Читать книгу Revenant - Carolyn Haines - Страница 14

I got to the newspaper at 8:18 Monday morning. My arrival earned a sarcastic whistle from the police beat reporter, who rightly felt the Bridal Veil killings should have been his story. I ignored him as I walked by, but he couldn’t let it go.

“What happened? They close the bars early last night?” he asked, pointedly looking at his watch.

I turned slowly to face him. “What happened to put you in such a nasty mood? Your wife refuse to let you wear her garter belt and stockings?” I understood his anger, but it was directed at the wrong person. Brandon should be his target, not me.

Jack gave a loud laugh and there were a few twitters around the newsroom. I was disliked because of Brandon’s treatment of me. The police beat reporter was disliked because of how he treated others.

I lost interest in the newsroom when I saw my office door standing ajar. I’d left it locked.

“Nice comedy routine.” I stepped into my office. Avery was sitting in the chair in front of my desk, and I had no idea how long he’d been waiting.

The Biloxi detective wore a black suit that was indistinguishable from his other black suits. Or, perhaps he had only one. It fit him well, the pants creased and sharp. His shirt was crisply ironed, his shoes polished. He was a detail man; it stood to reason he was good at his job. “I gather this isn’t a social visit,” I said, trying to disguise the fact that I was flustered. I didn’t know Avery well, but I knew him well enough to know he wasn’t in the habit of paying social visits to reporters. “How’d you get in?”

“Brandon opened the door with his master key.” He didn’t bother hiding his amusement at the heat that jumped into my face.

“He’s such a jerk.”

“Yeah, this business—” he waved a hand around my office “—seems replete with ’em.”

“Why are you here?” I didn’t want a fight.

“Mitch sent me. For some reason he wants you to be part of the investigation. He gave me some hogwash about how we needed the newspaper with us on this case.”

“He’s right,” I said. “You have five bodies, four of them girls killed in 1981. The fifth is unidentified. And now you have a current body.” I paused for effect. “Without any real leads. I’d say the newspaper could be a very powerful ally.”

Avery didn’t like being pressed into a corner, and it showed in his expression. “Mitch is the boss. If he wants you in on this, you’re in.” He stared into my eyes. “I’m just a little curious. Mitch has never felt the need to buddy up with the press before. Maybe he wants a date.”

“Would you like some coffee?” I decided to ignore his misplaced antagonism. “I have some questions about the investigation.”

He thought about it. “Sure. Black.”

I went to the coffee kitty, put in a five-dollar bill and poured two cups of strong black coffee. When I got back to the office, Avery took his, and I closed the door.

Once I was settled at my desk, I opened my notebook and flipped through the pages. “I searched through the back issues of the paper. That’s where I got the names of the missing girls. But there wasn’t a fifth girl. At least not one that I found.”

“There’s not a missing-person report on the fifth victim, either.”

That would save me some long hours of eye-straining work. Avery didn’t want me in this investigation, but he was going to do what Mitch said. “Thanks for telling me that.”

He shrugged. “Aside from the headline, your story Sunday was good. Accurate. Not blown out of proportion. Well written.”

“Thanks.” I was surprised. Avery had paid me a compliment. “So what do you have on the fifth body?”

He frowned. “We’re checking missing-person reports from around the Southeast.” He hesitated and his discomfort was clear. “Have you talked with Pamela Sparks’s family?”

“I was going to do that today, and then follow up with an interview of the families of the other dead girls.”

He nodded. “We sent a couple of officers over to the Sparkses’, but the parents got upset. I went by there myself, but they won’t talk to the police. Mitch said this was your forte—that you could get anyone to talk to you.”

I leaned forward onto my desk. “Why won’t the family talk to you?”

“Pamela’s dad did a stretch in Parchman for a burglary he says he didn’t do. He doesn’t trust the police for any reason. He says he’s going to find Pamela’s murderer himself.”

