“Let me guess,” Robinson said. “The neighbors still claim to hear the woman crying in the boathouse during storms.”
“Exactly. But believe me when I tell you, we’ve spent many a stormy night camped out in that boathouse waiting for the woman’s ghost to appear.” I smiled gently at Ben. “And the only thing we ever saw was our first buzz off of a mason jar of vodka stolen from our parents’ liquor cabinet.”
Robinson chuckled, then turned serious again. “Here are the obstacles as I see them. In addition to your extensive knowledge of this boathouse and your close relationship with the victim, the biggest problem we are facing is that you were both seen fighting with this girl on the night she was killed. All of the above pretty much makes y’all murder suspects numero uno and numero dos.”
“But the foot—” Ben started to protest.
“Forget about the footprints,” Robinson said, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. Mr. Robinson was small in size, but his commanding voice made his presence known in any crowd. I’d never seen him perform in a courtroom, but I was glad he was on my side. “The two of you are the logical suspects, and you can bet every investigator on this case is going to try to pin this on you.”
I gazed out of the window, wondering how we’d gone from celebrating New Year’s to being questioned for murder. The bare trees along the side of the road reminded me of soldiers, sentries standing guard along the way to the prison. I glanced at my brother, who stared at the back of Thompson’s head and looked miserable, a man lost in his grief. Despite everything he’d told me, and all he’d tried to convince himself, he had never stopped loving her.
My grandfather’s words rang out in my ears—If you are strong for Ben, he will be strong too.
“What do you know about George Turner?” I asked Mr. Robinson.
He waited for the car in front of him to make a left-hand turn at the stoplight in Kilmarnock before answering me. “Only that he has a very strong alibi: his father, the commonwealth’s attorney.”
“Trust me, George is somehow involved in this mess. I mean, think about it. A. He lives right across the creek. B. His boat is actually in the water instead of in dry storage like ours. C. He knew my roommate. He was at our house on New Year’s Eve when Emma arrived so unexpectedly.” I paused, debating whether or not to use my trump card and sacrifice my friend’s future to protect my brother’s. “And then there was the matter of his recent visit to rehab for anger management and alcohol abuse.”
Ben jerked his head toward me.
I shrugged. What else could I do?
Ben nodded. You did the right thing.
“Now that, Katherine, is some very useful information,” Mr. Robinson said, nodding his head with enthusiasm. “Let me ask you this. Have the two of you told the police the truth about everything so far?”
“Yes, sir,” we answered in unison.
“Then let’s make a pact. I’ll get to the bottom of this mess, but the two of you, in turn, must continue to tell the truth.”
We spent the next two hours answering the same questions over and over again. Finally, after assuring the detectives we wouldn’t leave town, we drove back to White Stone in silence. When we got to the house, we discovered that, in our absence, Archer and Spotty had taken Ben’s car home to Richmond.
“I don’t understand. Why’d they leave?” I asked my mother.
Mom placed a cheese-and-meat sandwich platter in front of Thompson and me. “They just have some things they need to take care of before they go back to school. Archer wanted me to be sure to tell you she loves you and to call her as soon as you can.”
“Translated—they felt like they were in the way,” Thompson said. “I’ve been wondering if maybe I should head on back to Charlottesville as well. I have plenty of work to do to get ready for next semester, and you have enough to deal with without having to worry about a houseguest.”
Mom handed Thompson a hoagie roll and a jar of mayonnaise. “I know we’ve only just met, but as far as I’m concerned, this murder investigation has moved us beyond the point of being guests to one another. From now on, I’ll expect you to make your bed and do your own laundry.”
This seemed to put Thompson at ease for the moment. But fifteen minutes later, when we were stretched out on the dock with our backs against a piling, enjoying the warmth of the sun on a rare fifty-degree January day, he raised the subject again.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you needed some space,” he said, taking a bite of his sandwich.
“Go back to Charlottesville if you need to, Thompson, but don’t do it because you think it’s what I want. Ben is in a bad place right now. He’s counting on me to give him strength, which is strength I get from you.”
“Say no more.” Thompson nodded and looked up toward the house. “Speaking of Ben, where’d he go?”
“Upstairs, to take a nap.” I took a gulp from my water bottle and wiped my lips with a napkin. “Listen, the police are too busy protecting the commonwealth’s attorney’s son to worry about finding the real killer. If we’re going to find anything that’ll help us get out of hot water, we’re going to have to do it ourselves.”
“That’s my girl,” he said, winking at me. “What’s your plan?”
“You know me so well,” I said, wadding up my napkin and throwing it at him. “I haven’t gotten beyond this first part, but before the police decide to impound Emma’s car, we’re going to search it until we find something that will lead us to the real killer.”
Twenty-Four
And we found that something tucked under the visor on the driver’s side of Emma’s car—an old-fashioned room key from the Shady Oaks Motel in White Stone.
I flipped the plastic key chain over in my hand. “Room number one-fifteen. I know your bedside manner is impeccable, but how do your investigative skills rate?” I asked Thompson.
