“How do you think it happened, Mr. Tray?”
“I … I don’t know. I heard that Melinda lived in a different neighborhood and he got her when she was alone on her street.”
“So you never went to her home.”
“No. Of course not. Why would I?”
“Do you know all the kids who walk home from Whisper Middle School?”
“Of course not. It’s just that we’ve had a lot of time to talk about Melinda.”
“Of course,” I agreed sweetly. “Do you know if one of the boys you taught named Robbie has a band?”
“Robbie Raymond. He would be a senior now. He’s quite a talented guitar player.”
“Where were you yesterday afternoon, Mr. Tray?”
“Me?” Astonishment and panic crossed his face.
“Just routine,” I assured him.
“I was here until four. And then I went home.”
“Really?” He was lying. “You have someone who can verify that?”
“I don’t have to ask permission to leave. I just leave.”
“Uh-huh. How about after that?”
“I went home. I practiced. Then I made dinner and watched television.”
“Practiced?”
“I play violin.”
“Wife?”
“I’m not married.”
“Partner?”
“I live alone.”
“Anyone else see you?”
“I don’t know.”
“A neighbor?”
“I don’t know.” I saw the moment he realized his voice had gotten too loud again. He’d nearly shouted at me. I watched him reel himself in. “My neighbors work. They’re not usually home in the afternoon.”
“And you got home sometime after four?” I asked.
“That’s right.”
“So that leaves a gap, doesn’t it? Skylar disappeared a little after three. I was here at about three yesterday, by the way. Your classroom was locked. And you were gone. In fact, I was told you’d left much earlier.”
His pupils expanded like I’d just hit him with a bucket of epinephrine. “I must have gotten the times wrong,” he explained. He was a bad liar, the kind of guy who’d never be able to ace a polygraph. His body had betrayed him repeatedly since I’d walked into his classroom and begun to push. He looked at me. “I can’t really be a suspect.”
“What kind of vehicle do you drive, Mr. Tray?”
“A Honda. Why? It’s an Accord, a two thousand two.”
I got up and put one of my cards on the chair. “No plans to leave town, right?”
“No.” He said it quietly. He was staring down at his shoes.
“Have a nice weekend.”
He blinked up at me.
29
I closed the band room door behind me. School was in session, students and teachers tucked away in classrooms. I stood there for a second in the empty hall, then reached for my phone. “Sam,” I said when Meltzer’s lab tech answered. “Keye here. Listen, that oil you found on the phones. No question at all it’s engine oil? Could it be instrument oil?”
“No way,” she said. “You’ll remember in addition to the oil the sample was full of engine dirt and metal filings. All consistent with the scenario we discussed.”
“How about the cloth? Could it have been a piece of chamois?”
“Totally different fiber,” she told me. “What’s up?”
“I’m not sure. I’m just trying to make the pieces fit, I guess.” I walked down the hall and turned toward the administrative offices. “You been able to determine anything else about the vehicle?”
“About all I can tell you right now is that it’s not a new car. Not with all the gunk in that sample.”
“Thanks, Sam.” I disconnected and turned at the plaque that said KATHY HILLYER—ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT. Kathy Hillyer smiled like I was an old friend when I stepped into her office. Sun was streaming through blinds that were tilted down, the long slats shadowed on the floor. “Hi,” she said. High-eye. “And what can I do for you today?” She was southern, my mama’s kind of southern. Sugary. I didn’t trust it, and that probably had little to do with Kathy Hillyer, administrative assistant, and much to do with Emily Street, mother.
“My name is Keye Street. I’m working as a consulting detective with the Hitchiti County Sheriff’s Department.”
“Well bless your heart. Aren’t you cute? I am so glad they let women do that now,” she added.
Life on Planet Kathy must be interesting. They had salons there, that was for sure. Her hair and nails told me that. And she was so 1960—the heavy lipstick, the hair twisted on top of her head, the square-neck dress cut almost a shade too low for school—as if she’d just dropped by after a day on the set of Mad Men. “Would you like to sit down, honey?”
