by John Moralee
Morrow collapsed. He made a strange noise, like a cat hissing, then he stopped moving. The rain beat down on his head, darkening the grass with his blood.
He was dead.
“Jeez, Dad, I wanted him alive for questioning.”
“I didn’t,” he said.
Abby came out of the house holding a kitchen knife. She dropped it when she saw that Morrow was no longer a problem. “Thank God you’re both okay.” Then she looked at the wound in my shoulder. Her mouth twisted with concern. “Let me get you to a doctor, Mike.”
“No, I’ll do it.” That was Sarah. She had woken up and took in the scene. The women locked eyes for a minute. “You don’t want your husband to see you out, Abby.”
“Someone has to take Michael to the hospital,” Abby said.
“That’s right. I will.”
They looked as though they would have an argument about it.
This with a dead man on the lawn.
“Hey, hey,” I said. “Sarah’s right, Abby. Stay indoors where you won’t have to see Boone.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Abby said.
“Yes.”
Sarah had already collected the keys. “Come on then.”
“Dad,” I said, “you need me to stay until the police get here?”
“Go on,” he said. “I can explain what happened. You’re bleeding all over, if you haven’t noticed.”
Sarah led me to Dad’s car. I was feeling light-headed. She drove me to the hospital. The ER doctor who looked at the knife blade protruding from my shoulder said I’d done the right thing leaving it in. After some tests, the doctor who’d treated me for the knife wound to my chest treated my shoulder wound. Once she’d examined the X-rays, she said, “Are you testing out your medical insurance or something?”
“Yeah, thought I’d get a new injury each week so I get my money’s worth. You get three injuries in a month, the next one’s free. How bad is it?”
“Luckily, the blade hasn’t severed the nerves. You’ll be stiff for weeks, but there should be minimal scarring. Try not to come back here unless you’re visiting someone, okay?”
Chapter 46
I was in post-op, woozy from local anaesthetic, when Boone turned up to question me about the death of Zeke Morrow. It was just a formality, luckily. There was no dispute about Morrow’s intentions; a crowbar had been found that he’d used to break into the house. My father had already told the police how he’d been held at knife-point. I described what had happened and a deputy took notes while Boone looked agitated. I didn’t mention Abby being present.
My statement done, Boone excused the deputy, then sat on the hospital bed, his weight lowering the mattress six inches. He leaned over. I could smell his hot breath; it smelled of mint toothpaste, tobacco and coffee. “I know Abby is staying at your place because there’s nowhere else she’d go.”
“You’re deluded, Sheriff.”
“Listen up, Quinn. I want to talk to her, understand? I know you’ll see her soon – don’t deny it - so just let her know I want her to come home. I’ll forgive her. Tell her we can solve any problems if she’ll just talk to me. SHE NEEDS ME. Tell her that. She doesn’t need a faded Hollywood star like you, Quinn.”
I sat up and glared at him. He may have worn a gun and a uniform, but he seemed a pitiful creature. “You’ve got your statement, Sheriff.”
The bed sprung back into shape as he stood. “She’s my wife, Quinn. Remember that.”
How could I forget? I thought. It was engraved on my heart. Boone walked out of the room shortly before Sarah showed up. “I saw the sheriff leave,” she said. “Boy, was he in a mood. You think he’s unstable?”
“I wouldn’t invite him to a children’s party, that’s for sure.”
“I don’t know what Abby ever saw in him. Did he threaten you?”
“Indirectly, yes.” I put my bare feet on the floor. “Can you pass me my clothes? I can’t stay in here.”
“Mike, you should stay in bed.”
“I can’t. I have a feeling he might go looking for Abby.”
Sarah opened the wardrobe and passed out my clothes. “You’re not thinking of doing something to him, are you? No offence to your manliness, but he’ll kill you. He wants you to go after him. It’s how he works.”
“I can’t lie in bed when so much still has to be done. I have to make sure Abby’s safe.”
“Abby.” She said the name like an obscenity. “Don’t you think it’s time she stood on her own two feet? Her poor little girl routine is really starting to irritate me.”
“I can’t believe you just said that.”
Sarah swallowed. “I didn’t mean it. It’s just that … you seem to care about her more than me. Sometimes. Hell. I’m sorry.”
“She’s a friend,” I said. “That is all she is. A friend.”
“I just think it’s unhealthy for her to leave one man to live with another. It encourages dependence. She should go to a woman’s shelter or something.”
Sarah was right. I didn’t think it was a good idea for Abby to stay with me much longer, not with Boone looking for her. He could come back when my father or I were not around; then he could force her to go back with him.
As soon as I got back to the house, I suggested she could move in with her own father, but she didn’t like that. She didn’t want him to know about the things Boone had done. She was also afraid Boone would look there because it was an obvious hideaway. She really needed to be out of Boone’s jurisdiction. I could think of no better place than Sarah’s house. That way, the two women could get to know each other and maybe a little of Sarah’s independence would rub off on Abby. I talked with them both, first separately, then together. Abby was reluctant – she didn’t like imposing on Sarah, a woman she didn’t know very well – but I persuaded her it was the best option in the short term. What she needed more than anything else was time away from Boone to make up her mind about the next step. I hoped that step would be to give a statement of the abuse to an honest cop who could ensure Boone was prosecuted. First, she needed to build up her confidence and feel safe. Boone wouldn’t be able to find her at Sarah’s. I think Sarah must have been feeling guilty after our argument, because she agreed whole-heartedly to the idea.
