In fact, I could’ve hugged Rittenhaus for his diligence for Kayley.
He said, “Did you get a sense Kayley had a reason for not wanting to go with you? Like maybe she wanted to be free to meet up with a guy?”
“No. Like I said, she wanted to keep working. The cold weather had brought in some last minute business, but Mrs. Barrett sent her home because it was after hours and it looked like rain.”
“Uh-huh.” Rittenhaus crossed his arms over his chest, stared down his crooked nose at me. “You found that hunter’s blind fast enough. Did Adam tell you where it was?”
Changing the subject was an old investigator’s trick.
And I didn’t like Rittenhaus using it on me.
I said, “You mean so I could lead you to Kayley after he assaulted and murdered her? No.”
“Now, don’t get huffy—”
“Then don’t get clever,” I warned. “It doesn’t suit you, Rittenhaus.”
Regretting my tone, I closed my grainy eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose. But that didn’t block out the sight of Kayley, abused, broken. And very dead.
“It was the vulture that clued me in,” I said, trying to be helpful this time. “And the blind’s proximity to the route she would’ve taken to get home. But your guys would’ve found her when you widened the search perimeter this afternoon.”
“Maybe.” He scrubbed a hand across his lantern jaw. “Miss Sinclair, do you usually wear your hair in a ponytail?”
I froze. I didn’t like where he was going with this line of thought. Because standing in that clearing, listening to Jed Miller’s denial that the victim I’d found was indeed his daughter, it had occurred to me that Kayley, in my jacket and with her ponytail, looked a little bit like me.
“I guess I wear my hair up,” I replied, “when I’m working.”
“And what have you been working on here in Fallowfield?”
“You know. Mrs. Barrett asked me to spring her grandson from your jail and talk some sense into him.”
“How’d that turn out?”
“Professionally?”
“Personally.”
“You know that, too.”
Barrett had given me my walking papers.
But Rittenhaus didn’t point that out to me.
He and I looked down the drive to where Barrett stood, blond and brooding, behind a line of orange pylons. The deputies and other volunteers had given him the cold shoulder since I’d found Kayley’s battered body. Now, as they pored over county maps and made plans to canvass residents on the side roads for witnesses, they regarded him like he had the plague.
“You’re still in Fallowfield,” Rittenhaus said to me. “Why is that?”
“I’m a glutton for punishment.”
And this was certainly true.
Since we’d left the creekside, Barrett had avoided me just as carefully as his neighbors avoided him. Sure, he’d wrapped me in his arms to hold me back from direct interference in a crime scene. But once Dawkins escorted me from the clearing, Barrett had put as much distance between us as possible.
And that was insult to injury.
I hadn’t come to terms with the fact that had hit me after I’d come home from the Fallowfield Library: I cared for Barrett far more than I’d realized. But since he didn’t care that way about me, I needed to get over it. I needed to do it soon, too. Because I was swamped with feelings of longing and loss. And those feelings were eating me alive.
Rittenhaus said, “You aren’t sticking around to snoop into other matters while you’re here, are you?”
“I don’t snoop. I investigate.”
“For clients? Or for friends? Maybe you’ve made some enemies while you’ve been here.”
“You tell me,” I retorted.
Rittenhaus actually smiled. It was a polite smile. With just a touch of sympathy.
“The overnight report reached me a little while ago. It seems you called in to say a vehicle chased you down and rear-ended you. Did you happen to get a description of the driver?”
“No, except—”
“They drove Eric Wentz’s car.”
“That’s right.”
Rittenhaus nodded thoughtfully. “Hang tight. I’ll be back in a sec.”
He left me with Dawkins. And stalked off to talk to Barrett. Neither man glanced at me, but I got the distinct impression I was the topic of conversation.
And I didn’t like it one bit.
“Want another cup of coffee?” Dawkins asked.
“No, thanks.”
One of the families up the road had brought in urns of the stuff. They’d passed around homemade sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, too. I was sure getting a crash course in how adversity knit small communities together.