“Thank you.” I took a chair across from her desk. “Ms. Hillyer,” I began.
“Kathy,” she corrected me.
“Kathy. Do you keep the attendance records?”
“Why, yes. I do. Right here in my computer.”
I’m so glad they let women use computers, I wanted to say. I bit it back. “Would you mind going back to last school year, January seventeenth to be exact, and tell me if any teacher was absent that day?”
She hit a few keys, then stopped abruptly, as if she’d remembered something important. “I may have to get permission from Principal Olsen to do this.”
Everything Kathy said sounded like it ended in a question mark. I didn’t want the principal or any other paper pusher who might put the brakes on involved. Someone would start demanding subpoenas. “Official business,” I said confidently. “Would you like to speak with the sheriff?”
“Who wouldn’t?” Kathy cooed. “Mr. Dreamy.”
“I have Mr. Dreamy right here on speed dial.” I held up my phone and smiled.
She blushed a violent pink. “Oh Lord, I don’t want to bother him! Everyone knows how busy he gets. I don’t actually have to turn the records over to you, correct?”
“Correct.” I nodded. “It’s just routine. All I need is the information.”
A few keystrokes later she looked up. “The music coach had an excused absence that day.” She searched my face for a hint of what this news meant to me. “Dan Tray.”
I pretended to jot down his name like it was no big deal. “Is Mr. Tray usually here every day?”
“Oh yes. Dan’s here every day. But only thirty hours a week. Even with students being bused in from other areas, we still don’t have enough interested in music to warrant a forty-hour week. So he works half a day twice a week.”
“I saw a lot of press and trophies in the display cases. Looks like the band program is huge.”
“The band is a source of pride for us all and very accomplished,” Kathy assured me. “But let’s be frank: Unless you’re teaching classes in smoking, cheating, and where to buy beer and condoms when you’re underage, most of these kids couldn’t care less.”
“January seventeenth last year is the day Melinda Cochran disappeared,” I said.
“Poor Melinda!” she gasped. “That poor, poor little thing.”
“Did you ever see Melinda leaving school with anyone?”
If Kathy Hillyer looked to her right she could have seen the view of the front of the school. If she looked to her right. And if she’d bothered to tilt her blinds up. “I never saw Melinda take one wrong step. Sweet, smart thing. I was devastated to hear they’d found her.”
“Was she awkward and shy in your opinion?”
“Heavens no.”
She visibly recoiled when I showed her Peele’s picture. She recognized him because she’d followed the court case, she told me. She’d known one of his victims, the daughter of a close friend. Peele had never been near the school, she assured me. Not that she would have known through closed blinds. “Did you know Melinda well?”
“No. But we get a sense of the kids and who they are. Some of them are special.”
“So they’re not all beer-swilling, rubber-buying vandals?”
Her painted lips curved. “Ten percent. Maybe.”
“How about Skylar Barbour?”
“So it’s true,” she whispered. Her face went white. “Principal Olsen told me this morning that Skylar didn’t go home.”
“She tried to get home,” I said, and got up, took the plastic rod on the side of the window, and twisted it to tilt the blinds up. Kathy swiveled her chair around but didn’t rise. “She walked right through there.” I pointed at the park. “And through that line of trees and then she disappeared. She had a crush on a boy named Robbie. Do you know him?”
“Oh, well, I wouldn’t take that too seriously. I bet half the girls in town are fantasizing about him. His little band plays almost all the dances.”
“You’re telling me he’s a heartthrob?”
Her smile came back. “He must have gotten that from his mother.” She lowered her voice into something like a whisper, the way southern women do when they’re about to slander someone. “The mother passed away when he was little and Mr. Raymond never remarried. Maybe that’s why he’s such a grouch. We had to deal with him once on a behavior issue with Robbie. Just boys being boys, but Mr. Raymond made it very difficult. For us and for his son.”
