Sonora cut a biscuit in half and reversed her original impression, which was that Mrs. Cavanaugh was the kind of female who fell into the category of overlooked. It was a popular opinion that women of a certain age became invisible. Sonora realized that this, like other popular and accepted myths, was total crap. This woman had an air of self-confidence and comfort in her skin that suggested she was rarely overlooked, and that if she was, she would not particularly care.
Sonora poured cream in her coffee, stirred, added more till she got the light brown color she favored. “Did you know Joy and Carl very well, Mrs. Cavanaugh? Were they close to Mr. Ward?”
“Oh, honey, Joy was here all the time.” Bonnie Cavanaugh set apple butter, Crock Pot margarine, and blackberry jelly within Sonora’s reach. “Two or three times a week, until the last baby. Then she couldn’t get away so much.” She settled into the chair across from Sonora. “She and Franklin just got on like nobody’s business, have since Joy was a little girl. He never had no kids of his own, and believe you me, she was the apple of his eye. He’s out there now, brushing Abigail, Joy’s old horse. Bought that mare for her when Joy turned thirteen. She kept it here when she was a girl.”
Bonnie Cavanaugh leaned sideways on her left elbow, smiling and shedding tears. She grabbed a wad of yellow Kleenex from her pocket. “You know I can’t help but cry, I hope you don’t mind. I know’d Joy since she was … oh, eleven or twelve. She was a real sweet girl, and no bad mouth on her, not ever, not that I ever saw with me or Franklin. She was a good girl all her life, funny and lively most of the time, unless she was worrying, then she’d get real quiet.” The Kleenexes were called into use, sopping tears, wiping Bonnie Cavanaugh’s reddened nose.
“How were things between Joy and her husband?”
“Carl was a dream.” Mrs. Cavanaugh laid both palms on the table, yellow tissues showing beneath her right palm. “I mean that now, I’m not just saying it. Not many people know this, ’cause she never liked to talk about it, but Joy was married once before, years ago, when she was eighteen. Lasted about six months. The boy just up and left her two weeks before Tammy got born. Franklin stood behind her every minute, which was more than her own mama and daddy done, may they rest but not in peace.”
“They’re both dead?”
“Eight years ago, in a motorcycle accident. They used to ride around on a Harley on the weekends, though they were normal enough the rest of the week. He worked for Procter & Gamble, shift supervisor, making peanut butter. Guy in a big green Caddie never even saw them, ran them right into a guardrail on I-71, when they was probably doing sixty. She lived the night, poor thing, but he was dead on arrival. Killed instantly.”
Instant coffee, Sonora thought. Instant mashed potatoes. Instant death. She said, “The ex-husband. Is he around at all?”
Mrs. Cavanaugh gave her a blank look, then shook her head. “Lord, no. She heard from him once, years ago, a few months after Tammy got born, wanting bus money to come and see the baby. Which she sent and he never did show up. Joy just cried and cried. He called onct more, but Franklin took care of it, and we never did hear from him again. That’s … Lord, sixteen years ago. Tammy—”
But here her voice broke. She blew her nose. “Excuse me, what I was going to say was Tammy doesn’t—Tammy didn’t take after him one tiny bit. We just liked to pretend it was an immaculate conception, you know, ’cause Joy never did like it when we brought him up.”
“What was his name?”
“Bobby Purcell. Last time we heard, he was out in Nevada somewhere.” Mrs. Cavanaugh put her head in her hands. “I’m sorry. I just cannot believe this has happened. It just seems to keep catching me by surprise.”
Sonora looked at her biscuit.
“Honey, I’m sorry, but this kind of thing, happening so sudden. What did whoever it was … what did he do to them?”
“Ma’am, he … he just killed them all. It was quick,” Sonora said.
“Social services called this morning about the baby. Franklin can’t take her, and I offered, but they’re trying to track down Carl’s sister. Franklin gave them the number this morning.”
Sonora nodded. Slit the biscuit in half and spread it with a thin coat of apple butter. She took a small bite off the corner and nodded. “Wonderful.” Bonnie Cavanaugh smiled. Sonora set the biscuit back on the plate. “Mrs. Cavanaugh, did Joy seem worried about anything, did she talk about strange phone calls, or—”
The woman looked away. She seemed embarrassed.
