by Webb, Debra
How could a man who couldn’t bear the burden of defacing a headstone abduct two little girls?
I think of the lip gloss and I know what I have to do. After starting the engine, I roll away from the coffee shop. I woke up thinking about those girls. Their mothers were on the news again this morning pleading for their safe return. Breaking into the Yarbrough basement won’t be difficult. To that end I’m driving dad’s truck. The tools I need for the job sit in the seat next to me. Letty is dropping by the coroner’s house this morning. He was released from the hospital yesterday. She intends to question him about her father’s dog tags and her mother’s insistence he was wearing them when he died.
I’m halfway to the Yarbrough home when Letty calls.
“Hey, did you learn anything new?” I hope for hers and her mother’s sakes that Mr. Wallace’s memory has improved.
“He’s standing by his report.”
The frustration that has become too constant a companion fills me now. “The man is dying, isn’t he? Why the hell doesn’t he just tell the truth?”
Both questions are rhetorical. There is always the chance that he is telling the truth.
But that is not the answer we need to hear.
“I’m headed to the farm,” Letty says. “Meet me there. There’s someone who might be able to help us.”
I take the next left and turn around. For now I let the other go but I will get into that basement in the next twenty-four hours come hell or high water.
When I arrive at the farm a green Taurus sits in the drive next to Letty’s Jeep. The Taurus sports a Montgomery County tag. A disabled-person placard hangs on the rearview mirror. Has one of the ABI guys come over to the dark side or is he a spy?
My money is on the latter.
Letty and the stranger from Montgomery are seated at the table. This isn’t one of the men from yesterday’s task force meeting.
“Emma, this is Marvin Timmons. He’s one of the two ABI special agents who worked Natalie and Stacy’s case.”
Timmons stands and thrusts out his hand. “My partner, Freddy Boone, passed away three years back.”
I give his hand a shake. “Did your friends send you to find out what we’re doing?”
Letty laughs. “Told you she’d ask that question.”
I pull out a chair and drop into it. Timmons resumes his seat.
“Actually, Agent Watwood did mention that you and Letty appear to be working your own investigation.”
I lift my eyebrows at Letty.
She gestures to our guest. He says, “Watwood and Anderson don’t know I’m here. I came because I’ve always felt like something went wrong with our investigation but Claiborne and the FBI were running things so we followed their lead.”
“They still are,” Letty grumbles.
“How can I help?” the retired agent asks.
Letty and I exchange a look. The question at the top of both our lists is the same.
“We’ve only been able to find one reference to an older man—possibly a teacher—who may or may not have been involved with Natalie and that was in the girl Mallory Carlisle’s statement. Yet the scenario has been mentioned by two other people we’ve interviewed in the past few days.”
It isn’t necessary to mention that Mallory Carlisle is now Malloy Jacobs or that her younger daughter married into the mayor’s family. None of that is relevant to anyone but us.
Timmons leans back in his chair. He still wears the off-the-rack suit of his former profession, but the cane propped against the table is an accessory he didn’t have twenty-five years ago. Though his hair is more salt now than pepper, I do remember his gray eyes. Now that I’ve listened to him for a bit, his voice echoes in my memory.
Are you certain you didn’t see anyone else with your sister and her friend? How long did you stay on the bus after Natalie and Stacy left?
He pushed me hard during his questioning. I decide not to hold that against him. He was doing his job.
“The Carlisle girl was the only person to bring up the subject.” He shook his head. “Her recounting of what she’d seen was told half a dozen different ways. In my opinion she was lying. I believe that was the general consensus.”
“Stella Larson mentioned this same theory,” I say. “A man, possibly pressuring Natalie. She said she told this to the police but there’s nothing in the case files. The same with Delbert Yarbrough. He told the police his daughter was worried about a male teacher that Natalie was having trouble with, yet there’s nothing in any of the reports.”
Mr. Timmons surveys the piles of reports. “The first thing I will tell you is that every teacher and staff member of the school, the dance studio and the employees of any other place either of the girls went were interviewed and alibis were checked. It’s always possible that one of the investigators or agents listed a POI as having an alibi without confirming. But the question I would be asking of your three witnesses,” he suggests, “is to which investigator were these incidents reported?”
That is a very good question.
* * *
I leave Letty and Mr. Timmons going over the files. According to Letty’s tracking app, Mr. Yarbrough has spent most of the morning in Huntsville but now he’s back home so checking out his basement is a no go. Another research idea occurs to me but I decide not to mention it to Letty. It’s a long shot but one I plan to check out. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I glance at the clock on the dash and realize I have half an hour to make it.
The drive to St. Mary’s takes less than twenty minutes. I park in the lot and head for the entrance. I’m about to do something I haven’t done since I was a kid. I shake my head, realize I haven’t thought of that day in ages.
At the ripe old age of twelve guilt had driven me to walk down to St. Mary’s on a Saturday afternoon and slip into the confessional. I confessed my sins to Father Estes, the priest who came to St. Mary’s when I was nine and remained until Barnes showed up. Father Estes assured me that my transgression wasn’t the worst thing a kid my age could do. I did my penance and never thought of it again…until just now.
