by Aitana Moore
Glancing up at him, Jada seemed to hesitate. People were bustling in the kitchen, but on the floor there was only one other waitress setting tables.
"I don't have much time."
"We won't need much," Ava assured her, dimpling pleasantly.
As James had imagined, Ava's presence put Jada at ease, and he had his usual advantage: being a well-dressed foreigner who spoke a Downtown Abbey sort of English. He didn't look like he needed anything from people — and Jada's reserve was already melting as she led them to a table at the empty end of the place. She offered them something to drink and they settled on sparkling water, which she served with slivers of lemon and ice despite the cold.
James didn't speak as Ava informed Jada of the new developments in Keane's case and the fact that Lee's trial was going to take place in a few weeks.
"So, you see, we knew we had to talk to you. We have to figure out what happened during the time Joe was absent," Ava concluded.
"Why would you that concern me?” The fear in Jada’s smile confirmed that she knew something about that night. “If you think I was with Joe before he died, that's just stupid gossip.”
"It’s a new line of investigation," Ava explained. "One that the police neglected. And it will have a bearing on the trial."
Jada tapped her own chest. "You think I'm a suspect?"
"You were seen with Joe that night," James said. Ava's shoulders stiffened in shock at his lie, but he had to play bad cop. Having watched Jada for a few minutes, he suspected that he could make her talk, and he was certainly not backing away from the possibility. "If there is a trial, the time frame during which Joe was absent will be extensively investigated. You might become the centerpiece of the trial, when you didn't really do anything to Joe. Wouldn't that complicate your alimony, since it would give your husband the excuse of adultery?"
"I—I—" Jada’s face showed increasing panic. "I didn't do anything."
James’ eyes held Jada's. "We don't think you did anything except go somewhere with Joe that night. But we can't help what other people are going to think."
“If my husband gets hold of this …" Jada said, rubbing her forehead as she asked Ava, “Can he stop the alimony because of Joe?"
"I'm not a divorce attorney," Ava said with a sympathetic grimace.
"We are trying to avoid a trial," James insisted. "That's probably the only way for you not to testify before a jury in open court."
"Jesus," Jada muttered. "So, if I talk to you, I won't be called later?"
Ignoring Ava's obvious disapproval, James said, "Probably not for Lee's trial."
"Who saw me with Joe?" she asked.
Time to be vague. "Those areas that look empty are the most treacherous. People behind every tree and bush, or just passing by."
The woman wrung her hands. "I can't live just on what I make here. I have a child!"
"Help us help you, then."
"Look, it wasn't even an affair," Jada said, leaning forward earnestly. "We just saw each other a few times, that's all. April watched him like a hawk, and I was scared of that woman. That woman’s crazy!"
"What was different about that night, then?" James pursued.
"He said they'd had a big fight and he was done with her. He wanted someone to talk to. I knew that wasn't all he wanted, but I didn't mind. My husband wasn't in town. We were two people fed up with our spouses, and we were keeping each other company.”
Ava was almost as interested in the story as James, and she had forgotten to look censorious as she asked Jada, "Where did you meet?"
"He walked over to my house; it's about a quarter of an hour away. I got my sister to babysit and drove out on the road to meet him." Jada added with a puzzled frown, "I could swear it was safe. I wasn't taking no chances, because either April or my husband could have killed us."
"And where did you go from there?"
"To the cabin in the woods. We'd been there about three times,” Jada said. “It wasn't Joe’s house, it was a friend's, and it was more than half an hour away, so we felt safe. He always took me to the cabin when the friend wasn't there. But that night someone was."
"Who?"
She shook her head. "I never got a look. Joe would always park way up before we could even see the house and go and make sure — although I'd tell him, ‘Hey, if it's a friend and he doesn't mind, why don't you ask him beforehand if the house is free?’ And he said he didn't want to, because he'd have to explain why, and they'd ask who he was with. And that he had as much right to be there as any of them. Still, every time he would park way up out of sight and sorta run down, you know, to see if anyone was in. And this time he came huffing and puffing up the driveway and said someone was there and we had to get out. And he told me to duck in the seat, hoping whoever it was didn't run out and see me, or didn't know who I was."