“Yet to be tested.” Thompson removed his car key from his coat pocket and dangled it in front of me. “But hey, I’m game.”
Thompson and I agreed to take the legitimate approach and speak to the manager first, but when we pulled into the parking lot of the one-story motel and saw no sign of life in the front office, we decided to have a look around on our own. We parked on the opposite side of a late-model Chevy pickup truck, the only other vehicle in the lot. Holding our bodies flush against the wall, we peeped inside room 115, making sure it was empty before letting ourselves in with the key. We searched everything quickly and thoroughly, under the bed and in the drawers and on top of the shelves in the closet. Despite the outdated décor, the room was clean and ready for the next couple to spend an hour of their afternoon hidden away from the world.
“There’s nothing here,” I said, plopping down on the bed. “What was I thinking? Did I seriously believe we would find a handwritten letter from Emma pointing us to her killer?”
“Hold on a minute, now. Let’s think about this before we give up so easily.” Thompson lowered himself to the bed opposite me. “Why would Emma have rented this room in the first place if she was planning to spend the night with you?”
I lay back flat and stared at the ceiling. “Who knows? The drive from Texas to Virginia is over twenty hours. Maybe she needed a nap before she crashed our party.”
“Your house is not that easy to find through all the winding country roads. I know she’s visited you a couple of times, but would she have known how to get to your house without directions?” It irritated me when Thompson made me come to my own conclusions instead of giving me the answers right away.
“Well duh.” I rolled over on my side and propped myself up on one elbow. “She used her GPS. She probably got our address from the telephone book.”
Our eyes drifted to the bedside table. “It’s all yours,” Thompson said, handing me the phone book.
I opened it to the L’s and ran my finger down the page. “My father’s name is underlined,” I said, flipping through the pages to the T’s. “And so is Holden Turner’s. That god
damn little bitch.” I heaved the phone book across the room. “Would this information still be stored on her GPS?”
Thompson shrugged. “At least, on mine, you can pull up previous destinations.” He stood and pulled me to my feet. “Shall we go check it out?”
I held the door open for Thompson. “Do you think there’s any point in talking to the manager?” I asked, jiggling the knob to make sure it was locked.
“Whether we want to or not, here he comes.” Thompson nodded toward a man—probably in his mid-thirties, and wearing blue-jeaned overalls and a camouflaged hunting coat—heading our way from the motel office.
“Just what’d y’all think you’re doing?” he called out to us.
I took a step towards him. “Coming to talk to you, actually. We need your help.”
He remembered Emma right away from the picture I showed him on my iPhone, although he was reluctant to release any information until I shed a few tears and mentioned murder.
The manager held his giant hands up to me. “I don’t want no trouble now, little lady. The local law is my kin. My grandpappy, God rest his soul, was once the sheriff of Lancaster County. His son, my uncle, is a senior patrolman. Whatever I tell you, I’m gonna have to tell them too.”
I nodded my head in enthusiasm. “And we want you to. All I’m trying to do is save my brother from going to jail for something he didn’t do,” I said, shivering against a sudden gust of wind.
The manager’s lips parted in a gentle smile that gave us a glimpse of rotting teeth. “Then let’s go inside where it’s warm. Feels like that cold front has decided to come on through.”
We followed him down the sidewalk, with a trail of body odor and stale cigarettes in his wake. His office was more than warm. It was hot and stuffy, suffocating. He removed a box from under the counter, a wooden card file that resembled my grandmother’s old recipe box. He flipped through slowly, taking his time until he found the card he wanted.
“She checked in around noon on New Year’s Eve day. If I remember right, she’s the one who drove in from Texas?” His eyes scanned down the card. “Yup, white Lexus SUV with Texas tags.”
Thompson leaned over the counter to look at the card. “How’d she pay for her room?”
The man pointed a nicotine-stained finger at the card. “Says here, cash.”
“Did you get an imprint of a credit card?” Thompson asked. “You know, for incidentals?”
“No need for that. We don’t offer room service or fancy movie channels.”
I pointed to a sign above the counter. “Did she rent by the hour or by the day?”
“Says here, daily.” The manager stuffed the card back in the box. “But I remember she had a hard time deciding. She wanted to take a nap and get cleaned up, but she thought she might be staying with friends overnight.” He walked over to the door, watching a middle-aged couple spill out of one of the rooms and climb into the Chevy truck. “Things got kind of busy that afternoon, it being New Year’s Eve and all. But I remember your friend left sometime around four o’clock and was gone for over an hour.”
“Do you have any idea where she might’ve gone?” Thompson asked.
“Nah.” The manager turned back around to face us. “I figured she’d gone out to get some hair thingamajig or sparkly makeup to doll herself up for the big night. She left for good around seven, and I ain’t seen her since.”
“Well, thank you for your help,” I said, jotting my number down on one of his reservation cards.
After making the manager promise to call me if he thought of anything else, Thompson and I jumped into the car and sped back to the house.