As I enter the sanctuary I dip my hand into the Holy Water and bless myself, however grudgingly. If there’s anyone else here for confession he or she is already in the confessional. I make my way there and see that the light is off so I go on inside, close the door behind me.
Within moments a curtain slides back and I stare at the priest’s profile behind the tinted mesh screen. My big plan suddenly feels like an idiotic idea and I almost cut my losses and make a hasty exit.
At my hesitation he says, “When was your last confession?”
“I dunno. Like twenty years ago.”
He’s the one hesitating now. Obviously, he recognizes my voice.
“I’m here to listen to whatever you would like to tell me.”
I notice that he carefully words this statement so that it doesn’t sound religious. In fact, it’s completely unreligious. I suppose he realizes this is not a typical confession.
“Well, I guess my last confession was when I was twelve and I wanted to get back at this girl who was always making fun of me.”
“Making fun of you in what way?”
I frown. “You aren’t supposed to interrupt like that, are you?”
“I’m sorry, please go on.”
“If you must know,” I say, my voice snappish, “she called me names and made fun of my glasses.” I think about it a minute. “My clothes, my lack of a manicure. My hair and my nose.”
This time he keeps quiet and still he makes me uncomfortable. Mostly I think it’s the scent of his soap that’s invading my side of the screen.
I sigh. “Anyway, we were at a school assembly and I was sitting on the bleacher below her. She was so preoccupied whispering with her friends that she didn’t notice me tying her shoes laces together.” The memory of blood gushing from her nose after she fell makes me flinch. “I felt really bad about it afterward. Especially since she wore braces.” I
touch my mouth. “She had to have two stitches in her upper lip.”
“Did you do your penance?”
“Of course. I was twelve. Father Estes was God to me. I trusted him completely.”
Father John Estes was the first and last man besides my dad I ever really trusted.
“I regret that I broke your trust, Emma.”
I make a face. “What happened to the veil of anonymity?”
“It’s the soap,” he said, his voice lower as if he fears someone will hear, “I knew it was you the moment I moved the curtain aside.”
The fact that I noticed the same thing about him rattles me. I shake it off. I’m on a mission here. “I need your help but it’s not about what I did when I was twelve.”
“Confess your sins and they will be forgiven.”
This was the tricky part. “Actually, it’s not my sin, it’s someone else’s.”
“You don’t have to do that with me. You really can tell me anything.”
“No, seriously, this is about what someone else did.”
After a brief hesitation he says, “Let’s proceed with caution then and I’ll do my best to help.”
“Twenty-five years ago my sister and her best friend were abducted and murdered.” I take a breath and drive on. “Letty and I have learned there may have been a man—maybe a teacher—pressuring Natalie. I believe the person who killed the two of them attended this church. A true Catholic would have confessed his sins. Father Estes may know the identity of the killer—he may not realize this person killed anyone but he may be aware of an older man’s obsession with a young girl.”
“Confession is a sacrament,” Barnes reminds me. “The sacred seal of confession cannot be broken.”
I roll my eyes. “I know this. I’m not asking him to reveal what was said and by whom, but if he could confirm that there was an older man involved with her, we would know if we’re moving in the right direction. We don’t want to waste time on a dead end.”
The fact that he doesn’t immediately say no gives me hope.
“To gain Father Estes’s confidence on the matter, I would be forced to lie to him.”
“You’ve lied before,” I remind him. “For the greater good,” I tack on.
The hesitation that follows has me thinking I’ve gone too far. When he steps out of the confessional my conclusion is confirmed. Reluctantly, I reach for the door handle and do the same.
Those searing blue eyes stare directly at me. “I’ll make a deal with you.”
My first instinct is to run, but I need this piece of information. “What kind of deal?”
“I’ll ask him—though I can’t promise you I can share his response—if you’ll volunteer at the women’s shelter with me once a week for the remainder of your stay in Jackson Falls.”
I almost laugh. Since I’ll be gone as soon as Letty and I learn the truth, why not?
“Sure. I will gladly volunteer with you every week during the remainder of my visit if you confirm or rule out this rumor.”
He offers his hand. “Deal.”
Reluctantly I place my hand in his and we shake. The zing of electricity that zaps me each time we touch sparks. “The sooner the better.”
“I have lunch with Father Estes in Huntsville every Thursday.”
“That’ll work.”
* * *
The Sweet Tea & Biscuits is right next door to Mallory’s fancy boutique. Helen wanted to meet for lunch so I chose the place. After lunch I can drop in on Mallory again. So far she’s the one who has changed her story repeatedly to suit the moment, which should make her an easy target.
Helen waves from the other side of the window as I pass. She’s already grabbed a booth. I reach for the door but someone else beats me to the draw.
“Why, Emma Graves, I can’t believe it’s really you.”
