The abruptness of the question shocked her, even though it was the inevitability that they had been moving toward, since the moment that she had first stepped into the office.
Why else had she come here—to find out if a man in his late twenties had slept with an almost-eighteen-year-old girl two decades ago? This was the only question that could have possibly mattered, and yet—it was the only one that she dare not ask, even to herself.
After letting the question loose, Jarvis just sat there. He had already turned the tables on her: She had come here to place him before an inquisition. Now the realtor had become the inquisitor.
“You said that you thought she had run away,” Jennifer replied with a bravado that she did not feel.
“I do think that—based on everything I know about her. Didn't I tell you that she liked older guys?”
When Jarvis could see that this attempt at wry humor fell flat with Jennifer, he continued.
“Besides, what motive would I have had for killing Josie Taylor?”
Jarvis had a point. “I didn't suggest that you did anything like that,” she said.
“No, you didn't,” he allowed. “But I can understand your thinking that, based on what you learned today. The obvious motive would be blackmail, of course. Josie was, if memory serves me, already eighteen—or nearly so—when she disappeared. But eighteen or not, a teacher who slept with one of his students would be immediately fired. That would have been the inevitable outcome even in 1994 or 1995. And that teacher would never teach again.”
Jennifer had actually not worked all of this out yet, though Jarvis obviously had—and probably long, long ago.
“That’s true,” Jennifer agreed.
“Then there was the fact that one of us was married at the time—me, of course.”
“No, that wouldn't have helped you hold on to your teaching job—or your marriage.”
“And when you add all those factors together, there are some men—and maybe even some women—who would kill in circumstances like that.”
Jennifer shrugged, desperately trying to figure out where Jarvis might be going with this conversation. She had to restrain herself from immediately standing up, and telling the realtor that the meeting was over. Then she would bolt to her car, never to enter the Jarvis Realty office again.
But she knew that it would not be that simple. If Jarvis were in fact the killer, and she had uncovered him, then there would be no simple, bloodless end.
“But here’s the thing, Jennifer: I had already decided by then that teaching wasn't for me. As chance would have it, that was my last year as a teacher—the year that Josephine Taylor disappeared.”
Jennifer nodded neutrally, acknowledging only that she understood what Jarvis was saying.
She took a deep breath, Jarvis smiled reassuringly; and the office became, once again, the place where she and Clint and this man had discussed their first home as a married couple only weeks before. She didn't really believe that Jarvis had been behind Josie’s disappearance. (She didn't believe that yet, anyway.) But nor did she believe that the timing of Jarvis’s exit from the teaching profession had been purely coincidental. Jarvis might not be a killer, but he was still holding something back.
“And as for my marriage,” Jarvis chuckled ruefully. “My marriage was already over, for all intents and purposes. I shouldn’t be telling you this—but here is the important thing you need to understand: My marriage didn't end because I so foolishly got involved with one of my students. I so foolishly got involved with one of my students because my marriage was in trouble. Does that make sense?”
Jennifer nodded, because Jarvis had left her only two choices here: to agree with what he was saying, or to offer a counterargument. She might have suggested that a man with a failing marriage could opt for many courses of action—and that the choice of sleeping with a troubled teenage girl was by no means the inevitable one.
“And now for the answer to what might be your final question: No—no one in the school’s administration knew about me and Josie.” Jarvis paused, as if in recollection. “I think that the assistant principal had his suspicions. But we were lucky—the question never came up in so many words.”
Jennifer wanted to say that there didn't seem to be anything lucky about it—especially given that Josephine Taylor had been missing for the past twenty years. But once again, she kept silent. She felt suddenly overwhelmed. She had arrived with every intention of acting the prosecutor, and now she found that she was not up to the task.
“So anyway, Jennifer,” Jarvis said with a smile that was no longer friendly, exactly. “I can’t really say that I appreciate this particular visit; but I understand that you’ve been under a lot of pressure of late.”
The realtor shook his head, as if to suggest that both of them were somehow victims of the same predicament. “Hopefully your problems with whoever has been harassing you are over now. Things have been quiet of late, haven’t they?”
Jennifer wanted to ask how Jarvis might know this. Then she recalled his access to so many sources of information around Mydale.
“Things…may have settled down,” Jennifer acknowledged.
Another smile that was not a smile. “Good! Now—” he stared pointedly at a pile of manila folders on his desk. “If you don't mind, I really need to finish up some of this paperwork before I head home for the night.”
44
March 1994
After school one afternoon in the early spring, Marcia found David in the basement, playing with their father’s gun.
The gun incident occurred during a period when Marcia’s life had actually been going better, even as her brother’s continued to go south.
She finally—finally—had a boyfriend. And he wasn't half bad, either. Well, her mother thought that he was all bad; but what did Deborah’s opinion matter? Her mother was so out of it.
From Marcia’s perspective, Chris Whitaker was quite a catch—especially for a sixteen year-old girl who had never had a boyfriend. Chris wasn't the sharpest tack in the proverbial box—that much was true—but he was cool and he was cute. Marcia thought that his long hair and mischievous smile made him look like a real rock star, as opposed to a high school imitation version of one. To her he looked a little like Jon Bon Jovi. She had never shared this observation with anyone, not even Chris—she was his girlfriend now, not his groupie.
