Could it be possible that the bank hadn’t auctioned the ranch and that Sylvie Carson’s name was the one that belonged on that title? Maybe all she needed to do to claim ownership was fill out some forms or make a court appearance.
The market had continued to boom since 1981, and Leah suspected the appraised value of one hundred and twenty thousand dollars they showed at the public records office was probably now at least double that. Surely, with the ranch not running and Tom Carson not spending his money on whatever it was he had been spending it on, there would be value in that ranch today. Maybe a lot of value.
The one thing that niggled at the back of her brain was the date on the survey map. It had been updated March 2, 1981, a date that, in Leah’s eyes, seemed entirely too coincidental. It was fewer than four months after the “supposed” suicidal death of Tom Carson.
When had she started putting the word “supposed” in front of suicide with quotation marks around it when it came to Tom Carson? Leah wasn’t sure. She knew these sorts of thoughts were exactly the kind Ethan Montgomery had warned her against having. He’d be mighty upset to learn she was doing such a thing now. Leah decided to wait for the title search she’d sent away to Mobile for before she decided how she would refer to Tom Carson’s death to herself.
All of this also had Leah thinking about Sylvie Carson’s present state of mind and whether or not her delusions were quite as delusional as people thought. Maybe she really was in danger. Maybe she always had been. If that land had even fifty thousand dollars in equity and Sylvie was the one entitled to it, her life suddenly did have reason to be threatened. A very good reason, in fact. In Leah’s experience, money was always a good motive for any criminal act.
After an hour or so of being unable to set her worried mind at ease, Leah decided to go pay Sylvie an unscheduled visit. This would likely alarm the girl, as she wasn’t used to the police showing up without her calling them first. On the other hand, maybe it would help ease her fears, knowing that Leah really did care about her and wasn’t just coming because of her irrational phone calls.
This time Leah was going for selfish reasons: to clear her own mind. She had some questions she wanted to ask Sylvie, although she wasn’t quite sure how to bring them up. There was a very good chance they were the types of questions that might set Sylvie off—questions about the past. Leah always avoided treading where memories lay when it came to Sylvie.
But today Leah was going to take Sylvie on a little trip down memory lane. Not because she wanted to, but because the detective inside her had to.
It was the first day of rain Alvin had seen in almost three weeks and even though it wasn’t a hard rain, it came with a strong wind that made the raindrops fall at a slant. Grabbing her Crimson Tide sweatshirt, Leah pulled the hood up over her head and ran to her car, doing her best not to get soaked along the way. She drove through the bleak streets to Sylvie’s house, trying to piece together how she would phrase her questions. It was important she did it right.
Above her, the sky was the color of asphalt and the clouds hung low and heavy. The rain started coming down harder as she turned up Old Mill Road, splattering off the hood of her car and the street. It was a miserable day.
By the time Leah pulled into Sylvie’s, the dirt driveway had become a layer of mud. Leah’s shoes became caked with it as she jogged to the front porch, her clothes getting drenched along the way. The raindrops were heavy and the wind hadn’t let up. Her blond bangs hung limp in front of her face. She tucked them up out of the way.
Rapping on the door, she called out, “Sylvie! Sylvie, it’s Detective Teal! Alvin Police!”
Nobody answered.
She knocked again, louder. She called out again, louder.
Still no answer.
Her heart sank. Where would Sylvie be on a day like today? Around the yard, rain bounced and drizzled off everything in sight. If Sylvie was out with the baby and caught in all this it would be terrible. She didn’t own a car. She would be on foot.
Leah tried knocking again, as hard as she could. This time she nearly screamed her name out. “Sylvie! It’s Detective Teal! Open up!”
At last, she heard the dead bolts shoot, the chain slide. The door opened two inches. The blue eye of Sylvie Carson, usually wild and crazy, appeared welcoming and warm.
“Hey,” Leah said, slightly out of breath from hollering. “It’s me. I need to talk to you. Can I come in?”
Sylvie nodded through the crack. The door closed, the chain slid, the door opened, and Leah entered.
