by Tanya Holmes
“But he testified that your claims were baseless later.”
“Yeah,” Trace said bitterly. “Only question is why.” Silence lingered. “What do you remember about the day she died?”
Not much, but just then…. I cupped my forehead as another memory gelled of the day before the murder. Namely, the reason Mother had hurt me that last time.
I was too embarrassed to share it with Trace or any man.
I slid down the wall and hugged my knees. Sorrow washed over me. “Everything’s still fragmented,” I whispered.
“Well, I got to your house early the next day. I hopped the fence to stay hidden, but it was deserted. Not even a breeze. That’s what I’ll never forget. The quiet. It was unnatural.”
I licked my lips. “Why did you come back?”
“To give you hope. To tell you the Sheriff said he’d help.”
That he’d still been thinking about my welfare even after the horrible night he’d had was heartening. But it also made me more determined to uncover the truth. Not just for Mother’s sake, but for his as well. “I’m sorry I called you a coward when we were in the garage. I was wrong. You’re a hero…my hero.”
I guessed from his silence that I’d surprised him. Ten seconds went by before he said, “Th-thanks.” Trace Dawson had actually stuttered. He cleared his throat. “Well, I, ah, I gotta get to work.”
“I do too.” An awkward moment followed, one of unspoken words and untested emotions. Much needed saying, but I didn’t know where to begin. I got up and wandered into the adjacent walk-in closet. “So I’ll see you at two on Wednesday?” I said, staring at my rack of clothes with blind eyes.
“Yeah. Shannon?”
His tone changed, letting me know he planned to take the subject in the direction we’d both been avoiding.
I snatched a pair of jeans from a hanger. It went flying. “I’m really running late—”
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he said.
Not a smooth segue, but then, ‘it’ had loomed in the background during our entire conversation. ‘It’ being what we’d done at his house. ‘It’ being what he continued to do to me now. It was insane. Even as we’d talked about Mother’s murder, ‘it’ had been there the whole time.
Just listening to his voice dragged me back to that night. I could still feel his body pressed against mine. His mouth on my breast. The tugging. The wetness. Everything bounced between us like a flaming boomerang.
I yanked an ankle boot from the shoetree, retrieved its mate, and strode back into my room to flop on the edge of the bed. “I can’t talk about this now.”
“Why not?”
“You know why.”
“Suit yourself.” His voice was sandpaper rough. “But it’s not going away.”
SHANNON
____________________________
He was right. It didn’t go away. The second I laid eyes on him at Rascal’s Wednesday afternoon, the intensity ignited. The drive to Valene Campbell’s was as uncomfortable as I’d feared, and if I thought I’d have a reprieve once we arrived at our destination, I had to think again.
Even as we followed Jane Younger down the hall of her federal style home, I had to fight to keep my mind on the task at hand. I made a point of not looking at Trace since it would just lead to distraction.
Instead, I concentrated on the waspish, middle-aged woman in front of me.
Jane Younger was a reedy, whey-faced brunette with frosty gray eyes and a brusque gait. Wearing a chignon and a stodgy, gray dress that made a whooshing sound as she walked, she marched us down a corridor flanked by ugly paintings and cheap knickknacks.
The place resembled its owner, cold and hollow.
“I don’t like this,” Jane said. She threw a terse glance at us over her rigid shoulders. “But Nana insisted.”
I exchanged a guarded look with Trace. “We do appreciate your hospitality, Ms. Younger.”
“Just don’t upset her,” came the snippy reply. To Trace she said, “Had I been home to receive your call, you wouldn’t be here. Only reason you are now is because Nana answered.”
We came to a long staircase and Trace stepped back in deference to the stodgy Ms. Younger. He gave her a good ‘ol boy grin, and the corners of her pencil-thin lips fell south.
When we’d reached the top, Jane led us to a sitting room that smelled of mothballs and liniment. A bay window centered the stone-faced south wall. Light speared across the hardwood floor from a lone table lamp.
Jane approached a small, shriveled old woman with steel-gray hair. She sat hunched over in a wooden wheelchair by the window. A thin green quilt draped her spindly legs.