I drove Abby to the ferry, where she went with Sarah to be met on the other side by Joely and Betsy. The sisters would take care of her. When the ferry arrived, Abby kissed my cheek and thanked me for doing so much for her. I felt as though I had done nothing but make her life worse. I really hoped she and Sarah could become friends.
“I’m glad you’re doing this for her, Sarah.”
“I have to put my money where my mouth is.”
I was at a loose end after the ferry left but not for long. Tiffany called me.
“Michael, I’m really sorry about forgetting,” she said. “But I’ve seen Patricia today. She should have been in Europe for another three or four weeks, but she had a skiing accident. So she came home without her husband. Is that luck or what?”
“How serious was it? The accident?”
“She sprained her knee quite badly. She can’t walk on it right now, but she had an operation before coming home that would fix it. Anyway, I went to her home and I talked to her about you. Luckily, she’s heard about that awful business with Van Borgan. Van Morgan, I mean. Is that right? Van Morgan?”
“Yes,” I said. “What did she say?”
“Patricia was against the Emerald Point development so she will speak with you. She won’t talk to you on the phone, but if you can see her at her home at six? That’s the earliest time she can do it – she has physiotherapy until then.”
Chapter 47
At six I was invited into Patricia’s home, where I found Patricia sitting on a chaise longue, resting her leg on a pile of velvet pillows, while she drank a gin and tonic with graceful movements of her peach-soft hand. Every move she made looked languid and sensual, as though choreographed by Eros. She was a goo
d-looking woman with the air of someone who knew it. Her three marriages were testimonies that she would never accept second best. The fact that her new husband had not returned from Europe was probably sufficient for her to start divorce proceedings. “Thank you for seeing me,” I said. “I’d like to talk about Hanna.”
Patricia remembered Hanna Devereaux with fondness, though she was not keen to talk about her with me. Gently, I asked her if she knew of anyone who would have wanted to hurt either Hanna or my brother.
“I can’t think of anyone in particular. Why?”
I debated with myself whether to tell her my suspicions. “I think it wasn’t my brother’s fault. I think someone ran them off the road.”
Her mouth formed a big O. “Are you sure?”
“I am. Is there someone you can think of now?”
“She wanted me to keep it a secret.”
My heart pounded. “Keep what a secret?”
“I can’t say. I promised.”
“She’s dead,” I said.
“Mr Quinn, there’s no call to get angry with me. I invited you to my home as a favour.”
I sighed. I spoke softly. “I’m sorry. If there’s something she said that could mean something, you have to tell me.”
“There was him, I suppose.”
“Him?”
“She was seeing another man behind your brother’s back. Or rather she was seeing you brother behind the man’s back. She didn’t want anyone to know. After she died, I didn’t want to tell anyone. I mean, she had her reputation.”
“What did she tell you?”
“It seemed like it would just be hurting her family if I said anything bad about her. Hanna trusted me. I was her best friend. We told each other our secrets. If I’d died and I’d been having an affair, I wouldn’t want people to know. So that’s why I said nothing. To spare her parents the grief. I didn’t think it had anything to do with the car crash. Nobody ever said anyone else was involved, so why bring it up?”
“I know that. You did what you thought was right. But right now I need to know who he was. This other man.”
“She didn’t say his name. But she was in love. I had the impression he was experienced, but he wouldn’t make a commitment. She hinted it would make it very awkward for him if it were revealed he was involved with a high-school girl. Hanna believed he would change for the better if she made him jealous. That’s why she went out with your brother – to make the other man jealous.”
“I need to know who he was. Did she describe him?”
“No! Look, why don’t you visit the Devereauxs?”
“They know?”
“No! At least, I don’t think so.” Patricia sighed as though explaining something to a servant with a weak knowledge of English. “Hanna kept two diaries. She left one out in case her mother read it, but she also had a secret one, that she wrote her private thoughts. Hanna wrote everything in it. Stuff she couldn’t even talk about with me. It’s hidden in her bedroom somewhere. I doubt it’s ever been found by her mother. Her diary will tell you every dirty secret. But I would imagine her mother has thrown everything away by now. It has been twenty years.”
Chapter 48
Here goes, I thought. I was standing on the porch of a large antebellum house owned by Nate and Lillian Devereaux. I rang the bell. The bass note boomed and echoed a split second later. I waited. A light came on in the hall and a figure shuffled towards the door. The frosted glass made it impossible to tell who it was. I rehearsed in my thoughts what I would say, but nothing seemed right. For years the Devereauxs had crossed the street when they saw anyone even distantly related to my family. They’d possibly been the source of the original hate mail. And now I was at their doorstep, on their property, wanting a huge favour.
Latches slid open. I straightened my back, brushed some lint from my jacket. The door opened. I saw Lillian Devereaux. She was an austere woman of about 65 wearing a pair of rimless spectacles. At first, she did not know me. Then she paled with recognition and reached for the door, intending to slam it in my face.
