Crooked River: A Novel

by Valerie Geary

  “Billy and I go way back,” Joe Mancetti had told Detective Talbert. “We were college roommates. I still help him out when I can. Thought a feature article might generate the buzz he needed to get him moving in the right direction again. After the accident, losing Delilah the way they did . . . well, he’s just been down for so long, it’s good to finally see him fighting his way back.”

  He’d sent Taylor because Mrs. Roth had requested a new reporter, someone who didn’t know much about Billy’s past and didn’t have a connection with the sculptures he used to make. Someone who might bring a fresh perspective. Joe Mancetti thought it was a good story for his newest reporter to cut her teeth on. The interview was scheduled for Monday evening, and Joe had expected Taylor to call after it was over, so they could talk about what she’d managed to get and if it would be enough for the front page, or if she needed to keep digging, take a few more pictures, ask a few more questions. He was at the office until midnight, but she never called. And when he tried her motel room, no one answered. He said Mrs. Roth had called the next morning to complain about Taylor standing them up for the interview. They waited and waited for hours, but she never came. There was a sticky note attached to the last page of Joe Mancetti’s statement with Billy Roth’s name written and then crossed out with black ink.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Travis. He twirled an unlit cigarette in his fingers, his gaze fixed out the window. The glass danced reflections, shifting, churning eddies of light, across his face. He looked up, caught me watching him, then smiled and said, “What?”

  I shook my head and went back to digging through the paperwork.

  “Find anything good yet?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “How’s the street looking?”

  “Clear,” he said. “So far. But I got a bad feeling—”

  “Another few minutes. Okay?”

  Several seconds passed and then Travis said, “You’ve got ten, tops. Then we’re going.”

  I flipped quickly through a stack of photographs. Scene photos mostly, of the shoreline where they found Taylor Bellweather’s body, of the park and picnic tables nearby. There was a close-up of her body in the water, her face turned up toward the sun, her eyes all dark pupil and no light. I slipped that photograph behind the rest and set the whole pile to one side.

  Inside an unlabeled folder I found what looked to be an interview between Detective Talbert and Pastor Mike. Many of the pages were out of order and some were even missing, but after I’d sorted and shuffled, enough of the interview remained to understand this was it, this was why they were so keen on Bear. Here, typed and printed on thick, white paper, was the cornerstone to the case they were building. Set this up next to the rest of it—the jacket, the scratches, the key, the timing—and, if I hadn’t seen those boot prints, I might have been convinced too.

  DETECTIVE RANDY TALBERT: Now what time would you say all this happened?

  MIKE FRESHOUR: Around a quarter to five. I didn’t check the time exactly, but Rosalee called me at four thirty and it takes me about fifteen minutes to get to the Jack Knife from my house.

  RT: And when did you first see Mr. McAlister?

  MF: Well, I had to let my eyes adjust to how dim they keep that place, but I saw him a few seconds after I came through the door. He was at the bar, which surprised me considering his past trouble with drinking.

  RT: He was alone?

  MF: There was a woman beside him, but I didn’t think they were together at first. I’m so used to seeing Bear by himself all the time, it just didn’t occur to me that he might be meeting someone.

  RT: And when did you first realize he and the woman were together?

  MF: I wouldn’t say “together” exactly.

  RT: What do you mean?

  MF: He didn’t seem to be enjoying her company very much.

  RT: He was upset?

  MF: I’d say annoyed. Put out. She kept leaning in really close to him and he kept leaning away. And he wasn’t looking at her. That’s why it took me a few minutes to realize there was something going on between the two of them. Because he didn’t look at her for a really long time. He kept his eyes pointed straight forward, staring at the mirror behind the bar.

  RT: Was Mr. McAlister drinking?

  MF: He had a full glass of something by his elbow. Scotch, I think. Or whiskey. I’m not much of a drinker myself, so it’s hard to say.

  RT: What about the woman?

  MF: Was she drinking?

  RT: Yes.

  MF: I think so. There was an empty martini glass in front of her.

  RT: Did you know the woman?

  MF: No. Well, yes. Sort of. I wouldn’t say I knew her. Exactly.

  RT: Had you met her before?

  MF: Yes. Sunday night. At Patti’s.

  RT: Go on, Mr. Freshour. Please describe your first encounter with Ms. Bellweather.

  MF: It’s just, there she was, this pretty young lady sitting all by herself, eating alone. I went over and introduced myself. Welcomed her to town. She said she wasn’t staying long. I asked if I could buy her a drink. She turned me down. And that was that.

  RT: Did you have any other interactions with her prior to seeing her again at the Jack Knife?

  MF: . . . No, sir.

  RT: Mr. Freshour?

  MF: Well, I guess I should tell you . . .

  RT: You’re starting to worry me here a little bit, Mr. Freshour. I need you to be completely honest about what you know. Okay?

  MF: Yes. Yes, sir. Of course. I want to help however I can. This whole thing. It’s just so awful. She was so young. Full of life. I just can’t figure out what our Good Lord was thinking, letting a thing like this happen.

  RT: Mr. Freshour, did you see her again?

  MF: Uh . . . no.

