I Scream, You Scream

by Watson, Wendy Lyn

  Now that he mentioned it, I did remember the reaction. God help me, I think I laughed at him. I know I refused to go out to buy him antihistamines because I was too exhausted from Bree’s drama. I’d treated him like a nuisance, and that must have been such a letdown after Brittanie had set him on a pedestal at dinner.

  I felt like a total heel.

  “I’m sorry, Wayne. You’re right.”

  I planned to apologize further, not just for brushing him off the night of the chamber of commerce dinner but also for taking him for granted for so very long, but Bree popped her head into the living room.

  “Hey, Wayne,” she said, her tone frosty.

  “Bree.”

  A look of mutual loathing passed between them.

  “Everything okay in here?” she asked me. “Your dinner’s getting cold.”

  “Everything’s fine, Bree,” I answered. “I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  “Nah,” Wayne said, standing up and brushing his hands down his pant legs. “I need to be going. I don’t want to keep you from dinner.”

  “You sure?” I asked, hating to have him go on such a sour note. Our marriage was over, but I truly didn’t hate the man. And since he was all but friendless at the moment, it seemed especially cruel to let him walk away in the midst of an argument.

  He thrust out his chest and thumped his stomach. “Yeah, I wanted to get in a workout before heading home, and I have an early meeting tomorrow.”

  I held the door for him, watched as he swaggered down the walkway with his chin held high, as though daring the world to knock him down.

  “Wayne!” I called.

  He stopped and turned back. A gust of wind ruffled his hair, and in the half-light of late evening he looked younger. Like the man I married.

  “Be careful,” I said.

  He raised a hand in acknowledgment before continuing toward his car. I waited until he got in and pulled away from the curb before shutting the door and making my way back to the dinner table.

  As I picked up my fork and poked at the congealed cheese on my enchilada, I resolved to be a better friend to Wayne than I had been a wife.

  “So about that whole idea of getting some context for Brittanie? I think I better do that, and quick.”

  chapter 17

  The archives of the News-Letter smelled like a hamster cage.

  “Holy moly, what is that stench?”

  Finn grimaced. “It’s this cedar stuff the owner, Nate, bought to try to keep pests away from the paper files. I think he got if off of eBay or something.”

  “You still keep paper copies of the archives?” I shivered, anticipating spending the day thumbing through newspapers just a hairsbreadth away from mulch.

  “We’ve got the last forty years on fiche or scanned into the computer. And last year, Nate got a grant from the state to transfer all the old editions to microfiche, so we have journalism majors from Dickerson working in here at all hours of the day and night. But, until it’s complete, we have to put up with Nate’s cedar vermin control.” He coughed. “You get used to it.”

  He pulled out a chair in front of a computer terminal and waited for me to sit before taking a seat by my elbow.

  “Thankfully,” he said, “Brittanie is young enough that any record of her life will already be digital.” He dropped his voice to a rumbling whisper. “Nate hasn’t really kept up with technology, so the files are still on a local network instead of posted to a secure site on the Web, but at least it’s searchable.”

  The difference between a local network and the Web was wasted on me. I could check my bank balance online, and I even had an e-mail account (though I thought to check it only every couple of weeks). But I had listened to Kyle and Alice chatting at the store enough to know when to nod and when to frown. At least, I thought I did.

  “Searchable. Good.”

  Finn elbowed me gently. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

  I pulled a face. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Don’t you have a Web site for Remember the A-la-mode?”

  “No.” I felt my hackles starting to rise. “I sell ice cream. It’s not like I can do that over the Internet.”

  Finn snorted. “Actually, there are lots of places that do sell ice cream online. But at a minimum, you want people to know you exist. It’s like the phone book. You don’t sell ice cream over the phone, but you still have an ad in the phonebook.”

  The tips of my ears burned like fire. I was such a rube. All those years I had spent working behind the scenes for the Weed and Seed, I’d always just done things the same way year after year. After all, it was Wayne’s business, and I just helped out a little. I never bothered to figure out if there were new, slick ways to run the business, approaches that might save money or increase sales. No wonder Wayne had been so impressed with Brittanie and her business school talk of branding.

