by Ellis Quinn
Pris looked back. “Oh, yeah—Rothman Road?”
Joy nodded.
Bette looked up in a silent moment to see Pris side-eye with ill-concealed devilry. It was a sure sign Pris’s gears were turning and Bette figured later tonight they’d probably be snooping around Rothman Road, looking for clues.
That would be fine with her.
THAT AFTERNOON
Bette met Pris, three in the afternoon at The Steaming Bean, and waited almost twenty-five minutes to get a table so they could talk. They scored a booth in the front room, halfway to the patio, and Cherry came from behind the counter to greet them.
“How y’all doing today?”
“Not as busy as you are,” Pris said, rolling her gaze around the packed tables and fully seated half log bar down the room’s center. She shifted aside and thumped the leather bench for Cherry to sit with them a minute.
Cherry scooted in and asked Pris how it was at the dunk tank today.
“Busy, busy, busy,” Pris said. “Never a shortage of people tickled seeing the watery misfortune of another. Specially if they can cause it.”
“Least it’s for a good cause,” Bette said.
Cherry said, “And how’s Charlotte Dawson—she show up for work again today?”
“I tell you,” Pris said, “that woman complains more than a kid in a wool jumper—”
Bette said, “Hey, I resent that.”
“But she showed,” Pris continued. “And she sure went for a dip.”
Cherry said, “Wish I could come and try my arm out. I’d love to be the one sending her to the crabs.”
“Good luck with that,” Bette said. “She wouldn’t even let me watch, she sure wouldn’t let you be the one throwing a ball. She likes you even less than me.” Then to Pris: “And I was six-years-old, and that sweater you knit wasn’t exactly cashmere.”
“Went all red-faced,” Pris said to Cherry. “Her little mouth like an upside down U fore she burst into tears.”
Bette ignored her aunt while Cherry snickered. “What we came for was—”
“Something to eat?” Cherry said.
Bette said, “Well, yeah, that and—”
“Got a surprise for you,” Pris said to Cherry.
“What’s that?”
“Jason Mitchum was working the crowd today just round the time Charlotte was getting up on the hot seat.”
Cherry’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, yeah?”
“I’m sure if you send him a couple brownies he’d be sure to share the video he took for you.”
“No way! Charlotte going in?”
“Not just going in, he even got all the hollering and splashing as well.”
Cherry broke up laughing and they all joined in.
As Cherry dried her eyes, she said, “At least the woman’s a good sport.”
Bette said, “I don’t know about that. Every hour she spends there counts as three toward her community service.”
Pris said, “You saw Charlotte coming out of that tank yesterday, Bette, tell me it ain’t worth it.”
They all shared a great laugh again, and Bette had to admit they were all ahead in the bargain.
Cherry said, “So what can I get you guys?”
“Depends,” Pris said. “You got time to sit a spell and eat with us while we make plans?”
Cherry shot a look over her shoulder, back toward the busy counter. “Don’t think I do, ladies, though I’d love to— Wait a second, plans for what?”
“Oh, we’re up to something,” Bette said and smiled.
Cherry had one rule for them since she could do nothing to dissuade them from coming out to Julie’s house: don’t get caught. They assured her they wouldn’t. Now here they were just arrived, and she was already calling Marcus—effectively tattling on herself.
She and Pris had come from town in Pris’s fancy pickup truck, skirting the perimeter to stay away from tourist traffic, sneaking along the Waverley Road, till they came to Rothman. Then they drove Rothman almost to where it ended at Hooch’s Point. One side of Rothman had been cleared a long time ago and was mostly grass, a tree line across the field, but the south side of the road, on their left, was densely wooded. Every once in a while they’d come to a long stretch of fencing and swaths of mowed grass. The houses couldn’t be seen, all of them set far back from the road. Julie Hartfield’s black mailbox on a white post was nearly the last place before the road ended. Without hesitation, they turned onto the long gravel drive, and passed between the brick-column gate posts. The driveway went a quarter mile, both sides lined by tall spruce trees that had been groomed in the shape of gumdrops. Their biggest concern had been coming into Julie’s drive and finding Marcus and a crew of cops with him. What they found was odder.