“Nana?” Jane spoke as if she were conversing with a child. “Your visitors are here. This is Shannon Bradford and—”
“I know who she is,” Valene snapped. She did a complete one-eighty when she flashed a cavernous smile at me. “The Little Miss. How’ve you been?”
“Just fine, Mrs. Campbell. And yourself?”
“Can’t complain. Can’t complain.” She hiked a frail shoulder, then cast a testy glance at her granddaughter. “‘Cept for Janie hiding my mail and screening my calls. Thinks she’s my mother, she does. Um-hmm.”
“Oh, Nana, please.” Jane rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand. She turned to Trace who stood behind the old woman. “This is Mister….” She frowned into a unibrow. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
Panic made my pulse dance. We’d not given his full name for good reason. Trace had mentioned that when he’d spoken to Mrs. Campbell on the phone, she told him to use another name. Jane wouldn’t have let him in otherwise. So we’d introduced him as Mr. Phillips—a play off his middle name.
Before Trace could respond, Valene turned an eye on him. When he came around the chair, she extended a claw-like hand. Her knuckles were bulbous and liver-spotted. “Tracemore Dawson, as I live and breathe.”
Jane Younger’s eyes bugged out of her head. She sputtered, “Trace Dawson? You mean The Butcher—”
“Yep, that’s the one.” Valene chuckled as Trace squatted beside her wheelchair to clasp her hand. “Run along now, Janie. I’ll be fine.”
“But Nana—”
“Run along,” Valene drawled, her smile as crooked and toothless as it was brittle. “And close the door.”
Jane batted a worried look between Trace and me. “See that you don’t get her worked up,” she hissed. After one last cagey glance at Trace, she stalked out and shut the door soundly behind her.
I stood over the old woman’s chair. “If this is a bad time….”
“Forget about Janie,” Valene said. “That’s just her way.” Trace was still crouched beside her, his face expressionless. She patted his hand. “Hearing your voice last week was a blessing. I didn’t think you wanted to see me, boy. I wasn’t even sure you got my letter, much less read it.”
There was something in his eyes when he looked at the old woman, something I couldn’t read. Anxiety? Resentment? Maybe a little of both. “Well, I’m here,” he said in a low, edgy voice. “And I’m listenin’.”
The web of lines in Valene’s careworn face deepened. She shook her gray head and the loose bun tacked to her crown drooped to the left. “Sorry about your mama, boy,” she said in a quiet voice. “A sweet soul, that Dottie. Um-hmm.”
“Yes, ma’am, she was,” Trace muttered, his eyes hard.
Talk about awkward moments. I pulled up a chair and joined them, anxious to pick the old woman’s brain. “We don’t want to take too much of your time.” I slipped my cell phone from my purse. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”
Mrs. Campbell looked taken aback for a moment. She glanced off. “Well…no. No, I guess I don’t mind, Little Miss.” She folded her gnarled hands. “This is a great opportunity for me. Now I get to say what I didn’t in the letter I sent Tracemore. So yeah, record away.” She gave a solemn nod. “Go on. Park yourself.”
Trace pushed to a stand and gr
abbed an armless Windsor chair from the corner. He flipped the thing around, straddled it and propped his arms over the back.
We formed a triangle, with the wheelchair-bound woman making the top point. He glanced at me, but didn’t hold my gaze. Even with this old woman in the room, the tension from earlier was still there, still sharp—still hot.
We’d barely spoken ten words on the long drive over here.
“First things first,” Valene said, looking at me. “You have questions about Lily.”
Lily? I wasn’t used to hearing Mother referred to in such familiar terms, especially by a former servant. But then, I suspected there were more surprises to come.
“How well did you know Miz Bradford?” Trace asked.
Valene flicked her gaze at the ceiling and the cataract in her left eye caught the light. “Oh, I knew her real good. Um-hmm. Too good, actually.” She sighed. “Always figured she’d self-destruct. First time she showed up for a meeting, I sensed it. It was the darkness. Lost souls give it off, you know.”
Trace rested his chin on a fist. “What meeting?”
“AA. That’s where me and Lily first met.”
