“I know,” Hadley said. “But he asked about my mother’s mental state after Daddy died, and then he brought up the money trouble we always seemed to have.”
“He thinks there’s a link?”
Hadley shrugged. “I guess. Maybe. I don’t know. He knew that Aunt Bea gave Mama money for years until she stopped just before my mother and Mary died.”
“Did he ask why she stopped?” Brody asked, sitting down next to her.
“He didn’t have to,” Hadley said. “He knew Mama was planning to move as soon as I graduated.”
“Did you tell him anything else?” Brody asked.
“No,” Hadley said. “I didn’t tell him anything.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not his business,” she replied. “Because it’s not anybody’s business, and I’m not going to say anything that could make my mother look even more guilty in his eyes.”
“Stealing isn’t the same thing as murder,” Brody said.
“Don’t say that about Mama,” Hadley said. “Don’t you dare say it.”
“Is everything okay?” Lucy asked, appearing in the kitchen.
Hadley looked up, blinking away any tears that were on the verge of forming in the corners of her eyes. “Everything’s fine. How’s the movie?”
“It’s so good,” Lucy said, her eyes dancing. “I mean, it’s old and it’s kind of wobbly, but I love it.”
“I knew you’d like it,” Hadley said.
“Do you have any more old movies?” Lucy asked.
“Tons,” Hadley said. “Do you want to borrow the VCR and a few of them?”
Lucy looked to her father, who said, “We have an old VCR in storage. No need to borrow yours.”
“Well, take any of the movies you’d like, then,” Hadley said.
“We’ve got movies, too.”
Hadley looked over at Brody, raising her eyebrow slightly. “It’s really fine.”
“Oh, come on, Dad,” Lucy pleaded. “Just let me borrow a few.”
“Just go finish what you’re watching,” Brody said.
“Fine.” Lucy sighed. Then turning to Hadley, she said, “I learned how to pause it. That’s what took me so long to come in here. There is no remote.”
“There used to be a long time ago,” Hadley said. “But it’s probably stuck so deep inside that couch that we’ll never find it.”
Lucy grinned. “I’m going to look anyway,” she said.
Before Hadley could answer, Martha came through the door, tears streaming down her face. “I’m going upstairs,” she said, pushing past both Hadley and Brody. “Tell them I’m not answering any more questions.”
“Are you okay?” Hadley asked.
“Did you know Mama was going to move us?” Martha asked. “Did you know?”
Hadley hesitated and then nodded. “Yes.”
“Where were we going?”
“I don’t know,” Hadley said. “I don’t know that she ever got that far.”
“Why?” Martha asked. “Why was she going to move us?”
“She couldn’t make ends meet here,” Hadley said, taking Martha’s hands. “The house, the bills Daddy left . . . she just couldn’t keep up.”
“Even with the money Aunt Bea sent her?” Martha asked.
“Even with that,” Hadley replied.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Martha asked.
“What good would it have done?”
Martha sniffed. “The sheriff seems to think Mama had something to do with all of this.”
“She didn’t,” Hadley said.
“How do you know?” Martha asked. “How could you possibly know that?”
“You know that our mother wouldn’t have hurt anyone.”
“I don’t know anything anymore,” Martha said. “Right now it feels like my entire childhood was a lie.”
“Don’t let that stupid sheriff put those ideas into your head,” Hadley said. “The sheriff is just trying to scare us.”
“Well, he did a damn good job,” Martha replied. “Because I’m scared as hell.” Then, turning around, she hurried up the stairs, ignoring Hadley calling her name.
Chapter 24
Pfeiffer
THE CROWLEY FARM WASN’T MUCH OF A FARM, NOT ANYMORE. There was no more livestock save for a few sickly cattle and some chickens, and all that remained of the original buildings was a tenant shack and an outhouse. The rest burned in a fire in the 1970s, before Pfeiffer was born. All that remained of the original house was a stone chimney, and behind it, Pfeiffer knew that she would find Old Crow.