"Did someone run out?"
"I didn't see anyone. But Joe just kept saying, 'Fuck, fuck, fuck' and driving backwards up the path, and when we got to the road we were out of there like bats out of hell."
"Did anyone follow you?"
She shrugged. "He kept looking in the rearview mirror like he expected to see the devil on our tail, but I don't think so. And, after a while, he didn't look so worried anymore, not about being followed, though he was still spooked."
"And then?"
"He got out at the same spot we had met, not too far from his house — I saw him going that way through the trees, like he was hiding. I was kinda scared too, by the way he was acting. It's like we ran into a bear's den or a wasps' nest or something."
"Didn't you ask who the 'friend' at the cabin was?"
"He couldn't say. Then I asked if it was anyone who knew about us, and he said no, definitely not. I thought he screwed up, you know. His friend was there, he hadn't asked for permission, and he'd have gotten in trouble. Maybe the friend was with a woman that wasn't supposed to be there either and he'd have gotten mad. But there wasn't no one following us. That was just Joe's paranoia.” She stopped and shrugged. “I guess I didn't think about it anymore. As soon as I heard he was dead, I thought it was April that had clocked him one like she was always doing. To be honest I worried for a second I'd be next — but everyone was told it was Lynn Miller for sure. I kept quiet about the cabin because it didn’t have anything to do with anything."
Before she could ask for more assurances that the story wouldn't get out, James asked, "Can you tell us what that cabin was like? What do you remember about it?"
Jada's face had become canny. "Are you sure and certain it wasn't Lynn Miller? She ran away, and the police was pretty sure. And if it wasn't her, it must have been her mama, I'm telling you. Like I said, she had already hit Joe with stuff that might have killed him."
"Just humor me for a second, won’t you?" James said in a deep, smooth voice, still holding Jada's gaze. "What can you remember?"
She stared at him with parted lips for a moment, then blinked twice and said. "It was a wooden cabin, not very fancy or anything. Lots of trees around, all trees. There was a boat, like a small motor boat, covered up and with wheels, so there musta been a creek or something close by. Inside — well, I remember thinking it was such a man's place. No woman's touch anywhere, just plain, and a bit of a mess. There was a sofa and that's pretty much where we ... you know. Not even a sheet or anything. There were some bottles of booze, some glasses — men don't really clean up after themselves. Didn't look like they ate there or anything, there were just some snacks. Joe brought his own booze, he washed the glasses we used and put them back where they were. I noticed he did that all times we were there. Like he was leaving everything as he found. There was a bathroom, too, pretty bare and smelling of moisture. It was all kinda falling apart. I thought maybe they used it for girlfriends but also to hunt or something. Yeah, there were guns. Rifles and stuff."
"What was it like outside?"
"I was only there during the day once. It was still fall then, so there was still leaves and all. I co
uld see there was a shed made of cement. I thought maybe they kept the boat in there sometimes."
Taking the map from his pocket, James opened it on the table. "Would you be able to tell which woods you were at?"
Jada laughed. "North Carolina is fairly all woods! And there’s lots of creeks and lakes." She leaned forward to peer at the map. "We went on this road north, I'm pretty sure, and it was a wooded area, so anywhere around here, I guess."
"Would that be in Rockingham County?" Ava asked.
"Maybe. It was north for sure."
"Anything you remember seeing there, or near there, which would help?" James insisted.
Sighing, Jada shut her eyes. "When we got to the smaller roads, closer to the cabin, there were billboards, like several of them in a row? Oh, there was a water tower, but like an old one. Like the ones made of tin? And it said 'Woody's' on it. I remember that, ’cause I thought it was cute."
"Was it on the road?"
"Not on the main road. On the road where we turned into the property."
"Anything else?"
She sat thinking for a while but shook her head. "Just trees and trees."