“Don’t,” I said. “I need to speak with you. It’s important.”
“Go away.” She started closing the door.
“Just listen to me! I’ve been investigating the car crash. I have something that proves my brother didn’t cause the crash that killed your daughter. They were murdered.”
She paused with the door slightly ajar. I could just see her eyes through the gap, wet with tears. “What? What could you possibly say now?”
“I’ll have to come in to show you. I have a photograph …”
“What sort of photograph?”
“Of the car crash. It shows it wasn’t Billy’s fault. It was someone else, someone who killed them both.”
“I shouldn’t do this,” she said, almost to herself, but she opened the door. “My husband is at the yacht club for another hour. He will kill you if he comes back and finds you in our house.”
“He won’t find me,” I said, going into the hall. “Thank you for letting me in.”
“This could be a huge mistake. Be quick with your so-called proof.”
I entered a white, high-ceilinged room that looked as if nobody really lived in it. The furniture looked unused, like antiques that belonged in a museum. Lillian Devereaux sat on a divan, her back as straight as a board. She did not ask me to sit, so I didn’t. In many ways the room reminded me of a mausoleum. There were pictures of Hanna wherever I looked. Above the mantelpiece hung an oil painting of Hanna dressed in a blue silk ball gown. In the painting, she looked like a member of a European royal family.
I took out the photograph. “I must warn you, Mrs Devereaux, it’s not easy to look at. It’s pretty graphic.”
“There’s nothing you could show me I haven’t imagined,” she said. “Show me.”
I held out the photograph. Her hands clenched, the knuckles turning white. “I … see.”
“Look closely at the taillights, please.”
“One’s broken. So?”
“An impact did it. See they way the glass is crushed inwards? That didn’t happen in the crash. It happened before the crash.”
She adjusted her spectacles. “Perhaps your brother did it earlier?”
“No. He wouldn’t drive with a paint scratch, never mind a broken taillight. Another car did it, Mrs Devereaux. The car that killed your daughter and my brother.”
“No.” She didn’t sound sure. “No.”
“It can’t be explained another way.”
“The investigation …”
“Was inadequate. Sheriff Malloy wasn’t thorough in his investigation. He just took what he saw at face value.”
“Why are you telling me this? To gloat?”
“No. I think there may be something in Hanna’s room that tell us who did it.”
“I have been in her room many times,” she said. “There is nothing in it but my baby’s belongings.”
“I’d like to see it anyway,” I said. “I might see something in her room that gives me a clue. Please let me take a look. I’ll be just a few minutes.”
“I’ve kept her room just how she left it. If I let you go in there, you must promise to not damage anything.”
“I promise, Mrs Devereaux. Don’t let her killer get away with it.”
I could hear a car in the driveway.
“My husband! You’d better leave!”
“I’ll talk to him –”
“No!”
“The room …”
“Quick – run upstairs. Hanna’s room is the third one along. Be very quiet. Just go. Just go now. Don’t let my husband hear you.”
I dashed up the stairs just as a key jangled in the lock. Lillian Devereaux greeted her husband, making enough loud conversation to mask my footsteps as I crept to Hanna’s room. I slipped inside and closed the door after me. It was dark inside, but instead of switching on the light, I opened the curtains enough to let some light in. I looked at the pink bed and antique tabl
e and walk-in closets. Mrs Devereaux would have looked in all the obvious places, so that left the not so obviously places. I looked and felt the underneath of the furniture, hoping to find a diary taped or fixed to a niche. Meanwhile, downstairs, Lillian Devereaux spoke with her husband Nate. I could hear his raised voice, but not the content of their argument. He had been drinking. I found nothing hidden under the furniture. Carefully, I slid open the closets and looked at the empty hangers and boxes of sealed personal belongings. Lillian Devereaux would have gone through them before packing them up, so I stood back and looked at the closets. Maybe there was a hole in the wall? I couldn’t see one, despite feeling the back of the closet. There were some board games stacked on the top shelf – monopoly, backgammon, mah jong. I took them down, put them on the bed and opened the lids. I looked at the various pieces, wondering what I was doing. I started with the monopoly, which had been on the top of the stack. And I lifted out the fake dollars one stack at a time.
The diary was under the piles of hundreds.
It was in an ornate white cover made of a cold, smooth marble that had its own gold lock. The key was smaller than a fingernail, also in the box. I took both and put them in my jacket, then I waited in the room as the light started to wane outside and Mrs Devereaux persuaded her drunken husband to go to bed. Nate lumbered up the stairs and into a bathroom. I looked out and saw he’d left the door open. I could not sneak by. I waited twenty minutes. When he was in his bedroom – separate from his wife’s, I noted – Lillian came into Hanna’s bedroom. I had returned everything to its place. I thanked her for letting me look at Hanna’s room, but lied about finding the second diary. She looked deeply disappointed as we crept downstairs and she let me out the front door. I was about to walk away when she put her hand on my arm. I saw her spectacles had streaks of oily tears.
“You miss your brother as much as I miss Hanna,” she said.