by Ken Oder
“First time I’ve been in here,” he said, his sad eyes moving around the office. “It’s nice.” He looked up at an oil painting hanging on the wall behind Kelly. “She looks like you.”
Kelly looked up at the portrait. A tall, slim middle-aged woman with an aquiline nose, striking hazel eyes, and auburn hair in an olive tweed jacket and long, tight skirt leaned casually on the high back of a wing chair, her direct stare conveying confidence and worldliness.
“Rachel found it in Boston when she summer-clerked for a law firm there,” Kelly said. “It’s a self-portrait by Polly Thayer. Rachel says it reminds her of me because she looks like she doesn’t give a damn what anybody thinks.” Kelly laughed again.
He gazed at the portrait with a somber expression. “She could be your twin.”
“Maybe twenty years ago. Thayer was forty years old when she painted it.”
“You haven’t aged. You look just like her.”
“You’re nice to say so.”
His eyes fell to his hat in his lap. He fingered its brim absentmindedly.
Kelly was struck by the change in his manner. It was understandable. The way Carrie died would have killed a lesser man. She was glad Cole survived, but his transformation was hard to witness. “Are you all right, Cole?”
“I’m fine,” he said too quickly. “Mabel said you have some information about Betty Lou Mundy.”
“We put together a file of her bar tabs.” She handed him a folder. “This is your copy.”
He opened it. “Looks like the first night she came here was New Year’s Eve.”
“That’s right. Blanche Tolliver waited on her. She says Betty Lou showed up about six thirty, sat in booth eight, ordered fried chicken, green beans, and creamed corn, and drank two glasses of white wine with her supper.”
Cole raised his eyebrows. “That was two months ago. How come Blanche remembers so much detail?”
“It’d be hard to forget anything about Betty Lou that night. She walked in here wearing a red blouse cut low with a push-up bra to show everything she had up top, a skin-tight black leather miniskirt, red stilettos, heavy black eyeliner, blood-red lipstick. When I saw her, I told my people to keep a close eye on her. A woman who dresses like she wants to give it away to any man in the place can set off a hell of a bar fight.”
Cole looked at the file. “The receipt for that night calls out sixty-eight dollars for drinks at the bar.”
“When she finished her meal, she climbed up on a barstool beside Elwood Critzer and gave him a heavy come-on. She paid for their drinks and they left together.”
“Elwood Critzer,” Cole said, shocked. “Elwood’s close to seventy years old, and I’ve never known him to take a drink, much less cheat on his wife.”
“That fits what I saw of him. He didn’t know how to drink, but he knocked down quite a few that night. I was tending bar when he came in. He showed up about six and went straight to the bar looking like his best dog had died. I tried to cheer him up, but he wouldn’t talk. He was three drinks into it when Betty Lou put the moves on him. Other men tried to get her attention, but she wouldn’t give anybody a chance except Elwood.”
Cole shook his head. He flipped through the other receipts. “Looks like Elwood paid all the tabs after that first night.”
“Larry Stillwell was the bartender on shift the next night, January one. He says Elwood met Betty Lou here about eight. They left together about midnight. Best I can tell from talking with the staff and looking at the bar tabs, they followed that pattern for the next several Fridays and Saturdays.”
“I see here that Elwood paid a bar tab February eighteenth. The night of the murder.” Cole looked down at the floor and let out a heavy breath. “What the hell was Elwood thinking?”
“A pretty woman wanted to take him to bed. From what I saw, that blocked out the rest of his brain waves.”
Cole looked back up at Kelly. “Betty Lou ever come in here before New Year’s Eve?”
“None of my staff remembers seeing her before then. My bookkeeper checked records going back two years and found no receipts from her or Leland, but someone else could have paid her tab.”
“What about Elwood?”
“He’d never set foot in my place till New Year’s Eve.”
Cole seemed to think over what she’d told him. “You hear any rumors about Betty Lou running around with men before she took up with Elwood?”