I blinked hard. “Alcoholics Anonymous?”
“Don’t be surprised.” Valene chuckled and her expression warmed. “Yes, I’m an alcoholic. Been dry twenty-three years.”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Campbell….” I shook my head. “It’s just such a surprise. I didn’t know Mother had sought help.”
The old woman gave a swift nod. “Oh, she did. Many times. Went back to the meetings after your daddy died. Master Harrison’s passing was a wake-up call for her, but she didn’t stick it out. Every day I asked her to get help knowing what she was doing to you.” She lowered her eyes. “I just didn’t do enough, I guess. I’m sorry, Little Miss.”
Absolution. That’s why Valene Campbell wanted to meet. She’d carried this guilt for years. The three of us had a lot in common there. I reached out and squeezed her hand.
Valene slanted a glance at Trace. “They never should’ve sent you away. I always know’d you was innocent. Would’ve said as much were it not for that green-eyed devil.”
Trace and I exchanged a puzzled look.
Valene’s toothless mouth worked. “Gray,” she spat the name out like a curse. “Lord, but it feels good to get this off my chest.” Then she whispered, “He’s why Janie didn’t want me speakin’ with ya. She was just trying to protect me.”
TRACE
____________________________
Now stuff was getting interesting. I tipped the chair forward, my attention lasered on the old woman. “Did Sheriff Gray make a threat?”
Her silver brows crested. “In a way, yes. It started with the calls. First one come ‘bout two months before you got out.”
“That’s when I started asking questions,” Shannon added.
“I answered his first call,” Valene said. “Got so mad my pressure shot up. It put me in the hospital for a week. Janie—she started answering the phone after that. She had them rollin’ over to her cell phone so she could deal with ‘im.” Valene’s eyes lifted to me. “If she hadn’t forgotten to take the phone with her the day you called, y’all wouldn’t be here.”
“Wow.” Surprise edged Shannon’s voice. “So Jane really was concerned about your health.”
“Oh, yeah. I tole you, Gray gets me worked up. She worries ‘cause I’m all she’s got. What, with her husband dead. No chil’ren of her own. A sad one, she is, my Jane.” Valene pursed her lips, then reached for Shannon’s hand. “I tried to help you when you was little, but that devil Gray had something on me.”
“He was blackmailing you?” I asked.
Valene tossed a nod in my direction. “‘Cept money wasn’t involved. I called him the night before Lily died when y’all had the pool fight—soon as I hung up with Dottie. I thought it would help since Gray was Master Harrison’s best friend.” She swung a look at Shannon. “I tole him Lily was still beating on you.”
“Still?” Shannon frowned. “You called him before?”
“Lotsa times. I even threatened to contact Protective Services. That’s when his devil side came out.”
I tipped the chair forward some more. The whole situation was twisted as hell. “Go on.”
“I did some things in my youth that I’m not proud of,” she said staring off. “Gray found out and tole me long as I kept my mouth shut, my secrets was safe.”
“So you were afraid?” I asked.
She gave a helpless shrug. “My husband didn’t know of my other life. Gray said he’d make it so nobody would hire me.” Her eyes pleaded. “Can you forgive me, boy? Please say you can.”
I knew how it felt to have your livelihood threatened. Lilith had done it to Mama and me. When you’re dirt-poor, money, or the lack of it, can bring even the strongest people to their knees. Mrs. Campbell was no exception.
I looked the old woman in the eye. Hers were liquid. “Yeah,” I said. “I think I can do that.”
She sniffed, dabbing her cheeks with a corner of the quilt. Relief softened the lines in her face. “Thank you.”
Shannon glanced from me to Valene, waited a few moments for the old woman to collect herself, then, “Why didn’t Uncle Jackson want you to talk?”
“I haven’t a clue, dear heart. Him and your family were very secretive. They didn’t want nobody sayin’ nothin’. And they had the money and power to get away with it, too. Said we all better catch amnesia about Lilith and Sears—”
Shannon’s mouth fell open.
So did mine.
Valene drew back. “Y’all didn’t know?” When we both shook our heads, her gray brows twisted. “Lord, I thought Lily’s obsession was common knowledge. Dottie knew. We all did.”