The house was warm and felt good. A sweet smell hung in the air. Sylvie had been cooking. “Are those cookies?” Leah asked, taking an exaggerated whiff.
Sylvie frowned. “A pie. It didn’t turn out. Pecan. I make terrible pecan pie. I accidentally only put in a quarter the amount of sugar the recipe called for.”
“Sure smells good.”
Leah started taking off her shoes. “Leave ’em on,” Sylvie said. “They’re fine.”
“No they’re not,” Leah said. “They’re full of mud from your driveway.” Finishing taking them off, she followed Sylvie into the living room. “Where’s the baby?” Leah asked.
“In my room,” Sylvie said. “Asleep. All she does is sleep.”
“Be careful what you wish for. Things could be worse.”
“I dunno. Sometimes I think she sleeps too much.”
“It’s healthy for her. It means she’s growing . . .” A fruit fly buzzed around Leah’s face. She clapped her hands at it, trying to squash it. “. . . And content.”
“So why are you here?” Sylvie asked. Then she said timidly, “Sorry, that came out wrong. I don’t mind you dropping by, I was just wonderin’, is all.”
“I need to ask you some questions. Can we sit somewhere?” Sylvie nodded. “The kitchen? There’s more light.” Leah had to agree. The living room with its single yellow lamp looked particularly gloomy on this rainy afternoon.
They both sat at the kitchen table. “Are you sure that pie didn’t turn out?” Leah asked. “It sure smells good.”
“Oh, I’m sure. It’s in my garbage.”
Two more fruit flies buzzed around Leah. She killed them with one try. “You have a fruit fly problem, I see.”
“Probably the pie.”
“When did you make it?”
“An hour ago. Wasn’t even cooled ’fore I threw it in the trash.”
“Then I doubt it’s the source of your fruit flies.” The shotgun still hadn’t moved from its place by the door. Four more fruit flies flew across the table.
Leah stood. “Where are they comin’ from?” She checked the garbage under the sink. Sure enough, there was the pecan pie, not looking half bad. A little charred, but if it only had a quarter the sugar in it, it probably didn’t taste near on as good as it looked. But there were no fruit flies around it. “It ain’t the pie.”
She checked the rest of the kitchen. “There’s some here around the sink, but most seem to be comin’ from your vents.”
“Where do these vents go?” Sylvie asked.
“Outside.” Leah opened the back door. The day had grown darker than ever. Her hand automatically went to the light switch. The outside light didn’t come on. “I thought you was gonna replace this bulb.”
“I did,” Sylvie said, suddenly alarmed. “I replaced it a week ago.”
“Well, it ain’t workin’ now.” Leah tried the switch four or five times.
“It should be.”
Standing up on her tippy-toes, Leah’s fingertips touched the bottom of the bulb and slowly screwed it into the socket. After about two turns, it came right on. “It wasn’t screwed in.” Hesitantly, she looked at Sylvie.
Sylvie’s eyes were wide. “I screwed it in. Believe me. I screwed it in all the way. Somebody unscrewed it!”
“I believe you.”
“No you don’t.”
“Actually, I do.”
Sylvie fell quiet. “Who would unscrew my lightb
ulb?”
“I don’t know.” A swarm of fruit flies were gathered around the back porch. “I also have no idea where these flies are comin’ from, but you have a ton of ’em.”
Obviously shaken up because of the bulb, Sylvie said, “Why don’t you forget about the flies for now and come sit down and ask me whatever you want to ask me?”
“Okay.”
Taking one last look at the bulb, Leah locked the door and turned off the light. She returned to her chair.
“Would you like a coffee?” Sylvie asked.
“No, I’m fine.”
A moment went by while Leah gathered her thoughts. “Well . . . ?” Sylvie asked.
“I don’t know how to ask you these questions without potentially bringing up bad memories for you.”
Sylvie looked at her. “Don’t worry about my memories. They’re always there and they’re always bad.”
“How do you deal with that?”
