on the scarred nightstand, killed the light, and waited for sleep.

  To-do lists immediately sprang to mind: take Tim to breakfast and help him through his hangover, see Cade to collect the case file and dictate a vandalism report—how romantic!—and visit David to turn him into an eager philanthropist while his muse took a coffee break. Then I had to talk to the rental car company about the tires, learn my father’s businesses in detail so I could be a responsible owner, help those who Dad had disenfranchised, improve the other townspeople’s opinion of me, and begin to write that book about my mom. Somewhere in there, I also had to buy groceries.

  Six in the morning came way earlier than it should have. I slapped the chiming phone onto the stained carpet. Having to go after it to silence the alarm finished waking me up. Because I had to put on my stale clothes from the day before, I didn’t bother with another mediocre shower.

  Outdoors, the temperature had dropped further overnight. I puffed out clouds of vapor as I stared at Tim’s frosted-over car. Friggin’ fabulous. I had to use my credit card to scrape enough of the windshield and back and side windows to see ahead and check the mirrors. The process soaked my hands in ice shavings, and I shivered all the way back to the threadbare lobby, where I turned in the room key and collected my receipt. So much for my Yankee resilience to winter.

  After the short drive back to Graylee and up to my father’s place with the heat at maximum, I did a walk-around of the low-riding, frost-covered rental car to see if the maniac had inflicted any other damage. Nothing else was apparent. When I unlocked the house and opened the door, the security warning beeps startled me. I managed to recall the code before the unit could summon the police. A careful check of the other doors and the windows confirmed everything was safe and secure.

  Relax, I told myself. Maybe the tire-slashing was just a quaint ritual for newcomers, what the locals did instead of bringing over a homemade pie. Or maybe I was whistling past the graveyard. The conjured image of Wallace Landry brandishing a knife haunted me again.

  I found the thermostat, got the heat going, and prepared for only my second full day in Graylee. If it duplicated the first one in terms of the emotional rollercoaster ride, I’d be ready for an asylum by Christmas, only two days away.

  Due to the cold snap, I chose a black wool pantsuit and ankle boots. Thank God I’d needed a heavy coat when I took a cab to LaGuardia. I retrieved it from the front closet and set the security alarm. Before heading back out, I noted the wood pile in the fireplace and decided to light that sucker in the evening.

  As I eyed Tim’s car from the front porch, I half-expected to see his tires slashed as well, but everything seemed okay. However, the lawn jockey now listed forward a bit, as if to get a better look at the deflated rubber under my rental. The gravel and earth around the base had been scraped away, revealing a poured concrete footing. Dad had been serious about making sure his little bit of racist nostalgia stayed put. Taken together, the iron figure and the concrete must’ve been heavy as
hell: the nut who’d stabbed my tires obviously had given up on whatever insane scheme he’d hatched. Probably, he’d planned to throw it through my windshield.

  As scared as I’d been the night before, and as addled as I felt when I drove up a short time ago, it was possible I’d overlooked the condition of the lawn jockey. Surely the damage hadn’t been done while I was showering and dressing only a half-hour before. I walked to the side of the house and confirmed the drapes were closed in the downstairs west wing. At least no one could’ve watched me through the windows. Cold comfort.

  Furious at this bizarre war someone had declared on me, I kicked the lawn jockey upright. It took several tries. I finally stomped to the Hyundai with new scuffs on my boot and bruised toes.

  I arrived at Tim’s home well before 8:30 and stayed in the driver’s seat, telling myself I ought to check e-mails, texts, and Facebook. In truth, I wanted to avoid Abby after my shameful screw up. I’d just pulled out my phone when she opened the front door and beckoned me inside. Her expression seemed friendly enough—hopefully she wasn’t the kind who baited a trap with a smile and a wave.

  After clomping up the stairs, I said, “You’re sure you want me to come in after last night?”

  “As a Christian, I’m a great believer in second chances.”

  “Forgive and forget?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am,” she replied, her fist pushing shut the door behind me. “I’m ‘all about’ forgiveness, as the young people say, but I don’t never, ever forget.”

  Maybe it was only a reaction to her frosty statement, but the interior of her home felt just as cold as the outside air. I heard a shower gushing from a bathroom in the back of the house as Abby led me into the kitchen, where the stove had warmed up the room enough for me to open my coat. She struggled with a coffee pot, sloshing the steaming contents both in and around two chipped china cups. I hurried over to help before she scalded herself.

  With both of us back in the same chairs as the night before, she said, “It’s mighty nice of you to want to help Tim, be his friend and all.”

  I sipped the coffee and noticed how my hands made the cup rattle against the saucer when I set it down. Get a grip, I told myself, she’s not judging you. At least not until you say something else that’s stupid and offensive. Weighing each word carefully, I replied, “Something definitely is going on, though. Pariah or not, and melodrama aside. Can you help me help him?”

  Down the hall, shower knobs squeaked and the water stopped running. Abby lowered her voice to Tim’s normal level. “I was taught not to speak ill of the dead.”

  Okay, so this had to do with my dad. I’d have to play Twenty Questions with her and extract one clue at a time. “Did Tim work for him before going to work for Mr. Pearson?”

  “Good heavens, no.”

  Of course he didn’t—it was a dumb idea. The few blacks and Latinos Dad had hired looked like they’d been there forever. Come on, think! I recalled the family photo on the mantel. “When did your family decide to try their luck elsewhere?”

  “Middle of the year—June, it was. They went up to Atlanta.”

  “Tim’s sister, what’s her name?”

  She busied herself with tearing sugar packets between curled thumbs and forefingers to sweeten her coffee. Finally, she said, “LaDonna.”

