by Webb, Debra
I don’t see any relevance to the truth Letty and I are looking for but I can’t help thinking that dear old Mallory likely contributed to Mark’s journey toward alcoholism and whatever other addictions he suffers. Kids can be so cruel, especially bitches like the one watching me so intently at the moment.
“We’re family now,” she says in response to my comment about Mallory but her tone is brittle.
I pick up a photo of her mother and father from before his accident, study it a moment and then settle it back into its spot. “Do you still miss him? I’m not sure I’ll ever stop missing my dad.”
I wander back to the chair in front of her desk.
“I still miss him, yes. He influenced so many lives.”
I smile, hoping mine doesn’t look as fake as hers did a few seconds ago. “He did. I’m sure your brothers had a particularly hard time after his accident, especially Mark. Wasn’t that his first trip to rehab?”
Anger flashes in her eyes. “We all did. As you well know, we all have our own coping mechanisms.”
“Maybe I’m remembering it wrong. I was thinking your father was rushing to help Mark—his car had broken down or something like that—when he had the accident.” A little theory I made up but it sounded plausible enough.
“No,” she said pointedly. “He was hurrying back to the school. There was an emergency with one of his students. If not for the accident, he would have been with the search teams forming to look for you and the others.”
“That’s right. It was that same day.” I shrug. “You know my memory of that day is a little foggy sometimes.”
“Understandable.” She glances at her Rolex. “Is there something I can do for you, Emma. I do have another meeting.”
“No, not really. It’s just that Brad and I spent some time catching up the other day and he mentioned getting together while I’m here. I thought I’d better check your calendar.” The pinched look on Heather’s face is priceless. “You know, I think it was Mallory who said the two of you have an anniversary coming up. Anyway, maybe we can have dinner while I’m in town. Share a toast to your anniversary.”
“Sounds fabulous.” Her lips thin as she picks up her cell and taps the screen. “I’ll check mine and Brad’s calendars and get back to you.”
“I look forward to it.”
I walk out of her office and exit the building with a new sense of purpose. It has been a really long time since I felt this good. Who knew making Heather Beaumont Turner second guess her husband as well as whatever alliance she and Mallory have formed would feel so good.
I’ll bet she’s chewing out Brad’s ass right this second.
As soon as I settle behind the wheel of Dad’s truck, my cell rings.
Helen.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Mr. Brewer called me. He wanted to get a message to you. He said he needs to speak with you as soon as you have time.”
Anticipation fires through me. “Does he still live in that house down the block from the school?”
“He does.”
“I’m heading there now.”
Helen asks if I’ll be home for dinner and I promise I will. I wonder if Natalie ever mentioned Stacy having trouble. I ask Helen before letting her go.
“Not that I recall. Have you learned something that suggests otherwise?”
“I’m not sure yet, maybe. We’ll talk more when I get home.”
I check with Letty on the drive over to the Brewer house. She brings me up to speed on Yarbrough. He explained that he’d decided to sit for a while on the street where the missing girls live in hopes of gaining inspiration for the theme of his next protest but Letty isn’t buying it. She intends to follow him until he‘s back home. We agree to check in with each other as soon as I talk to Mr. Brewer.
The Brewer home is a modest ranch style house that was built after a nineteenth century house burned to the ground. In the downtown area any modern homes were built where the older, historic homes burned or were torn down. Mr. Brewer’s truck is in the drive.
He meets me at the door and welcomes me inside. As soon as we’re seated, his wife insists on bringing me a glass of iced tea.
When she leaves the room, Brewer rests his gaze on mine. “I could hardly sleep last night for thinking about your question.”
“I’m sorry if I caused you any discomfort. That wasn’t my intent.” I say this even as my pulse hammers in hopes of learning an important detail—one that might help Letty and me find the truth.
He puts his hand up and shakes his head. “No worries. Anyway, it was about two this morning when I remembered an incident. But there was only one and it wasn’t exactly a big production. It was over in an instant.”
Anticipation is killing me but I strive for patience while Mrs. Brewer serves the tea.
When she returns to the kitchen, he says, “This was in March of that year. Maybe three weeks before Natalie and Stacy went missing. I remember stepping out of the janitor’s closet and seeing Beaumont and Natalie standing outside his classroom. That in itself wasn’t so unusual. The teachers often counsel their students in the hallways. It gives some sense of privacy from the rest of the class without the formality of going to the principal’s office.”
“Was there something about what you saw that made you feel uncomfortable?” I can scarcely hear myself think with the blood roaring in my ears as it does. Please let this be something useful and not another dead end.
“The discussion looked intense—as if they were arguing.” He shrugs. “Beaumont reached for her arm like he meant to calm her down or console her somehow but Natalie jerked away from him as if she feared he might hurt her. She said something that looked angry then she stormed back into the classroom.”
Goosebumps pebble on my skin, my heart thumps harder. I clear my throat and ask, “You believe they were quarreling?”