“I just have to. If not for me, then for the baby. Go ahead. Please? Especially if you think it will help figure out who’s been in my backyard.”
Leah took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Okay. Here goes then. I need you to talk to me ’bout your pa. What do you remember ’bout him?”
The fingers of Sylvie’s left hand began rubbing the fingers of her right. “You mean in general?”
“To start, sure.”
“He was a good man. He made sure we had food and stuff. He loved my ma.”
“What ’bout you? Did he love you?”
Something flashed in Sylvie’s eyes. “Of course! What kind of question is that?”
“I’m only askin’ cuz you left yourself out just now when you answered. And Caleb? He loved Caleb of course, too?”
Leah watched Sylvie’s reaction and thought mentioning Caleb so early on may have been a bad idea. She thought Sylvie was about to break down, but somehow she managed to hold it together after a bit. “He took Caleb’s death the worst. I think he would’ve rather seen anyone else go but his little boy.” Her eyes refused to meet Leah’s gaze.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Leah said.
“What part?”
“All of it. First, I think you took your brother’s death the worst. Look how it’s still affectin’ you. And second, I don’t think he’d want to see any of his family die.”
Finally, Sylvie looked up at Leah. “He killed himself because of what happened over Caleb. I didn’t do that. I couldn’t do that. I’d be too . . . scared.”
Leah reached out and touched Sylvie’s hand. “That’s not fear, Sylvie. That’s strength. Don’t confuse the two.”
“And he was the one always askin’ me if I was okay. Kept askin’ if I needed to talk to somebody about it.”
“Talk to somebody? You mean like—”
“Like a professional. Like a shrink or somethin’. He told me that could really help.”
“It probably could’ve,” Leah said. “It probably still could.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. When he’d say it back then, I’d just get mad and ask him what the hell he knew about what helps with anythin’ cuz all I hear at night is him cryin’ himself to sleep cuz he lost his little boy.” Her eyes grew wet.
“Have you ever tried talkin’ to anybody?”
Sylvie hesitated. “Not really.”
“Not really? Or not at all?”
“Well, I saw this psychologist for a while right before I met Orwin. I only saw him three or four times. I was goin’ through a rough patch at school. He didn’t help. He thought all my problems were cuz of Caleb when they were all cuz of school. All he wanted to talk ’bout was Caleb. I went to talk ’bout school.”
Leah pulled out her pad. “Can you give me the name of the psychologist?”
“I can’t remember. He was provided through assistance. Langwood or Langdon or somethin’ like that. I was just comin’ outta foster care at the time.”
Leah wrote these names on her pad.
“You ain’t gonna talk to him, are you?”
“Would it be okay if I did?”
Sylvie thought about it a moment then shrugged. “I guess. We didn’t really talk ’bout nothin’.”
“And he was here in Alvin?”
“No, Satsuma.”
“Okay, thanks.” Leah put her pad back in her pocket.
A silence fell over the table for a few moments, finally broken by Sylvie. Leah noticed she’d become more and more open with her. Probably, Leah thought, because she had grown to trust her. “You know, there were many times I wished it was me instead of Caleb that Preacher Eli shot that evenin’.”
“I think that’s normal.”
“Sure didn’t feel normal.
“Anyway,” Sylvie said, “now that Pa’s gone, I feel so bad ’bout all those mean things I said. I wish I had the chance to take ’em all back.”
Leah locked fingers with Sylvie. “Oh, honey, I’m sure he understood. He was goin’ through the same things you were.”
Sylvie went quiet for a long while. When she spoke again, she said, “I guess in the end he proved I was right: He really didn’t know how to make things easier. If he did, maybe he’d still be here.”
“You can’t think that way. You’ll eat yourself up with the maybes and the guesses. Things are as they are. Everythin’ happens for a reason.”
“I don’t believe that.” Sylvie had let go of Leah’s hand and was now looking at her fingers while they drummed on the table. “If you believe that, you have to believe God has a sick sense of humor. I want to believe God didn’t play any part in what happened to my family. That He somehow managed to stay out of it, and I’ll still find them one day when I leave this place and everything will make sense. But it’s so hard to keep any faith sometimes.”
