Tell Me

by Lisa Jackson

  “Not me, and I caught my share of hell for it. So I want nothing more to do with them. And as for getting involved with Niall, there was just no way. I wouldn’t have done anything that would keep me close to June. The only reason I see her at all is out of some warped sense of family duty.”

  “But Cain’s different?” Nikki had asked.

  “My brother’s a piece of work. Spent his life wanting to please Mom and Dad, then having to deal with Calvin and that whole male, ‘I’m the boss’ thing. Calvin thought he could come in and take Dad’s place. Fat chance.”

  “Your father died in a boating accident.”

  “Yeah.” A snort of disdain. “That’s the irony of it. He died trying to save June. The summer before she hooked up with Calvin and got pregnant with Emma-Kate . . . oh, God, you’ve got me talking about it, and I don’t want to think about my whacked-out family ever again. Impossible, I know, with all the crap that’s coming down right now, but I don’t have anything more to say. Good-bye.”

  Nikki hadn’t had much better luck with Mary-Beth Emmerson Galloway, the girl Elton had dated forever. On the same day that she’d connected with Leah, she’d called Mary-Beth, who had answered, then grown almost silent when she’d realized she was talking to Nikki. “I don’t want to talk about Elton,” she said coldly, as if Nikki were a stranger she’d never met before. “That part of my life is over and has been for a long time. I’ve been married to Rupert for thirteen years, and that’s that.”

  Rupert Galloway had been one of Elton’s friends, and the way Nikki remembered it, Mary-Beth hadn’t wasted any time grieving for the boy she’d once been certain she was going to marry. Nevertheless, Nikki had plunged on, “I’m trying to tell Amity O’Henry’s story.”

  “Why?” Mary-Beth’s voice had all the warmth of an arctic night. “Oh, for your writing? Fine. Go ahead,” she said disdainfully, “but leave my name out of it. I didn’t know Amity, and I didn’t want to know her.” She hung up with finality, and when Nikki tried to call back, there was no answer.

  Frustrating, that’s what it was. And it didn’t help that so far all the information she’d found on Uncle Alex’s computer hadn’t given her any more insight into Blondell’s guilt or innocence.

  Now Nikki was seated at her desk, about to call it a day, her stomach a little sour from too much coffee. She dialed Holt Beauregard one more time and was shocked when he actually answered.

  “Ms. Gillette,” he said before she could introduce herself. He didn’t sound happy. “I got your messages and see that you’ve called six times in about as many days. What is it you think I can do for you?”

  “I want to talk to you about Amity O’Henry,” she said without any prelude. After spending the past forty-eight hours reading testimony, watching pieces of the original trial on her laptop, and chasing down leads that proved futile, she wasn’t going to waste any time on subtleties. “I know that you were seeing her before she died.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” He hesitated, and Nikki waited, holding her breath. “How did you find out?” he demanded.

  Well, at least he wasn’t denying it. That was a start. “I was a good friend of hers.” Nikki saw no reason to tell him that she’d learned the information from a woman who’d been five at the time.

  “She told you?”

  “Some of it.” This is where it got tricky; she didn’t want to outright lie. “I was hoping you would fill in the blanks.”

  “Have you told your boyfriend or fiancé or whatever the hell Detective Reed is to you?”

  “Of course not. I’m doing a series of articles for the Sentinel on—”

  “I know what you’re doing,” he cut in angrily. “I can’t tell you anything that would be of interest.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Does your brother know that you were seeing Amity?”

  “Deacon? Hell no! I don’t know what happened to Amity, and I don’t see that I could be of any help whatsoever.”

  “Your father was the arresting officer,” she reminded him.

  “You can’t make something out of that. Oh, for the love of—”

  She knew what he was thinking. That she’d print half-truths about him or tell the police or both. Though she had no intention of doing any such thing, she let him run with the idea; perhaps his own fears would spur him into an interview.

  “Look, Mr. Beauregard, I’m just looking for the truth.”