An affair, Sonora thought.
Bonnie Cavanaugh placed her fingertips on the table. The skin on her hands was white and waxy-looking. “They was hitting a pretty rough stretch with their finances. Lord knows we all go through it some time or other in our lives. I know Franklin was giving them as much as he could spare.
“See, what started it all was when Carl got hurt. He’s a paint contractor, and he fell over a paint bucket, just a dumb thing, but he landed funny and broke his ankle and two ribs. And then he got the flu real bad, almost went into pneumonia. And with him being self-employed they just couldn’t keep up with the health insurance, and her just having baby Chloe, they had quite a lot of bills, especially with Carl missing work. I know they were trying to get out of their car lease, but there wasn’t nothing they could do without hurting their credit. And they’d just bought a house, which had taken most of their savings. It just seemed like everything come down on them at once. They still would’ve been okay, but one of Carl’s major contractors went into bankruptcy, and he owed Carl for an awful lot of work. And another check he got went and bounced and Carl could not ever find the guy. And there’s his workers needing to be paid, and taxes to the IRS. It just got really bad for them. Joy used to come here and just not say a word, she was so depressed, so worried, you know how it is, like she was so distracted and worried she couldn’t even look at you, and bags under her eyes, and I know’d she wasn’t sleeping.
“So Franklin finally got it out of her. He took Abigail into his barn so Joy didn’t have to pay board fees, and cashed out all his CDs so they could pay their workers and buy groceries. Carl was working all the time, even with his foot and all, and I think they were coming out of it. He was finally getting some of the money he was owed, and I think things were just starting to look up. Joy seemed more cheerful, and she was taking in typing jobs at home, which wore her out, with the baby to take care of, but it kept them in food. And Tammy was working at Sonic and kicking her check in.
“I know their water got cut off a couple of times, and Franklin went down to pay that himself, ’cause Joy was so embarrassed she just couldn’t face it. They had a couple long talks about strategy, like pay utilities first, that kind of thing, you know.”
“I know.” Sonora tore the biscuit in half so it would look like she was eating. “You say Carl and Joy got along pretty well? Even with all the pressures of finances?”
“Oh yeah, they stuck together. I mean, he’d been kind of down, but who could blame him?”
Sonora ran a finger on the edge of the table. Looked Mrs. Cavanaugh in the eye. “There was a certain amount of … anger involved in this killing. Did either of them have any enemies? I know that sounds kind of dramatic for the suburbs. But was there any bad feeling with someone, anybody giving them trouble of any kind?”
Mrs. Cavanaugh looked blank. “No, ma’am. No one to speak of.”
“Nothing at all?”
Mrs. Cavanaugh narrowed her eyes. “Well I shouldn’t say no one. They were getting hounded to death over their bills. People calling early in the morning, late at night, and all day long. I know Joy was pretty tore up about it, and Franklin kept telling her that there were rules about that kind of thing. Now, I have always paid my bills and I don’t believe in charge cards, though that’s the modern way, I know. But Joy and Carl was good people going through a tough time, and the way they got treated was shameful. Joy would sit here and cry, and she told me in private that she felt threatened, though Franklin and I both told
her just to hold on and not answer the phone.”
Sonora nodded. Thought a minute, careful of her wording. “I know how upsetting and annoying that can be, believe me, but that’s not the kind of threat I’m talking about.” She tapped a finger on the edge of the tablecloth, wondering how to lead the woman down the nasty path of her own thought processes. “You know, Mrs. Cavanaugh, sometimes when people are under a lot of pressure, they might … they could do something they might otherwise not do. It doesn’t mean they’re bad people.”
Sonora watched the woman. Nothing but a blank look.
“For instance, one of them might have an affair. Which could lead to complications, like jealous lovers.”
Mrs. Cavanaugh’s mouth turned down. The look on her face was cartoon comical, except Sonora did not feel like laughing.
“No, ma’am, there was none of that going on, as far as I know.”
“Would you know?” Sonora asked.
