by Deirdre Dore
His phone rang as he pulled up to the sheriff’s office. Christie.
“Hey, Christie, what’s up?”
“Tyler, did you ask her?”
Tyler, his head full of questions about Summer and the mysterious drinkers in the woods, didn’t have a clue what his stepdaughter was talking about.
“Ask who what?”
“Tavey.” She groaned, clearly exasperated with his inept adult self. “Did you ask her if she’d help me train Grumbles?”
“Oh, yeah. Shit. No. I got distracted.”
She sighed and then said patiently, “Will you call her?”
He figured he’d have to call Tavey tonight at some point. He wanted to talk to her about what his uncle had told him. Now that he’d talked to Abraham, he was forced to concede that maybe the old man knew something he wasn’t telling about the day that Summer went missing, though he still didn’t believe his uncle had anything to do with her disappearance.
“Yeah. I’m going to grab some dinner and I’ll give her a call. I’ll call you back right away if I get hold of her. If not, I’ll call you tomorrow. Okay?”
“Okay,” she agreed. “Love you!” She hung up.
“Love you, too,” he muttered, scowling at the phone in his hand.
Exiting his truck, he made sure he had the ribbon Tavey had found in the pocket of his jeans. He was going to call someone he knew in the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, which was working on all the evidence gathered in the investigation of the paper mill where they’d found Chris and the Triplets after they’d been kidnapped last year. He wanted to know if they could check the ribbon for blood, but more than that, he wanted to know if the blood was a match to Summer Haven. There was a hairbrush in the case file that had belonged to her. He thought that would be enough to check for DNA, but he wasn’t sure. The hair in the evidence box was almost thirty years old.
Rather than head straight into the station, which was closed up and dark, just as it always was on weekends, he headed across the circle to the Alcove to grab some dinner. The café was full of students studying for their final exams, heads down and ear buds in or gathered together at tables talking to each other with books and laptops vying for space between them.
Tyler walked up to the bar and spoke to the kid drying glasses and hanging them on a rack above his head.
“Hey, Baker, how’s school going?”
The boy grimaced. “Finals tomorrow. Two of them.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Me, too. What can I get you, Officer Downs?”
Tyler didn’t bother to correct him on the title; “investigator” was a mouthful, that was certain. “I’ll have an iced tea while I’m waiting and a cheeseburger with fries to go.”
“Coming right up.” The boy wiped his hands on a towel and made Tyler’s iced tea.
Tyler was about to dial Tavey’s number when several old women wearing overpowering perfume and too much rouge gathered around him.
“Officer Downs, we think there’s been foul play.”
Tyler closed his eyes and prayed for patience. Louise Carlyle and her posse of well-intentioned old women called him damn near once a week about some emergency or another.
“Mrs. Carlyle, I told you that I can’t arrest Julie Parsons for putting up solstice decorations. If she wants to take up witchcraft and put up decorations for an upcoming festivity, that’s her right.”
The old woman sniffed. “It’s not about that, though I will say that when that woman is dancing naked around that pole in her yard, you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”
Tyler doubted it. He did his best not to listen to her whenever he could. “All right.” He shifted on his stool so he faced her more directly. The sooner he heard what she had to say, the sooner she’d leave. He was getting claustrophobic with the fumes from amaretto sours. “What’s going on you think is foul play?”
“Circe Haven didn’t open the store today.”
Tyler wasn’t inclined to jump straight to foul play, but it was certainly interesting that Jane—he couldn’t wrap his head around the name Circe—hadn’t opened the store in light of the fact that her husband was said to have returned.
“Well, Mrs. Carlyle, if she wants to take a day off, it’s her store.”
“You didn’t let me finish. The day before, someone saw her in there with that Robert Carlson, the one that just got out of prison. It was just like old times. Something no good is going on here, I just know it.”
Louise Carlyle would have been in her early thirties when Jane was in her teens, and even though he hated to admit it, the gossipy pain in the ass had just provided him with two fine pieces of information.
“Jane—Circe—and Robert Carlson used to hang out together?”
There was a murmur of agreement from all the women in the circle, but Louise, their leader, answered for them. “Oh, my, yes. Robert and Circe’s husband, Mark, they were in that business to build a golf course, never mind that they were lying about that. But the four of them, Robert, Mark, Jane, and Gloria Belle would come back to town after dancing and drinking—they were wild, tearing up the town, back in the day. And now Robert’s back.”
Tyler thought that was an interesting bit of news. He wondered if Chris knew that her father had come around; he’d call Ryan and let him know to give her a heads-up and keep an eye on her for good measure. Chris tended toward trouble.
“All right, Mrs. Carlyle, I’ll see what I can find out.”
She sniffed. “You should thank me, young man, for doing your job for you.”
Tyler managed a polite, “Thank you, Mrs. Carlyle. I appreciate the help.”
She patted him on the shoulder. “Anything I can do for an officer of the law. Come on, ladies.”
Tyler refrained from comment, hoping he could get the smell of baby powder perfume out of his shirt.