  “No, Ms. Gillette,” he said tautly. “You’re looking for a story.” He let out a long sigh, and she could envision him shoving his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Fine. Let’s meet.”

  “When and where?”

  “Nowhere too public. How about Salty’s, tomorrow night, around seven? You know where it is?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll see you there,” she said and felt a sense of elation mixed with trepidation. Salty’s was located in an alley, one block off the waterfront, and was a real dive. But so be it. She didn’t blame Holt for wanting to keep their meeting under the radar, considering his family ties to the case. She just wondered what it was he was so afraid of.

  She remembered him at the trial, where, as Judge Gillette’s daughter, she’d been able to get into the courtroom and watch the proceedings. Holt and Deacon had both been there too. Deacon was intent and interested, his face chiseled even then, revealing the man he would become. Holt, blonder and more boyish, had seemed uncomfortable, as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world than in the audience of the Blondell O’Henry trial. He was the wilder of Flint’s two sons, but in the courtroom, any hint of his rebellious swagger had disappeared, and she’d thought she’d seen him more than once rubbing a worry stone between his finger and thumb during some of the testimony. She’d caught his eye, and when their gazes had locked, a dozen questions had leapt to her mind, only to disappear when he’d quickly looked away.

  Of course, she hadn’t known then that he’d been seeing Amity before her death, that his interest in the case, like hers, had been personal. Now she understood why he might have been so worried.

  “Good news?” Trina asked as she dropped a can of diet Coke onto the corner of Nikki’s desk.

  “Maybe.” Nikki opened the can and took a long swallow. “How could you tell?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it was the ‘cat who just swallowed the family’s favorite canary’ smile that you can’t quite hide.” She opened a second can for herself. “I heard you stole Norm Metzger’s story while he was home sick, poor thing.”

  “Untrue. Fink handed it to me.”

  “I’m just reporting the gossip floating around the office,” she said with a lift of an already-arched eyebrow. A tall and willowy black woman, Trina had been a model just out of high school, then had sent herself to college and, eventually, after a couple of years in Los Angeles, had landed back in Savannah, where she’d been born and raised. “We good for that drink you owe me?” she asked.

  Nikki glanced at the clock and saw it was nearly four. “Sure,” she said automatically. “At Catfish Jake’s?” A cozy bar with an open mic and hot New Orleans Cajun cuisine located about midway between Nikki’s place and Trina’s apartment, Catfish Jake’s was their favorite meeting place.

  “Perfect. But I’ll have to miss happy hour. Antoine’s leaving town, and I want to stop by the apartment to say good-bye. How about six-thirty or seven?”

  “That works.” Nikki had a few errands to run as well.

  “You’re on for the cosmos, er, no, I think I’ll have a mint julep. Or maybe a mojito?”

  “Tell ya what, I won’t order until you arrive,” Nikki promised as Trina headed out of the building.

  “Good. See you there,” she said and belatedly realized that Effie Savoy, who’d been walking back from the break room, had been within earshot. Effie’s gaze held Nikki’s for a second, and once again she reminded Nikki of someone. Who? she asked herself, but again couldn’t place it. Well, she would re
member in time.

  So far she’d found nothing in her uncle’s files that surprised her, no hidden evidence that hadn’t come out in the trial and certainly nothing that would be dangerous to her, but what she had noticed about the computer notes was that they were neat and concise, nothing abstract included, no theories or suppositions. It was almost as if these notes had been compiled after the trial, that the pertinent information was elsewhere, maybe elsewhere on the computer’s hard drive, or even more likely, given her uncle’s old-school ways, written down in some form and stored in a filing cabinet or box or crate, locked away somewhere.

  She hated to think she’d done all that skulking around and thievery for nothing, nearly giving herself a heart attack when Aunty-Pen had returned, but so it seemed.

  That was the trouble—she felt as if she were spinning her wheels. And all of Reed’s talk about working together hadn’t added up to much.

