by Harry Kraus
“And then what?”
“We came home.”
Jensen paged through his notepad. “Remember when you called us about a month ago? You reported a man for trespassing, someone Old Jeb had treed.”
Billy Ray huffed. “What are you gettin’ at?”
“Do you remember what you did the night before?”
“Friday night? I bowl on Fridays. You know that. You still roll with the Steamers?”
“When I can.”
“Are you going to the Bud invitational in Brighton?”
Jensen shook his head. He wasn’t there to talk about bowling. “What happened to Lena that night? Were you drinking, Billy Ray? Did you come home, maybe feel like having a little fun with Lena? What happened? Did she refuse you, make you mad?”
Billy Ray dropped his eyes to the asphalt. “What did she tell you?”
“I haven’t talked to Lena. But the word I have is that she was roughed up pretty bad, and you forced yourself on her.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
He sighed. “Look. You won’t believe me. She showed me the next day what I’d . . .” His voice trailed off.
For a moment Randy thought Billy Ray was going to start crying right there in the parking lot.
“I passed out on the couch. Honest.”
For a moment a hissing sound and the sound of metal banging against metal halted their conversation. “You mean you had a blackout? From drinking too much?”
“When I woke up the next morning, I had no idea how I got there. Eddie said he dropped me off. That’s all I know.”
“And what last night? Another blackout?”
“No. I was at home. I slept until the next morning.”
The officer wasn’t sure what to make of the report. He’d have to check out the waitress at the bar where Billy drank, and see if she remembered Billy Ray. He could also talk to Eddie to see if he had any helpful recall. If they left the bar at midnight, Billy Ray could still have easily been in Stoney Creek to commit the attack by two or three.
Billy wiped his forehead with the towel where large beads of water glistened in the morning sun. The excuse of a blackout was almost too lame to be believable.
Jensen pointed to Billy’s left arm. “What’s under the bandage?”
“I got a cut. It’s infected so I leave it covered.” He lifted his hands up in surrender. “I’m serious. I went to the doctor for it. That new one over in Stoney Creek. You can ask her.”
She did mention you were in the office. He studied Billy Ray for a moment. The deputy had known Billy Ray most of his life. He’d worked for the same employer for fifteen years, bowled every Friday night for the last ten, and hunted bear every fall since he was in the seventh grade. Billy Ray had been in and out of AA for the past decade and had been arrested for beating his first wife.
Redneck was not a term the deputy liked, having bristled when his attorney brother used the term to describe Randy. But redneck did seem an adequate way to describe Billy Ray. But sexual predator? Could alcohol-related blackouts be responsible for a dark side of this man?
“I’ll be in touch. Do yourself a favor. Stay off the bottle. And stay away from Lena.”
With that, the deputy nodded his head and returned to his police cruiser. It was time to find John Cerelli.
John Cerelli enjoyed the flexibility that his job as a regional sales representative gave him to live where he wanted, but the move to Stoney Creek had lengthened the number of hours he spent on the road to reach a few of his clients. His employer developed software for electronic record-keeping for medical and surgical practices. The success of the company had allowed John to take over a smaller area, now consisting mainly of northern and western Virginia, and thanks to the internet, much of his interaction with established clients could be handled from his apartment near Stoney Creek. But today, an orthopedic surgery practice in Alexandria was having problems, and no amount of online interaction could calm the savage beast like a face-to-face company rep. Old-fashioned service-with-a-smile just couldn’t be sent through a T–1 connection.
John couldn’t resist a chance to put the top down and avoid the interstate. He would head over North Mountain to Brighton, then catch I–64 toward Richmond after he’d had his fix of tight curves and mountain air.
He tossed his sport coat onto the backseat and loosened his tie before settling in behind the wheel. He hoped Claire would meet him in Fisher’s Retreat for breakfast at the cafe since he wouldn’t be able to see her later as planned. He dialed her number on his cell phone. “Hey, Claire.”