Pfeiffer cut the engine to Brody’s old truck and hurried up the crumbling steps of the shack. The door opened before she had a chance to knock, and Old Crow’s ragged frame stood before her.
“I reckoned one a you would come,” he said, opening the door wider for her to enter.
“The sheriff would like a word with you,” Pfeiffer said. “They sent me after you.”
“I won’t be goin’.”
“I don’t think you have much of a choice.”
“I’m an old man, girly,” Crowley replied. “I don’t have to do nothin’ ’cept die.”
Pfeiffer tried not to smile. “The sheriff will come here himself if you don’t come with me,” she said. “I doubt you want that.”
“I ain’t got nothin’ ta hide.”
“I’m not saying you do,” Pfeiffer said, taking inventory of Old Crow’s meager home.
The shack had only one room, fitted out with a rustic table and one chair. There was a twin bed in one corner and a small kitchenette in the other. There were books on the floor next to the bed and a pair of tatty slippers.
“It ain’t much, I know,” Crowley said, as if reading Pfeiffer’s mind. “But I don’t need much.”
“It’s more than some people have,” Pfeiffer replied.
“I’m sure you’ve yerself quite a place in New York. Quite a place,” Crowley said.
“You’d be surprised.”
“Would ya like a cup of coffee?” he asked, motioning for her to have a seat at the table.
“Got anything stronger?” she asked.
Crowley touched his finger to his nose. “I’ve got just the thing, youngin’.”
Pfeiffer accepted the glass of whiskey, grateful that the old man didn’t judge her for asking for alcohol in the middle of the day. “Thank you,” she said.
“Things not goin’ so well for ya up there in that big city?”
Pfeiffer shrugged. “You could say that.”
“I ain’t sayin’ it,” Crowley said. “I was askin’.”
“Things aren’t great,” Pfeiffer said, taking a swig of the whiskey and allowing herself to enjoy the burn in her throat and chest. “In fact, things are pretty spectacularly awful.”
“Ain’t a lot better here, is it?”
Pfeiffer shook her head and took another sip. “No. They aren’t.”
“You ready to hightail it on back?” Crowley asked, pouring them both another glass.
“There’s nothing to go back to,” Pfeiffer said, realizing too late the words she’d just spoken. “I don’t . . . I don’t have anything to go back to.”
“Nothin’?”
“Nothing,” Pfeiffer replied. “I lost my job nearly a year ago over something stupid I did, which, if you know me, isn’t surprising. I spent all of my savings just trying to keep up, and when that ran out, I lost my apartment and everything in it.”
Crowley sighed. “Do yer sisters know?”
“No,” Pfeiffer said. “And I’d appreciate you not telling them.”
“I ain’t never been one to tell nobody’s secrets,” Crowley replied.
“Have you been asked to keep many secrets?” Pfeiffer asked.
“I’ve kept me a few,” Crowley replied. “Some of them my own. Every man’s gotta have a few secrets.”
“Is that why you don’t want to talk to Sheriff Driscoll?”
Crowley paused, his glass half
way to his lips. He set it back down again and said, “I ain’t never been fond of the law, and I certainly ain’t fond of that cross-eyed, beer-bellied redneck, Tobias Driscoll.”
“I’m not too fond of him either,” Pfeiffer said. “Especially after what he said about my parents.”
Crowley sat up straighter in his chair. “What did he say?”
“He didn’t really say anything, but he sure suggested that one or both of them had something to do with the body in the garden,” Pfeiffer replied. “I think he was just fishing for information, but it was insulting.”
Crowley put one of his gnarled hands on Pfeiffer’s arm. “Your parents ain’t had nothin’ to do with that. You hear me? Nothin’.”
“I know that,” Pfeiffer said. “At least I think I do.”
“I know it fer certain, child. I know it.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know,” Crowley said, draining his glass.
“I don’t think that answer is going to be good enough for the sheriff,” Pfeiffer said.
“Well, I won’t be talkin’ to that sheriff, so it won’t matter none, will it?”