“At the time, I didn’t think too much of it. But, looking back maybe I was wrong to ignore it. This wasn’t the typical teacher-student dressing down. This was almost intimate. Like a boyfriend and girlfriend arguing. Or maybe a husband and wife.”
His words disturb me deeply. Anger joins the wild mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. I take a moment to find my voice again. “Thank you, Mr. Brewer. Please call me if you think of anything else.”
He walks me to the door and I cannot get away fast enough. I climb into the truck and start the engine. I head toward home, my mind reeling, my stomach lurching. I drive barely a block when I am forced to slam on the brakes and veer to the curb.
I plaster my hand over my mouth and grapple for something. My hand clenches on the plastic bag from my stop at the mini market yesterday or the day before.
I get the bag open just in time to vomit.
I squeeze my eyes shut as my stomach roils again at the idea of my beautiful, perfect sister being touched by a man she should have been able to trust.
Her teacher.
28
“I’m heading to Mom’s. Meet me there.”
I listen to the voicemail twice. Letty sounds heartsick. I slow and do a U-turn. The taste of bile is bitter in my mouth. I reach for the water bottle in the seat but it’s empty.
Lowering the window a bit, I lean toward it and let the cool air hit my face. My stomach still roils. I waffle between wanting to cry and to scream. I always felt safe at school. Sure some of the other kids tortured me but I never felt unsafe.
I refuse to believe my sister would have done anything to purposely tempt any teacher with her body. I can’t be sure about Stacy. Ms. Larson is right about that age being a difficult one. That place between childhood and womanhood. Hormones and developing bodies. Passions and dreams.
But Natalie wouldn’t have done such a thing.
Would she?
I try to remember how I felt between fourteen and sixteen but it was different for me. I was stick thin and gangly. I was not poised and full of confidence as Natalie had been. I spent most of that time wanting to crawl
into a hole and stay there. Natalie was performing on a dance competition team and giving speeches as part of the student council. It’s impossible to find a commonality between us for that period. Except no one has memories of Natalie suggesting that sort of behavior. Even Ms. Larson said she wasn’t like the other girls her age.
That has to mean something.
Considering Mr. Beaumont’s accident, it’s far more logical that it was Mark who went after Natalie and Stacy. The cover up—framing James Cotton—was about protecting the son.
It all makes sense. Mark Beaumont’s inability to be the kind of good son expected to sprout from the loins of Lorraine Jackson Beaumont is precisely the reason Heather was groomed for bigger things while Mark was ensconced in a controlled space and sent off to rehab as necessary.
The blue lights in front of Ginny Cotton’s home have me slowing down. Letty’s Jeep is there and so is Mother’s Cadillac. I pull to the side of the road and park. The sun has set but there’s sufficient light for me to see the hateful words painted across the front of the clapboard siding.
A MONSTER LIVED HERE.
Hurt crushes against me. I want to demand who would do such a thing but I know—those who are convinced that an innocent man abducted and murdered two young girls.
I will no more believe James Cotton was a monster than I will that my perfect sister was a temptress who lured her teacher or his son into a forbidden relationship.
As I approach the house the two uniformed officers are leaving, the cruiser backing out of the drive. Helen has her arms around Ginny. Letty stands in the driveway staring at the words.
“Was it Yarbrough again?” I ask as I reach her.
Letty shakes her head. “He hasn’t been anywhere near here. I went to his house after he left Stackhouse Road. I was pretty frank with him. He let me in the house to have a look around.”
At my look of surprise, she adds, “The basement, too. No missing girls. Nothing at all suspicious.”
I can’t say that I’m disappointed she didn’t find the girls. I hoped Yarbrough hadn’t gone that far. But that means the girls are still missing and no one has a damned clue who took them.
I stare at the viciousness strewn across Ginny’s house “Maybe one of his protest followers did this.”
I’m grasping at straws. Anyone in the area who thought James Cotton was guilty and who had the balls could have done this. Especially with the news reporting over and over that James Cotton was the killer. As for Yarbrough, I’m pretty much convinced he’s leaning toward our side where James is concerned.
Letty shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. The whole town believes it was him.”
“Hey.” I step in front of her, blocking her view of the malice. “Not everyone.”
I quickly bring her up to speed on what Brewer said. It’s becoming more and more obvious that the only trouble Natalie had in her life was with one particular teacher—Matthew Beaumont. And possibly his son, Mark.
“We might be on the right track,” Letty agrees. “I talked to the guy, Kellie Pike, from the junkyard who picked up Beaumont’s car after the accident.” Letty steps closer to me and lowers her voice. “He says he got the call to recover the car about eight o’clock that night. He had to wait until the next morning to do it because of how dark it was and how deep that ditch is.”
“Is that typical?” I’ve never been involved in a car accident. I have no idea how long after it occurs that a wrecker service is called. “Or are you thinking the accident happened later than the time specified in the report?”
Letty glances beyond me. The mothers are coming. “I don’t know but I’m damned well going to find out.”
“The two of you have to stop.”