  Somehow, she had to ram this investigation into high gear, and that would start, she was certain, with Blondell. She had to get an interview with her.

  After putting the finishing touches on the next article in her series about the mystery surrounding Amity O’Henry’s death, Nikki swallowed the last of her soda, grabbed her jacket, purse, and computer case, and headed outside, where dark clouds, their bellies swollen with rain, were scudding across the sky. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of the river and the coming rain.

  Flipping up the hood of her jacket, Nikki walked to the parking lot, where a few cars remained, including Norm Metzger’s Chevy Tahoe. Norm himself was in the idling SUV, talking on his cell phone.

  Spying Nikki, he threw open the driver’s door and said into the phone, “Call you back in a few,” before clicking off. After hauling his bulk out of the car, he stalked across the parking lot to Nikki’s car. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snarled, his cheeks reddening above the graying goatee he always kept clipped and neat.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Norm.”

  “Yes, you do!” he roared and hitched up his pants. “The O’Henry story should be mine. I’m the crime writer here!” He jerked an angry thumb at his chest.

  “You were sick and—”

  “And so you swooped in and took it. Just like you’ve been doing from the minute Fink hired you. Jesus Christ, Gillette, isn’t it enough that you can work part-time at the paper and write your books? Do you have to steal my job too?”

  Her back was up. “When I started with this paper, I made it very clear I wanted to concentrate on crime. Hell, I was raised on it, with my father being a judge and all.”

  “Big Ron has nothing to do with this,” he said, grabbing at the air in frustration. “I’m talking about my job, the one that supports my family. You know, Della and my kids? The oldest are already looking at colleges. Do you know how much that costs?”

  Nikki clamped her lips closed. Better to say nothing than have his argument escalate.

  “Probably not. The judge probably paid your way. Shit!” He glared across the parking lot, his eyes following traffic on the street, but she doubted he saw any of it as he tried to compose himself. A little more in control, he said, “What happened to you quitting and taking a job somewhere else? I heard that’s what you planned after the Grave Robber case blew up in your face.”

  “I decided to stay. My family’s here,” she clipped out.

  “Well, so is mine, but it looks like I’m gonna have to move.”

  “What?”

  “For the love of God, don’t look so shocked! You know how it is with the newspaper business. Everything’s gone digital and online, papers are closing all over the country, and the Sentinel is hanging on by a thread. We’ve lost advertisers, and the paper’s half the size it was ten years ago.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’ve been put on part-time, Gillette. Kind of like you. Only I don’t have a big book deal in the wings to fall back on. And I haven’t been assigned to the O’Henry case, just the biggest crime story to hit this town in years.”

  “But there are other news stories,” she protested.

  “An assault on the waterfront? A break-in out on Victory? Maybe a domestic violence call somewhere in the suburbs? Sure. Those stories are out there, but come on, the story to rock this town, the one that will sell papers? It’s yours.”

  “I won’t lie,” she admitted. “I want this one.”

  “So you can write a damned book about it. You know what that means? I’ll tell you! It means Della and I are probably packing up the kids and moving to Atlanta or Jacksonville. Luckily, I’ve got a couple of leads on jobs there. It would be reporting on their Web sites, not the actual paper, though, but I can’t even do that here. Effie Savoy’s already tied up that job.”

  “I’m sorry about your position,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

  “Yeah, well. ‘Them’s the breaks,’ eh? I’ve even enrolled in a couple of computer classes to get me up to speed so that I can compete with twenty-two-year-old kids who have been using computers since they were teething.” His eyes narrowed as the first drops of rain began to fall. “How do you think that’ll go? And I’m looking the big five-oh in the eye. But you, with your whole damned life ahead of you, planning a big wedding and writing books and picking the plum stories for the Sentinel—for you, life isn’t quite so tough.” He shook his head in disgust. “Why the hell do I bother?” he muttered, then stormed back to his SUV, threw himself behind the wheel and drove off, his tires squealing as he punched the gas.