Marcus answered her call on the third ring and she got right to it. “Marcus, have you been out to Julie Hartfield’s place yet? I know you said you’d get there today, but I just have this weird feeling, a premonition like you haven’t.”
Marcus sighed first, then said, “Who is this?”
“Come on, Marcus, quit playing around, you know it’s me.”
“No, we in fact have not been out there yet, Bette,” he said with improvised patience. “Why do you ask?”
“How come you haven’t been out yet?”
“We’re going to wait to meet Brian Hartfield later, and we’ll get him to take us to the house. Because he’ll have the keys.”
“You don’t have a locksmith or anything?”
“Why are you calling me out of the blue like this? No, oh no, you’re not . . .”
“Okay,” she said, “maybe we are.”
“We? You and Pris?”
“Yeah, okay, we’re out here, Mr. Nosy, and there’s a truck parked out front of the house that doesn’t look like it belongs.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, her place, Julie’s place, I don’t know if you’ve ever been here before, but it’s nice, well-groomed, must have a landscaper or something, all the lawns mowed—and there’s a lot of lawn, it’s a big property. Pretty little house, a bungalow, but it’s a Tudor-style, and—”
“Get to the point, Bette.”
“There’s a truck parked out front that doesn’t look like it belongs here.”
Marcus said, “What do you think, why can’t it be the landscaper? You just said—”
“The truck doesn’t have a trailer, Marcus, or any lawnmowers in the back. And there’s nobody mowing the lawn. Now, listen, the truck is beat up and old. Rust all up in the wheel wells, eating the side panels away, and it’s got a mismatched cap on the back, over the bed, like one with a bump out up top—”
“I can’t believe you went out there.”
“Yeah, well, we’re here now, so what do you think?”
“I think I better get out there right away, Brian or not.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” she said.
“Do not get out of your vehicle, do you understand?”
“I do.”
His breathing filled a long moment while he thought. He said, “You’re not already out of your vehicle, are you?”
“No, Pris and I are sitting here in the driveway.”
“What kind of truck is it?”
She turned to Pris. “He wants to know what kind of truck it is.”
Pris said, “Tell him it’s a Chevy Silverado. Old, from the nineties.”
She told that to Marcus.
“How about the license plate?”
Bette read it back to him.
“I want you to stay in the truck, Bette, you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“I’m on my way.”
Just as she hung up the phone with Marcus, Pris said, “Hey, hold on now, what’s this?”
Bette looked up through Pris’s windshield to see the front door of Julie Hartfield’s home open. A man emerged, stepping onto the front stoop. He was young and bedraggled, his demeanor like someone who just woke from a very lo
ng and satisfying nap. His sandy blonde hair was long and unkempt. The sides hung down in waves over his ears and his collar, but from his hairline, it stuck back in clumps like he’d been swimming and he’d pushed it back from his face. There were bags under his eyes, and he looked worn out for such a young man, with seams in his face and a troubled brow. As he stepped on the stoop, he was pushing his arms through a T-shirt, tucking his head through the neck hole, coming out at first topless in just a pair of faded jeans. He wore no shoes on his feet, either. He was thin, his ribs pressing out against his pale skin. Then the T-shirt was snuggled down to his hips, and he shuffled out onto the walk. Without footwear, he gingerly made his way along the brick path, trying to avoid sharp stones on his bare feet.
Pris purred, “What do we have here?” She loved developments like these.
Bette said, “Do you know who this is?”
“Not one bit,” Pris said. “Guy’s so out of it he didn’t even see my truck sitting here.”
They continued to watch as the young man picked his way carefully across the gravel drive to the old pickup truck with the camper cap. His head hung low, his face seemed sad. He opened the driver door of the pickup truck and leaned inside.