  “Pretty name for a pretty girl. Had she graduated already?”

  “No, she was between her junior and senior year.” She looked at me over her cup. “It was hardest on her, of course.”

  “I’ll bet, enrolling in a new school with just a year to go.” Knowing she wasn’t going to answer any direct “why” questions, I considered what could’ve happened to drive them from the old home place.

  Behind me, Tim called, “Can I help with the coffee, Grandma?” He came into the kitchen knotting a green and red paisley tie over a starched white dress shirt. My new friend was bare below the waist except for Superman boxer shorts and socks that matched his tie. His legs were even skinnier than I had imagined. Meeting my eyes, he hollered, “Shit!” and then covered his mouth. He turned and fled down the hall.

  I leaned through the doorway to watch him go. He had a surprisingly supple backside under those kid shorts. “Hey, Clark Kent,” I called. “Lois Lane will be down there in thirty seconds with a cup, so leap over a tall building and into some pants, will ya?”

  A slamming door was his only reply.

  Looking back at Abby, I saw she was shaking with laughter, clearly no longer in the mood to discuss the breakup of her family. I fetched a cup and saucer, poured the coffee, and excused myself before I clomped to Tim’s room.

  I knocked and asked, “Are you decent? The Daily Planet has a scoop they want you to cover. Something about a streaker with Tourette’s.”

  Through the door, he said, “I thought it couldn’t get any worse with you.”

  “It can always get worse with me. Ask any of my ex-boyfriends.” I tried the knob and opened the door.

  He shrugged on a charcoal suit jacket that went with the pants now covering his lower half. Glancing at me, he said in his soft voice, “My headache had just started to back off, and then you made me run the fifty-foot dash in my drawers.”

  “I didn’t make you do anything. You could’ve joined us for a civilized conversation at the table. I would’ve taken off my slacks to make you feel less self-conscious, but it’s cold in the house and friendship only goes so far. Besides, I forgot to wear my Wonder Woman panties.”

  Tim laughed and then winced and rubbed the skin between his wide-set eyes. “Did you even go home last night?”

  I held my arms out, careful not to spill his coffee. “You tell me, Dr. Watson.”

  He buttoned his suit jacket and yanked an overcoat from his small closet, setting a thick plastic hanger swinging on the rod. With a check of the time on his cell phone, he said, “I need to apologize to my grandmother about last night and just now. In private. Can you wait in the car?”

  “Sure, but she’s not upset with you.”

  He tapped his chest. “I’m upset with me. Don’t you get it? I haven’t done anything to disappoint her for…well, a while. And now I feel that same, deep-down shame.”

  I’d felt something similar with her, but I decided to keep bantering instead of making my own confession. “Wow, you’ve led a pretty boring life if having too much to drink and shouting a swear word are your worst sins.”

  Instead of replying, he started for the doorway, and I sidestepped to block him. I knew I was being my usual pushy self, which could be a bit much even when someone wasn’t nursing a hangover, but I didn’t want to see my new friend beat himself up over such small things.

  However, trapping him there was a mistake. His face hardened; his mouth became a slit as straight and narrow as a chisel mark in a block of mahogany. He muttered, “For half a year I prayed about getting back my old, boring life—and now you show up. God’s a funny dude.”

  He took a long step toward me, and I yielded, barely getting out of the way as he brushed past my shoulder. Rather than shadow him and add to the tension, I studied his room while drinking his coffee and mentally kicking myself. So now we both were beating ourselves up. Nice going, Wonder Woman.

  His walls were bare. Not one framed photo stood on his nightstand or desk either. Maybe he was a pariah to the rest of the family as well, or he had shut them out. Whatever the case, it must’ve been a trial for him to walk through the house each day, surrounded by the faces of the people who had cast him away or whom he had forsaken.

  I heard his hushed tone and Abby’s reassurances. What had happened half a year ago besides my father’s murder? Or had Tim been involved in that somehow?

  Chair legs scraped on the linoleum floor. As he left the kitchen, I headed up the hall. I rinsed his now-empty coffee cup at the sink, shared a goodbye with Abby, and exited as Tim held the door f
or me. We pulled our coats closed on the way down the porch steps. Each breath came out in a feathery puff. He said, “Sorry for snapping at you inside.”

  “It was my fault for teasing you. You’re like the kid brother I never had. Whenever we get together, there’s something that brings out an urge to needle you and joke around. I have to learn when it’s not the right time for that.”

  “Friends again?”

  “Friends always, promise.” Not caring what his neighbors thought, I hugged him, and he returned the embrace. The way Tim clung to me felt desperate rather than platonic, like a drowning man wrapping his arms around a buoy.

  Once we were in his car with the engine running and the heat on, he adjusted the driver seat for his longer legs and said, “One other thing. You go snooping through my drawers?”

  Remembering his surprising underwear, I made a calculated guess. “Not much,” I said, “although I love your Hulk and Spider-Man boxers, too.”

  “Oh, man, you did look!”

  At the diner, we sat at what I was starting to think of as “our table.” No one got up and left, but maybe that wasn’t a surprise. In a small town, people would learn each other’s routines and schedules—those who were offended by Tim for whatever reason would know he’d be in the diner between 8:30 and 9:00. They would eat there before or after. We’d caught them by surprise the day before because of my tardiness.

  Doris hustled over with a fresh pot. All she could talk about was the larger snowfall now forecasted for the afternoon: a quarter-inch at least. Maybe it would even stay around, and we’d have a white Christmas! I put on a worried expression and asked for a bowl of oatmeal, adding, “Something to stick to my ribs in case we all have to stay indoors until New Year’s.” Tim had his usual. We both wrapped our hands around mugs of hot coffee.