by Nora Roberts
“When she was sweet sixteen. And she slugged me, nearly knocked me off the stool. That was embarrassing.”
She giggled, and the sheen of tears faded from her eyes. “Mrs. Knight hit you? Really?”
“Don’t let it get around. I think people have almost forgotten.”
“No, they haven’t,” Clare said as she rose. “It just makes him feel better to think so. Why don’t I leave you two alone?”
“Can’t you—” Sally bit her lip again. “Can’t she stay? I already told her and … will it be all right?”
“Sure.” Cam looked up at Clare and nodded. “I need to ask you some questions. You’ve known Ernie for a long time?”
“Since middle school.”
“Does he get along with the other kids?”
It wasn’t the line of questioning she’d been expecting and she frowned. “Well, he doesn’t get into fights or anything. This time …” She looked at Clare. “This time was my fault, really. I came by, and I guess I made a scene because I wanted him to feel about me the way I felt—thought I felt,” she corrected, “about him. I don’t want him to get into trouble, Sheriff. He isn’t worth it.”
“Good going,” Clare murmured and toasted Sally with a Diet Pepsi.
“He’s not in trouble.” Yet. “Who does he hang around with?”
“Nobody really.”
“He doesn’t sit with a particular group in the lunchroom?”
“No, he kind of keeps to himself.”
“He drives to school, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Does he ever have anybody in the truck with him?”
“I’ve never seen him give anybody a ride.” That was funny, she realized. Kids were always piling into each other’s cars. But nobody ever rode shotgun with Ernie.
It wasn’t what Cam wanted to hear. If Ernie was involved with what had been going on in Emmitsboro, he wasn’t acting alone. “You’ve been with him a lot over the past few weeks.”
The flush started at her neck and rose slowly to her cheeks. “Mr. Atherton assigned partners for a chemistry project. Ernie and I were working on it together.”
“What did he talk about?”
She moved her shoulders. “He doesn’t talk much.” It occurred to her then that Ernie had never talked like Josh—about school, about his parents, other kids, sports, movies. He’d let her do all the talking, then had led her upstairs to his room.
“Did you ever talk about the things that have been going on, like Biff Stokey’s murder?”
“I guess we did, some. I remember Ernie saying that Biff was just an asshole.” Her blush turned fiery. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Did he say anything else?” Mortally embarrassed, she shook her head. “Did he ever ask you about the night you and Josh were in the cemetery?”
“Not really. But Josh told everybody, and he kept telling everybody until it got really boring. Josh just doesn’t let things go, you know?” And she hoped he still wanted to go to the party with her.
“Sally, were you with Ernie last Monday night?”
“Last Monday?” She looked up gratefully as Clare refilled her glass of Pepsi. “No, I baby-sit for the Jenkinses every Monday.”
“And Ernie didn’t come by? You didn’t go over to his house after you were finished?”
“No. The Jenkinses live right next door to us, and if I had a boy over, my mom would get really hyped. They don’t usually come home until about eleven.”
“How about Tuesday?”
“Tuesday?” She looked away and picked up her glass.
“Were you with Ernie Tuesday night?”
She nodded, then put down the glass without drinking. “I was supposed to be over at Louise’s house, studying, but I went to Ernie’s. His parents work at night.”
“I know. Can you tell me what time you got there and what time you left?”
“I left Louise’s just before ten, so I got there a few minutes later. It was after eleven when I left.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, because I was supposed to be home at eleven, and it was almost eleven-thirty when I got there, and my father was ticked.”
“Okay.” The little bastard couldn’t be in two places at once, Cam thought. But he wasn’t willing to let go quite yet. “You’ve seen that pendant Ernie wears?”
“Sure, he used to wear it under his shirt, but …” She realized too late what that implied, and looked down at the table again.
“Do any of the other kids wear one?”
“No. I don’t think so. Nobody’s really into that kind of thing.”
“What kind of thing?”
“You know, Satanism and stuff.”
Cam felt Clare stiffen beside him but concentrated on Sally. “But Ernie was?”
“I guess. He had the pentagram. He had black candles in his room. He liked to light them and listen to black metal.”
“Did you ever ask him about it?”
“I asked him once why he was into that kind of thing, and he just smiled and said it was a game. But … I didn’t think it was a game to him. I said I’d seen on television how cults killed people, even babies, and he said I was gullible, that was just society’s way of putting down something they didn’t understand.”
“Did he say anything else about it?”
“Not that I remember.”
“If you do, will you come and tell me?”
“All right.”
“Do you want me to drive you home?”
“No, I’m okay.” She pressed her lips together. “Are you going to talk to my parents?”
“If I have to talk to them about any of this, I’ll tell you first.”
“Thanks.” She gave him a weak smile, then turned to Clare. “You and Angie were really great.”
“We have to stick together.”
Sally nodded as she stood. “I, ah … Ernie has a telescope in his room,” she blurted out. “I looked through it once when he left me alone for a minute. I could see right into your bedroom window.” She blushed again. “I thought you should know.”
