by Webb, Debra
I nod. “She would’ve.”
Ginny clears her throat. “I listened to everything Letty said in that statement to those reporters. They didn’t find any other evidence against James twenty-five years ago because he was already dead when those precious girls were buried. He had to be. We both know the only way that bitch got her hands on those dog tags is if she took them off my rearview mirror. And there was only one reason for her to do such a thing—to incriminate my husband if the bodies were ever found.”
“You’re right.” I watched Letty’s eloquent delivery of the facts as well. “Emma believes since the backpacks were made mostly of nylon they would still be intact, and they didn’t find them in that cave.”
“One or both could be on that property somewhere,” Ginny offers with a glance across the road. “He kept her necklace, why not her backpack?”
Fury brands every inch of me. I stare at the Jackson home place. Lorraine Jackson Beaumont’s great-great-grandfather built the massive house more than a hundred and fifty years ago. Over the decades the house was remodeled and expanded until it became one of those mega mansions like the celebrities live in. It still looks like the proud plantation house it once was but it is far bigger and fancier. Horses graze in the fields around it. Beautiful barns stand on the rolling hills at the back of the cleared portion of the property that abuts the woods and mountains.
However pleasing to the eye, the only thing good that ever happened in that damned house was when Matthew Beaumont died there.
“The bottom line is,” Ginny says, her voice cold and hard, “whether Lorraine had anything to do with the taking or the killing, she helped him bury those girls and she damned sure took James’s dog tags. That makes her just as guilty in my eyes. A devil willing to do anything to protect her own. Just like her no account daddy. He whored around and did whatever he pleased and everyone worshipped him like a god. I hope he’s roasting in hell right alongside his piece of shit son-in-law.”
I close my eyes. “He lied to you about the way they died.”
Neither Ginny nor I had summoned the courage to discuss the medical examiner’s announcement that cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head. Agony roars through me.
“I’m not surprised. He was so doped up and scared he would have said anything to keep me from killing him.”
The silence that lingers is one I know well.
“Don’t even go there, Ginny,” I warn.
“What I did,” she goes on, completely ignoring my warning, “forced you to have to carry this burden with me. We’ve kept this secret. Lied to the people we love most for more than two decades. Maybe it’s time I told the truth. There’s no need for you to have any part in this.”
I turn to her. “I will not lose anyone else I love to this nightmare! I know how it will go. They’ll charge you with murder. Lorraine and her ilk will swear you were trying to clear your dead husband’s name and ended up killing an innocent man.”
Ginny shakes her head. “I don’t care. This is destroying my daughter.”
“Letty is strong. She’ll get through this. These trials are only temporary. You tell anyone what we did—”
“What I did,” she corrects, fire in her eyes.
“That’s something Letty will have to live with every day for the rest of her life. How would it look to have a sheriff who didn’t even know her own mother was involved in something like that?” I shake my head again. “We can never tell anyone. The girls will know when we’re dead and gone when no one can use us to hurt them.”
Ginny heaves a heavy breath. “I know you’re right. I do. I just hate that it has to hurt you, too.”
I reach across the console and hug my friend. “We’ll get through this.” I shore up my slumping courage and say the rest of what’s on my mind. “But there is one thing we can do to help the girls.”
Ginny looks expectantly at me.
“We can find the evidence we need to prove Lorraine was involved and that James is innocent.”
“I don’t want her to get away with this.” Ginny’s voice quivers. “She’s gotten away with too much already.”
My friend is right. “This time, she’s going to get what’s coming to her.”
One way or another.
26
EMMA
Stella Larson blew her whistle and the sophomore girls set off around the track. I guess gym class hasn’t changed that much.
I press down the corners of my visitor’s pass to prevent it from peeling off my tee. The bleachers aren’t any more comfortable now than they were the last time I sat with a twisted ankle and watched the rest of the girls in my class trot around this track. Thankfully I don’t have to wait long. Satisfied her class is following instructions to move faster than a walk, she joins me on the bleachers.
“I saw you and Letty on the news.” She moves her head from side to side. “There are so many questions about what really happened. For the record,” she turns to me, “I agree with you and Letty. I feel like they decided James Cotton was guilty and didn’t really look at anyone else. Now they have the evidence they need to stick with that theory. It’s just not right.”
“I’ve been thinking about what you told me,” I say. “We’ve found more witnesses who say Natalie was having trouble with an older man. Most believe it was a teacher.”
Larson watches the girls jog past. “I wish I could say that isn’t possible but we both know it happens all too frequently.”
Teachers having relationships or encounters with their students show up in the news far too often. I think of the man who abandoned his wife and children to drag a teenager across the country in hopes of starting a new life. Deep inside I shudder at the idea that Natalie may have fallen victim to exactly that sort of depravity.
“These girls,” Larson says, “don’t understand the power they are only just beginning to come into possession of. Their bodies have suddenly gone from girls to women. Their skin is young and smooth, their breasts firm and high, their mouths oh so tempting. Hormones are causing them to think of things and to feel things they’ve never wanted to think and feel before. They are daring and terrified at the same time.”