Detective Raymond hadn’t been a big help to me either. “Ms. Hillyer … Kathy, did you happen to notice what time Dan Tray left yesterday?”
“Two o’clock,” she said without hesitation. “I remember the time because Principal Olsen had an appointment with a vendor who was waiting in my office and I had to step out in the hall. I’m sure it was two o’clock. He had his violin case.”
I put my card on her desk. “Thank you for your time.”
I walked out of Hillyer’s office and pressed the metal bar on one of the double doors, pushed it open. A hot wind hit my face. The bell rang. I glanced back inside and saw the halls filling with a rush of students. Twenty-four hours ago Skylar had been one of them.
30
One of the double doors in front of the school pushed open. From my seat on the park bench, I raised my binoculars and zoomed in. Daniel Tray was moving fast. He was carrying his violin case and fishing around in his front pocket. He pulled out a mobile phone, dropped his keys on the school steps. He balanced the phone between his chin and shoulder and picked up the keys. I could see his face, see him talking, see his hands moving. He was upset. I watched him disappear around the corner where faculty parked, and headed quickly to my car.
Five minutes later, his silver Honda pulled out of the school and turned left. Behind the wheel of my car, I pulled out and followed him.
A ’69 convertible is a terrible choice for a tail. I might as well pipe music out through a loudspeaker and put a snow cone on my antenna. Tray turned at a granite sign etched with a cross-and-flame symbol. Whisper Methodist Church. The letter board had a message about making God the director in your personal movie. HE KNOWS HOW THE STORY ENDS.
“Catchy,” I muttered. I don’t like thinking about how the story ends. Not my story.
I pulled onto a drive that split into two massive parking areas, one below the church, one to the side. The lawn was shaded by giant water oaks and magnolias. The church rose up to an arch in the center, granite and stately, enormous. A window, stained glass and alive with color, depicted Jesus with his shepherd’s staff, cradling a simpering lamb. I could see the parsonage to the right. In front of it, a sign said WHISPER COMMUNITY GARDEN—HELP US FEED THE HUNGRY.
Skylar had written about helping with the garden, going inside for cookies, the Hutchinses’ daughter, Robin, younger but still fun. She’d written about walking home with her dog, Luke, and a bag of homegrown tomatoes. The rectory was six, maybe seven blocks from the school and not much farther to the Barbour home off Cottonwood Road—an easy walk for a kid with a dog on a summer day.
I watched Tray park, run up the church steps, and pull open one of the heavy wooden doors. I followed. The room I’d entered was long and narrow with stairs on each end, carpeted in deep red. Floor-to-ceiling curtains blocked my view into the church. I heard the quiet murmurs of male voices. I parted a curtain. Daniel Tray was on his knees. Pastor Hutchins stood before him, holding both his hands.
“It’s going to be all right, Daniel,” I heard Ethan Hutchins tell Daniel Tray. “But you have decisions to make. Listen to God. Remember He always works things out for our good.”
I stepped through the curtains into the church. Ethan Hutchins’s head turned. Daniel Tray rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving mine as I walked past rows of polished wooden pews toward them.
“This is outrageous!” Daniel Tray blasted me as soon as I got near. “Is nothing sacred? Did I forget that I forfeited some right to privacy?”
“Daniel, please,” Ethan Hutchins said gently.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Mr. Tray,” I said. It probably wasn’t the only lie I was willing to tell in church. “I was just coming to speak with the minister.”
Tray pushed past me and stalked up the aisle, swept curtains out of his way with an annoyed flourish. I looked at Hutchins. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Reverend Hutchins.” Lie number two.
“This is God’s house. You’re not interrupting. We are always open.”
“Is that right,” I said.
His smile widened. “Not big on the God stuff, huh?”
“I’m a little rusty,” I admitted.
“Ah. Well, come to my study. It’s not very church-like.” We walked around the platform with the lectern, and rows for a choir, and stepped through a doorway into a hall. “Ken says you’ve been enormously valuable to him,” Hutchins told me as we walked. “This community needs a break, Ms. Street. We’ve had too many tragedies. I hope you’re here to tell me Skylar’s been found.”
