by Webb, Debra
I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet.
“When he showed up here this morning ranting about the cavers he said something like if he had trusted His—meaning God’s—purpose the other wouldn’t have been necessary. That statement started to gnaw at me so I pulled the files on the girls who are missing.” I open the Baldwin file. “These are photos taken of her bedroom. Look.” I say this knowing Letty is fully aware. I point to the white dresser in the girl’s lavender room. A square glass cube holds what appears to be several tubes of lip gloss not unlike the one I found. “The Baldwin girl loves her lip gloss.”
Letty looks from the photo to me. “You think Yarbrough took those girls to get back at the police for failing to find his daughter’s killer?”
“I think the twenty-fifth anniversary did the same thing to him it did to me, pushed him over some edge. I had a meltdown in the classroom and he started this chain of increasingly radical protests. I think maybe his protests weren’t prompting the hoped for reaction so he took things up a notch. He abducted those girls in a similar manner to Stacy and Natalie’s disappearance to draw media attention. Not to hurt them, but to prompt the desired effect.”
Letty studies the photo for a second longer. “So the case is reopened for comparison purposes and Yarbrough gets what he wants—a fresh look at the old case.”
I point a finger at her. “He’s desperate. Figures he has nothing left to lose. His family is gone. He was forced into retirement—according to Helen.”
“You could be onto something with this.”
“What do we do about it? Go to Claiborne?”
She snorts. “No way. Not enough evidence. He would laugh us out of his office. We’ll have to start keeping tabs on Yarbrough. Get a look in that basement.”
“Won’t we need a search warrant for that?”
“There are ways around warrants.” She picks up the lip gloss and considers it again. “I’ll look into this, see what I can figure out.”
For the first time in days I feel excited, in a good way. “Let’s talk about Natalie’s teachers, specifically the males one. I have a new theory.”
We go over what Mallory, Larson and Yarbrough stated about this mysterious older guy in Natalie’s life. The strangest part is that nothing any one of them said exactly confirms or supports the other. And it’s all hearsay, according to Letty. The strange part is that the only mention of Natalie and an older man in any of the police reports and interview statements from twenty-five years ago was Mallory’s comment. Why would Yarbrough or Larson lie? Or was Mallory’s comment appearing in her official statement a mistake?
If someone was covering up the truth, it was likely someone working on the case. Either that or it was shoddy police work.
“Your mom doesn’t remember anything about trouble with a teacher or Natalie acting secretive?”
I shake my head. “I don’t either. The really weird thing is how Mallory changed her story to her being the one involved with the older guy—who she chose not to name—and that she only said it was Natalie to avoid getting into trouble. Why change her story after all this time?”
Letty picks up the yearbook. “How many male teachers did Natalie have?”
“Five. One, Mr. Couch, economics teacher, who died before Natalie and Stacy disappeared and one who was confined to a wheelchair—remember Mr. Jeffries? He retired before we reached high school. The wheelchair pretty much rules him out.”
Letty nodded. “Jeffries was the Spanish teacher. He died a couple years ago.”
“So that leaves Frank DeSoto, the boys’ basketball coach and gym teacher,” I point out. “Matthew Beaumont, biology teacher, and Trenton Caldwell, Algebra and Geometry.”
Letty looks at their photos in the yearbook. “I don’t remember any of them being this handsome but Caldwell and DeSoto are pretty hot.”
“Beaumont is older,” I note, “but still attractive in a proper gentleman sort of way.”
“He was also Heather’s father.”
“Yeah.” I tap the photo. “I can’t see Mr. Beaumont cheating on his wife. She would have castrated him.”
“Maybe her selfish, overbearing personality is the reason he would.”
Letty has a point. “I was thinking I would talk to Ms. Larson again, see what she will tell me about the three.”
“I need to pay Mr. Wallace a visit tomorrow morning and press him about the dog tags.” Letty leans her head in her hand and rubs at her forehead with her fingertips. “He’s lying and it’s time he admitted it before it’s too late. I don’t want him taking the truth to his grave with him.”
As unpleasant as the task sounds, I second that one.
“What about Yarbrough?” I can’t stop thinking that those girls could be at his house right now.
“We’ll watch him in shifts. We need something to take to Claiborne. A random tube of lip gloss won’t cut it, especially coming from one of us. I’ll pay a surprise visit to his place with the excuse that we need more information about this mystery man he mentioned.”
“Sounds good.” This is the right direction. I can feel it. “I’ll find a reason to do the same in the morning. If he leaves his house, I’ll follow him. Later, after school, I’ll follow up with Ms. Larson.”
I hesitate. If I tell Letty the other part her emotions may get the better of her. But I can’t not tell her and have her going to the man’s house blind. “I found one other thing when I was at Yarbrough’s house.”
She looks at me expectantly.
“Remember when I was in the garage nosing around?” She nods. “The trashcans sit next to the garage so I had a look. Everything inside the can was stowed in kitchen trash bags so I couldn’t see anything but I smelled it. When I dug through the top bag I found two red spray paint cans and one black one tucked into a bag. I noticed a red stain on his hand earlier. I think he might be the one who defaced your dad’s headstone.”