“Oh, John. I’m glad you called. We’re not going to be able to go out today. I need to stay with Wally.”
“Want to meet for breakfast? I’m on my way toward Fisher’s Retreat. We could meet at the cafe.”
“Why don’t you just come here? I’ll make pancakes.”
“I can’t. I have to go to Alexandria on business.”
“John, I need you here. Wally is sick. He’s so dehydrated, he is nearly unresponsive. It took Lucy and Della both to hold him down so I could put an IV in to give him fluids.”
“You’re doing that at home?”
“I had to.” Frustration laced her voice. “He won’t go to the hospital.” She sighed into the phone. “Do you have to go?”
“Emily called me this morning. The doctors in one of the orthopedic practices are giving her a fit. Their whole electronic medical system is down.”
Claire stayed quiet. The silence was ice.
“Look, it’s not like I want to go. I have to. It’s my territory. I’m responsible.”
“This is my only day off this week. I wanted to see you.”
“Claire, I wanted that too.”
“When will you be back?”
“It depends on how long it takes in Alexandria. I have two other clients in Richmond that I need to see. It could be tomorrow afternoon.”
He listened to the silence. He wasn’t giving her the answers she wanted.
“I’ll call you tonight.”
A pause. “Fine.” A sarcastic remark that John heard as “You’re letting me down.”
He wasn’t sure how to respond. He was in a bind, and Claire wasn’t giving him an inch. “Look, I’ll try to get back early tomorrow. If I can watch Wally for a while in the afternoon, maybe Della can watch him tomorrow night and we can go out.”
“Fine.” There was noise in the background. “I’ve got to run.”
John shook his head. “Love you.” He looked at the phone. Claire had hung up.
He banged the steering wheel with his hand. Claire wasn’t being fair. It wasn’t like she didn’t put her work in front of spending time with him.
He drove on to Fisher’s Retreat, stopping at the cafe for breakfast alone. The air was eighty degrees and damp with a promise of rain. He abandoned his business look, extracting his tie from his white button-down shirt and tossing it into the backseat. There would be time for that later.
The corner booth, their booth, was full of locals discussing the upcoming lawn party. There were two open seats at the counter, but he didn’t feel like talking to Ralph, and sitting there was an open invitation for an earful of Knitter philosophy served up fresh with the coffee.
He selected the only available booth for privacy, and was handed a breakfast menu by a girl who appeared to be in high school. Her smile was almost enough to lift him from his present funk. She held up a container of coffee and lifted her eyebrows in a silent question.
He responded in kind, turning over the mug which was already on the table. Since he had her eye, he continued their silent communication, pointing to his selection on the laminated menu. She nodded and made a note on a little pad. She was strawberry blond, just like Claire, and her face freckled with the sun. When she smiled, small dimples appeared and her eyes danced with a noiseless giggle. She lifted her eyebrows again, and tilted her head to the side. She paused for a moment, then touche
d her mouth with the end of her pencil. The eraser indented her soft lower lip to reveal an even row of white teeth. She was addicted to Crest or the daughter of an orthodontist. Her lips parted as she concentrated and pointed to a small picture of a glass of orange juice on the menu. Anything else?
He tried to supress a smile. He could see that she enjoyed this game, too. He squinted and paused. Why not? Orange juice will be fine. He nodded quickly.
She scribbled waitress-shorthand. Theirs was the communication of an old married couple, able to speak volumes in a glance.
He dismissed her with a wink, which she returned. She pivoted and hurriedly clipped away. He watched as her hand went to her mouth and her laughter escaped.
Within moments, John sensed only the invisible company of self-pity joining him in the booth for four. He glanced around the room. There was a married couple here, a table of white-haired men sharing the morning paper there, and a dusty work crew of men in sweaty shirts and shorts devouring large plates of Ralph’s pancakes. John slipped out to his Mustang for his briefcase. He wasn’t planning to work, but setting out a few papers and opening the case on the table seemed to justify his occupation of the booth.