  “I make really good ice cream,” I snapped. “That ought to count for more than all that marketing mumbo jumbo.”

  Finn leaned in so close, I got a whiff of the astringent scent of his shaving soap and the earthy citrus of Earl Grey tea, and I suddenly didn’t want to bicker anymore. “I just want to make sure you get the exposure you deserve,” he said.

  I narrowed my eyes and shot him a sidelong glance. “Are we still talking about Web sites?”

  He laughed softly, a candlelight and down-pillow kind of sound. “Yes. Web sites. And as soon as we get through this whole murder thing, I’m going to make sure you get a site as delicious as your ice cream.”

  He shifted in his seat, putting a breath of air between us, and keyed in a password on the computer terminal, a series of letters and numbers that appeared on the screen as a row of identical stars. “Now, let’s see what we can learn about Brittanie Brinkman.”

  Finn pulled up the stories in chronological order.

  A twelve-year-old Brittanie, with pigtails and coltish legs, stood with the rest of the Redeemer Church of Christ youth group, all of the smiling kids holding up Bibles wrapped in the hand-sewn slipcovers they were selling to raise money for a trip to San Antonio.

  Brittanie as a sophomore, junior, and senior on the Dalliance High homecoming court, her dresses—from pastel taffeta ruffles to plunging necklines and body-hugging satins—marking both the rapidly changing styles and her rapidly developing body.

  Spring of Brittanie’s senior year in high school, the News-Letter ran a photo of her in her cap and gown to honor her receipt of the Dickerson Regents’ Scholarship, a highly competitive full-ride scholarship. In the picture, she towered above her parents, who stared at the camera with the same dazed expressions they’d worn at her funeral.

  “Look at her folks,” Finn said softly. “See how they’re sort of huddled together and away from her, as though she’s some sort of stranger and they don’t know quite what to make of her.”

  “Have you met them?” He shook his head. “I only saw them briefly at Wayne’s, just after the funeral. Obviously that wasn’t the best situation in the world, but they seemed like small, quiet people. It must have been weird to have this bright, golden child so full of energy spring up into their world.”

  “Like she was one of those alien kids from Village of the Damned,” Finn said.

  I laughed. “Well, she might have scared the bejesus out of them, but they raised her right. The Regents’ Scholarship is really tough to get.”

  “Doesn’t Alice have that scholarship?”

  I smiled. “Yes, and she’s brilliant. I rest my case.”

  Finn made a little sound in his throat. “Obviously, I didn’t know Brittanie well, but from what I’ve seen, I didn’t take her for much of a scholar.”

  “What did she do in high school?”

  He got up and rummaged through a big oak cupboard before returning with the 2005 Dalliance High Catalogue. Together we began paging through the yearbook, looking for any sign of Brittanie. In fact, she was everywhere. Homecoming court, the pom squ
ad, candids at pep rallies and rambunctious car washes. I couldn’t find a single picture, or even a mention, of her doing anything academic, which seemed a little odd for the girl who went on to win a highly prized academic scholarship. Apparently even in high school, Brittanie wore a carefully constructed mask.

  “Once we get to her college years,” Finn said as he scrolled through the listing of stories from the News-Letter archives, “we see a lot more of her. Sorority functions, a debate on cigarette advertising hosted by the undergraduate business school fraternity”—he kept clicking through the stories, his fingers flying—“an internship in the mayor’s office, some sort of apprenticeship program with Sinclair’s Jewelry—”

  “Whoa. Back up. Sinclair’s?”

  “Uh . . .” He hit the back button a couple of times, then pulled up a screen full of text. “Yeah.”

  We read together in silence. Brittanie and JoAnne Simms had been highlighted in a story about a partnership program between the Dickerson business school and the Dalliance Chamber of Commerce, matching college kids with businesspeople for mentoring. The story included a picture of Brittanie and JoAnne, both smiling their beauty queen smiles, looking like the best of friends.