“Both addresses are right there, see?” Thompson pointed at the navigation screen in Emma’s Lexus. “The memory doesn’t record the date or time, but she went to the Turners’ address on Creekside Drive at some point before she came here. I’m guessing around four o’clock when she left the motel for an hour.”
My mind was spinning with unanswered questions. Were George’s parents at home at the time of her visit? Did Emma call George first to let him know she was coming, or did she just show up out of the blue? Had she been communicating with George since they first met over Labor Day weekend last year?
I shifted in my seat toward Thompson. “I need to borrow your car.”
“I’m sorry, Katherine,” he said, shaking his head. “No way I’m letting you go over there alone. It’s best to let the police handle this.”
“Because they’re doing such a good job of it?” I got out of the car, slammed the door, and headed toward the house for Dad’s keys.
Thompson caught up with me. “Wait a minute, stop,” he said, grabbing the hood of my coat. “If you insist on going, then I’m going with you.” His deep-blue eyes bored into mine.
“It’s not that I don’t want you to go with me.” I glanced over at the Turners’ farmhouse across the water. “It’s just that Mr. and Mrs. Turner are like my second parents. I have a comfortable relationship with them, and I’m not sure they’ll be able to speak freely in front of a stranger. Anyway, I need you to stay here with Ben. I’m worried about him.”
Reluctantly, he handed me the keys to his Land Rover. “I don’t like it, but all right.”
Sliding the keys from his fingertips, I stood on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “You’re the best. You know that, don’t you?” He pointed at his lips, and I planted one there too, a passionate kiss that expressed my gratitude for his support.
He followed me to his car. “Remember, to start it, you put your foot on the brake, not the gas, and then push the button,” he said, explaining the keyless ignition system that confused me every time I drove his car.
When the car started right up, I closed the door and rolled down the window. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. I’m going to look them in the eye and dare them to lie to me. I’ll be back here with a confession in my hand in less than an hour.”
He bent over and stuck his head through the open window. “It’s that cocky attitude of yours that worries me. I don’t think you realize the danger in this situation. Emma is dead, Katherine. And if what we believe is true, George is the one who killed her. You need to watch your back.”
“The Turners are not going to hurt me, Thompson,” I said with more conviction than I felt. “They’re like family.”
“Maybe once upon a time, you had that kind of relationship with them, Katherine. But they have made it abundantly clear their allegiance no longer extends beyond their immediate family. Not to you and certainly not to Ben. I want you to text me when you get there, before you go inside, and then again as soon as you leave to head back here. Okay?”
“Fine.” I puckered my lips and kissed the air. “Stop worrying.”
As I drove away, I caught a glimpse of Thompson’s concerned face in the rearview mirror. I remembered his warning—Watch your back. I dismissed the idea as paranoid, which would prove to be the biggest in a long list of mistakes I’d make that day.
Twenty-five
Mrs. Turner was wearing the same flannel robe with the faded blue flowers she’d been wearing when Ben and I visited her in August. But instead of the warm smile I remembered from that day, her mouth was set in a thin line. “Katherine, I’m surprised to see you,” she managed in a shaky voice. Instead of inviting me in, she closed the door a little against the cold. Against me.
Mr. Turner appeared behind her. I was shocked at how much he’d aged in the few months since Abigail’s funeral. His hair was all the way gray, nearly white, and the lines around the corners of his eyes were etched deep with worry. In a George Clooney kind of way, he was still a handsome man, but life had taken its toll, the grief over the loss of his daughter too much for him to bear. “Considering the circumstances,” he said, “I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for you to be here. It’s unfortunate your brother had to drag us into this mess.”
His nasty tone stunned me. And to think I’d been feeling guilty for bringing more hardship on
his family. “My brother?” I asked, taking a step toward them. “You mean Ben? The boy you taught to water ski? The one who used to wait all week long to go sailing with you on the weekends? The guy who thinks of you as his second father? Is that the brother you’re talking about?”
Mr. Turner’s shoulders slumped as he stepped out of the way to let me in. I should have left the Turners’ house at that point. I’d already gotten what I’d come for. Their guilt was evident in their glazed eyes and pinched faces. They were covering for their son. And the need to find out how George was involved in Emma’s murder propelled me inside like an outboard motor on a boat.
“I understand Emma came over here for a visit on New Year’s Eve,” I blurted once we were seated in their living room. “Was that the first time you met her?”
The Turners exchanged a concerned look. “That girl was never in this house,” Mr. Turner said, as if delivering the closing arguments to a jury.
George bounded up the stairs from their basement playroom. “Why would your roommate come to see me when she was so in love with your brother?” he asked, plopping down on the sofa next to me.
Here we go with the brother thing again.
I took a closer look at George and I didn’t like what I saw. His eyes were wild, black and shiny like pinballs bouncing off the ceiling and the walls. His smile was bright, too bright considering the circumstances. Afraid of pushing him over the edge, I opted for a more gentle approach. “How’re you holding up, George, in the midst of all this craziness?”
“I have nothing to hide.” His quick response made me wonder whether he’d been rehearsing with his father all afternoon.
Saving Ben Page 22