“But they’re still children.” I say the words, remembering well how the girls who matured more quickly flaunted their new womanly assets.
“They are, even as they tease and tempt any male who crosses their path.” She shrugs. “It’s human nature. The urge to procreate. They have no idea this is what their bodies are doing, they only know it feels good. It feels empowering. But it’s dangerous.”
I don’t want to think about Natalie or Stacy that way but I also don’t want to pretend that my perfect sister wasn’t human. “Was Natalie doing that?”
Larson nods. “A little. Not as much as some of the others. But she teased and flirted, far more subtlety than most.”
“Letty and I have three names we want to ask you about.”
Larson looks at me then. “You realize that if I had seen or heard anything I would have reported it?”
I nod. “I do.”
“I never witnessed any improprieties from any of my colleagues not with Natalie or anyone else. But I did see things. Like the way the girls crushed on certain teachers. Fortunately I have never known one of my colleagues to fall into that tender trap.”
“Twenty-five years ago the big crushes were Frank DeSoto, Trenton Caldwell, and Matthew Beaumont,” I guess.
Larson nods. “Frank and Trent were only in their twenties back then, like me. The girls really gave them a hard time—no pun intended. Matt, being older, handled the attention better. On the other hand, since he was a father, the girls felt more comfortable with him.”
“Was there one of the three that Natalie gravitated toward?” Even as I ask the question I dread the idea of having this conversation with Helen. She still sees Natalie as a little girl. The last thing I want to do is cause her more pain but I fear before the truth is fully uncovered, there will be more hurtf
ul revelations.
My mutinous brain forces me to consider Heather and her brothers. One of the teachers is their father. Somehow I cannot work up any potential sympathy for her or for Mark. The Beaumont offspring, discounting the younger brother, were always bullies. Their superior attitudes evidently were coded into their genes. Those unpleasant traits came from somewhere. It’s easy to point a finger at Lorraine, their mother. As for their father, I don’t really remember him either. He was a high school teacher and by the time I was in middle school he had died.
“If she did, I never saw it. Matt was popular with all the kids, boys and girls alike. I don’t know if you remember but he was in an accident around the same time Natalie and Stacy went missing. Wait.” Her face creases in concentration. “I believe it was that same day. He was never the same after that. Looking back, I’m confident his brain injury caused the dramatic changes in his personality.”
“He suffered a traumatic brain injury?” Letty and I talked about Beaumont having had an accident. I vaguely remember him returning to school with a cane.
“Oh I think so. He was in a coma for a while. They wouldn’t have known as much about the brain injuries back then. It was a terrible accident. His right leg was broken to pieces, there was internal bleeding. It was a real mess. Oh yes, and there were a couple of fractures to his spine.”
I’m well acquainted with injuries to the spine. “So no one ever mentioned any trouble with Natalie?”
“Never.” She smiles at me. “Your sister really was an extraordinary young woman.”
Unfortunately we need more than that. “I realize I’m putting you in a tight spot, but let’s theorize for a moment. If this person who was pressuring her was a teacher, who would you look at first?”
Sympathy fills the other woman’s eyes and I want to scream. I need her help not her pity.
“Keep in mind that I saw nothing untoward from any of my colleagues.”
“I understand. I’m not trying to prod you into pointing a finger at anyone, I just don’t want to waste time. I’m only looking for the right direction moving forward.”
“But, if forced to point out the most likely candidate or candidates, I would say DeSoto or Caldwell—simply because they were younger at the time and not as experienced in handling the issues that come with teaching teenagers.”
“Do you have any suggestions on how I might approach DeSoto? I had Caldwell for Algebra and Geometry, but I didn’t have any classes with DeSoto.”
Larson checked her watch. “Caldwell has his planning period next hour. You can probably catch him then or after school. He still has the same classroom.”
“First floor overlooking the quad, right?”
“That’s the one.” Larson calls one of the girls over and tells her she’s in charge. “Come on, DeSoto’s over on the baseball field.”
“Thanks. Your help means a lot.”
As we walk toward the field, she says, “Just so you know, DeSoto came out about ten years ago. He’s gay.”
“Was he ever married? Maybe he had a girlfriend?” Just because he finally announced to the world that he was gay, didn’t mean he wasn’t involved with numerous females first.
“Never married but there was a girlfriend a few years before he came out of the closet. Another teacher. Over in Huntsville. They’ve remained friends and she’s married with a van full of kids now.”
As we reach the baseball field I spot DeSoto. He is still a handsome man and extraordinarily fit. He wears the khaki shorts and white polo shirt that appears to be the Phys Ed staff uniform. A sprinkling of gray highlights his dark hair at his temples. His face is pleasant as he turns toward us. I hope he can offer some insight into Natalie’s life but I have my doubts. Since he worked with the boys—still does apparently—Natalie wouldn’t have interacted with him often. Then again, there were the ball games and she was a cheerleader.
“Coach DeSoto,” Larson says as we approach. “Do you remember Emma Graves? Natalie’s little sister.”
