“Which ones aren’t junk?”
“This one.” Belle held up a bit of old wood that had a groove in it like old school desks did. “And this one”—a locket without a chain, but with an old-fashioned photo of a girl in it—“and this one”—a metal hinge that might also have come from a desk. “There used to be a one-room schoolhouse near the Rocks. It was ripped apart by a tornado in l882. Killed the teacher and all six children. I suspect these could be remnants of it.”
“I found them together.”
They had worked themselves up to the surface, as things did at the Rocks.
“You did? I’m glad to hear it. That makes it even more likely.”
The locket tugged at Jody’s heartstrings, given that it might have been worn by the schoolteacher or one of the children.
“Will you display them, Aunt Belle?”
But her aunt didn’t answer. She was staring at the second batch of items that Jody was rolling out onto the glass. When Belle finally spoke, her voice sounded choked and she didn’t look at Jody.
“Where did you find this?” she demanded.
Belle held a tarnished little sculpture in the palm of her hand.
“At the Rocks, like everything else. Remember one time I asked you if Mom wore a charm bracelet? I thought maybe that’s what this was, a charm.”
“It’s not a charm,” Belle said, her voice harsh. She turned it over, showing a circular clasp on the back of it. “It’s designed to hold the ropes of a bolo tie.”
The “charm” was a silver rearing horse.
Jody took it from her, noticing with alarm that her aunt’s hand was trembling, and looked more closely at the back of it. “Is this an inscription? M.T. M.T.? Meryl Tapper? Aunt Belle, did this belong to Uncle Meryl?”
“Yes,” Belle whispered, and then she finally looked into her niece’s eyes. Her own were filled with tears and she looked frightened. “Jody, I gave it to him for Valentine’s Day that year.”
“That year?”
“The year your parents …” She couldn’t finish her sentence. “The last time I saw him wear it was the night they died. He told me the next day he’d lost it. I never saw him wear it again. Jody, if he lost it at the Rocks that night …”
Belle suddenly ran from around the counter.
Jody, her heart pounding with dread and her mind trying to refuse what it was hearing, ran after her aunt. She followed her down the basement stairs into the storage area where Belle kept box upon box of things she had been given, had bought, had found, herself. Like a woman gone mad with terror, Belle pulled at the boxes, destroying her neat piles, reaching back farther and farther until the reached a row at the farthest remove from the front line of boxes. She knocked boxes aside, heedless of what emptied out of them until she reached one on the bottom. It looked different from the others—not like ordinary storage containers but like a cardboard box that a law firm might use to store old transcripts. Jody had seen old ones just like it in her uncle Meryl’s law office.
“Get me scissors!” Belle ordered her, pointing to where they hung.
Jody got them and gave them to her aunt, who ripped into the old, threaded wrapping tape that had been wound around the box as if its contents were valuable enough to be stored in Fort Knox.
When the tape was undone, Belle lifted the lid off.
Jody saw only what looked like rotten fabric inside, but Belle saw something that made her burst into tears and rock back and forth on her knees and moan. Scared, anxious, Jody knelt beside her and put a gentle hand on her aunt’s shoulder, only to have it shaken off.
“Aunt Belle, what is that in the box?”
“Sheets,” her aunt sobbed. “The bloody sheets from the bed in the room where your daddy died. Meryl gave me this box to store the next morning. He said it had confidential records of one of his clients and it would be safer stored here than in his office.” And then she said two things that shocked her niece. “Damn her! Damn her, damn her! I saw her flirt with him, but I thought, well, she flirts with every man. I should have known, I should have known.” She lifted the loathsome sheets—and what looked like pillowcases—out of the box and said the second thing that shocked her niece. “Why didn’t he just destroy these? Why, oh why, did he leave them here?”
Jody stood up and backed away in horror.
“Uncle Meryl killed my dad?” She began to shriek, over and over, until Belle had to come and take hold of her to stop her. But she couldn’t stop Jody from screaming, “What did he do to my mother, what did he do to my mother?”
MERYL MIGHT NOT have confessed, even when confronted with the irrefutable DNA evidence of the remaining hair strands that the sheriff turned over to the state crime lab, since any old semen stains on the sheets were long past using. He still might have pleaded not guilty and gone to trial. There wasn’t any other evidence to connect him to the murders, and the fact that he’d had sex with Laurie Linder didn’t prove he’d killed her husband. Based on past and recent events, his defense still could have built another case against Billy Crosby to provide the jury with reasonable doubt.