“Do you go to church?”
Sylvie laughed. “Haven’t done so in a long while.”
“You should come with us sometime. We try to attend regularly.” Truth be told, Leah’s “regular” church attendance was more sporadic than she liked to admit. But she considered herself a God-fearing Christian woman just the same.
Sylvie laughed some more.
“I’m serious. Why are you laughing?”
“I have a baby. What would I do with her while I was in church?”
“Babies are allowed in church. There’s lots of them there.”
“Well, we’ll have to see.”
Leah gave her a warm smile. “Think ’bout it.”
Sylvie looked into her lap and fell silent.
“Do you mind if I keep askin’ questions?” Leah asked.
Sylvie shook her head silently.
“Did your pa ever do anythin’ or act in any way that was unusual?”
Yet another laugh escaped Sylvie’s lips. “He was the opposite of unusual. His world ran by his habits. He kept them up all the time. Out in the fields by six, Mother had breakfast on the table for him at eight; she had lunch ready at noon sharp. Twice a week he’d drive down to Mobile for supplies and things like that.” She’d left out supper from her list of meals, and Leah figured, despite what she’d said about memories, there were some she really wanted to keep suppressed. Suppers were probably high on that list.
“Sounds like a good life.”
“I don’t know if he’d agree,” Sylvie said. “Like I told you, he wasn’t happy. He lost a lot. Then he finally gave up on it all, including me.”
Leah sighed. She had no idea how to respond to something like that. There were some wounds that would just never heal, and nothing she could say was going to alter that.
She decided to change the subject. “Did he ever . . . buy things? For you and your family? Expensive things? Jewelry, maybe? Did you go on vacations? Anything like that?” Leah actually felt dumb even asking this question.
Sylvie laughed again. The girl could change her demeanor in a heartbeat. “Are you serious? Miss Teal, we lived a very simple life. We was farmers. We didn’t ever go nowhere. I ain’
t never been on no vacation in all my life. I don’t think I ever owned a piece of jewelry. No, my pa was a very sensible and practical man.”
Leah knew in the back of her mind that there was some question to just how sensible he was. He had spent a lot of money on something, she just didn’t know what, yet. From Sylvie’s bedroom down the hall, she heard the baby wake up and start crying.
Sylvie looked at her. “I gotta go see to her.”
“Okay, last question. Then I’ll let you be. Do you know if your pa had a will?”
Sylvie mulled this over. “To be right honest, I never thought ’bout it. There never seemed to be any point in pursuin’ somethin’ like that and I’da thought if there had been one, someone woulda said somethin’. Ain’t like we had nothin’ anyway.” Sylvie said most of this sentence as she walked away from Leah, leaving the kitchen and heading down the hall toward the cries of the baby.
Leah made a mental note to do a search for a will left by Tom Carson.
Sylvie returned with the baby on her breast, happily suckling away. Once again, Leah was impressed with how much of a good mother she’d become, given all the weaknesses she’d been handed in life. “You had a ranch, Sylvie,” Leah said. “That was worth somethin’.”
“Now what would I do with a ranch?”
She had a point, Leah guessed. “Listen, Sylvie. I want to thank you for takin’ the time to talk to me.”
Sylvie looked at her expectantly. “Will this help with anythin’?”
“I dunno yet. But I’m not givin’ up until things make sense to me. So we’re on the same team. Remember that, okay?”
“Okay.”
Leah headed back out into the rain and got into her car. She drove toward home, both happy and frustrated. Happy that Sylvie was able to answer her questions without it causing her much undue duress, and frustrated because her answers hadn’t seemed to answer anything. By Sylvie’s account, Tom Carson was an ordinary man who had extraordinary things happen to him. If this turned out to be true, based on Leah’s detective background, this would make him the exception to a very rigid rule.
Close to the Broken Hearted Page 19