“Owning a night spot teaches you not to put much stock in rumors. I don’t believe anything I hear and only about half of what I see.”
The corners of Cole’s mouth lifted slightly and a smile almost broke through. “I don’t normally pay attention to gossip either, but I don’t have much to go on in this case. I’ve heard she played around, but my source is unreliable.”
Kelly pushed back from her desk and crossed her legs. “For what it’s worth, which is probably nothing, I heard tales over the years that Betty Lou slept around, not the brazen way she behaved here in my place, but more discreetly, behind closed doors.”
“Did the gossips name any of the men?”
“I never heard any names.”
“Where’d you hear these rumors?”
“The place where all gossip in Selk County originates.”
“Gertie Wilson’s Beauty Salon.”
“Tongues wag under the hair dryers, and Gertie passes along everything she hears.”
Cole looked down at the folder and said nothing, seemingly lost in thought. Kelly’s concern for him grew. A disturbing emotion washed over her. It was a stranger to her at first and she didn’t recognize it. Then it settled in and she understood. Envy. She envied Carrie. A good man had loved her so much that he still loved her even though she was three years gone. There was a time, back when Charley first left her, when she would have killed for a man to love her like that, but fighting to make a life for Rachel had crowded out everything else, and now it was too late to pursue such a dream. Her eyes filled with tears and she bowed her head to wipe them away, bringing herself under control while Cole was still lost in thought.
A blue jay shrieked in the courtyard outside. She saw Cole look out the French doors at the jay on the lip of the birdbath. It dipped its beak in the water and fluttered its wings, its brilliant plumage sparkling in speckled sunlight. Cole’s eyes followed the bird’s movements and she knew what he was thinking.
She cleared her throat to make sure her voice would be steady. “Carrie loved blue jays.”
Cole looked at her.
“They were her favorites when we were kids,” she said. “Cardinals caught her fancy, too, but she liked jays the most. Mischief makers, she called them. She thought they were her soulmates.”
Cole’s eyes glistened. “Yesterday,” he said, his voice husky, “a blue jay cried out to me. I thought maybe . . .” He looked down at the folder and swallowed hard.
“Have you spoken to Peter lately, Cole?”
He looked uncomfortable. “Not since the funeral. They keep him busy at the hospital. I don’t want to bother him.”
An awkward silence followed while Kelly continued to study Cole. She would have thought his son could have been of some comfort to him, but maybe not. Years ago, Carrie hinted that something had come between Cole and Peter when he was a little boy, but she wouldn’t open up about it.
Cole put on his hat and pulled the brim down low, shielding his face from her view. He stood. “Thanks, Kelly. You’ve been a big help.”
She came around her desk and gave him a hug. “Take care of yourself, Cole Grundy,” she whispered in his ear. She leaned back and patted him on his chest. “Don’t be such a stranger.” She turned her back to him so he couldn’t see the emotion in her eyes.
When she heard the door close, she sat down and wiped away tears. When she looked out at the courtyard, the jay was gone.
Chapter Fourteen
The Snake
March 3, 1967, Friday afternoon
While her mother and Cole met
on the other side of town, Rachel McNiel was sitting across her desk from Reba Emley for the third time. Rachel had decided this would be a come-to-Jesus moment for Reba. Up to that point, Reba had refused to tell her whether her mother had sold her like she had her sister, and whether she’d ever fired the pistol Betty Lou gave her at anyone other than Betty Lou.
“Here’s where we stand,” Rachel said. “I can’t protect you if I don’t know everything. Answer my questions or I won’t represent you. I won’t charge you for our time together, and I won’t divulge what you’ve told me to anyone unless you want me to talk to the lawyer who replaces me. So it’s your call. What do you want to do?”
Reba lit a Kool. She blew smoke to the ceiling and glared at Rachel. “I don’t want another lawyer. You’re the only woman lawyer in town. It’s easier to talk about Leland and Betty Lou with a woman.”
“Apparently not easy enough to tell me the whole story.”