His perfect young waitress refilled his coffee once, then brought him a cheese omelette instead of the French toast he thought he’d ordered. He widened his eyes in surprise, then watched as she carefully placed his orange juice on the table. This was no time for disputing his order. She was pleased. The game of quiet was on, and he didn’t have the heart to argue with her. Besides, he was too proud to admit that he hadn’t communicated perfectly with his young enchantress.
He nodded his approval. He would have eaten raw oats and carrot juice if she’d have brought it.
Outside, Randy Jensen spotted the red Mustang convertible and pulled his cruiser to the curb in front of Fisher’s Cafe. He ran the license plates for confirmation. Indeed, John Cerelli had been found.
Randy sauntered by the front of the cafe, squinting into the restaurant, before walking on to where the Mustang was parked. Randy wasn’t sure, but it looked like a model from the late seventies or early eighties. The interior was immaculate, and the paint waxed to a high sheen. A blue and gold silk tie was draped over the back of the driver’s seat and a navy blazer was slightly crumpled in the backseat.
The deputy squinted at a box partially covered by the coat. What is this?
He glanced over his shoulder before quickly lifting it from the back of the car. Surgical masks!
He dropped the masks into the back of the car. He made a small note on a pad, taking down the manufacturer’s name from the side of the box.
He wondered just what occupation this Cerelli was in. He wasn’t a doctor, he was pretty sure of that. But just what were masks of this type doing in his car?
A man with dark curly hair, a white shirt, and carrying a maroon briefcase approached. Randy recognized him as John Cerelli, the man he’d stopped on Briary Branch Road. He stepped between the man and his car.
John looked up. “Excuse me,” he said, dropping his briefcase into the backseat.
“Mr. Cerelli?” He held out his hand. “Officer Jensen, county deputy.”
John looked surprised that his name was known. He took the officer’s palm in a firm handshake. “What can I do for you?”
“Early yesterday morning a young woman in Stoney Creek was assaulted.”
John looked at him questioningly.
“I’m wondering if you can account for your whereabouts during that time.”
The man’s jaw dropped. “Wh–why are you asking me?” His head jutted forward. “I was at home in my apartment. Asleep.” He looked incredulous.
“I’m just doing a routine investigation.”
John Cerelli’s color faded. His mouth slowly closed. “But why ask me? Certainly you don’t think that—”
Randy pointed at the box in the backseat. “What are you doing with those?”
“They don’t belong to me. I was delivering them to Dr. McCall’s office.” He shrugged. “I make a lot of trips to Brighton, and I pick up medical supplies for her on occasion.”
“So why is this box here? On your way to make a delivery, are you?”
He shook his head. “No, sir. It must have fallen out of a larger box of supplies. I just saw it yesterday in the trunk and threw them up here so I would remember to give them to Claire, uh, Dr. McCall.”
“What sort of work do you do, Mr. Cerelli?”
“I’m a representative for a software firm. I assist medical practices with computerized patient recordkeeping.”
Randy Jensen noted his response and paced around the car. “Remember a few weeks back when we had a little chat about trespassing on Billy Ray Chisholm’s property?”
“Sure.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Cerelli, but I seem to recall you saying you did not personally know the Chisholms, and that you were concerned that something had flown out of your car as you passed by the night before.”
The man stayed quiet. The memory obviously disturbed him. He nodded his head as he looked at the pavement.
“Maybe you need to give me a little more information about just what you were doing at the Chisholms.”
John shuffled his feet. “Where are you going with this? Why are you asking me this?”
“I’m just trying to put some facts together, Mr. Cerelli.”
“Am I in some sort of trouble here?”
“Not that I know of. But maybe you’d like to think about answering my questions so I can put my mind to rest.” He paused, and tapped his fingers on the shiny red hood. “Just what were you looking for at the Chisholms?”