  RT: Mr. Freshour—

  MF: I didn’t! God’s honest truth. But I did go to her hotel room. On Sunday night after she turned me down at Patti’s.

  RT: And?

  MF: And she wasn’t there. Or at least, she didn’t open the door when I knocked.

  RT: And then?

  MF: And then I went home, warmed up a can of tomato soup, and watched Murder, She Wrote. Now, Jessica Fletcher, she knows how to solve a mystery.

  I skipped over the next few questions where it seemed Pastor Mike had taken over the conversation, rambling on about little details, nothing that really mattered. My eyes snagged on my father’s name and I went back a few lines, started reading more closely again.

  RT: Let’s . . . why don’t we go back to Monday night? Why don’t you tell me about when the fight started?

  MF: Right, so . . . I went and found Rosalee and I was helping her to her feet when all of a sudden Bear just up and started shouting.

  RT: Do you remember what he was saying?

  MF: He wanted to know how she’d found him. She said something about it not being too difficult, considering, and then Bear started in about how none of this was any of her goddamn business and she should just go back to where she came from and leave him the hell alone.

  RT: When you heard the yelling, what did you do?

  MF: I settled Rosalee back down in the booth and told her I’d only be a second, then I went to see if I could help. By that time, of course, Vic was there, leaning his hands on the bar and telling Bear he needed to calm down or take his business elsewhere.

  RT: And Ms. Bellweather? What was she doing during all of this?

  MF: She had out a small notepad and a pen and was jotting something down. Bear kept trying to grab the notepad from her. She was asking him questions, but Bear and Vic were shouting so loud, I couldn’t hear a word she was saying.

  RT: And then what happened?

  MF: Bear grabbed hold of her and started to shake her. I tried to pull him off, but he swung back with his elbow and hit me in the jaw. I gave
him some space after that. She fought him hard, though. Scratched up his face, I think. He let her go after Vic started to dial 911.

  RT: And then?

  MF: He left.

  RT: Mr. McAlister did?

  MF: Yep. Got up and walked right out.

  RT: And Ms. Bellweather?

  MF: She went after him.

  RT: What did you do?

  MF: Well, Vic got me a bag of ice. For my jaw. It was hurting pretty bad about then.

  RT: Did you do anything else, Mr. Freshour?

  MF: Sure. I went out to the parking lot. I didn’t like the feeling I was getting about the whole thing.

  RT: And what kind of feeling was that?

  MF: Have you ever woken up short of breath? You know you’ve had a nightmare, a really bad one this time, but you can’t quite remember what it was about? All you remember are glimpses, dark flashes, tremors? All you remember is being terrified? It was like that. A bad feeling.

  RT: What happened in the parking lot?

  MF: Nothing.

  RT: Could you be more specific?

  MF: Nothing happened. By the time I got out there, they were both gone.

  RT: Did you see where they went?

  MF: No.

  RT: Anything else you remember?

  MF: Before he left the bar, Bear said something like, forgive my language, “If you threaten me or my family again, I’ll break every single one of your goddamn fingers. I’ll make sure you never write another damn word.”

  The interview ended here. Abruptly. I shuffled through the stack of papers looking for the rest of the pages but couldn’t find them. I pulled one of the chairs out from the table. The feet scraped against the linoleum, squealing sharply.

  “You okay?” Travis asked.

  I sat down. If Pastor Mike was telling the truth, then Bear had lied. To me. To Ollie. To everyone. I covered my face with my hands.

  “Sam?” Travis left his post by the window and came and stood over me.

  I said the only thing that made any sense. “This can’t be right.”

  Travis took Pastor Mike’s statement from me and flipped through each page. He said, “Jesus Christ,” and then returned the papers to the folder.

  He grabbed my arm, tried to pull me to my feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “No.” I jerked away from him, even though he was right. We’d been here too long already. But in that moment, I didn’t care about getting caught.

  “There has to be something else here,” I said. “Something I’m not seeing.”

  “What else could there be? This interview makes things pretty clear, don’t you think?”

  “Or Pastor Mike’s full of shit.” I stood and started looking through the folders and loose papers again.

  “Sam.”

  I kept shuffling through the papers.

  Travis rested his hand on top of mine. “He threatened her.”

  I pulled away from him, shaking my head.

  Travis continued, “The newspaper said she died sometime Monday night. Pastor Mike said they left together.”

  “No, he didn’t. He said he saw them fighting. Then Bear left.”

  “And so did she. Right after.”

  “According to Pastor Mike.” I returned to shuffling papers, brushing Travis aside. “One man’s word against another’s. It doesn’t mean a damn thing.”

  “Sam, listen to yourself. The bartender was there. Other witnesses. It would be pretty easy for Detective Talbert to find out if Pastor Mike was lying.”

  I slammed my hand down on the table. “Bear didn’t kill her.”

  “I know you want to believe that . . . I get that you want him to be innocent. But look at the facts. Look at all these things stacked up against him.” And he started lifting papers and scanning through the reports, saying out loud everything I already knew. Finally, he held up the folder containing Pastor Mike’s statement and shook his head. “Sam, I’m sorry.”

  I leaned over the table again, shoved papers out of the way, looking for something else, I didn’t know what. Something that contradicted Pastor Mike’s statement.