He stepped outside, finding a noisy table of students to sit beside, hoping their voices would cover his conversation, and called Ryan, relieved when the man answered on the first ring, “Helmer.”
“Ryan. It’s Tyler.”
“Something wrong?” Ryan kept his voice low and sounded like he was moving, probably to get out of earshot of Chris.
“Sort of. You know Chris’s father was released from prison a while back, right?”
“Yeah.” Ryan sounded less than thrilled. Tyler couldn’t blame him. No officer of the law liked to hear that a relation of someone he loved was a former prisoner.
“Someone saw him talking to Jane at the store yesterday. You might want to let Chris know in case he stops by the yoga studio.”
“Shit,” Ryan muttered. Tyler could see him pushing up his glasses. “Thanks, man. I’ll tell her.”
“No problem. Something else interesting, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Mark Arrowdale and Robert Carlson worked together on real estate deals. I think we knew that, it’s mentioned in the case file, but they also used to party together with Gloria Belle and Jane.” Tyler waited a beat and then continued, “My uncle told me about hearing drinking and partying back in the day. He said back then people were always going back and forth across his land from the Havens’ property right before Summer disappeared. Did they find anything out at that paper mill that would indicate any drugs or other illegal activity? It’s not too far north of Tavey’s property.”
“They did find some evidence that meth had been cooked there, some needles, I believe. Some paraphernalia. They bagged it, but it’s assumed that it could have belonged to drifters. It’s all being tested and cataloged, but it’ll take time before anything comes of it.”
“All right.” Tyler knew pretty well how long it could take to have evidence processed. Even though they’d pulled over a dozen bodies from the contaminated millpond, Joe Sherman, whose serial murders had terrorized mos
t of north Georgia last fall, was dead. The bodies belonging to his victims had been identified, but there were older remains of women and one man who clearly died long before Joe had started his work as “the Boyfriend.” The impetus to complete any forensic analysis was just not there for the John and Jane Does that had been found at the scene.
“I’ll put a call in, though, see what I can do.”
“Thanks. Let me know what you find out.” Tyler started to hang up, but Ryan stopped him.
“Hey, Tyler?”
“Yeah?”
“What’d you think of Burns?”
Tyler had not cared for Burns, or his casual invasion of Tavey’s home. “I’d forgotten about him till just now.” He wasn’t likely to again.
“Chris thinks he’s interested in Raquel.”
Tyler nodded. A blind man could see that. “There’s history there. He made a movie about Gloria Belle, her momma. She was just a kid then, starting college. Burns was in his twenties I think.”
“Late twenties.”
“Think he knows where Belle is now?”
It was an interesting thought, one that hadn’t occurred to Tyler. “Maybe. But it shouldn’t be too hard to find her. If Raquel or her grandma don’t know offhand, she’ll be in the system. She’s been arrested for possession several times, I think. Raquel knows about it, but I don’t know how she feels about locating her.”
“Possession of what?”
“Cocaine once, but meth most recently.”
“Ahh. All right.”
Tyler grunted. All right indeed. “I’ll take a look in the morning. See if I can get hold of her.”
“Sounds good,” Ryan agreed. “Be careful, man. Cold cases have a way of biting you in the ass one way or another.”
Tyler knew it, but if he could get this one solved, it would go a long way toward easing his mind about his uncle and Tavey Collins. Maybe if he solved this case, he wouldn’t have to think about her all the time, or about how she’d felt when he’d held her against him this morning.
“I hear you,” he agreed, and hung up.
He ate his cheeseburger at his desk, tuning the radio into a Braves game while he reread the case file. He wished he’d pressed Jimmy more about this case before Jimmy died, but he hadn’t liked to talk about it. In all his years as sheriff, this was the one that had haunted him. The notes he’d left were detailed, but even the most detailed notes weren’t like an actual memory.
Chris Pascal, age 8, was found at 8 pm in the woods approximately 400 yards from the Collins residence by Bessie Weaver, the Collins’ servant, Octavia Collins, age 9, and Raquel Weaver, age 9. According to Bessie Weaver, Miss Pascal was wearing a jacket, gloves, scarf, and hat when Mrs. Weaver left for town around noon, but was not wearing them when she was found. Chris Pascal was in shock, suffering from mild hypothermia and a slight concussion from a bruise on her head. She appeared disoriented and had no memory of what happened to her friend Summer Haven beyond saying, “She’s lost.”
He read about the search for Summer, how the Collins patriarch, Tavey’s grandfather, had used his dogs with the help of his servant, a young man called Atohi, to search for the little girl. They’d found no sign of her after combing the woods throughout the Collinses’ and the Havens’ properties, and the strip of land in between, his uncle’s property.
As far as he could tell, they hadn’t ventured as far north as the old paper mill, which was interesting. If the book with Summer’s name was there, then it was possible there was other evidence that had been dragged off. The forensic unit had covered the buildings and the millpond, but the structure had been so unstable that some areas were considered unsafe and cordoned off.
He didn’t know how it was possible for Chris to have walked that far. Mrs. Weaver had found Chris near the Collinses’ house. It was more than ten miles from there to the paper mill, most of it rough woods and hills. He couldn’t see an eight-year-old walking that distance in the six or seven hours the girls had been missing.