  “That could be how Brittanie got to know Garrett Simms,” I said. “And if JoAnne actually mentored Brit, helped her out, it would have made the betrayal of the affair even worse.”

  Finn slouched back in his chair. “You really have it in for JoAnne Simms.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, you do.”

  “I just want to figure out who could have poisoned Brittanie. It’s not my fault that all the signs point to JoAnne.” I scooted around in my chair to face Finn and folded my arms across my chest.

  He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Seems to me you’re being pretty selective about the signs you’re looking at. What’s your evidence that JoAnne did it?”

  He began ticking off the elements of my flimsy case on his fingers.

  “First, you’ve got this adultery motive. And I guess that’s as good a motive as any to kill someone, but JoAnne is hardly the only woman in Dalliance to hold that particular grudge against Brittanie.” He narrowed his eyes. “You, for example.”

  “But I’m not a possessive psycho-bitch like JoAnne,” I argued.

  “Well . . . ,” Finn hedged.

  “Finn Harper!”

  He laughed. “I’m kidding. But you see what I mean? Brittanie might have had an affair with JoAnne’s husband, but she outright stole yours. Who’s got the better motive?”

  I shrugged, silently conceding the point.

  “And your point about JoAnne having opportunity made sense when we thought Brittanie was poisoned with her sports drink. But if she was poisoned at the luau, there are tons more suspects. And, once again, you had more opportunity than JoAnne did. You actually had access to the food during its preparation.”

  A ball of lead settled in my stomach.

  “Finn,” I said softly, “do you think I killed her?”

  “No, of course not,” he said, laying a hand on my arm. He snorted. “I still think it was Wayne.”

  I glared at him, and he shrugged unapologetically.

  “My point,” he continued, “is that you’ve lost perspective. I think you’ve been so anxious to find someone—anyone—to blame for what happened, that you’ve stopped seeing the big picture.”

  His words so closely echoed my own from the night before—about the importance of seeing things in their proper context—that I really couldn’t argue with him.

  “So what do I do, oh wise one?”

  “Sit back and let the police do their job?” he asked hopefully.

  “Right. At the rate they’re going, I’ll be wearing an orange jumpsuit by Christmas.”

  “Okay, fine,” he said. “Start with what you know. You know Brittanie was poisoned at the luau. Talk to people who were there, who might have seen what she put in her mouth, and take it from there.”

  I chewed on my lip, thinking of who had been at the luau who might actually be willing to talk to me. The list was pretty short. But right at the top was my new friend Deena and her daughter, Crystal.

  I had just pulled my cell phone from my purse and flipped it open, poised to call Deena and set up a lunch date, when a rumpled older man with a pair of reading glasses propped on his shiny bald pate slouched into the archive.

  “Hey, Harper, guess what?” he said. Then his gaze settled on me and his eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, sorry; didn’t know you had company.”

  “Hey, Mike,” Finn said. “This is Tally Jones, an old friend. Tally, meet Mike Carberry.”

  Mike narrowed his eyes and pinched his lips, his expression shrewd and calculating. “Good to meet you, Tally,” he drawled.

  “What’s up, Mike?”

  Mike’s lips curled in a sly smile. “I just got off the phone with one of my sources in the state crime lab. They’re still sifting through trash, but they found another one of those little red plastic cups.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face.

  “And this one had antifreeze on it, too,” Mike said. “Any comment, Ms. Jones?”

  chapter 18

  “This is totally lame.”

  “I know, Alice,” I said as I maneuvered the van into the Tasty-Swirl parking lot. “But I’m going to owe you big time. And maybe you and Crystal Tompkins will hit it off.”

  Alice rolled her eyes. “Aunt Tally, Crystal Tompkins is seven years older than I am.”

  Ah, to be sixteen, when a seven-year age difference seemed like an insurmountable obstacle to a friendship. “Miz Jillson is something like forty years older than I am, and we’re still friends.” If I used the term loosely.