Anger and frustration cloud her face. “You couldn’t tell me this earlier?”
“We were a little busy.”
She heaves a heavy breath. “Okay, I’ll find a way to question him about it. I can say someone saw him or his truck near the cemetery.”
“I think he’s just hurting, like the rest of us. He wants the world’s attention on this case in hopes of finding the same truth we want to find. I know what he did was wrong and hurtful, but someone said to me recently that sometimes you have to do the wrong thing to make the right thing happen.”
I guess the priest made an impression after all.
Letty doesn’t agree with my conclusion but she doesn’t disagree either. “Let’s just hope if he took those two girls that he hasn’t done something that can’t be undone.”
I can only imagine how terrified those children are and I know full well the nightmare their parents are suffering.
If this whole thing was some attempt for attention and the girls are safe, then it’s a far better outcome than what happened to my sister and her friend.
I wonder if we will ever know exactly what happened.
* * *
Later I drive to the school and sit in the visitor’s parking area for a time before going home. Helen finally called me back but she was in a hurry. She said we would talk when I got home. The conversation was strange. She sounded strange, just as Ginny had when I spoke to her earlier. I’m certain Helen had seen the press conference by the time she called me but she clearly didn’t want to talk about it.
Maybe that’s why I came here. Maybe I’m not ready to go home and face her. I stare up at the school that is as familiar as my own reflection. It’s dark but I want to be here, to remember the classrooms, the corridors…the teachers.
No matter that I never truly fit in, my life was innocent and happy in this place…until Natalie went away.
I can’t help wondering how all our lives would have been different if the unthinkable had not occurred. Natalie would no doubt be a dance teacher with a couple of beautiful children of
her own. Her husband would be someone important and, of course, incredibly handsome. She wouldn’t have it any other way. Helen would be happy playing the part of grandma. Maybe if my dad hadn’t spent so many years being worried and sad he wouldn’t have developed cancer. Studies have linked depression and anxiety to higher risks.
As for me, I’m sure I would still be the peculiar daughter. The one who digs in dirt and unearths bones. I even wonder if I would have stayed had Brad not decided Heather was more his type. Probably not. I was born to be the quiet one but my mind was never still, it was always wandering far away. I suppose on some level I was destined to travel the world. Maybe all those genes I inherited from the Graves side of the family determined my future for me right from the beginning. Graves and what they hold are my specialty, after all.
I’m fairly confident my life would have turned out exactly as it did except maybe for the whole ASS thing. I might not have overindulged in alcohol, smokes and sex quite so much and avoided making an ass of myself if that day hadn’t happened.
“Isn’t this what coming home is about?” I stare up at the prestigious school. “Asking yourself what if? Thinking about what might have been?”
A rap on my window next to my head makes me jump. The squeal that escapes my lips sends the man hovering outside my car staggering back.
I blink. The older man’s face looks vaguely familiar.
“You’re not supposed to be in this parking lot after dark unless there’s a school function going on,” he says, his gruff voice muffled by the glass.
I start the engine and power down the window. “I’m sorry.” I produce a smile, feel completely humiliated that I squealed like a little girl. “I haven’t lived in Jackson Falls in a long time. I’m only visiting for a few days. This is where I went to school.”
“Why Emma Graves, is that you?”
He comes closer, leaning down to get a better look at me with only the streetlamp and the dim glow from the dash to see me in the near darkness.
“Yes, I’m Emma.” It’s possible this man has seen me on the news but he does look vaguely familiar. My mind automatically browses through my memories until I find the right one. “Mr. Brewer, are you still working for the school?”
Surely he’s just out for a walk. He was an old man when I was a child. He must be nearing eighty. Although, he appears fit and as sharp minded as ever.
“Sure do. Mostly I tell others what to do these days. I’m the chief of the janitorial department. I take a nice long walk every evening, gives me a chance to see that all is as it should be around the school.”
“Congratulations on your promotion. I apologize for breaking the rules. I was about to head home anyway.”
We chat for a few minutes more. He asks about my mother and offers his sympathy about Natalie.
“Well, I’ll get on home,” he says. “The missus will have supper on the table by now.”
“Mr. Brewer?” It suddenly occurs to me that he might remember something useful. “In the weeks before Natalie disappeared, do you recall her having any trouble at school?” I broach my intended subject carefully. “Perhaps with one of the teachers?”
He removes his cap and scratches his head. His thick dark hair now gray. “First off, I’m pretty sure you recall that everybody loved Natalie. She never got into trouble. Never failed to be kind and thoughtful. Always on the honor roll. Popular too. I’m sure she would have broken a few hearts if things had turned out differently.”
I nod patiently. “My sister was a wonderful young woman.” It’s not until that moment that I consider Natalie more than a child. She was always my big sister but also just another kid. Yet, hearing all that I have these past few days, I realize she was far more than that. She was fifteen, quite mature for her age and sporting the body of a woman. Maybe she was already breaking hearts without knowing or understanding the power she possessed.