The coach looks me up and down. “Why of course I do.” He thrusts out his hand. “Emma, I’ve been watching you on the news.”
Nothing like being a celebrity. I shake his hand. “Then you know I’m trying to learn more about what happened to Natalie.”
A frown furrows his brow. “I’ve heard talk about you and Letty reexamining the case. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
The sincerity in his brown eyes is refreshing. I’m certain he means what he says.
“I’m looking for someone who was around Natalie frequently who might remember any issue she was having.”
His eyebrows rear up. “Issue? Natalie was the model student. I don’t think she had issues.” He looks to Larson. “Did I miss something?”
“She was having trouble with someone,” Larson says. “She told me this older man was pressuring her. Did you hear any rumors to that effect or about any trouble she might have been experiencing?”
DeSoto’s face reflects his regret at the news. “I don’t recall ever hearing anything even remotely negative about Natalie.” A sad smile lifts his expression. “She was always a ray of sunshine. Genuine and caring.” He exhales a heavy breath. “I wish I could be of some help but I don’t recall anything like that.”
As if he only then realizes the real reason I might be talking to him, his face falls again. “In case you’re wondering, I was at a spring training camp in Tuscaloosa with our football team. School records will confirm those dates.”
“I’m talking with anyone who spent time with Natalie on a regular basis, Mr. DeSoto,” I offer. “Please don’t take my questions the wrong way.”
He nods. “I understand. I would do the same thing.”
I thank the both of them and head for the main building and Mr. Caldwell’s room. The central corridor divides the first floor in half. Caldwell’s classroom is on the left in the east wing. Most of the math classes were held there. The west wing is, ironically, where the history and government classes were held.
I scan the numbers on the lockers until I spot the one I had senior year. I pause and touch the cool navy metal. Brad and I stole kisses behind this door. Photos of us and of me and Letty filled the interior. I still keep that one photo of me and Nat. No matter where my work has taken me, I have always kept it with me. It sits in a frame on my mantel back in my Boston apartment. I turn around and stare out the windows onto the quad. The building forms a massive square around the inner quad where picnic tables and benches as well as fountains and mounds of beautiful flowers fill an outdoor space meant for studying and creating a sense of contentment.
I remember crossing the quad on the way to the cafeteria and almost always I would spot Natalie sitting at one of the fountains surrounded by friends.
My heart feels heavy as I continue down the hall to Caldwell’s classroom. I look through the glass in the door and spot him at his desk, head bent over a stack of papers. I knock on the door and he looks up. I wave, doubtful that he will recognize me.
He motions for me to come in and I do.
I close the door behind me and produce a smile. “Mr. Caldwell, I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Emma Graves.” He rises and walks toward me. “I’ve been watching you on the news.”
“I keep hearing that.” I don’t know why everyone makes it sound like a good thing.
Rather than offer his hand he pulls me into a hug. Like DeSoto, he has kept in shape and is still quite good looking.
He releases me and gestures to the nearest desk. “Have a seat. What brings you back to school?”
I settle into a desk located directly in front of his. As he sits his expression tells me he has just realized why I’m at the school.
“You’re looking for information about what happened to Natalie. I thought this new evidence proved James Cotton is the one who took her and Stacy.”
“Letty and I still have questions.”
“Well, ask away.” He turns his hands up in an o
pen gesture. “Any way I can help, I’m happy to do so.”
I decide on a different approach for Caldwell. “You and Coach DeSoto were quite popular with the girls back then.”
He laughs. “They liked yanking our chains, that’s for sure.”
I smile. “A lot of girls had crushes on the two of you.”
He purses his lips and nods. “True.”
“Was Natalie one of those girls?”
“Natalie was a brilliant young woman and beautiful,” he says. “We had many great discussions on logic, but she never looked at me as anything other than her teacher. I believe the same can be said for Coach DeSoto. Natalie was not your typical teenage girl. She was far too mature for childish crushes.”
His enthusiasm and kindness make me feel guilty for coming into his classroom and asking these questions. But this is something I have to do. “I have a couple of witnesses who believe she was having trouble with an older man. That man may have been pressuring her in some way. Did you get any feeling from her that she might be under duress?”
He considers my question for a time. “I will say that Natalie and I had a talk the week she disappeared about her grades.”
“Her grades? My sister was a straight A student.” I didn’t mean for the words to come out so defensive but they did.
He smiles, the expression sad. “She was. I was one of the teachers who recommended she and Stacy be awarded an honorary diploma. They were both very smart. But Nat’s grades slipped just a little her last month of school. She was still making A’s but there was a measurable drop. I asked her about it and she just shook her head and said life got in the way sometimes.”
“Did any of her other teachers mention this issue?” It was the first I had heard about it. I’m certain Helen would have mentioned something this relevant.
“It was the same across all her course work. Nothing significant but the drop was there. We all figured Nat had her first boyfriend or something. It happens to everyone, boy or girl, eventually. No one was concerned, but I felt compelled to nudge her a little.”