With his eyes on his boss, Dawkins said, “The sheriff’s really bent out of shape about this killing.”
“I’d hope he gets bent out of shape about every killing.”
Dawkins’s monobrow reached for his hairline, and too late, I realized I’d been unkind.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I take it back.”
But Dawkins glanced over his shoulder. It was as if he wanted to know the coast was clear. And though it was just the two of us this far up the drive, he lowered his voice.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said, Miz Sinclair. About the deceased, Eric Wentz. Can you meet me later?”
“Of course.” Adrenaline poured into my bloodstream. It was all I could do to sit still. “Where?”
“You’re staying at Miz Barrett’s?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll be along the windbreak beside the barn tonight. I’ll aim for nine, but I may be late. We’re, uh, kinda busy today. And can you do me a favor?”
“Anything, Dawkins.”
“Be doubly sure you watch your step and don’t tell the sheriff you’re meeting me.”
I nodded—just as Rittenhaus returned. Barrett was by his side, but he wouldn’t meet my eye. Dawkins got busy flipping his notebook shut and stuffing it in his pocket.
“You’re free to go,” Rittenhaus announced. “Can I make a suggestion?”
“Why not?” I said. Barrett seemed inordinately interested in the gravel at his feet; Dawkins, in the clouds in the sky. “It’s a free country.”
“Then I suggest you get in that fancy green car of yours and go back to D.C., Miss Sinclair,” the sheriff said.
And with that, he walked away.
Chapter 21
“You want to tell me what that was about?” I demanded as Barrett and I tramped up the road toward his grandma’s house.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Like hell.
“Rittenhaus’s warning, Barrett. He seemed to come up with it after his little chat with you.”
Barrett didn’t respond. He just kept putting one foot in front of the other. The curious, who must’ve heard about Kayley already, drove past us in a slow but steady stream. Some folks tapped their horns and waved at Barrett in a show of neighborly greeting. Others just pointed at him like he was some kind of exhibit on the hoof in a wildlife park.
Adam Barrett, Homo sapiens sapiens.
In his unnatural habitat.
Finally, Barrett said, “Luke thinks you should leave Fallowfield.”
“Yeah, I got that much,” I grumbled. “Apparently, he’s on your side. Maybe we should poll the rest of the community.”
“This isn’t about taking sides, Jamie.”
We’d reached the edge of his grandmother’s orchard. Barrett hopped the ditch, cut between the orderly trees. I followed suit, saw that a black-and-white CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE placard had been slapped onto the BARRETT ORCHARD sign.
But as we bypassed the festive scarecrow atop his pile of gourds and neared the house, I could see a minivan parked in front of the greenhouse. Its tailgate was open. Calvin Mead was stashing bushel baskets of apples in the cargo area.
Cal sketched a small wave when he saw us. Barrett
ignored him, veered toward his grandmother’s shop instead. Before he could reach it, the door opened. Mrs. Barrett and Charlotte stepped out into the thin sunshine.
Charlotte had an invoice in her hand.
During my short stay in Fallowfield, I’d never seen Charlotte without an apron, but she’d left it behind this afternoon. Her jeans and bright ginger sweater fit her in all the right places. In comparison, I felt my figure must’ve held all the appeal of a tongue depressor.
Mrs. Barrett, on the other hand, looked fragile and thin, like a stiff breeze could carry her away. If Barrett noticed this, it was anyone’s guess, but he asked his grandmother to join him in the shop for a minute—and she did. As the door closed with the jingle of the sleigh bells, I knew he was going to tell her about Kayley.
“Are you all right?” Charlotte asked.
I realized I’d trailed Barrett toward the shop and come to a halt alongside her van. It was parked in a sunny patch, but I felt cold through and through. I wrapped my arms around my middle, tried to hug some warmth into my soul.
“I’m fine,” I said.
Which was more than I could say for Barrett.
Or for Kayley.
“We heard about the Miller girl,” Charlotte offered. “Such a shame.”
“Yeah, everyone keeps saying that.”