“Please,” Pfeiffer said. “Tell me what you know about what happened at the farm. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
“You shouldn’t make promises that you can’t keep, girl.” Crowley stood up and took his glass to the mildewed sink, keeping his back to her.
“But if you know something—”
“What I know is that yer mama and daddy didn’t have a thing to do with what happened in that garden,” Crowley said, cutting her off. “And that’s all anybody needs to know.”
“I found the journal,” Pfeiffer said suddenly, surprising herself. “Aunt Bea’s journal.”
Crowley turned around. “When?”
“Just after we got here,” she replied, keeping her eyes locked with his.
“And did ya read it?”
“I did.”
“And yer sisters?”
Pfeiffer stood up. “I haven’t told them. You’re not the only one who can keep a secret,” she said. “But what I want to know is, how did you know about it?”
“Yer aunt always kept a journal,” Crowley replied. “That ain’t no secret. She didn’t talk none, so she wrote down most a what she wanted to say.”
“She used to talk, though, didn’t she?” Pfeiffer asked. “A long time ago when you were kids?”
Crowley nodded. “She did.”
“And there are pages missing from that journal,” Pfeiffer continued. “I’m willing to bet that whatever’s in those missing pages explains what happened in the garden, or at the very least explains why she stopped talking.”
“If them pages are gone, then they’re gone fer a reason,” Crowley replied. “Ain’t no way to get ’em back now.”
“I just want to know if the reason is the dead body in my garden,” Pfeiffer said.
Crowley walked up to where Pfeiffer stood, pulling his stooped frame up to its full height. He was so close to her that she could smell the whiskey on his breath and see the bits of tobacco lodged between his teeth. “Go on back to Sheriff Driscoll and tell him I ain’t got nothin’ to say,” he said. “And you tell him if he steps one foot onto my property, his pants’ll be so full a buckshot he won’t be able to sit down fer a week.”
Pfeiffer swallowed. “I’ll tell him,” she said.
“Ain’t nothin’ to learn from Old Crow,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’ to be learned from that journal neither.”
“I’m going to find those pages,” Pfeiffer said. “With or without your help.”
“You’ve been gone from here too long,” Crowley replied. “You’ve fergotten what happens when ya stick yer nose where it don’t belong, and you’ve fergotten that secrets in this town are just like rocks in the soil—as soon as you’ve dug one up, another one appears. Ya won’t find what yer lookin’ for here.”
Chapter 25
Pfeiffer
WHEN PFEIFFER ARRIVED IN NEW YORK CITY, SHE HAD four hundred dollars in her pocket. She’d been due to go home to Cold River after college graduation, as she had no job prospects. Instead, she hitched a ride to the East Coast with three of her English-major friends. By September, she was the only one left. The other three gave up after they couldn’t make rent in their cockroach-infested apartment. Pfeiffer, in turn, posted ads for roommates at the shoe store where she worked. It was one of those places that was changing locations all the time, and she never knew if the shoes she sold were stolen, but they gave her a free pair every week with her paycheck, so she didn’t complain.
In the end, it was a snarky comment she made about the Twilight series to a book editor at Henry Brothers that landed her her first job in publishing. Five years later, she was shopping at Kate Spade on Fifth and living in her own apartment. Pfeiffer never pretended that her grimy beginnings hadn’t led to her ability to spot a bestseller a mile away or her ability to feel the pulse of readers all across the globe. Somewhere along the way, however, she lost herself within her work and began to think she could say and do whatever she liked.
It was a mistake.
A mistake that cost her her job.
The day she lost the job, the vice president of Henry Brothers came into her office and closed the door. She was a tall woman, the vice president, with a nose like a beak and tiny, dark eyes that made her look like a bird. Her name, in fact, was Alexandria Byrd, and people often made fun of her behind her back, but Pfeiffer knew better. The woman might’ve had eyes and a nose like a bird, but she had ears like an elephant, and she heard everything.
“I received the most interesting email forward this weekend,” Alex said, sitting down in the chair opposite Pfeiffer.