“Well, I was wondering, with Joy so upset all the time. And I know the signs, though you might not think it—I won’t even tell you what my daughter’s husband has put that girl through and will continue to do unless she grows a backbone and throws him out. But I don’t believe so. Not with Carl and Joy.”
“Okay then.” Sonora took her purse, put the napkin in a wad on the table. “Can you get hold of an address on that ex-husband?”
“Oh Lord, I doubt it. Well, maybe Franklin kept track of him. He might do that and just keep it to himself. He is an old-fashioned sort of gentleman, and he felt that was the kind of thing an uncle could take care of kind of behind the scenes, to shield Joy from getting upset.”
“Did you say he’s awake already? Out in the barn?”
“Lord, yes, that man is up with the sun. He’s probably out there talking to that old horse. Finish up your biscuits and I’ll take you on out.”
16
Sonora walked toward the small, sagging barn under the benevolent but guarded eye of Bonnie Cavanaugh, the half biscuit she’d eaten sitting hard in her stomach. She paused at the lip of the barn aisle. Heard a man’s voice, thin and tired, though there was no sign of him.
“… lonely old thing. Hard to be queen of the barn when it’s just you, isn’t it, girl? Here you go, Abigail, have another one. I’m gonna have to be the one that spoils you now.”
Sonora recognized the nickering purr of a horse who anticipates the gastronomic ecstasy brought on by carrots, apples, and sweet feed.
“Poor old Abigail, poor old thing. You miss her already, don’t you, girl?” The voice broke.
Sonora took a step backward, counted to fifteen, then pushed against the already open barn door. She expected a creak of rusty hinges and was not disappointed.
“Hello?” she said, stepping in.
The barn was small and cavelike, a dirt floor, tiny. Two stalls on one side, and an open area on the right filled with hay bales, old feed sacks, a rusty wheelbarrow, bags of pine shavings, and a rusty manure spreader next to an aluminum ladder. Three dirt-encrusted window fans lay on an ancient moldy mattress.
“Who’s that?” Ward stepped out of the stall, a red bristled brush in his left hand. He wore faded tan corduroy pants and a brown flannel shirt. He looked creased, clean, and carefully groomed, right on down to the shine on his brown barn boots.
“Detective Blair, Mr. Ward, Sonora Blair. I was here last night?”
“You catch him, Officer?”
There was real hope in the voice. Sonora never failed to be amazed by the optimism of the general public. Even the jaded ones, deep down inside, expected instant vindication.
“Soon,” she said.
He didn’t answer.
Sonora kept moving, inhaling the scent of horse and hay, feeling the knots of tension in her shoulders ease as the familiar smells of horse and leather calmed that frayed feeling that was becoming as familiar as her own face. She paused outside the stall. It was twelve-by-twelve, a simple manger with an uneven dirt floor, liberally spread with yellow pine-wood shavings. It was a simple barn, tar black, wood planks. A window had been rough cut through the wood planks on the outside wall and latched open like a crude shutter. A blue water bucket hung next to a black rubber feed tub. Hay was piled in the left corner, and the horse, mid-bite, turned her head, gave Sonora a quick look, and went back to the hay.
“Alfalfa?” Sonora asked.
“You know your hay,” Ward said. He went back to the horse’s right side, stroking her firmly with the brush, and Sonora started missing her own horse, Hell-Z-Poppin, an aptly named Arabian.
“She’s too picky to eat timothy hay,” Ward said. “Turns her nose up at orchard grass. She’s as picky as a horse can be, Joy just spoiled her rotten.”
Her own horse, Poppin, was living on last year’s timothy, and not too happy about it himself.
“Where’d you get that alfalfa?” Sonora asked.
“Friend of mine.”
“He got any more, I’ll take it.”
“Have a horse, do you?” Ward said.
“Arab gelding. Hell-Z-Poppin.”
“He live up to his name?”
“And then some.”
Franklin Ward chuckled. “Arabs do.”
The mare, Abigail, was large enough that Sonora wondered if she was in foal to twins, but Sonora just smiled and said, “Pretty horse.”
Ward kept brushing. “Old piglet here is always a member of the clean-plate club. We’ll have to put her in a diet paddock in a few weeks when the grass gets sweet.”