Reba pulled hard on the cigarette once, twice, a third time. “I’ve never told anyone the things you want to know. No one knows. Not even Walt. Why do I have to tell you?”
“Because you’re involved in a murder investigation. Your life is on the line. I won’t stand beside you and risk that you’ll lose it because I’m surprised by something you didn’t tell me. That’s my decision. It’s final.”
Reba stood and walked over to the window, her back to Rachel, smoking. A full minute passed. Rachel waited. Another minute. And another. Then Reba said something so softly that Rachel couldn’t hear her.
“I’m sorry, Reba. What did you say?”
“There was a man,” Reba said hoarsely. She turned around, walked slowly back to the desk, stubbed the cigarette out, and crossed her arms over her chest. “He wore a mask. He came at night in the dark.” She sat down in the chair and sank back into it. “He did whatever he wanted to do.”
Rachel’s throat tightened. “How old were you?”
“Ten the first time.”
Reba’s answer kicked Rachel in the gut. “How long did this go on?”
“Two years.”
Rachel fought off the tears she felt coming. “How often?”
“Couple nights every month. More in the summer.” Reba’s eye twitched. She swiped at it.
Rachel laid down her pen and wiped her eyes. “Did you tell anyone?”
“The man said he’d made a deal with Momma. If I told, they’d kill me and bury me where no one would find me.”
Rachel leaned back in her chair and looked out the window. A yellow city bus rolled by on Lighthorse Street, smoke pumping from its exhaust pipe. “Your mother made this deal with the man after Betty Lou gave you the gun, right?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you use it to keep him at bay?”
“I was afraid he’d kill me if I missed my aim. If I hit him and killed him, I was afraid Momma would do me in.” Reba closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “But after two years of what he did to me, I was so miserable I didn’t care if they killed me.”
Rachel hesitated to ask Reba if she’d fired the gun at the man, trying to game out the legal consequences of worst-case scenarios before she pressed on, but Reba’s story came tumbling out like a waterfall anyway.
“I hid the gun under the pillow,” Reba said. “When he got on top of me, I gripped the pistol and brought it down by my side. Took me a few minutes to get my courage up. Then I put it flush against his belly and fired. It made a little pop, like a toy cap pistol. He jumped off of me. Stood by the bed, holding his side. I pointed the gun at him but my hands shook so bad I couldn’t pull the trigger.” She took a deep breath and shuddered. “I was scared he would charge at me and take the gun away, but he just stared at me. The mask got wet under his eyes, and he said, ‘Why?’ Only thing he ever said to me out loud.” She put her hand over her eyes, then dropped it into her lap, looking tired and spent. “I scooted off the bed and pointed the gun at him. Said, ‘You come at me I’ll shoot you dead.’ He didn’t move. He just stood there, his hand holdin his side, shakin his head back and forth real slow, makin chokin noises.”
Reba lit another cigarette with a trembling hand. She drew hard on it and blew smoke across the room. “I yelled at him. ‘You get out! Get out now and don’t you ever come back!’ He put on his clothes. Gave me a long hard look and left the house. I never saw him again.”
Rachel gave Reba a few moments, and then said, “Did your mother find out you shot him?”
“Momma left the house that night when the man showed up. I cleaned up the blood he dripped on the floor and burned the sheets, but she wouldn’t have noticed the blood anyway. She came home after midnight with old man Gordon Slaughter hangin all over her like a dog on a bitch in heat, both of em so drunk they couldn’t walk straight. They went back in the bedroom and slammed the door. Bout a week later, she asked me how it went down with the man that night, like she was suspicious about why he stopped comin around. I told her he did his business and left the house, same as always. She gave me a hard look but she didn’t ask any more questions about it.”
Rachel couldn’t speak. She looked out the window. A middle-aged businessman clutching a briefcase walked along the sidewalk. Trash cans clattered farther down Lighthorse. A cardinal alit on a low branch of a sycamore, its feathers ruffled by a light wind.
“Do you know who this man was?” Rachel said, her voice low and menacing.
“He never said his name.”