"One more thing," James said, folding the map. "Did Joe ever hint that he would soon have money and that he could give you things, make your life easier?"
"Oh, yes." She scoffed. "Don't you men always promise that, when the blood's up?"
"Can you remember what he said?"
"The usual. 'You'll see, I'm gonna make good. We're gonna get outta this town, it won't be long.' More stuff like that, but you know what, I didn't really listen. I had a kid, and Joe was just talking. How was he going to make good, with everyone suffering in that economy, and he without a job? At least my husband worked, even though he wasn't giving me nothing but aggravation."
James smiled warmly at her. "Thank you, Ms. Phillips."
She touched his sleeve. "Is this gonna get me off the hook? Of having to talk about it in court?"
"We'll do our best."
Jada Phillips still looked worried as she walked them to the car.
"I think you're barking up the wrong tree," she told James. "April Keane did this, or poor Lynn Miller did it because Joe finally lost it and was going for April. Poor girl had to defend that bitch of a mother. I heard the closest people are the ones who usually kill you."
The closest people. As James and Ava drove away, he reflected that he had been hearing that a lot. The closest people are the ones who hurt you, who lie, who kill you. And it wasn't that way only among the less privileged. He thought of Mia, of his uncle, of his aunt. Betrayal happened everywhere, but there were different stories too: of loyalty, of love, of sacrifice.
"I'm not sure that was legal," Ava said, trying to tidy up her windblown hair.
"Are you angry at me? I was the illegal one."
"James, if she needs to be called as a witness in the trial, the prosecution can say the defense browbeat her."
"It will never come to trial, Ava."
She cocked her head at him. "How can you be so sure?"
"We are very near finding out what happened, that's how. And it doesn't involve Lee. What we have to do is find that cabin, and everything will be explained. Will you give Carter a call and see if he can get people on to it right away? Find the cabin, find the deed and who owned or owns it."
Opening her bag, Ava took her phone. Before she dialed, James said, “I need to stay around Raleigh a little.”
"Uh-oh. Are you going to go rogue some more?”
He smiled. "It won’t be this bad.”
Ava gazed at him for a moment. “You love her a whole lot, don’t you?”
“It’s a question of justice.”
She gave a small laugh. “I deal with justice and injustice every day. This isn’t all it is.” She looked at the phone again, hitting Paxton’s number. “I’ll make my way back home. You go do what you need to do.”
TWENTY-THREE
April Keane had told James that she had lived in a trailer park near Lee’s father, and Paxton’s research had confirmed the fact. Lee had been in that park between the ages of three and six.
The park, he knew, was after Raleigh and on the way to Durham — but he didn’t go see it. Instead, he kept to the woods until he found himself before iron gates that led to a large white house in the distance.
The contrast between the imagined trailer park of Lee's early childhood and White Oaks, her grandmother’s home, almost belonged in the realm of the absurd.
Mrs. Frances Bergeron lived in a lavish colonial mansion complete with neo-classical columns, numerous windows and a wide front door that opened onto a sweeping staircase.
“Gone With the Wind, anyone?” James muttered, adding a bright “Good morning” to the uniformed maid who opened the door. She was a muscular black woman in her late fifties.
“Good morning,” she replied with a slight frown.
“I believe this is the home of Mrs. Bergeron? Would you be so kind as to beg her pardon for my unannounced appearance and ask her if she might receive me? I’m James St. Bryce.”
The maid nodded and left him under a gleaming chandelier as she went toward the drawing rooms, or however they were called there. James ran a finger over the round table that bore a large flower arrangement. It squeaked; no dirt, of course.
The maid soon returned to announce that Mrs. Bergeron would see him. Over softly creaking polished floors, she led the way to a large sitting room where a woman waited.
Mrs. Bergeron was slim and wore tailored trousers and an expensive silk blouse under a gray cardigan. Her short hair was swept back from a face that was still beautiful despite her age. Instead of smiling, she measured James with a frank stare before she offered her hand.
"Good afternoon," she said.