But Jody and her grandfather visited Meryl.
Hugh Senior sat across from him and stared without speaking.
Jody begged her uncle to tell her where her mother was.
She thought it was her grandfather’s stare that broke him, rather than her pleading, and even then he didn’t say it directly to them. He told the sheriff, claiming that he felt squeamish about telling his niece that he’d put her mother’s body in a feedlot waste lagoon.
Jody doubted that he confessed out of pity, but shame worked fine, too.
After that it was easier for him to admit to killing Valentine as well.
“None of it was murder, it was just one terrible accident after another,” he maintained to the sheriff and to everyone else who’d listen to him, as if he had never intended to kill anybody. This, despite the fact that he confessed to killing Valentine in order to put all the investigative energy into a new murder trial instead of the old one, because he felt threatened by the sheriff’s taunts about using the hair for DNA analysis. “The other deaths,” Meryl protested, in full lawyerly self-righteous dudgeon, “Hugh-Jay and Laurie, they were tragic accidents, too. It was all a terrible tragedy, not a crime. Hugh-Jay was my best friend, he was like a brother to me, and I loved—I love—the Linders, I owe everything to them.”
Two weeks after his arrest, Meryl Tapper had a massive heart attack.
The weight he had gained over the years—perhaps unconsciously to disguise the fact that he had ever been a man whom a beautiful woman might desire—helped kill him. The Linder family was grateful for the easy ending; after Billy’s rampage at the ranch, they had no appetite—not even Bobby or Chase—for more revenge.
“GRANDMA,” JODY SAID, after she finished telling about her day, three months later. “I need to ask you something.” They were in her kitchen in the big stone house in Rose, and not at the ranch, because her uncles and their children were in town and some of them were staying with her. Even in Jody’s house, it was Annabelle who was doing the cooking on this night, which was a wonderful luxury for a young schoolteacher coming home from a full day of teaching.
On this early winter evening, Jody felt exhausted and exhilarated, all at the same time. One of her shyest students had shown courage in raising her hand and answering a question that afternoon.
Jody felt inspired to speak up, too.
“Do you remember what you advised me about Collin Crosby?”
Annabelle was peeling potatoes, but she stopped and looked over at Jody.
Jody could tell that she didn’t remember.
“You told me to be kind to him.”
“Oh.” Her grandmother went back to peeling, but slower than before. The burden of guilt she and Hugh felt for wrongly accusing Billy, and for Red’s death, and for harboring their son’s killer in the family was almost unbearable sometimes. It had aged and humbled them, given them new
nightmares, turned them softer and sadder, made them more forgiving of other people, if not of themselves yet. Sometimes Hugh Senior had forgetful moments when he still thought Billy had done it all and hated him for all of it, and then later he’d remember with a shock that was brand new again.
Jody sensed she couldn’t do anything for them except love them.
Gently, she asked, “How do you feel about him now?”
Annabelle laid down the peeler and stared out the window above her sink.
“I feel … I feel so guilty about him, honey.”
“Anything else?”
“Grateful. He saved your life by calling us when a lesser man might have let us reap the whirlwind that we sowed.”
“Maybe we should invite him to supper some evening.”
“What?” Annabelle turned so fast that she brushed a potato off the counter. It bounced once, then rolled toward Jody’s feet. She picked it up, sniffed at the raw freshness of it, and then put it down on the table where she sat. Before Christmas, she’d painted the table and chairs bright blue.
“Jody, we can’t do that. It would be so awkward for everybody. Worse than awkward, it would be awful. He wouldn’t come anyway, and I don’t blame him. I’m sure he doesn’t want anything to do with us.”
Jody swallowed, and then plunged into the deep end.
“He wants something to do with me, Grandma.”
Annabelle looked for a moment as if her knees would give out, and Jody started to get up to go to her, but then her grandmother gripped the sink and straightened into her usual good posture. “No, that’s not a good idea. Sweetheart, it just can’t be a good idea. There’s so much, too much—”
Chase was visiting, and he picked that moment to walk into the kitchen.
“What’s not a good idea?”
“Collin Crosby,” her grandmother said in a stunned voice.
“And me,” Jody finished for her.