“Well, everyone’s pretty shaken up about it.” She touched my shoulder. “I’d say you are, too.”
“Sorry.” I scrubbed my hands across my face, willed myself to be all right. “It was a long night. Followed by a long morning.”
The door to the gift shop opened. Mrs. Barrett emerged with her grandson shadowing her. She made her way to me. Instinctively, I reached a hand to her. She took it—and clasped it in both of hers.
“If this awful thing had to happen,” she said, “I’m glad you were the one who found her, Jamie.”
I didn’t know what to say.
And if I had, I doubted the lump in my throat would’ve let me say it.
The older woman left me then, crunching carefully down the drive, toward the farmhouse. Barrett remained rooted to the spot next to me, but he watched his grandmother like a lion watches its cub. I didn’t breathe until she was safely in her kitchen.
“That lady is strong,” Cal said admiringly, “inside and out.”
“She’s got to be thinking of Pamela,” Charlotte added. “Everybody’s thinking of Pamela.”
Like a windup toy, Barrett jerked to life.
He took off like a shot, tromped toward the garage.
“Hey, Adam,” Cal called after him. “Char’s closed the café for the day and Jeff Stephensen is getting everybody together to remember Eric at the fire ring tonight. You should come. Bring Jamie.”
But Barrett didn’t even acknowledge that Calvin had spoken to him. His leg gave him a little trouble as he jogged up the stairs to his garage apartment. But he made it just fine, went inside, and slammed the door.
I shivered with the sound.
And Cal noticed.
“Don’t let Adam get you down,” he told me. “He’s always been like that.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Aloof. Edgy. All the girls loved him for it.” Cal closed the van’s rear hatch. “But I guess everyone’s edgy today. Come out with us tonight. Have a beer. You’ll feel better.”
At that moment, I doubted I’d ever feel better again, but I kept that opinion to myself. On the back of an old takeout menu, Charlotte sketched directions to this meet-up at the so-called fire ring, and I stuffed the page in my pocket, let her think I’d use them. But I suspected Barrett wouldn’t be happy with me if I showed up—and neither would the sheriff.
When the Meads left with their apples, I made a beeline for the house. I wanted a hot shower, a change of clothes, and a nap, if my mind would let me rest. But I also wanted to be sure Miranda Barrett was okay.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel an affinity for the lady. I wanted to think it was because I admired her tenacity to hold on to what was dear to her despite circumstance—and the complicated fact that she could do this despite being on her own. The reality that she’d helped to raise a man who tangled up my heartstrings made no nevermind.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
I found Mrs. Barrett seated on the piano bench in her pretty living room. She’d lifted one of the framed photographs from the top of the instrument, cradled it in her lap. It was a snapshot of Barrett. I slipped a sideways glance at it, figured he was only fourteen or fifteen in the pic. And judging by the open, honest, boyish grin he wore, I’d have said it was taken before his father’s death.
Mrs. Barrett didn’t look at me. She simply said, “That army sergeant called me this morning.”
“Shelby.”
“Yes, that’s the one. She said she didn’t want to alarm me, but she asked whether I’d heard from Adam lately. I lied to her, Jamie. I’m not a lying woman.”
“I know you’re not.”
“I suppose, given what you do for a living, folks lie to you all the time.”
I didn’t reply.
She stood, replaced the picture on the long doily topping the piano, brushed young Barrett’s cheek lovingly with her twisted fingers. “Lies can be told in any manner of ways, can’t they?”
And something she left unsaid had dread coiling in the pit of my stomach.
I said, “Is someone lying now? About Kayley?”
“I’m not sure. I know someone lied about Pamela, though.”
“When?”
She crossed to the window, peered past the lace panel. “I can’t say I blame Mrs. Wentz for claiming Pamela didn’t have a silky burgundy nightie. Such things mean something to women from the older generations. You see, we were taught we weren’t supposed to know too much about what goes on in the bedroom before we got married.”
“And you think Mrs. Wentz may’ve lied because she was worried Pamela was showing too much interest in, um, the bedroom.”