Clare struggled to keep her face blank. “Thanks.”
“I’ll see you around.”
“Come back any time you want.” Clare let out a long, quiet breath after Sally had gone. “I guess I’d better start pulling down the shades.”
“The little sonofabitch.”
Clare clamped a hand on Cam’s before he could rise. “What are you going to do, punch him out? Not only are you twice his age and half again his weight, but you’ve got a badge that says you’re not allowed to.”
“I’ll take it off.”
“No, you won’t. And if nothing else, that bombshell Sally dropped will get you what you want. I’ll stay away from him.” She leaned forward, framed his face with her hands, and kissed him. “But I appreciate the thought.”
“Start locking your doors.”
“He’s not going to—” She broke off, gauging the temper in his eyes. “All right. Now, do you want to tell me what brought on that line of questioning with Sally?”
“Missing graveyard dirt, what looks like a ritual killing, and the attack on Lisa MacDonald. The headless black cat on your back door.”
“You can’t seriously believe that one unhappy kid is on some kind of rampage for Satan.”
“No, I don’t. But I have to start somewhere.”
Restless, she rose to pace to the window. The lilacs were blooming, damn it. There was a nest of starlings in the eaves, and the grass needed mowing. That was the way things were supposed to be. The way they had always been. She wouldn’t accept that there was something undulating beneath the calm surface.
But she thought of the books in her night table drawer. For one horrid instant, she could see her father sprawled on the terrace, broken, bleeding, beyond hope.
She rubbed her hands over her eyes as if to erase the image. “It’s absurd. The next thing you’ll tell me is that the Emmitsboro Ladies Club is act
ually a witches’ coven that meets every full moon.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “I’m telling you that there’s something sick in this town. I’m going to find it and cut it out. Right now Ernie Butts is the only lead I’ve got.”
Again she thought of the books, her father’s books. God, her father. She couldn’t bring herself to speak of it. But there was something else, something that perhaps meant nothing but wouldn’t be such a complete betrayal.
“I didn’t think anything of it at the time,” she began and had to give herself a moment before her voice steadied. “The day you found Biff, and we went out to your mother’s.…”
His fingers tensed on her shoulders. “What about it?”
“I stayed with her after the doctor gave her a sedative. I just kind of wandered around. There were books in, well, I guess you’d call it Biff’s den. I wanted something to read. Mostly there was just pornography and men’s adventures. But—”
“But?”
“I found a copy of The Satanic Bible.”
Chapter 21
Jane Stokey spent each day cleaning and packing. After the eggs were gathered and the stock seen to, she settled into one room of the rambling farmhouse. Much of it would be sold at auction. She’d already had Bob Meese out to give her a bid on the mahogany dining room set that had been her grandmother’s. The big and little server, the china cupboard, the extension table meant for large families with lots of children, the scarred and treasured chairs. They had all meant something to her once. Over the years, the shellac had turned black, and the surfaces wouldn’t hold much of a shine, but the dining set had been her pride and joy. And a bone of contention between her and Biff.
He had wanted to sell it. It was one of the few things she’d had the will to refuse him.
Now he was getting his wish.
She would have no room for heavy old furniture in Tennessee. Her sister didn’t want it. Cam had his own. Jane had no daughter to pass the tradition down to. It would end with her.
She didn’t think about that. Didn’t allow herself.
It would cost too much to truck it south, too much to store it. The plain fact was she didn’t have the heart to hold on to it now that she was alone.
She went through the drawers, separating linens into a box to sell or a box to take. Her mother’s damask tablecloth with its spot of cranberry sauce that hadn’t washed out from some Thanksgiving years before. The lacy runner that had been a wedding present from Mike’s aunt Loretta. She had once starched and pressed it so lovingly; now it was limp with age and disuse. There were the napkins with the fancy R in the corners that she had embroidered herself.
She folded them into her takeaway box like a secret.
From linens she moved to glassware, wrapping the candlesticks, the candy dishes, the single champagne flute that had survived thirty years.
One box filled, and she started on a new one, thinking, How things do collect after thirty-odd years. With competent hands she wrapped pieces of her life in newspaper for other people to pick and paw through. And here was the platter Mama had bought from the traveling salesman with the carrot red hair and the white, white grin. He’d said it would last a lifetime, but Mama had bought it because of the pretty pink flowers around the edges.
A tear fell on the newsprint as Jane wrapped it.
She couldn’t take it all with her. She couldn’t. What would a woman alone do with so much? Why, every time she washed or dusted them, she would be reminded that there was no one to care.
She would buy herself some new dishes, like the ones she’d seen in the JC Penney catalog. There was no reason to fill cupboards and closets with things she didn’t need. Why, she couldn’t think what had made her keep all of it for so long. Dust collectors, Biff had called them. He’d been right, too. She’d spent hours chasing the dust from them.
She wrapped a small china cat and slipped it guiltily into her take-away box.
The knock on the door made her jolt. Jane brushed off her apron, smoothed down her hair before she went to answer. She sincerely hoped it wasn’t Min Atherton again, come to poke around the house with the excuse of being a concerned friend and neighbor.