  I said, “Fine. Let’s say it happened the way Pastor Mike said. Let’s say it’s all true. There has to be a good reason why Bear was upset, why he said those things. Why they were fighting. She must have provoked him. So he gets angry. He shouts. He makes a scene. But he didn’t . . . he would never . . .”

  “Then who?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Pastor Mike did it.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous.”

  “No, think about it.” I picked up a thick, rubber-banded folder with my father’s name printed on the tab. “Taylor Bellweather turned him down. Maybe he got angry about that. Maybe he felt humiliated that she’d embarrassed him that way. Then he sees her and Bear fighting at the Jack Knife and he tries to ride in like some hero to save the day, but she ignores him again. Maybe he follows her out of the bar and tries to kiss her or something and she pushes him away and he gets even angrier and maybe things get out of control.”

  “Sam . . . stop. You’re upset. You’re not thinking straight.”

  I slipped the rubber band off the folder and kept talking, thinking out loud, trying to make the pieces fit the way I needed them to. The longer I talked, the more I started to believe that maybe what I was saying made sense. Maybe I was onto something.

  “So he hits her or pushes her down or something. She cracks her head open. Maybe he didn’t mean to kill her, but maybe he did. And now he needs to cover it up. He needs someone to frame. Who better than Bear, right? Everybody in this stupid town hates him.”

  “Sam. He didn’t do it.”

  “He went to her hotel room. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

  “Listen to me,” Travis said. “Pastor Mike didn’t kill her.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  I stopped flipping through papers and looked at Travis, waiting for him to continue.

  “He was at my house that night.”

  “What?” My stomach sank.

  “He was at my house Monday night. He came over for dinner sometime after seven, maybe seven thirty, and stayed until well after midnight. He and my dad were out on the porch drinking beers and talking so loud I couldn’t sleep. He would have had to come straight from the bar.”

  I clutched the folder to my chest and asked, “What about the interview Taylor was supposed to have with your father?”

  “What about it?” Travis shook his head, frowning. “It wasn’t supposed to take very long. A couple questions. A couple pictures. But none of that even matters. She never showed up.”

  I stared at him.

  “Taylor was never there. The interview never happened,” he insisted. “Pastor Mike was the only person who came over that night.”

  “God’s honest truth?”

  He said, “Of course it is,” and I believed him.

  “What time did he leave?” I asked.

  “Pastor Mike?”

  I nodded. “Because maybe he killed her later. After he left your house. Maybe he stuffed her in the trunk of his car and then—”

  “I’m not doing this.”

  “—after dinner he drove out to some secluded spot in the woods and dumped her body in the river and that was that and now he has this perfect alibi. There was time, you know. He had plenty of time before and after, and maybe—”

  He grabbed my arm. “Sam. Stop it. You have to stop. Bear did this.”

  I glared at him, then shook his hand off and opened the folder again.

  Inside were old employment records from years ago when Bear had a real job, bank statements showing balances hovering dangerously close to zero, my mother’s obituary cut from the newspaper and pasted to a single sheet
of white paper, the photocopy version blurred and hard to read. Every minuscule and boring detail of my father’s tragic life. Nothing and nothing and nothing. And then a paper-clipped stack of papers, public records, court documents, criminal history. And I had a sudden recollection of the arraignment hearing and how the prosecuting attorney had mentioned a prior arrest and how it hadn’t really made an impression on me at the time because there was so much else going on and I thought it was just something all lawyers said at those kinds of hearings because my father had never been arrested before.

  Outside, a car door slammed.

  Travis swung his head toward the front door. “Shit. Sam! We have to go. Now!”

  He grabbed my arm. I pushed him off, scanning the papers, trying to make sense of the numbers and abbreviations, the code and garbled text that regular people weren’t meant to understand. Finally, I read something that I could grab hold of: Criminally Negligent Homicide, Vehicular Homicide, DUI. There were dates, too, coinciding with the day Bear disappeared and the day he called home, two years later. Arrested. Convicted. Sentenced. Time served. Released on probation. And somewhere out there was a family grieving, left in pieces because Bear had done the one thing I never thought him capable of doing. I thought about all the times I’d asked my mother where he was, all the times she refused to tell me. My knees bent. I sank into the chair again.

  Someone was coming up the porch steps. Keys rattled.

  “Sam!” Travis pulled me to my feet. He took the papers, threw them on the table, and dragged me out of the kitchen, down the hallway, into the bedroom.

  My legs were made of stone. I couldn’t get them to work right. Travis pushed me out the window. The front door opened.

  “Go!” Travis pulled me across the yard to the fence.

  I jumped and grabbed for the top of the planks, but slipped and fell backward into the grass. A splinter jabbed into my palm. Travis jerked me to my feet again, wrapped his arms around my legs, and hoisted me over the fence. My skirt caught on a nail near the top. I ripped the fabric free and tumbled into the weeds on the other side. Travis jumped down beside me a few seconds later, grabbed my elbow, and dragged me toward the chain-link fence. We clambered over and slid to the bottom of the culvert, pressed our backs up against the concrete side, and didn’t move.