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t know. He wore a mask. Black. Leather. It fit tight around his head with a zipper up the back and holes for his mouth and eyes.”
“What color were his eyes?”
“Brown.”
“How tall was he? What body style?”
“Tall. Thin. Butt-white skin.”
“What color was his hair?”
“Black fuzz on his neck below the mask. Black hair on his chest and around his privates.”
“How old was he?”
“It was hard to tell, but he didn’t have any gray hair, and his skin wasn’t wrinkled or sagging.”
“Any scars, moles, birthmarks?”
“No.”
“What did his voice sound like?”
Reba hesitated. “He didn’t want me to hear his voice. He whispered,” she said. “He hissed like a snake.”
Rachel shivered.
Reba inhaled and blew smoke across the room.
“What type of clothes did he wear?”
“Nice clothes. Khaki pants. Gray slacks sometimes. Collared dress shirts. Twice he wore a suit. Black socks, the type that came up to his knees. Dress shoes. Shined up good.”
“Did he wear rings or a watch?”
“He wore a gold wedding ring. Plain band.” Reba looked grim. “I remember the first time I saw it. I felt sorry for his wife, whoever she was. Figured she was even worse off than me.”
Rachel looked over her notes. A tall, thin man with brown eyes and black hair, probably under forty, middle class or better off, married. Not much to go on, especially thirty years after the fact. “You’ve never told anyone?”
Reba shook her head.
“You shot him and he went away. Why didn’t you reach out to someone after that? A teacher, a friend, the police.”
“Momma didn’t go away. I was more afraid of her than him.”
“The county would have taken you from your mother, placed you in a good home.”
“I was twelve years old. I didn’t know about county services. Besides, the way I came up, I didn’t trust anybody. Couple years later, when I couldn’t stand how I was livin, I ran away to the home for beat-up women that used to be on Stuart Street. They made Momma sign some papers givin me up and they put me in the Baptist orphanage on Fremont Road. I know now I was safe there, but back then I was afraid she might sneak in the place and kill me. Later on, when I got older, I blocked it out of my memory so I could go on with my life. Livin through it was bad enough. I didn’
t want to talk about it and relive it all again. And I never did till now.” Reba blew smoke ceilingward.
Rachel tried to imagine the horror of Reba’s childhood. She could not. She looked down at her notes. Touch the open wound, her mentor Burton Jaffee had said, but she doubted Burton had ever handled a case like this.
“What do we do now?” Reba said.
Rachel pulled her thoughts together. “We’ll go over the risks and advantages of disclosure. How much you reveal to the sheriff is your decision.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“It’s a hard call, but if I were you, I’d tell the sheriff everything. Now.”
“Even the part about the man?”
“Especially the part about the man.”
Reba’s hand shook as she brought her cigarette to her lips. She inhaled deeply. “I don’t know if I can do it. It’s awful hard on me to talk about him.”
“If you decide you want the sheriff to know, I’ll talk for you.”
Reba looked out the window, her eyes red and tired. “Wish I’d killed him that night,” she said softly.
“If we can bring him to justice,” Rachel said, “he may end up agreeing with you about that.”
Chapter Fifteen
The Pit Bull
March 3, 1967, Friday afternoon
At three that same afternoon, Ray Middleditch drove his truck into Saddleback Cove and turned off Whiskey Road onto a dirt road. The sky was clear and the temperature mild, a harbinger of the spring to come. Ray had taken off his winter coat and set it on the seat beside him, covering his .357 Magnum.
The truck heaved and swayed through scrub pines and dense brush to a clearing where a dilapidated frame house slouched in a barren yard between a caved-in shed and a dead mulberry tree. A rusty window screen lay on the porch roof. A gutter hung down at a slant across an upstairs window.
Ray parked at the edge of the weeds. He had never met Deputy Walt Ballard, but the man smoking on the stoop fit his description: forties, average height, stout with a beer belly, thinning brown hair, sad basset-hound eyes. The service revolver at his hip removed any doubt that Ray had located his next target.