It had taken Marcia a while to catch on to the fact that Chris Whitaker had even noticed her. Although Chris was a senior, they shared an afternoon Spanish II class. Whitaker had begun asking her questions about homework, questions about the class, until Marcia finally understood that these were nothing more than a pretense to make conversation.
Then she had put out her signals, and matters had taken their course. Chris asked her out, and soon they were an item.
Deborah hated him, though. She was still nurturing her fantasy of her daughter dating a golden boy like Justin Kessler. During one particularly memorable argument about Chris Whitaker, her mother had even offered to “fix her up with someone”. This caused Marcia to roll her eyes. Who did her mom even know?
“Well, at least tell me you’re not sleeping with him,” Deborah had prodded, on more than one occasion, to which Marcia habitually replied, “Mom, that’s personal.” To which Deborah said, “Well, I’m you’re mother.”
The truth was that Marcia hadn’t yet allowed Chris to go all the way, though she knew that milestone would be coming soon. Chris seemed to be genuinely smitten with her; and for a girl who had never had a boyfriend, she was skillfully managing the task of playing just a little hard to get, and thereby preserving the tension that kept men interested. But there would also come a point when Chris would decide that she was simply a hopeless prude; and at that point he would move on. Marcia was determined not to let that happen.
These were the matters Marcia had planned to spend the afternoon contemplating. It hadn’t been her intention to pry into David’s pathetic affairs—and
certainly not to have the conversation that they ended up having.
Arriving home, Marcia had assumed that the house was empty. Her father usually didn't arrive home until well after six o’clock; and in January Deborah had started working three afternoons per week in the Mydale Public Library.
As for David, he often drifted around in the afternoon hours between the end of the school day and dinner. Sometimes he wandered around his various Mydale hangouts. Although he was nearly eighteen, David was still a big fan of comic books and video games. He liked to browse in several downtown Mydale establishments that catered to those distinctly adolescent tastes.
And, of course, Marcia knew that David sometimes spent a portion of many afternoons mooning over Josie Taylor at the trailer she shared with her mother out on Sandy Bottom Road. Was David getting any? No, almost certainly not. Anyone could see that the girl was only using him for homework help and handouts.
Poor David. What a sap. But that was his problem, wasn't it? After all, he was her older brother, not her little brother.
Marcia was just about to get herself a light snack from the refrigerator when she heard something move down in the basement. Her heart nearly surged through her ribcage—or so it seemed.
She called out timidly, “Who’s down there?”
“It’s me,” came back David’s voice. He didn't sound like himself. But then, David was always a little bit odd, wasn't he? Nevertheless, there was a curious side of her that prompted her to investigate. Maybe David was doing something that he shouldn't do, like smoking weed. If she caught him in the act, she would have some leverage over him, wouldn't she?
But when Marcia walked down the steps to the basement, she found her brother holding something far more sinister than a blunt or a pot pipe. David was standing beneath one of the bare bulbs in the basement ceiling, holding a revolver.
Marcia didn't know much about guns; but this one looked capable of stopping an elephant. The barrel of the pistol was long and imposing. The bore looked large enough for her to insert her finger up to the first knuckle—not that she’d want to try that.
David was caressing the gun in a way that made her instantly uncomfortable.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.
“I dug it out of one of Dad’s trunks,” David explained. “I think it's a .357 magnum. I’m not sure but that’s what I think.”
“Oh. Now tell me why you dug it out.”
But David made clear that he would provide an explanation according to his own agenda, which Marcia could not even begin to fathom. “Dad had mentioned once about having this gun. I think it might have been grandpa’s. I’m not sure. Dad’s not really into guns, you know?”
Marcia nodded. This much was true. Their father, although he was a rough-and-tumble, blue-collar man in many ways, wasn't a firearms enthusiast. He was into pickup trucks, Monday night football, and even bowling. But not hunting or target shooting.
“I could do anything with this gun,” David said. He lifted the pistol and aimed it at an unseen corner in the basement. He closed one eye as if he were sighting a target along the barrel. “Well, not anything—but a lot of things.”
“Yeah, like shoot yourself in the foot. Come on, David. Put the gun away. Dad will rip you a new ass if he finds out.”
“She’s a fucking tease,” David said, continuing his pattern of speaking as if Marcia were not really there, or only half there. “That’s what she is.”
Marcia didn't have to ask who “she” was. Josie Taylor, of course. Who else?
“Yeah, well. Come on, David. Enough of this.”
Marcia was starting to grow seriously alarmed now. What was David planning? Did he intend to take his life? And maybe take his little sister with him? She had an impulse to bolt for the basement staircase, but instinct told her that would be the wrong move. That could startle him over the edge.
“She’s been hanging out with Chuck Tanner,” David said. “I know it, so don't try to tell me otherwise. The other day I drove out to her trailer unannounced, and I saw him leaving. Do you want to tell me that he was helping her with her homework, too?”