"Thank you for receiving me," he said, also without smiling.
“I do know who you are. I read the newspapers, especially when people I know appear in it. But I’m sure you suspected that.”
She motioned for him to sit on a sofa exactly like her own, upholstered in a tasteful pattern of flowers over a white background. "Have you had your lunch? Then, perhaps, coffee or tea?"
They settled on coffee, as James was a decided snob about tea. Mrs. Bergeron turned to the maid. "Will you please see to it, Celia?"
The Bergerons, according to the internet, had made their fortune in trade during the 18th century, and the house was authentically Georgian. It was full of good antiques, most of which had probably been there for generations. The French doors to James’ right showed a well-kept lawn with imposing oak trees and weeping willows.
Once they were alone, Mrs. Bergeron again focused on him. "I believe your mother was friends with a great friend of mine, Claire Smith-Rhodes?"
"Yes, Lady Wentworth.”
"Claire and I went to school together. That was before she married Sir Harry."
Mrs. Bergeron didn't, as James had feared, drone on about possible common acquaintances in high circles. She was direct: "Why on earth is someone like you messed up in this tawdry affair?"
A woman who didn't mince her words; that would be more useful to him than one who kept her opinions to herself.
"I had a tawdry situation of my own," James said. "And Lee helped me with it. Among other things."
A corner of Mrs. Bergeron's mouth went up at the mention of "other things." She was no one's fool.
"You came here to find out about her father's family? Is that the missing piece in the puzzle that is my granddaughter?"
"I guess you could say that. Does it bother you?"
His question almost took her aback, but she rallied. "If it did, I wouldn't have received you. But what is it you need to know? Aren't things clear by now?"
"I wouldn't say that. A lot is unclear. For example, who actually murdered Joseph Keane."
There was a delicate snort from Mrs. Bergeron. "Lynette, of course. She might as well have left a signed confession."
"I wonder.”
&nb
sp; "That’s because she wants you to.”
Celia’s face betrayed no opinions as she entered carrying a tray. She poured the coffee from a gleaming silver pot, handing James a china cup and offering him cubes of sugar.
"Boys lose their head around a beautiful girl," Mrs. Bergeron said, stirring her cup. "It's stupid, but hard to blame them when it's what nature intended. As mothers, we are told not to interfere — even my husband said that, when my son Mark got to that age. 'Let the boy live,' he told me. Well, we did what we could; we certainly taught him about birth control. Then he goes off, meets April Miller by the seaside, has some sort of romance in a hut and three lives are ruined: April Miller's, my son's and a child's."
She straightened the cardigan over her shoulders. "It's what every mother wants to avoid, because we know life. We know the consequences of a mistake can be very far-reaching. But April was so uneducated that she couldn't even find Mark to tell him she was pregnant. He went off to Harvard and she couldn't think to go back to the marina and find out his full name or where he was from. Apparently she tried to go home to have the child and got thrown out by her father."
"Just terrible,” James said tonelessly.
"I can feel sympathy for that,” Mrs. Bergeron said. “After all, a son we had brought up with constant advice and information had impregnated a girl. What would a girl born near a swamp know? When she finally found Mark, the child was almost three years old. My son was a decent young man, but we gave him the benefit of our advice."
James thought he didn’t need to ask, but did anyway: "And what was your advice?"
"That girl wanted to fleece him, and she had to be kept from the knowledge that she could have a paternity test forced on him. Mark gave her money anyway, to get her out of that horrible park. Only to visit them and find April Miller drunk, the new house a pigsty and the child half naked and hungry."
For the third time, she drew the cardigan about her, shaking her head in extreme disapproval. James tried not to picture the scene as Mrs. Bergeron went on, "It was clear that by giving her money he was just feeding an alcoholic her bottle, and that April was going to destroy that little girl. Mark felt he had to save Lynette, of course. For him, the whole thing became about getting her out of there. But the more Mark tried, the more that creature realized she could get money out of him for herself. And we were absolutely not going to let Mark give her those quantities of money. She was selling her own child!"