Chase got very still for a moment, still enough to remind Jody of how Aunt Belle had been when she saw the silver horse. Her heart pounded as she waited to see what harsh judgment he would make on this dramatic announcement of hers.
“Have you been seeing him?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Every chance we get, Uncle Chase.”
“Where?”
“Any place we can find.”
“Those weekend trips you take to see friends …?”
“Right. Those.”
He stared at her without speaking for a long moment. “When did this start?”
“When we were children, I think. We’ve always felt drawn to each other.” Jody looked at her uncle and then at her grandmother. They didn’t know how she and Collin talked and talked and talked, examining their strangely intertwined lives from both of their points of view, seeking and finding understanding in each other that they’d never found in anybody else. She took a deep breath. “He’s the happiness that follows all the sadness. I never used to think that was possible for me—or for anybody, not really—and I know it’s still no fairy tale. I know bad things will come into our lives, as they do in everybody else’s life, but—” She was near tears, wanting so much to convince them. “In the tough times, it’s his hand I want to hold. I have to tell you one of the reasons he worked so hard to get his father out of prison. Yes, it was for the principle of justice. Yes, it was because he knew Billy didn’t do it. Yes, it was for his mother. But he also did it because he believed it was the only way to force a new investigation. And the real reason Collin wanted a new investigation was because he thought that otherwise I’d never know what happened to my mother.”
When she saw them frowning as if they didn’t quite understand what she was saying, Jody took another deep breath as if she were on a horse and lining up to jump a final fence.
“He did it for me,” she said, making it absolutely clear.
Chase looked over at his mother, who stared back at him.
“Well,” he began, while Jody crossed her fingers. “I don’t see why he shouldn’t come to supper, provided he can stand to be in the same room with the rest of us.”
She could hardly believe what she was hearing.
“He’s probably the only man in Kansas who’s crazy for the exact same reasons you are. It’s either a match made in heaven or in hell, but it sounds like a match to me,” Chase said. Annabelle stared a little open-mouthed at him. “Chicken,” he said next, suggesting the menu for their first supper together. “If the boy doesn’t like your fried chicken, Mom, then he’s not fit for this family. And if he does like it, then next time maybe I’ll grill some steaks if I’m in town.”
Chase walked out of the room, taking Jody’s gratitude with him.
But then he walked back in and said quietly, “If he doesn’t want me around, I will stay away.”
Jody thought it was the most thoughtful thing he’d ever said to her.
“We’ll all get used to each other,” she suggested.
“I expect he hates us.”
“He’s not like that, Uncle Chase.”
He squinted at her, as if gauging her capacity to decide such things.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said as he left the room again, but then he came back again, this time to say something else to his mother. “We need a new lawyer in the family, you know.”
It was nearly a joke. A grim and unfunny one, but almost a joke anyway.
Annabelle was looking as if she might cry, too, and she said to Jody, “I suppose you’ll end up moving to Topeka.”
“I’m just suggesting supper, Grandma, we’re not getting married!”
“Yet,” she said as she picked up her paring knife again.
“And I have a whole school year to get through, remember?”
“There are schools in Topeka,” Chase said, unhelpfully.
“Which is not that far away,” Jody said quickly.
She got up and went to her grandmother, wrapping her in a hug. The two women stood together like that until Chase left the room and the water for the potatoes began to boil.
About the Author
NANCY PICKARD is a four-time Edgar Award nominee, most recently for her Ballantine debut, The Virgin of Small Plains. Hailed by mainstream critics, the novel was also honored by the State Library of Kansas to be the “Kansas Reads” book for 2009. Pickard is the winner of the Anthony Award, Macavity Award, Agatha Award, Barry Award, and Shamus Award. Pickard has been a national board member of the Mystery Writers of America and president of Sisters in Crime. She lives in Merriam, Kansas.
The Scent of Rain and Lightning is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Nancy Pickard
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Pickard, Nancy.
The scent of rain and lightning : a novel / Nancy Pickard.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-345-51663-3
1. Murder victims’ families—Fiction. 2. Family secrets—Fiction. 3. Ex-convicts—Fiction. 4. City and town life—Kansas—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3566.I274S34 2010
813′.54—dc22 2010002092
www.ballantinebooks.com
v3.0
Table of Contents
Cover
Other Books by this Author
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
About the Author
Copyright
The Scent of Rain and Lightning Page 31