If Highway 90 is considered the Gulf Coast main drag, then d’Iberville is the backstreet. The homes fronting the beaches are lovely. Except for the blight of condo and fast-food development, there’s no squalor or poverty. That can be found in d’Iberville.

Of course there are lovely neighborhoods in the Back Bay area, so called because of the way the Bay of Biloxi cuts west, creating an elongated inner waterway. It’s a perfect natural harbor for the fishing vessels that were once the lifeblood of the coast.

Pamela Sparks’s neighborhood was not one of the lovely ones. The land was low and had the smell of poor drainage, a nightmare for mothers during the summer when mosquitoes could savage an unprotected child in thirty seconds or less. Especially worrisome now with West Nile virus.

The address was a double-wide trailer in a park of some thirty other manufactured homes, as it was now politically correct to call them. Pamela had lived here with her parents, her four-year-old daughter and two younger siblings. I pulled in the drive and got out. The trailer and yard were neatly maintained. Latticework had been put up around the trailer, and there was a nice porch with steps and a railing surrounded by shrubs and well-tended flower beds. Yellow-and-white daffodils held center stage in the bed, but red tulips were budding.

A curtain at the door fluttered, and I knew I’d been spotted. When I knocked, the door was answered immediately. “We aren’t talkin’ to anyone,” a woman with red, swollen eyes spoke through a small crack.

I introduced myself. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, the words like dialogue off a cop show. Keep it impersonal, I warned myself. I didn’t want her to see my pain. She carried enough.

Mary Sparks came out on the porch, pulling the door shut behind her. “My husband can’t talk.” Her own eyes filled and the tears spilled down her cheeks. “He can’t stop crying. Pamela was his baby girl. The boys are younger, but Pamela was his girl.”

“Where was Pamela going Friday night?” If I didn’t get into the questions fast, Mrs. Sparks would fall apart. So might I.

“She said she had an errand. I figured she was going to buy some things for the party. Her friends were coming over Saturday to plan a shower for her. She was getting married in two weeks.” She leaned against the porch rail, her back sagging and her head bowing. “This is too hard.”

I wanted to comfort her, but I didn’t touch her. It would have been wrong, somehow. False. I was there to get information, not act as a friend. “Her fiancé was…?”

“Joe Welford. He works up at M&N Motors. He’s a mechanic.” She shook her head. “He was over here Saturday, and I thought I’d have to bury my Bob and Joe both.”

The muscles in my jaw tightened involuntarily. To get the story, I had to keep pushing. “Could you tell me the names of Pamela’s friends?”

I wrote them all down, including addresses and phone numbers. Mary Sparks was a mother who knew the details of her daughter’s life.

“Did Pamela have a bridal dress and veil?”

“No. She was gonna wear a regular dress. She said she’d rather save the money for a down payment on a house. When she was twelve, we lived in a normal house. That’s when Bob got arrested for that burglary he didn’t do. He went to jail, and we lost the house. Pamela wanted a real house so much.”

“And the veil?” I prompted.

“No veil. I don’t know where the one came from when she was—” She turned away and leaned against the trailer. “I can’t talk anymore.”

The trailer door cracked open and a young girl with blond hair and blue eyes came outside. She took Mary’s limp hand and hid behind her leg.

“Memaw, when’s Mama comin’ back?” she asked.

My eyes burned and I had to fight to stabilize my voice. “Hello,” I said to the child. “Who are you?”

“Megan.” She didn’t smile. There was a shadow in her blue eyes. “Where’s Mama?”

“Go tell your uncle Timmy to get a video for you,” Mary said. “I’ll be inside in a minute.”

“And Mama?” she asked, reluctantly going inside the door as Mary gently pushed her. She turned to look over her shoulder at me. “Do you know where Mama is?”

“I’ll be there in a minute.” Mary closed the door and faced me. “Megan doesn’t understand that Pamela won’t be back. We tell her, but she doesn’t understand.”