“No,” Marcia said simply. How naïve could David be? Josie was fooling around with Chuck. Chuck and Chris were practically best friends, and Chris had told her all about it. But it wasn't as if Chuck had deflowered a vestal virgin. Chuck was far, far from the only male student at Mydale who had been with Josie. (And if rumors could be believed, Josie’s conquests hadn’t stopped with the student body.)
Didn't David listen to the gossip? Or was he simply in denial, choosing not to believe what was plainly before his eyes?
In her occasional moments of sibling charity, Marcia had contemplated dropping David a subtle hint or two about what Josie was up to. Anyone could see that she was taking advantage of him. Marcia was aware not only of the free homework help (which, in fact, involved David doing much of Josie’s homework outright), she was also aware of the numerous “loans” that David had made.
David had now taken to asking his younger sister for loans, presumably because he was giving so much of his money to Josie Taylor. When she was in an indulgent mood, Marcia sometimes gave David money—most of which she had pilfered from her mother’s purse, anyway.
For a brief moment Marcia considered calmly explaining this to David, or at least some of it. David, however, wasn't in the proper frame of mind for calm, rational explanations—not standing there with a gun in his hand, ranting about shooting people.
Once again she contemplated bolting for the basement steps; once again she decided that would be a bad idea.
Given his current state, it would also be a bad idea to tell David that Josie’s fling with Chuck was far from the worst of it.
According to the rumor mill, Mr. Jarvis hadn’t yet gotten lucky with Brittany Spurlock (as if that was ever going to happen), but he had gotten lucky with Josie Taylor.
Since a teacher was involved, the details were sketchy and the evidence was circumstantial, of course. Someone had seen Josie stop by Mr. Jarvis’s classroom to flirt with him during his free period. Another person had seen her climb into the teacher’s car one afternoon a few blocks away from the school.
Marcia had had her own run-in with Jarvis. He was her Junior Civics instructor, and the teacher must have pegged her as an easy mark—a shy girl who drifted just outside the orbit of the more popular kids. He had a way of coincidentally encountering her in the halls. And ironically, Mr. Jarvis had become more blatant in his never-very-subtle advances since she had started going out with Chris. Apparently the teacher saw high school boys as his competition.
Marcia had finally told Jarvis, “Why don't you find a girlfriend your own age? Or maybe go home to your wife? You’re married, aren’t you?”
That rebuke caused all the color to momentarily drain out of Jarvis’s face. Then he grew angry; a blotch of red color had crept up the teacher’s neck.
“You know,” he said. “There are rules in this school against insubordination.”
“And there are probably rules against teachers scoping out students, too,” she shot back. “I’m underage, don’t forget. I could cost you your job. Maybe even land you in the Mydale police station.”
With that Jarvis had turned away, and Marcia was delighted by the little rush of power she’d felt. I scared him, she realized. I scared him good.
For a while she’d worried that Jarvis would try to retaliate by giving her low grades in Junior Civics. To the contrary, though, Mr. Jarvis had henceforth given her every reasonable inch of leeway on the term papers and essays she submitted for the class. She had scared him good; and now he only wanted to avoid any trouble with her.
“What are you thinking about?” David asked, disturbing her whirlwind of recent recollections.
“Nothing. Are you ready to put that gun away now?”
“I could shoot her,” David said. “I could shoot her and I could bury her right here in this basement.”
He ges
tured to the little paneled room that their father had built one Saturday afternoon several years ago as a storage area. The floor of the room was, as they both knew, packed earth—just like the rest of the basement.
Marcia shuddered involuntarily. Sure, it might technically be possible to bury a body there. But that was crazy—even crazier than the idea of David shooting someone to begin with. Why would anyone want to bury a body in a basement? In their own basement?
Recently Marcia had been so successful at manipulating men to her purposes. It was as if she’d discovered a new power. She knew secrets about her father that her mother didn't know. She had attracted Chris Whitaker almost without trying. And she’d scared the hell out of Mr. Jarvis.
But could she manipulate her poor, pathetic older brother? Now would be a good time to at least try, wouldn’t it?
“Tell you what,” Marcia said. “I’ll make you a deal: You put that gun away, and I’ll see if I can help you with your Josie Taylor problem.”
“Oh? What could you possibly do?” David was adopting a high-and-mighty posture now, as if she were the crazy one.
“Well, I don’t know—not yet. You only told me about your problem a minute ago. Maybe I can help if you let me think about it. But I certainly can’t think about it if you wave that gun around in my face. You’re freaking me out, David. And what are you going to do about it right now? Mom and Dad will be home before long, don't forget.”
David sighed. He lowered the weapon and concealed it inside one of the many open cardboard boxes that were stacked all around them—filled with the overflow of family life.
Marcia sighed, too. Her gambit had worked. She had no intention of doing anything about David’s Josie problem. What could she do, after all? David would have to come to the proper conclusion for himself: He was being a sap and a loser, and his best option was to forget about Josie Taylor altogether.
In a few months he would graduate, and then he could start afresh in the post-high school world. High school itself was already a hopeless, dead loss for him, at least in the girl department.
1120 Dunham Drive: A Clint & Jennifer Huber Mystery Page 26