  “But you’re old.”

  Touché, little girl. Touché.

  “Well, even if you don’t become good friends, she may have advice for you about Dickerson. Professors to take and ones to avoid, which clubs are worth joining. Stuff like that.”

  Alice did not look convinced.

  “Look, I’ll spring for double onion rings.”

  She gave a grudging nod, and I knew that was the best I could hope for.

  Deena and Crystal were already squeezed into a booth in the Tasty-Swirl’s tiny dining room, green plastic baskets lined with waxed paper on the table in front of them.

  The red pleather booths and white Formica table-tops might have been kitschy cute if they hadn’t been so dinged up and dingy. Thankfully, though, the residents of Dalliance didn’t patronize the Tasty-Swirl because of its sparkling ambiance. In the summer they came for Sno-Kones and soft serve, and in the winter they came for gooey grilled cheese on Texas toast and greasy burgers on buttered buns.

  I had been surprised when Deena had chosen to meet there, since I figured her tastes would be a little more upscale. But as I watched her pop an onion ring in her mouth and then lick the grease from her fingers, I felt a pang of kinship.

  She smiled as we approached. “Hope you don’t mind that we went ahead and ordered. Crystal has a dress fitting at one, and I missed breakfast.”

  I handed Alice a ten and sent her to order our food while I slid into the booth. “No problem.”

  “Crystal, honey, this is Mrs. Jones. Tally, Crystal.”

  Crystal Tompkins had her mama’s curvy figure and auburn hair, but she wore it cut short in a sleek bob. She wore a smart, fitted jacket over a crisp white shirt, a stark contrast to her mother’s flowing chiffon tunic. Huge caramel brown eyes fringed with lush lashes dominated her cherubic face, and when she reached across the table to shake my hand, those eyes flashed with intelligence.

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Jones.”

  “Please, call me Tally. And this,” I added as Alice scooted in next to me, “is my niece, Alice Anders. Alice is a freshman at Dickerson. Your mom said you graduated last spring. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” Crystal said. “Now I just need to get a job.”


  Deena clucked softly. “You need to apply to law school.”

  “Mom.” I smothered a smile at the exasperation in Crystal’s voice. Deena opened her mouth to argue, but Crystal waved her off. “Alice, what are you studying?”

  My niece squirmed. She hated being the center of attention almost as much as Bree craved it.

  “I don’t know yet. I was thinking about psychology and I really like the class I’m taking now, but I also like my comparative literature class, and I’m going to do research for my professor next semester.”

  I knew Alice hated me bragging on her to folks, but I couldn’t resist. “Alice got a full-ride scholarship,” I said. “She’ll get to do research with her professors every semester and even over the summers.”

  Alice sucked in a breath of mortification and nudged my knee under the table. I nudged her right back. It was my prerogative to tell everyone how great she was, whether she liked it or not.

  “Oh, did you get the Regents’ Scholarship?” Deena asked. Alice nodded glumly. “That’s wonderful! Especially given the tuition at Dickerson. Thankfully, I married my sugar daddy right about the time Crystal started.”

  “Mom!” Crystal and Alice exchanged a long-suffering look. The difference between their ages proved not nearly so vast as their contempt for their elders.

  Deena laughed her rich, dark-chocolate laugh. “Crystal doesn’t like me mentioning the fact that Tom Silver raised our standard of living considerably. But, truth is, he footed the bill for her education.”

  Crystal’s sunny face clouded over, and she began fidgeting with the straw in her soda cup. “If I’d gotten the Regents’ Scholarship, we wouldn’t have needed Tom’s money.”

  Deena swayed toward her daughter so their shoulders bumped. “Aw, baby. How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t marry Tom Silver so you could go to college. He may be a pain in the patoot sometimes, but I do love the man. Like my mother always said, you can love a rich man as well as a poor one. And he may grumble about the size of my ass, but he loves me back.”