  Nikki stood for a minute, rain now peppering down as she watched him leave. He wasn’t wrong. Everything he’d said, including the ugly part about her ambitions trumping his need to make a living, was true. As she walked to her car she couldn’t help but feel bad. The guy was older than she was, fifty pounds overweight, and a smoker, all of which didn’t mean diddly, but he was raising five kids and was caught, like so many people, in the economic changes affecting their industry. Should she hand him over the story?

  No. The O’Henry story was one symptom of a larger problem: that Norm had let himself become a dinosaur. His downward spiral didn’t have anything to do with her personally. He would have to fight back any other ambitious reporter who wanted to take over the crime beat, as would she. Norm had been part of the “good ole boy” network for years, and now she was making him work a little harder. That’s the way it was in this cutthroat business.

  Still, her already sour stomach ached a little more as she drove out of town by rote, turning on the wipers, stopping for red lights and pedestrians, making the proper turns without really thinking about it.

  Metzger was on her mind, true, as was all the other information she’d gathered in the past few days on the O’Henry case. She thought about her uncle’s files, wishing she knew where the rest of the information was. Typed up on hard copy or stored somewhere else, she believed.

  Her mind wandered to Amity O’Henry, and she made a sudden decision: she would go to the cabin herself and take a look around. If she couldn’t find any hard facts, she would at least get a feel, a mood for her book.

  Acting on her new plan, Nikki drove past the city’s storefronts and subdivisions into lush countryside and rolling fields. Storm clouds rolled across the thick grass where horses and cattle grazed. A frisson slid down her spine, and she glanced in her rearview mirror. Cars were following her, of course, but at a distance, and she doubted any of the drivers were tracking her. She was just being spooked by thoughts of the cabin.

  With an effort, she turned back to her thoughts. She hadn’t had any luck connecting with Roland Camp, and when she’d tried for another, more personal interview with Calvin O’Henry, June had said flatly, “Leave us alone.”

  She hadn’t added a threat. No “or else” tagged to the end of the edict, but Nikki had gotten the feeling that it was implied. She’d done some research on Calvin’s second family and found that all the children from their previous marriages had abandoned the couple. Just
lately, Niall seemed to be reunited with his father, but Blythe was estranged from June and Calvin, and as for June’s children, Leah Hatchett was married and living in Augusta, more than two hours away, and seemed to keep her distance. Cain Hatchett remained closer and resided in a small town to the east. A logger who drove monster trucks, he too had his own life, separate from June’s. As for Emma-Kate, the child Calvin and June had brought into this world, she was living on her own, downtown, but Nikki hadn’t bothered with her yet as she hadn’t even been born when her oldest half-sister was killed.

  Her phone rang, and she attached the headset for her Bluetooth device into her ear. “Hello?”

  “Is this a good time to talk?” Ina’s raspy voice came in clear as a bell.

  “Good as any.”

  “I spoke with Remmie. She read your synopsis and flipped over the idea. She’s taking it to the editorial meeting, and I’m sure they’ll accept it, but here’s the deal: Knox is going to want a fast delivery on this, and they want it unique, you know, like the first two books. The more insight into the Amity character, the better.”

  “She was my friend. Not a character in a novel.”

  “I know, but you get what I mean, right? Let’s tell the story through her eyes, if possible, and then after she’s killed, it can be a little more clinical, less personal, except—and here’s the kicker—Remmie would like the telling of the murder to come from Blondell’s viewpoint. In the end, since this is true crime and not fiction, you can go more into the police work, and anything from your fiancé’s perspective would be great.”

  “I’m not sure I can deliver on all that,” Nikki said, a little uncomfortable.

  “Well, just keep on it, and push that personal connection. I’ll keep you posted on what Remmie says.”

  She hung up, and Nikki was left feeling as if she were treading on Amity O’Henry’s grave, trying to sensationalize and make a buck out of a tragedy, rather than present a true account of her friend’s life and death.