by Terry Shames
“No.” She gets up abruptly. “I’m going, too. And we’re going now.”
“Wait, slow down,” I say. “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s a real long shot.”
“I know it is, but I have to find out.”
We have to drive all the way back to Jarrett Creek to retrieve the key to the storage area. It’s late afternoon when we get back, but the manager of the storage area says they’re open until 10 p.m. and we don’t have to rush.
Once we get the door of the unit open, Jenny stands for several seconds. “Gathering my courage,” she says, but her voice is resolute.
Nate Holloway has stacked everything in neat rows, and Vera marked most of the boxes, so we can eliminate a good number of them. I open the ones that look promising, and Jenny paws through them. Two hours pass, and we’ve gone through all the ones that looked like they would hold what we’re looking for. Jenny is sitting on the floor, her face flushed. “Dammit, where is that box?” Suddenly a look of horror comes across her face. “Could Eddie have taken it?”
I think about it. Eddie tried hard to get the key to Vera’s place, but he wasn’t successful. I wouldn’t give him Jenny’s key, and Nate Holloway didn’t have one. “He would have had to break in,” I say, “and there’s no evidence that he did that. He only got the keys after the house was cleaned out.” We stare at each other, and then I say, “Wait, you had some boxes at your house. I saw them.”
Jenny smacks her forehead. “I’m an idiot! I brought several to my place and put them in the spare bedroom closet. That’s got to be where it is.”
I try to persuade her to stop and meet me somewhere on the way to her house for a bite to eat, but she’s adamant. “I have to get home and look through those boxes. I have to know.”
While she goes inside her house to start checking through the boxes, I go to my house and grab a plastic container full of chicken and dumplings out of my refrigerator. I take it to her place and put it on the stove to heat up and go back to the spare bedroom.
Jenny is sitting on the bed, tears leaking out of her eyes. She hands me a couple of pages that have been folded. “It’s all there,” she says. “She left it in an envelope for me.”
My dearest Jenny,
I hope you find this letter after I’m gone. Please forgive me for not telling you what I have to say before I died. I know you won’t think it’s fair, but there are some things a mother simply can’t do. I couldn’t send your brother to prison. If I had thought he was a threat to society, I would have forced myself to go to the police, but I honestly thought what happened was a terrible tragedy and that having him spend time in jail would do no one any good.
Eddie had not been married long when his wife Estelle came to me for advice. She said Eddie was drinking one night and he told her he killed his daddy. He swore it was an accident—they fought and Howard fell and hit his head. She said Eddie felt guilty, but he was afraid that if anyone found out, he would go to jail. She asked me if I thought she should go to the police. I will always regret that I told her I needed time to think about it. Before we spoke again, your brother told me that Estelle had run away. Did she really run away? I don’t know. I have a horrible fear that your brother became afraid that she would go to the police and he killed her. But I have no way to prove that, and I was too cowardly to pursue it.
What I didn’t tell Estelle or anyone else is that I had always harbored suspicions that Eddie had something to do with Howard’s disappearance. I knew Howard would be furious about Eddie’s role in what happened to you, so I didn’t tell him at first. But he knew something was wrong because I had sent you to my sister’s house. Just before you came home, I finally told him. He was angrier than I’ve ever seen him. He said he had coddled Eddie too much and made excuses for his bad behavior and that it was time to call Eddie to account for his behavior. That night he told Eddie that he wanted the two of them to take a ride so they could talk. His car wasn’t running, so they took Eddie’s car.
Neither of them came home that night. I finally went to bed early in the morning, and when I got up the next day Howard’s car was gone. I questioned Eddie about what happened between them and why Howard’s car was missing. Eddie told me that Howard said he needed to get away for a few days and they used Eddie’s car to jumpstart Howard’s. I wanted to believe him, but the longer Howard stayed gone, the more I was certain that something terrible had happened, and that Eddie was to blame. I have been a little afraid of him ever since, not on my behalf but on yours.
I plead with you not to use this information. I am afraid of what he will do if he finds out you have an interest in what happened all those years ago. I’m writing this because I know you’ve always believed that Howard left because he was ashamed of you. That was never true. He loved you more than anything.
Love, Mamma
“It might surprise you to know that I’ve seen Eddie,” Jenny says.
We’re sitting in her living room a few weeks after she found the letter, having a glass of wine. Jenny’s life as a drunk was short-lived, but she still likes her wine.
“How did that come about?” I say.
“He called and asked me to see him. So I went to the jail and spent about twenty minutes with him.”
“How was that?”
“Better than I thought it might be. Somehow knowing everybody sees him for the scumbag he is takes the burden off me. I swear, he really believes the lies he tells. He tried every which way to convince me that both of the killings were accidents. He said Daddy was yelling at him and then started shoving him and he shoved back. And he said Estelle attacked him. He doesn’t realize that me being a prosecutor, I’ve heard every excuse in the world.”
Jenny thought long and hard about whether to go the police with her mother’s letter, but she decided in the end she couldn’t live with what she knew. And neither could I. I went back to Eddie’s ex-wife Marlene and showed her the letter. She confessed that Eddie had hinted that he had a dark past. She also admitted that Eddie told her he needed the bumper on his car repaired because he had accidentally bumped another car. Confronted with the letter, Eddie confessed— not to murder, but to killing two people accidentally. He’ll get manslaughter at the very least. Maybe even second-degree murder.
“Who’s going to prosecute the case?”
“My boss wants to do it, but with me being so closely involved, I’m sure Eddie will get a change of venue. His lawyer has already applied for it.” She laughs suddenly. “Do you know Eddie tried to get Will to be his defense lawyer? I told Will he should have agreed to it and made sure he did a bad job of defending him.”
I laugh with her. It feels almost easy between us again.
“Eddie is using the money from the sale of Mamma’s house for a defense fund.” Jenny shakes her head. “I wish the money from it was going to something more useful than to defend a murdering scoundrel, but I don’t have the heart to contest the will.”
“I’m glad,” I say. “You need to put this behind you and get on with your life.”
“I suppose I will, eventually,” she says. “But for now, all I can do is put one foot in front of the other. I wish Mamma was here to talk to.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am delighted to acknowledge my wonderful readers, the people who share my affection for Samuel and the people who surround him. There is nothing in the world like getting a note that is some variation of “I loved this book. When do I get to read the next one?” It’s gratifying and terrifying in equal measure. I hope always to live up to your praise and expectations.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TERRY SHAMES is the best-selling author of A Killing at Cotton Hill, winner of the Macavity Award for Best First Mystery; The Last Death of Jack Harbin; and Dead Broke in Jarrett Creek. She lives in Berkeley, CA, but her imagination is always stirred by the vast landscape and human drama of Texas, where she grew up. Visit her website at www.Terryshames.com.
Terry Shames, A Deadly Affair at Bobtail Ridge