Both Mark and Jane Arrowdale were questioned in the disappearance of their niece, but Jane claimed they were home all evening. The other members of the Haven family claimed they hadn’t seen anything. Ninny Haven hadn’t been home at the time; she’d been visiting a friend in Rome, but she’d suggested that her “bastard son-in-law probably had something to do with it.”
Daughtrey had noted down the comment, but Tyler could tell he hadn’t taken the old woman’s words that seriously. Despite the scandal surrounding his connection to Chris’s father, Robert Carlson, Mark Arrowdale had been well liked and respected in town despite his odd choice of wife. No one faulted his taste in Jane’s beauty, but no one from town would consider marrying into that family. The Triplets’ mother had proved them wrong a few years later.
Now, though, he thought he might have a few words with Old Ninny, maybe in the morning, before he headed to court. She worked in Jane’s shop most days, telling fortunes to anyone interested, playing poker with those of a more practical bent. He hadn’t spoken with her often, a polite greeting at best, but several people in town swore by her advice.
He made a few more notes from the case file and was about to call it a night and head home when he remembered that he’d promised to call Tavey for Christie, find out if she’d help train Christie’s dog, Grumbles. He checked the time. Nine o’clock. Late enough that it would be rude to call and bother her.
He set his phone on the desk and leaned back in his chair, thinking about her. An errant thought drifted through his head: if she would work with him, help him solve this case by doing something other than hurling speculative accusations at his uncle, she would be an unstoppable force.
He wondered what it would be like to have a woman like her at his side. Tavey’s unwavering dedication to and love for Summer was actually admirable, he had to admit. What must it be like to have someone who would defend you, search for you, defy the police for you, simply out of love and loyalty? He didn’t know many women like that, though he supposed each in her own way—Chris, Tavey, and Raquel—had changed because of what happened to Summer. Their fates had been sealed, their choices revolving around the disappearance of one lost friend.
He thought of the first time he’d seen Tavey, those haunting eyes taking him in, hovering over his bruises. She still made him furious, furious and aching, because nothing had changed. She was still Octavia Collins of the Collins family; she had more money, education, and resources than he could fathom, and she needed nothing from him.
He glanced at the file. Except, maybe if he found Summer . . .
He scowled and looked away, out the window at the warm spring night, listening idly as the Braves managed to score. He wondered what she was doing. Sometimes he thought about the time he’d kissed her. She’d been yelling at him, insisting that his uncle had to know something, anything, about what had happened to Summer.
He’d been sixteen, hotheaded, angry, and she’d been so pretty, with her long dark hair, big smile, and the dark eyes that watched him constantly. He’d see her in the stands at games, perched neatly between Raquel on one side and Chris on the other. She was friendly with everyone, popular. Maybe if Summer hadn’t disappeared, she would have been a cheerleader or an athlete, but instead she allied herself with two of the town’s misfits and didn’t let anyone say a negative thing about them in her presence.
The incident that led to him grabbing her and kissing her had started out small; she’d received some of Abraham’s mail and had brought it by his uncle’s house. She may have asked a question, just one or two, trying to get the old man to admit something, or maybe he’d said something to make her believe that he knew what had happened to Summer. Tyler struggled to remember what she’d said. When he’d arrived at his uncle’s house after a date, just to avoid going home, she’d been shaking his uncle’s shoulders, her brown eyes filled with tears.
�
�Tell me,” she’d screamed. Tyler had heard her from outside in the driveway, even with the doors and windows closed.
He’d run inside the house and dragged her out onto the porch, holding her wrists when she wouldn’t stop fighting.
“He knows something. Please.” She’d tried to pull away. “He does. He said—” She was pulling in great gulps of air, sobbing as if she were choking.
“Tavey, stop,” he’d ordered, but she’d continued to fight, so without thinking, he’d kissed her. Just to make her stop talking, stop crying.
He remembered thinking that she tasted like hot chocolate and salt from her tears. Her lips had been soft, her breath catching as he pressed his lips firmly against hers. He’d been with girls before, experienced girls, and he knew without a doubt that Tavey Collins had never been kissed. Still, no one had ever tasted the way she did, like hot chocolate, oranges, a midsummer night. No one’s lips had ever been so soft, so slick, so wanting. He’d wanted to kiss her and go on kissing her until they melted to the floor like hot wax.
He’d gripped her hair, feeling the thick shiny strands that he’d studied a thousand times but never touched, and with that, just the feel of her hair beneath his fingers, he remembered who was in his arms. He’d stepped away abruptly and she stumbled, her eyes dazed and red from crying, her mouth swollen from his kisses.
Tyler remembered feeling embarrassed, remembered wiping his mouth like she’d tasted bad when the exact opposite was true. She tasted like every dream he’d had before or since, and the feeling had frankly terrified him. For one brief moment he would have done anything for her. For a kid who’d been abused his whole life, who’d watched his mother be abused, giving someone that kind of power was impossible. It couldn’t be done. The person had to be cut away, like a diseased limb.