Jane nearly laughed at the thought. Min had been a nosey busybody since the day she could talk. If she weren’t married to James, no one would give her the time of day. The surge of regret and envy came swiftly. Min might have been an irritant, like a speck of dust in the eye that wouldn’t tear out, but she had a husband.
Jane opened the door to her son.
“Mom.” He could think of nothing in his life he regretted more than what he was about to do. “I need to talk to you.”
“I’m busy, Cameron.” She was afraid he had come to talk about the farm. She’d waited for him to come and complain that she was selling. But he hadn’t complained. He hadn’t said a word about it. “Settlement’s in three weeks, and I’ve got the whole house to pack up.”
“In a hurry to get rid of it?” He held up a hand, cursing himself. “That’s your business. But I need to talk to you. It’s about Biff.”
“Biff?” Her fingers went to the buttons of her blouse and began to twist. “Did you find out something? Do you know who killed him?”
“I need to talk to you,” he repeated. “Are you going to let me come in?”
Jane stepped back. Cam noted that she’d already started on the living room. There was nothing left but the sofa, the TV, and a single table and lamp. There were dark squares on the faded wallpaper where pictures had hung, a faint outline on the floor where the rug had lain.
He wanted to shout at her, to shake her and demand that she think. It was part of his life she was packing away. But he wasn’t here as her son. She didn’t want him to be.
“Why don’t you sit down?” He gestured to the sofa and waited. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“I’ve already told you everything I know.”
“Have you?” He didn’t sit but studied her. “Why don’t you tell me about Biff’s interests.”
“Interests?” Her face went blank. “I don’t understand.”
“What was he into, other than drinking?”
Her mouth was a thin, straight line. “I won’t have you speaking ill of him in his own house.”
“This was never his house, but we’ll leave that alone. What did he do with his time?”
“He worked the farm.”
Like hell, Cam thought, but left that, too, alone. “His free time.”
“He liked to watch the TV.” She groped, fumbling to find a grip on a man she’d lived with for more than twenty years. “He liked to hunt. He’d never let a season go by without getting a deer.”
Or two, Cam thought. He’d dressed them illegally in the woods, bypassed the check-in station at the market, and sold the meat.
“Did he read?”
Baffled, she blinked at Cam. “Some.”
“What kind of things did he read?”
She remembered the magazines she had found, and burned, in the shed. “The things men read, I suppose.”
“What about religion?”
“Religion? He didn’t have one. He was raised Methodist, I think, but he always said church was a waste of a good hour every week.”
“How many times a week did he go out?”
“I don’t know.” She began to huff. “I don’t see what this has to do with his murder.”
“Was there any particular night he always went out?”
“I didn’t keep track of the man. It wasn’t my place.”
“Then whose was it? Who’d he go out with?”
“Different people.” Her heart was beating too loud, but she didn’t know what she was afraid of. “Mostly he’d go out alone and meet Less Gladhill or Oscar Roody or Skunk Haggerty or one of the others. Sometimes they’d play poker or just go to Clyde’s.” And sometimes he’d go into Frederick and visit a whore. But she left that unsaid. “A man’s entitled to relax.”
“Did he ever relax with drugs?”
Her color fluctuated, white, then pink, then white again. “I wouldn’t have those filthy things in my house.”
“I need to look in his den.”
Her color changed again, to a dull red. “I won’t have it. I won’t. You come here, after the man’s dead and can’t defend himself, and try to say he was some kind of drug fiend. Why aren’t you out looking for whoever killed him instead of coming here and slinging dirt?”
“I am looking for whoever killed him. Now, I need to look through his things. I can do it this way, or I can get a court order. It’s up to you.”
She rose, very slowly. “You’d do that?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not the boy I raised.” Her voice shook.
“No, I guess I’m not. I’d like you to come with me. If I find anything, I want you to see where and how it was found.”
“You do what you have to do. Then I don’t want you coming back here anymore.”
“There’s nothing to come back to.”
He followed her stiff back up the stairs.
He was relieved she hadn’t started on Biff’s den yet. It was exactly as Clare had described it. Cluttered, dusty, scented with stale beer.
“I take it you didn’t come in here much.”
“This was Biff’s room. A man’s entitled to his privacy.” But the dust embarrassed her almost as much as the magazines piled on the floor.
He started in one corner, working silently and systematically. In a drawer with shotgun shells and matches, he found a package of Drum, filled with about an ounce of grass.
He looked at her.
“That’s just tobacco.”
“No.” He held it out for her to look at. “It’s marijuana.”
There was a quick, dull pain in the center of her stomach. “It’s Drum tobacco,” she insisted. “It says so right on the bag.”
“You don’t have to take my word for it. I’ll send it to the lab.”
“That won’t prove anything.” She began to ball and un-ball the skirt of her apron. “Somebody gave it to him—like a joke. He probably didn’t even know what it was. How would he know?”
He set the bag aside and continued to search. Inside the hollowed-out stand for the stuffed squirrel he found two vials of cocaine.