The man sighed. A sign of aggravation? Frustration? “A ring.”
“A ring?”
“An engagement ring. A diamond.”
“You said you were looking for something that had flown from your car. I thought you meant a car part.”
“That’s what you assumed. The ring is what flew from my car.” He halted and lifted his eyes from the ground. “Why do you need to know this?”
“Ms. Chisholm was raped, Mr. Cerelli. On the very night you say you lost something in front of her house.” He walked around toward Mr. Cerelli. Closing the distance between them was likely to make a guilty subject uncomfortable. “It just seemed like such a coincidence that you were around on that night, I thought I’d ask what you were doing.”
The man held up his hands. “I don’t like this at all. You are implying that I may have been involved in these rapes?” He got into his car. “And I don’t like it. Now unless I’m under arrest, I don’t think I’m obligated to stay and finish this conversation.”
Randy backed up a step as Cerelli started the Mustang and began to pull away. He shook his head and thought about the lame excuse Cerelli had told him. He was looking for an engagement ring?
He scratched himself a one-word summary of his interview. “Evasive.”
Chapter Eighteen
After three liters of intravenous fluid, Wally finally urinated in his diaper. After four, he started responding to questions again. By seven A o’clock in the evening, he was able to take some thickened liquids, and Claire fed him a protein-enhanced strawberry smoothie.
“You scared me, Daddy,” she said, wiping his chin with a towel. “The only way you made it was with the IV.”
His eyes were wide open, jerking around the room with his head. It gave him a wild look, like someone who wasn’t connected with reality. But the untamed look did not reflect his understanding. “I kn–know,” he said.
It was the waxing and waning of his intellect that puzzled Claire the most. Wally went days without communicating in a meaningful way, only to speak and respond to questions appropriately again after a lapse. She wasn’t sure whether it was his varied moods that made him more cooperative on some days than others, or simply that the progression of his Huntington’s disease seemed to stutter-step. Regardless, she was glad he was responding again, kn
owing that he had dodged a potentially fatal problem had Claire not been able to give him intravenous hydration.
Speaking with Wally had been predominantly a one-sided conversation for months. Della did the best with him, interpreting his slurs and grunts like a second language. And although Claire tried to speak with her father about his wishes to avoid hospitalizations and possible life-support measures, she was never confident that her father really understood. For this, Claire relied on her mother, to whom Wally had made his wishes clear when he was a bit more coherent.
Claire sighed with both relief and anxiety; there was relief in her father’s recovery, and anxiety in being both her father’s doctor and his daughter. She set the empty glass on the dresser and plopped into a chair beside his bed.
“We can’t keep doing this.”
Claire looked up to see her mother in the doorway. “I know.” She re-angled the chair to talk to her mother. “I never thought I’d hear you say it.”
“I’ve never had three days in a row like I’ve just had.”
“He’s better. He answered a question.”
Her mother’s chin quivered and she put her hand to her mouth. “I almost let him die, Claire. I didn’t realize he was so sick.”
Claire shook her head. “Don’t kick yourself. People like this can walk a fine line. One hour they’re okay. The next, they’re over the edge.”
Della approached her husband’s bed. She grasped and held tightly to his moving hand. “I’m sorry, honey. I can’t do this again.”
Wally grunted.
“Leon won’t be happy. He has always been such an advocate of in-home care.”
“He’s not the one living this—” Claire stopped herself before she said something in front of her father that he might resent.
“Try to rest, Wally. Your fever has broken. You need to rest,” Della said.
Claire followed her mother down the hallway which was again lined with family photographs, as it had been up until the time that Wally’s stumbling made keeping things on the wall impossible. The dishes sat unwashed in the sink, the cereal boxes which provided their supper still on the table with the cardboard flaps open. “I keep meaning to ask, did you ever question Uncle Leon about selling McCall Shoes?”