Then why are you feeding her alfalfa? Sonora wondered, but she kept her mouth shut. There were as many horse opinions as there were horse people, and it paid not to say what you thought, unless you liked fireworks, open warfare, and hand-to-hand combat.
If she had learned one thing in the months she’d owned Poppin, it was when to shut up. Which, when it came to horses, was pretty much always.
“Mr. Ward, I know this is a bad time for you, and if you want me to give you some time, so be it. But what I really want to do is ask you some questions.”
He nodded. “Go on ahead. If you don’t mind, I’ll just keep on grooming. Abigail likes it and I find it settles my nerves. You have a horse. You know what I mean.”
She did know. She studied him, just for a minute. He had the curious mix of fragility and strength found only in elderly people who had led a certain kind of life. A wealth of life experience and a well-honed and finally trusted instinct that gave them a certain magic, trapped in a body that began to fail them when they had, at long last, figured so many things out.
Was she pushing too hard? She wondered if he had a heart condition. Could a man his age not have a heart condition—the man had fought in the Second World War.
Sonora opened her notebook. Leaned against the rough wood wall. “I understand your niece and her husband were having money troubles.”
Ward nodded. “They’d run into a rough patch, all right, but they were climbing out.” He looked at Sonora. “It’s the kind of thing can happen to anybody. Even Donald Trump runs into problems with cash flow. Anybody says they never have that kind of trouble is lying.”
“Yes, sir, I understand. How was their marriage?”
“It was good,” he said.
Somehow, she was unable to pursue that one any further. “You and Joy were pretty close, were you?”
“Fair on.”
Whatever that meant.
“Did she talk to you? Confide in you?”
“She’d talk about the kids. About Abigail. How Carl’s business was going, that kind of thing. She wasn’t one to bring me her worries.”
“Had she been threatened in any way? Had they been robbed? Did she talk about strange phone calls?”
“No. No, nothing like that I know of.”
“Did she or Carl have any … enemies?”
He stopped brushing. “Officer, we’re talking about a simple, middle-class, Cincinnati, Ohio, everyday average American family. They rented movie videos a
nd ordered pizza on Friday night, and Joy stayed home with the kids. People like that don’t have enemies. They don’t sell drugs or government secrets, they just go grocery shopping on Saturday and church most Sundays.”
“What about Joy’s ex-husband?”
“That pip-squeak? Who told you about him?”
“He’s Tammy’s father.”
“No, he’s not, not in my definition. Besides, he’s long gone. I ran that boy off sixteen years ago, and we ain’t heard from him since. And we won’t hear from him either.”
“He have an address?” Sonora asked.
“Last time I heard of Bobby Purcell, he was in Kansas City, working at a Taco Bell. And overemployed, if you ask me.” He gave her a look over the back of the horse. “You much good at picking hooves, Detective?”
Sonora looked up from her notebook. “Picking hooves? Tolerable.”
“Kills my back to do it. That’s the one thing Joy—”
She knew where this was going. “Got a hoof-pick?”
He pointed at a red plastic carryall. Sonora rummaged through the cotton rags, brushes, furazone ointment, until she found a black-handled pick. She stuck her notebook in her jacket pocket.
“The mare’s gentle, right?” she asked.
“Hell, you own an Arab. This is just a little quarter horse.”
Sonora bent over, took the left hind foot between her hands. The mare had dainty feet, a healthy, springy frog, well-trimmed hooves. She dug packed-in manure, dirt, and gravel from the horse’s foot. She supposed Sam would call this bonding.
17
Sonora made Olden in the thick of the early-morning drive-the-kids-to-school-get-to-work traffic that clogged the primary roads and almost made a pretense of traffic in the Cincinnati subdivision.
She passed the pond—no ducks this morning—headed toward Edrington Court, took a sip of McDonald’s coffee that made her wince no matter how much cream she added. Cincinnati might have pro sports teams, but she wasn’t going to be content till there was a Starbucks on every corner.
Children milled on the curb, waiting for a school bus. Sonora passed a house where a little boy headed down the sidewalk from an open front door.
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