“Kid’s got a gun in there,” Pris said in a tight voice and started her truck up again. The rumble of her truck’s big V8 made the young guy jump. He backed out of the pickup truck’s doorway so fast he thumped the back of his head. Now he stood looking at them dumbfounded, a black nylon zippered case in one hand, his other hand rubbing the top of his head and making the clumps of hair jab around. He smiled then and held up a hand in greeting.
“Doesn’t look like a gun to me,” Bette said.
“What does he have in there, CDs? No one listens to CDs anymore. Not even me. Hey, where you going—”
Bette was out of the truck, using the chrome running board to step down onto the gravel driveway. She greeted the man, holding up a hand and saying, “Hi, how are you?”
“Not too bad,” he said, squinting against the light. He looked harmless; frail. No, more than that: injured. “How bout you?”
“Good. You doing okay?”
“Just fine,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder to the house. “Had a nap, driving for almost twenty-five hours straight.”
“You know if Julie’s home?”
“You come to visit her?” He said, “Haven’t seen her since I got here.”
“When did you get here?”
Behind her, the pickup truck’s driver door slammed, and Pris strolled casually to join her, the two women standing side-by-side. The young guy greeted Pris and said, “Hey, I’m Sam. I’m a friend of Julie’s.”
Pris shook the young guy’s hand, the young guy tucking his zippered pouch under his elbow. Both his hands looked stained with black, liked he’d been handling a bike chain or something. Pris acted unaffected, but she was sure her aunt wanted to wipe her hand clean right now.
Bette said to Pris, “Sam tells me he just got in after a long drive, was sleeping until now,” then she turned to face the young guy. “My name’s Bette. Bette Whaley, nice to meet you.” They shook hands as well. It wasn’t grease that stained his fingers, whatever it was, it was dry.
The guy ran a tangle of long hair behind an ear, still squinting at them, hurt but somehow still handsome. A certain James Dean sort of thing happening the way his eyebrows squiggled and bowed in the middle. He said, “Julie’s gotta be here soon. If she’s expecting you, you’re welcome to come on in and wait.” He gestured kindly toward the still-open front door.
Pris said, “We wouldn’t want to disturb you, Sam. And Julie wasn’t expecting us.”
“I’ll let her know you guys were here for her when she gets in. I don’t know where she is. maybe she went to Seattle after all.”
Pris said, “You ain’t seen her yet, how’d you get in the house?”
Sam nodded like it hadn’t occurred to him to explain that, and it made sense to be suspicious of it. He said, “I talked to her yesterday, she told me if she’s not here when I come, where to find her hidden key.”
Bette said, “And where’s that?”
Sam winked, smiling, said, “Somewhere in her garden.”
Pris pulled at her arm, but she tugged it away, still studying this Sam character. Pris said, “Come on, let’s get on back and we’ll return a little later.”
Pris tugged at her arm again and they retreated a few steps and congregated with their backs to Sam. Pris said, “What do you think?”
“Seems harmless.”
Pris glanced over her shoulder, said to Sam, “We’ll just be a sec.”
Bette said, “I liked how he said where he got the key to assure us, but won’t say exactly where cause he’s protecting Julie.”
“Should we tell him?”
“Let’s see how he takes it,” she said, and they nodded once at each other, turned and went back to stand before Sam.
He looked amused by them, hip-cocked, one grubby black stained hand pushing hair away from his face again. His T-shirt was well-worn, dark gray, devoid of logo or rude saying. “You want to come in? You’re more than welcome.”
Bette said, “Truth is, we’re not here to see Julie.” She folded her arms and waited to spring it on him to gauge his grief, gauge his reaction, see if her lie-detector would get set off.
The smile stayed, but his eyes showed puzzlement. “You’re not?”
“We’re here because”—and now she felt funny about it, not clever at all, but mean—“there’s some bad news.”