Lorraine Jackson Beaumont drops her hand from the door and beams a smile at me that is as fake as the sleek thin nose and the unlined skin on her artfully and surgically perfected face. Her salon enhanced blond hair hangs free on her shoulders as if she is half her age. The red power suit tells me she is likely going door to door in support of her new fiancé.
How nice.
“Mrs. Beaumont.” I muster up a smile. “In the flesh. I’m sure you’ve seen me on the news,” I suggest, unable to resist tossing in a dig.
“I have.” All signs of politeness and kindness vanish instantly. “I saw you and Letty. What a shame to see a promising young black woman making such tremendous and career shattering mistakes.”
Outrage quakes through me. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
The smile is back but the menace in her eyes is undeniable. “Why, I’m sure you’re aware that for every action, there is always a reaction. Everything we do in this life has consequences, Emma. Unlike you, Letty lives in a small town where certain powerful influences make the important decisions. Perhaps you might serve your friendship with Letty best by reminding her of all she and her mother have to lose.”
With that the former mayor turns and struts away, sleek red high heels clicking on the cobblestone. I guess she decided she didn’t want to have lunch in the same place as me.
Anger and dread clash in my chest. I yank the door open and walk inside. Helen watches me storm toward her, her own face a study in worry.
“What in the world was that about?”
“A warning,” I confess. “She doesn’t like the investigation Letty and I are conducting.”
“She said as much?”
Helen appears stunned that Lorraine would come right out and say how she feels about our investigation. I, on the other hand, wonder why it took her so long.
“Oh, she took a roundabout way of getting to her point but the message was loud and clear. She wants us to stop or there will be consequences.”
The former mayor is right about the power of the few in a small town. Letty and her mother are unquestionably the ones with the most to lose and I need to be sure they are both looking at this with their eyes wide open.
A killer has gotten away with murder for twenty-five years. If he is still alive he’s not going to sit idly by while we prove he did it.
Determination stiffens my spine. Give it your best shot, pal.
We are doing this.
25
HELEN
“She’s not in there,” Ginny insists.
“How can you be so sure?” I stare at the big house across the road from where we parked.
I have known Ginny Cotton for fifty-five years, since we were little girls at Jackson Falls school. I recall as vividly as if it were yesterday when she showed up at senior prom with a white man—James Cotton, a recent transplant from Chicago. She is and always has been a good woman, a caring woman. The hardest working, most loyal woman I know.
But right now I fear she is on the brink of an awfully steep cliff and I am terrified she will slip over that edge.
“I cleaned that big ass mansion all by myself for fifteen long years. I know when she’s there.”
The bitterness that taints her voice dwells deep inside me, too. Somehow over the past twenty years I’ve learned to hide it well. Most of the time Ginny does too but things have changed of late.
Those damned dog tags.
I shake my head. “I can’t believe she would go that far.”
Ginny’s head whips around, her gaze colliding with mine. “How can you say that? You know the kind of bitch she is.”
My chest tightens. God almighty I did not mean to belittle her feelings on the matter. “But we’re talking about murder—the murder of children. She has three of her own.”
I try my best to keep my voice steady but it’s impossible. I have been strong for so long…so very long. But I feel myself weakening now. I don’t know if it’s age or just the idea that everyone knows what happened now. There is no more pretending.
Natalie is dead. My girl is gone.
“I wouldn’t put anything past her.” Ginny star
es toward the house once more. “I know it was her.”
I think of Lorraine’s warning to Emma and my fingers tighten on the steering wheel. But words are not deeds. “What if it was him? He may have lied.”
She stares at me, the self-righteous outrage still tightening the features of her face. “Couldn’t have been him. He had that accident, remember? He was laid up for a couple of weeks, couldn’t hardly walk by himself. I cleaned up enough of his shit and piss.”
Lord have mercy she is right. James wore those dog tags until the day he died—a week after the girls went missing. “So we know the dog tags were taken seven or more days after Natalie and Stacy disappeared.”
The reality of what my words mean sinks into my weary brain at the same time they do Ginny’s.
“The girls must have been…” She looks away from me, toward the house. “Right here on this property until then.”
I close my eyes and block the idea that my sweet girl could have been alive for days before she was murdered. If only we had found her in time. And Ginny is right. Natalie and Stacy could very well have been right here for however long they lived after being taken by that monster. I don’t say as much but I drove over here yesterday. Watched the house for I don’t know how long before going to the cemetery to talk to Andrew. It broke my heart to tell him what I’d heard in that press conference. That was the reason I couldn’t answer Emma’s call. I couldn’t bear to talk to her. Couldn’t risk telling her the whole truth. The words had swelled in my throat, twisted there like barbed wire. It took hours to pull myself together.
“Helen.”
Ginny’s hand covers mine and I take a deep breath. I don’t trust myself to speak. It takes every ounce of fortitude I possess to keep from squalling like a baby.
“We don’t know how long they were alive after he took them,” she says softly. “But we do know it wasn’t long or Natalie would have found a way to escape.”