“Oh yeah?” Pfeiffer asked, opening the lid to her lunch—egg salad—on her desk. “Was it from digital marketing? They send out some whoppers.”
“No,” Alex replied, sliding her fingers together. “It was from a literary agent, Dasha Pilar. Do you know her?”
At this, Pfeiffer looked up from her food. “I do,” she said. “We’ve worked on a few projects together, but it’s been over a year since she sent me something worth publishing.”
“She sent you a manuscript a few weeks ago, correct?” Alex asked. “Written by a debut author?”
Pfeiffer nodded, the egg salad tasting rotten in her throat. “She did.”
“And you weren’t interested?”
“No,” Pfeiffer replied. “There were too many holes in the plot and no way to fill them without a complete rewrite.”
“Apparently, none of the other major houses had a problem with the plot,” Alex said. “In fact, there is now quite the bidding war over the manuscript.”
“That’s insane,” Pfeiffer sputtered. “Any seasoned editor could see that it needs too much work.”
“Would any seasoned editor fire off a rejection email to an agent like the one you sent?” Alex asked. She pulled a piece of paper from the breast pocket of her pantsuit, unfolded it, and slid it across the desk to Pfeiffer.
Pfeiffer looked down at the printed version of the email she’d sent the unknown author’s literary agent, an agent she’d known for years, and an email she’d meant merely as a joke. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to offend anyone.”
“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” Alex said. “Your literary agent friend sent this around to everyone once the bidding war began. You made a mockery of a novel that is being called the next bestseller, and you made a mockery of this publishing house. You made us a public laughingstock.”
Pfeiffer felt herself begin to sweat. It started at the backs of her knees and caused them to stick to her chair. She knew what was coming, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe it. “How can I make it right?” she asked.
Alex stood up. “There’s only one thing you can do at this point,” she said.
“Anything,” Pfeiffer replied.
“You need to pack up your office and be out by t
he end of the day,” Alex said. “You’ll receive pay for this month, and we’ll split your authors among editors.”
Pfeiffer stared at Alex, unable to move. Surely this couldn’t be happening. She’d been working for Henry Brothers for so long. She’d brought in bestseller after bestseller. She’d rarely had a book that didn’t end up on some kind of list. “Please,” she said. “Give me another shot.”
“I gave you a shot years ago,” Alex replied. “In that shoe store. And I told you then not to disappoint me.”
“And I haven’t,” Pfeiffer replied. “Not in all these years.”
“Not until now.”
“I shouldn’t have said what I said,” Pfeiffer admitted. “I shouldn’t have said it, and I know that.”
Alex didn’t move. She didn’t unfurl her hands. “I wouldn’t have cared if you’d said it,” she replied. “In fact, I agree with you. We might have laughed about it over lunch. But you didn’t say it. You wrote it down. Words last forever, Pfeiffer. You should know that by now. Words are our business.”
Pfeiffer felt herself close to tears but blinked them away. “I can fix this,” she said. “I swear I can fix this.”
“You can fix it by leaving without causing a scene,” Alex replied. “I don’t want this to garner more attention than it has to.”
“Does everybody know?” Pfeiffer whispered, looking out through the glass windows of her office. “Has everybody seen the email?”
Alex nodded. “Everybody knows. Everybody has seen it.”
Pfeiffer nodded, picking up the lid to her lunch and placing it over the smell that now threatened to make her vomit. “I’ll be out as soon as I can gather my things.”
“I think that would be best.”
Pfeiffer thought about her former boss’s words as she drove home from Old Crow’s. She thought about what she said about writing words down instead of saying them, and the power those written words have. She knew it then, but she’d forgotten about it in the moment she sent that email to the literary agent. She’d forgotten that she couldn’t take them back once they were written and sent out into the world.
She also knew that her aunt Beatrice had used the journal to write her own words, even before her aunt stopped speaking. She’d written something important on the pages that had been ripped out, and Pfeiffer knew without a doubt that someone else besides her aunt had seen them, and she was willing to bet the chicken pox that it was Rufus Crowley.
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