Teenagers are so full of fire and passion…sometimes it erupts, sometimes it can become dangerous. I doubt many realize the power they possess over those toward whom all that fire and passion are aimed.
“But you don’t recall any trouble.” I smile again, hoping he will indulge me. “I know it’s been a long time but Mother and I were talking about how we thought there might have been something going on at school that we didn’t know about.”
He tugs his cap back onto his head and appears to consider my comment for a bit. “I sure can’t remember any sort of trouble. All the teachers adored her.” He nods. “But I’ll think on it. If something comes to mind, I’ll call your momma and let you know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brewer. Give my best to Mrs. Brewer.”
I watch him walk away before driving the few blocks home. It’s possible the teacher issue is a dead end. I don’t trust Mallory and it’s possible Mr. Yarbrough is lying to me. Though I can’t see why he would unless he’s hoping to throw me off the scent of what he’s really up to. I think of that tube of pink lip gloss and worry storms me all over again.
Whatever he’s doing, we have to find out if it involves those two little girls.
I park behind the house, grateful there are no reporters waiting out front. I’m not very happy that Letty refused to allow me to go with her to visit Yarbrough. I get her reasoning—we can’t go at him from different angles if we go at him together on this one angle. Better to divide and conquer. She pushes him about his efforts to draw attention to the case and I stay after him about the teacher scenario. That way he doesn’t feel like we’re ganging up on him.
Letty ordered me to go home and get some rest. She promised to call after she spoke to Yarbrough.
I am tired. No doubts there. Chief Claiborne’s press conference likely dumped a lot of information, not the least of which was an in-depth discussion on cause of death. I should have been with Helen when she learned that news—if I could have found her.
Was she avoiding me or did I not try hard enough? Some would say this is further proof that I am not a very good daughter. I was so caught up in the trouble with the teacher scenario that I ignored my own mother when Letty went straight to see hers first thing.
Except I couldn’t find mine.
Inside my mother is watching a movie, Pink Cadillac with Clint Eastwood. She dabs at her eyes with a tissue, seemingly completely focused on the screen. I stand at the door to the living room.
“Don’t mind me,” she says with a glance in my direction. “I always cry when I watch this movie.”
I don’t believe her but I let it go.
“Your dinner is in the microwave. It should still be warm.”
I walk across the room and sit down next to her. “Pink Cadillac is a comedy. Why would you cry when you should be laughing?”
“Is it true?”
I pick up the remote control and mute the television. It isn’t necessary for me to ask her what she means.
“Where were you when I tried to call you? I was worried.”
She lifts her chin, stares me straight in the eye. “I’m here now. I want to know if what Claiborne said is true?”
“Yes.”
“So, so, he hit her in the head with something and that’s what killed her?”
Her voice wobbles and quavers and my heart threatens to fail me.
“It’s the only conclusion the medical examiner can make since there is no tissue to test for other causes.”
I wish for the proper words—any words—to say that might give her comfort as I answer the deluge of questions, but there are none. Is it possible Natalie felt no pain after the initial blow? Sure. Is it probable? No. Was she terrified? Depends upon whether she was drugged or not. And the ultimate question: Did she suffer for long? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? There is no way to know the answer with any measure of accuracy.
We sit, staring at the screen for a while before she speaks again, “We don’t know if other bad things were done to her?”
My faltering heart twists. I have tried very hard since finding the bones not to conside
r the other possibilities.
“There’s no way to be certain. There were no other fractures. If a violent struggle had taken place more likely than not there would have been indications. Wrist or forearm fractures from where she tried to get away or attempted to defend herself. There was no indication of that kind of struggle.”
“I guess that’s good.” Her attention settles on the muted antics on the television screen.
“I believe so,” I agree. I hesitate for a moment before saying the rest. “I examined each one very carefully.” There is no need to explain that I mean the bones. “They were all perfect and,” for lack of a better way to phrase it, “just as they should be.”
She asks no more questions. We sit. Watch the muted movie for several minutes. I need a shower. My body warns that I should eat and sleep but I cannot leave her sitting here like this. No matter that she says nothing I can feel her misery expanding inside her, around us and I want to comfort her but I fear if either of us moves or speaks that we will both shatter into a million aching pieces.
The wail that issues from her throat rips the very heart from my chest. I wrap my arms around her and hold her close. Her entire body shakes with the tide of agony washing over her.
I sink into the ocean of desolation with her and hold on tight to ride out the tsunami that has been years in the making.
24
Wednesday, May 16
The next morning I sit outside Beans, the coffee shop located next to the Piggly Wiggly. Delbert Yarbrough is inside having breakfast. He sits at a window table, unmindful of my surveillance. It isn’t necessary to follow him around. Letty told me last night that she’d slipped a tracking device under the rear bumper of his truck when she stopped by his house. She talked to him about the Shepherd and Baldwin case. Pushed him pretty hard, she said. Then she broached the subject of the graffiti on her father’s head stone. Before she could mention the made up eyewitness, Yarbrough confessed. He begged her forgiveness and promised to pay for any and all necessary repairs.