“I’ll check the information you gave me. If I find anything, I’ll let you know. One more thing, Mrs. Sparks. Who is Megan’s father?”

“Pamela never said. She was eighteen.” She took a long breath and put her hand on the doorknob. “When Bob gets hisself together, he’s going to find Pamela’s killer. He might go to prison for murder, but it’s what has to be.”

I put my hand on her arm, in caution not comfort. “No, it doesn’t. Please, Mrs. Sparks, don’t do anything foolish. Megan needs both of you now.” The words were ashy in my mouth. I’d heard them before, directed at me. Daniel had needed me, but I’d had nothing left to give him. Mary Sparks was only a few years older than me. Her face was worn and lined from hard work, but there was substance there. She wasn’t going to cave. She would pull her family back together and do what was necessary.

My hands were shaking as I backed my truck out of the drive. Instead of going to the paper, I went to the Ruby Room, a small restaurant in the Back Bay run by Garnett Roper. Garnett was my age, unmarried and a fine Southern cook. Her menu varied from day to day, but she always had the best fried chicken, homegrown vegetables, iced tea and, on demand, alcohol. I ordered a Bloody Mary and sat at a table on the patio. She came out to serve me herself.

“You okay?” she asked, putting the drink in front of me and taking a chair.

It was only ten, too early for her lunch regulars, so the place was quiet. I looked at the still waters of Back Bay. The morning was undercut with the cawing of the gulls around the shrimp boats.

“Tough interview,” I finally said. “The mother of the dead girl.”

She put her hand on mine, and her fingers were warm. “I’m sorry, Carson. I know that brings up a lot of stuff.”

Garnett Roper, née Dupree, was also from Leakesville. We’d been friends since the first grade, when I’d punched Robby Caldwell for trying to steal Garnett’s new box of eighty-four Crayola crayons.

“A lot of my customers knew Pamela one way or the other,” Garnett said as she straightened the sugar packets. She had lovely hands, long and graceful. Even in grammar school her hands had fascinated me. They were never still.

“What’s the talk?” I asked. Garnett’s restaurant was the meeting place for almost every faction on the bay. The fishermen came in early for breakfast and a packed lunch for the day. The businessmen and housewives rolled in at lunch. If there was talk, Garnett would have heard it.

She frowned, the harsh cut between her eyebrows the only line on her lightly tanned face. “She made a mistake and got pregnant, but she had the baby. From what I hear, she never even told the father. He must have been someone from outside Back Bay. Anyway, she had the kid, stayed with her folks, worked to earn a nest egg and started going to junior college last year. She was engaged to be married.”

“In two weeks,” I added.

“Shit.” Garnett’s hands flattened on the table for two seconds, then busied themselves rearranging the condiments on the far corner.

“Do you know the guy? Joe Welford.”

“Yeah. Joe comes in every Saturday morning with Pamela’s dad. He’s quiet, but in a shy way not a psycho way.” She shook her head. “He didn’t kill Pamela.”

“People are capable of anything,” I said, looking at the last swallow in my glass.

“You used to believe they were capable of kindness, too. And love.” Garnett’s brown eyes were sad.

“I used to believe in a lot of things.” I drank the last swallow. “Heard any talk about the fifth body in the grave?”

“Lots of talk, nothing I’d consider to be even a half-cocked theory. Let’s see, it’s the killer’s sister or mother, going with the assumption that she was the first victim and that she drove him to do the others. An Anthony Perkins kind of thing. And—”

“Wait a minute. So everyone is certain the victim is female and the killer male?”

“That’s the consensus. Why? Do you think differently?”

“No, that’s pretty much what I think. Maybe he killed someone in Louisiana or Alabama and brought the body here.”

“I’ve heard that one, too, and that’s the one I’d put my money on. The thing that’s really got folks buzzing is Pamela’s murder. I mean is it a copycat? Or is the guy back?”

“I wish I knew.” I picked up my empty glass. “I think I’ll have another.”