“Oh no,” he said, eyebrows doing that tenting thing again. “For Julie?” His arms dropped to hang at his sides.
She said, “About Julie.”
Now his shoulders slumped, and that restrained smile faltered and disappeared. “About her?”
“I’m afraid,” she paused, looking at the pain on his face, a sign he knew what was coming? Or a sign he hated to think something bad had happened to his friend . . . She continued, “I’m afraid Julie’s . . . I’m afraid she’s, uh, deceased.”
Sam’s eyes darted from hers to Pris’s and back again, looking for some hidden meaning he didn’t understand. A miscomprehension, or maybe this was a joke. But he could see they were two mature women who didn’t look like a couple of comedians or hosted some callous YouTube channel, and now his mouth opened and closed in little jumps.
“She wha . . .?”
Pris said, “I’m afraid yesterday—”
He said, “Deceased?”
Bette said, “She was found on her boat—”
Sam went muzzy, his knees dipped like he was a puppet with clipped strings. He put out a hand behind him as if he might fall and staggered back a few steps toward his open pickup truck door. “No,” he gasped, and then he did fall. He sat like he would plop on the edge of the door’s sill but missed it and thumped his bottom down on the driveway, hitting his head on the frame of the truck. He burst into tears and hid his face in his stained hands, sobbing into them. The plaintive moans he cried sawed on her sympathy strings like a sad violin, and it almost got her crying too. She looked to Prissy, bewildered. Pris showed tears in her eyes as well.
Pris’s mouth pursed like she fought crying, and she said, “Just had to say something, didn’t you?” Her voice was choked.
They rushed to Sam now and got hands in his armpits and hefted him to sit where he’d intended on the doorway’s edge. He never broke from crying.
She looked to Pris and winced. “I shoulda waited for Marcus.”
THAT EVENING
Marcus asked Sam if he had another place to stay.
Sam said, “I guess you have to search Julie’s house, and I shouldn’t be in it now.”
“That’s right. We need to search it. For evidence,” Marcus said, and Bette didn’t like the insinuation. She understood Sam would have to leave, but it was the snide, judgmental tone Marcus used that irked her, and the stern and purposeful eye contact Marcus had made with Sam, tipping
his head down to look below the brim of his big cop hat. Of course Sam was a suspect, that was another thing she understood, but couldn’t Marcus see how wounded the young man was? Couldn’t he offer the smallest kindness?
Bette said to Sam, “Do you have somewhere you can stay?”
Sam’s face turned down, and he looked at the carpet, his bare toes curling up and hiding under the frayed cuff of his baggy, worn out jeans. “Uh-huh, don’t worry about me. I sleep in my truck all the time.”
Bette said, “Nonsense, you can’t sleep in your truck.”
Sam said, “I have a bed in the camper back. Honest, I sleep in it all the time.” Then to Marcus: “Would it be all right if I kept my truck parked here on . . .” He prepared himself to say his deceased friend’s name, swallowing hard first. “J-Julie’s property? I’ll move it so I’m not in anybody’s way.”
“Marcus, you can’t make him sleep in his truck. Don’t you have a way to put him up somewhere?”
“We don’t have a budget like that, Bette,” he said. “I don’t know, maybe we could give him a room at the station.”
“A room at the— You mean with bars on it?”
“Not like that, Bette.”
She said skeptically, “So what, like the break room, lay him out on a table?”
“We’d keep the cell door open.”
“Ah, so you were thinking of a cell.”
While they argued, she was aware of Sam’s soulful blue eyes moving from Marcus to her, back to Marcus, like he was watching a tennis match.
She faced Sam. “You’re going to stay with me, all right? I got a big place, plenty of room for you.”
Sam’s eyes widened with surprise and appreciation, plus a small measure of shame. “Oh, I couldn’t—”
“I’m not taking no for an answer, Sam, get your things together and you can come stay with me. I’ve got a guest room, and we can have a big breakfast in the morning after a good night’s sleep. You can’t say no to that.”