We stepped into his office—heavy furniture, tall bookcases, no windows, but it was lamp-lit and comfortable. I took one of two chairs on the other side of a wide antique desk. He took the other chair and faced me. “Skylar’s still missing. That’s why I’m here, to talk about her.” It wasn’t really lie number three. I had wanted to speak with him. I simply failed to mention that I’d shadowed the music teacher here and eavesdropped while they prayed together. If lightning was going to strike, it would be about now.
“Skylar and her parents are members of our congregation. But they’re more than that. They’re part of a big family. I know you haven’t seen the best side of this community, but believe me, there are a lot of good people. Skylar and her parents helped us build the community garden. Hayley and Skylar worked every growing season and bagged produce for hungry families. Several members of the community have shown up today to pray for Skylar.”
“Is that why Daniel Tray was here?”
“All of them have the expectation of privacy. Including Dan Tray.”
“I spoke with him earlier. He seemed very troubled.”
Ethan Hutchins said nothing.
“Do you think he knows something about Skylar?” I asked.
“Heavens no. Daniel is an emotional man, but he’s not a bad man.”
“Would you tell me if you believed otherwise?”
He leaned forward a little, hands clasped, looked into my eyes. “Sometimes the ethical goal of protecting the community clashes with the duties of the ministry, Dr. Street. People have to trust this is a safe place to unburden themselves. It’s a responsibility I take very seriously. But I can assure you that if someone was confessing to a crime against a little girl—and I believe that’s what you’re alluding to—that confidentiality would have to be broken. Not protecting my neighbors is inconsistent with building a healthy faith-based community. Methodists don’t see confession as sacramental.” He shrugged. “God doesn’t want us to protect murderers and child molesters.”
I always get nervous when men start to talk about what God wants. “I find it interesting Daniel Tray would rush here immediately after our chat. One might think he had something to
get off his chest.”
I saw the tiniest crinkling at the corners of Minister Hutchins’s eyes. “Coming to a house of God to pray or to be ministered to in times of grief and confusion is perfectly normal to millions of people, Dr. Street.”
“Skylar liked coming here,” I said. “She wrote about it in her diary. I think she liked the family atmosphere. Did she ever talk to you about something bothering her? Or someone?”
He shook his head. “But I think she was lonely over the summer. She and my daughter, Robin, played sometimes. And we all ate a lot of lunches together in the parsonage, me, Bernadette, Sky, and Robin. I always called her Sky. It fit her.”
His mobile phone lit up and vibrated on his desk. “Pardon me.” He got up and looked at it. “Bern has lunch ready. She was at the judicial center all morning. Apparently she’s the only lip-reader in Hitchiti County. How about having lunch with us. We’d love it.”
I stood. “I can’t. But thank you. Your wife is a lip-reader?”
He chuckled. “You have any idea what it’s like living with a lip-reader? I can’t get away with anything. Yes—she’s deaf. As a result she has a superior understanding of communication. Which means she reads your lips, your body language, and your facial expressions. Bern’s my Geiger counter. Always steers me right.”
“Wow,” I said. “Can I borrow her for Vegas?”
He laughed again. “We don’t really do a lot of gambling. It’s a Methodist thing.” We walked back through the sanctuary. “Change your mind about lunch?”
“I wish I could,” I told him. “Ken says it’s the best place in town.”
“Bachelors are easy to please.” We parted the long curtains, pushed through heavy doors, and stepped out into the full blaze of Georgia’s midday sun. “And here she is now. The head of our family,” Ethan Hutchins said with a smile.
A woman came up the steps, smiling. She had honey-brown skin, the kind of striking face that said Southern Asia. I saw his navy tie swing forward when he leaned to kiss her cheek. Using sign language, he spoke the introductions.
Don’t Talk to Strangers: A Novel Page 24