“In the bedroom, yes. And especially in Adam.”
“Did Adam tell you Pamela visited him? Or did you hear that from Sheriff Bowker?”
Mrs. Barrett’s smile was small, but it was deep enough to contain all the wisdom of the ages. She crossed to the sofa, took a seat. She patted the cushion beside her so I joined her.
She was silent a moment. Then she said, “Adam tried to keep his own counsel. But the day Pamela Wentz was discovered and the stories started to fly, his grandfather and I sat him down at the kitchen table and asked him if he’d been involved with that girl. He said no, and he told us how she’d come to him in the barn. Adam was always a good boy, as honest as the day is long. We believed him. His sister believed him.”
“You told Elise?”
“This town was rife with rumor. We thought it best she be in on the conversation.”
“But Mrs. Wentz didn’t believe him,” I said, certain that that had been the case. “And neither did Pamela’s brother, Eric.”
“By then, Mrs. Wentz was only capable of believing what she needed to believe. I believed Adam because I knew that girl didn’t buy that nightie, though she’d ended up with it. I’d seen it. And it was just like he’d said.”
“How’s that?”
“I was shopping in Grieg’s the week before—Grieg’s used to be our local department store before all these chains sprung up—I’d seen Charlotte Mead sneak something red and silky into her handbag. I’d thought it was a blouse.”
“You saw Charlotte Mead shoplifting and you didn’t report her?”
“Well, that girl had a tough row to hoe. Her father decamped when she was little and her mother was a drunk. She had a fussy aunt in Boston, but the woman never bothered to come out here much. Charlotte practically raised her brother on her own. Most of Fallowfield knew it, so we looked out for those kids now and again. That day, I left a little money next to the till in the ladies section to cover what she took.”
“And when Pamela was found d
ead, naked…”
“I didn’t know what to do or who to tell. I’d long thought Charlotte Mead carried a torch for Adam, but I didn’t know how poor little Pamela had ended up with the nightgown.”
But I could make an educated guess. Charlotte had been one of the gang in high school. She was friends with Barrett, Luke, Vance, and Eric.
And Pamela, of course, was Eric’s little sister.
Certainly, Pamela knew of Charlotte’s crush. It seemed everyone had. Maybe Charlotte had pinched that nightgown because she’d intended to proposition Barrett herself, and maybe Pamela didn’t like it. With love on the line and to secure Barrett as hers, Pamela could’ve stolen the gown from Charlotte to shut her down. And to beat her to Barrett.
“Did you ever tell anyone you saw Charlotte with the nightgown?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, indeed. I reported it to Sheriff Bowker. I believe he even questioned Charlotte, though I don’t know what came of their talk. I only know my standing by Adam didn’t sit well with the townspeople—”
I remembered the report of their storming the orchard and setting the farmhouse on fire.
“—or with Adam’s mother.”
“His mother?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Barrett’s hands came together to form a gnarled knot in her lap. “Adam’s mother claimed she didn’t believe him. She walked out of this house the day Pamela’s body was found, and she’s never come back.”
Chapter 22
“Adam’s own mother,” I repeated, “thinks he raped Pamela Wentz?”
The notion made me feel sick all the way to the bottom of my soul.
I turned away from Mrs. Barrett, walked to the window. I looked out at the road across the orchard and at the end of the lane. Cars and trucks still crept by as the curious made what they would out of another girl’s rape and murder.
Well, Barrett hadn’t hurt Kayley. Despite any sentiment, despite any belief, I was sure of it because he’d been with me, in the barn, telling me how much he didn’t want me around. But was I kidding myself about his involvement with Pamela? Her brother, Eric, hadn’t shrunk from accusing him. And now Eric was dead.
I didn’t like how those events stacked up.
But Mrs. Barrett said, “Some people lie to protect others. Most lie to protect themselves. Libby, my daughter-in-law, lied to protect herself. She lied so she wouldn’t feel guilty about abandoning her children after her husband, my son, got killed.”
The Kill Box Page 16