“My Uncle had an affair…with my mother?”
“Oh, nothing like that,” Valene said. “Not that Lily didn’t try—she was in love with him. But he only had eyes for Hesta.”
Shannon wilted into the seat. “My God.”
“Lily fought with Sears the day Master Harrison was laid to rest,” Valene went on. “Threw herself at him, but he rejected her. Said he loved his wife. So Lily got desperate and threatened to lie—to tell Hesta they was involved anyway. She never did, but her threat made Sears very angry.” Valene’s sympathetic eyes zeroed in on Shannon. “No offense, but I always believed she married your daddy just so she could have a version of Sears—them bein’ twins and all.”
Words Lilith Bradford had once spoken finally clicked. …the man I love doesn’t want me.
“How long was this thing with Lilith and Sears going on?” I asked.
“Years, but he rejected her every time,” Valene said. “It just made her more bitter. She was middle-aged, dreading the other side of forty. With her beauty fading, she feared she’d never find love again.” Valene’s eyes darkened. “So she turned destructive. Started taking up with younger men. She refused to grow old gracefully.” Her pensive gaze rested on Shannon. “That’s why she went crazy when you first got your menses.”
Shannon colored.
But the old woman kept on. “I don’t mean to embarrass you. I just want to help you understand Lily.” She set her sights on me. “The evenin’ y’all had the pool fight, she told me she’d hit the Little Miss and she was sorry for it.” She looked at Shannon. “You gettin’ your menses made her even more scared of growin’ old. So she took her fear out on you.”
I muttered a curse. “That’s why you had the bruises when I found you at the gazebo?”
Shannon’s face was somber. “I’d forgotten about this until you told me about the pool.” She stared into her lap. “Mother and I had never talked about…that. I was upset, so I went to her expecting—oh, I don’t know. Maternal comfort.”
“But she went ballistic on you.” I nodded to myself. Now it all made sense. “When she kissed me in her room. The night you broke the vase. She was going on about insurance plans and how stuff was out of her control. I just thought s
he was drunk, but now I see she was scared of getting old. She also said somethin’ about loving a man who didn’t love her back.”
“That would be Sears,” Valene put in. “With each rejection, the drinking got worse…as did her abusiveness.”
Shannon raked her bangs off her face. “The sheriff blackmails you into silence about the abuse and Mother’s obsession with Uncle. But he couldn’t care less about the Bradford name. So what’s the connection?”
“It’s there,” I said. “We just gotta find the key.” I looked at Valene. “You think Sears killed her?”
Valene sighed. “That ornery temperament didn’t endear her to most. She had lotsa enemies.” Her gaze drifted to the window and beyond—to the manicured backyard with its naked trees and snow-dappled shrubs. “But I still miss Lily. She was like a daughter to me—wayward, but still a daughter. Not a year goes by that I don’t visit her grave. I say a few words. Leave some flowers.” She turned her eyes on Shannon. “I see yours there too.”
Shannon looked confused. “I’ve never left flowers, Mrs. Campbell. In fact, I’m ashamed to say I rarely visit.”
“Oh, dearie, that’s understandable.” Valene straightened, furrowed her brows. “I just assumed they come from you ‘cause I visit her the same time every year. First week in January, near her birthday. Somebody always leaves a dozen calla lilies before me.” She worked her lips. “Guess she’s got an admirer, um-hmm.”
I frowned. “Sears?”
“Can’t see anyone but family keeping a vigil like that,” Valene said. “But it could be one of her young men.”
“A vigil,” Shannon murmured. “Joe DiMaggio did that too.”
“Yes he did.” Valene smiled. “Left flowers on Marilyn’s grave for twenty years.”
An ominous feeling ate at me. “Maybe it’s not a vigil. Maybe it’s a guilt offering.”
Valene bobbed her head. “Could be. Could be.”
“What about Sheriff Gray?” Shannon asked.
“Him give her flowers?” Valene harrumphed. “He wouldn’t lay a dandelion on her grave, much less some hothouse posies.” The old woman’s cataract hit the light again. “He hated her.”