We both turn at Helen’s stern words. With nothing left to illuminate the macabre scene except the porch light I can’t see her eyes but the anger and something like fear weigh heavy in her voice. Ginny leans against her as if she can no longer bear the burden pressing down on her. I want to beat the hell out of whoever did this but first I intend to know what bug crawled up my mother’s butt.
“What does that mean, Helen?” I demand.
Letty touches my elbow. “I’m going out to the shed to find some paint.”
“Get two brushes,” I tell her. If she doesn’t have any I’m pretty sure there’s at least one in the toolbox in the back of Dad’s truck.
“You’re treading into things you don’t understand,” Ginny says before Helen can figure out how she wants to answer my demand.
I walk toward the two women who suddenly look far older than their years. Part of me wants to hug them tight and protect them from this horror but the other part wants to shake the secrets out of them. I am sick of the secrets and the lies—including my own—lurking like ghosts among the four of us.
“What things?” I look at Ginny rather than Helen. She’s the one who made the ominous statement. We’re standing no more than three feet apart, and I watch her face, her eyes for tells. The very ones I work hard to keep off my face when I’m lying.
“Things you don’t need to know about,” she says, fury snapping in her dark eyes.
“Lorraine showed up at my door,” Helen says, drawing my attention to her. “A few minutes after I called you with that message from Niles Brewer. She says you went to see Heather and upset her with questions about her father and her brother.”
I scrutinize the two women—these lifelong friends. “What if I did? Is there some reason you don’t want me to hurt Heather’s or Lorraine’s feelings? Something perhaps I should know about the past? Say twenty-five years ago?”
“You don’t know what that woman is capable of,” Ginny presses. She glances around me. “She can ruin Letty’s career. I don’t care what she does to me, but I won’t have her tearing my girl’s life apart.”
Now I’m just flat out angry. “Like she did my sister’s? Like she did Letty’s father’s?”
Ginny flinches.
“Emma,” Helen warns.
I look from one to the other. Somehow, beyond my anger, I remind myself that Mother isn’t well. Ginny might not be either. They’re both getting older. I take a second to calm myself and then I ask, “What are you two hiding?”
Both stare at me like deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.
“Found the paint and the brushes.”
Letty’s announcement shatters the tension and Helen ushers Ginny toward the front door.
“I’m taking Ginny inside for some tea,” Helen says. “You girls can handle this.”
I watch until the door closes behind them, fury still pumping through my veins.
“What was that all about?”
Lies, I want to say, but I don’t.
“I’m not sure but I think those two are keeping something from us. Something important.”
Letty hands me a brush. “I’m staying here tonight. I’ll see what I can find out.”
We begin the frustrating work of covering the black spray paint. It will take several coats of the white paint and I doubt that will cover it completely. We’ll need a good stain block formula to do the job right. For now we can live with making the words more difficult to read.
I think of the grand home Brad and Heather built on the lake and the prestigious home place where Lorraine lives. How would they feel if they woke up tomorrow and horrible words like these were painted across the fronts of their homes? I dip my brush into the can of white paint and stroke it across the foul words. No point in wondering because they will never know. They are protected by privilege, surrounded by the insulation of generations of wealth and powerful influence.
Well, I’m not afraid of Heather or her damned mother. I will keep digging until I unearth every buried secret and every hidden skeleton I can find with the Jackson or the Beaumont name on it.
Before I’m finished they will beg me to stop.
For the first time they will know how it feels to be at someone else’s mercy.
* * *
Nothing new bobs to the surface.
When the water grows cold, I climb out and dry off. I find my sweat pants and tee and drag them on. I have been so preoccupied I haven’t even thanked Mother for keeping my laundry done. Since I brought a very few things it’s only because she washes them every night that I have clean clothes. I don’t know why I didn’t bring more. My intent was to stay two weeks. But the goal was to stay holed up in the house. I didn’t expect to be interviewing people and rushing around all over town like some PI. And I certainly didn’t expect to be a feature in every damned news cycle since the day after I arrived.
I go to the top of the spiral stairs and listen. The house is silent. Helen has gone to bed. For several days now Letty and I have been going over those statements and reports from the original case file. We’ve studied the school yearbook from front to back. We’ve relived that time until we are both sick of thinking about it.
But there is one place I have not dared venture for fear Mother would be too upset. No matter how strong she appears as she did tonight standing in alliance with her friend, she just had a heart attack and I cannot forget that reality. I have to protect her to the degree possible.
So I creep down to the second floor. When we moved from the farm Natalie’s room was left just as it was even though they decorated a room in this house for her. Used the same color paint, similar furniture and bedding. Then, a few years later Mother transported everything from Natalie’s room at the farm to this house. She carefully placed each item just as if it had always been right here—just as Natalie left it. At the time I remember thinking it was weird but whatever made her happy was fine by me.
I reach the end of the hall on the second floor. My parents’ room is at the other end so hopefully I won’t wake her. Once in Natalie’s room I close the door and flip on the light. I am immediately transported back twenty-five years. From the Bon Jovi posters to the cheerleading and dance trophies, the room looks exactly as I remember my sister’s room. Mother went to great lengths to recreate the room unerringly.