by Hannah Reed
“I can’t talk about that subject, Story. You know I can’t compromise an active criminal investigation by releasing confidential information to the general public.”
I didn’t know that, but I did now. “I understand,” I said.
“Hunter said you would try to squeeze details out of me,” Jackson continued, laughing. Then I noticed several empty beer bottles in front of him and that his eyes were slightly brighter than sober eyes should be.
“Let me buy you another drink,” I said, scooting away before he could refuse. “Save my seat.”
I ordered two more—one for me and one for Jackson. “Make one of them a double; no, change that to a triple,” I said to Stu. “Lots of one-fifty-one rum.”
“You aren’t messing with your mother, are you?” Stu asked.
“I wouldn’t think of it. I’m a good daughter.”
The noise level in the bar had increased about a zillion octaves since I first arrived. Between the talking, wailing, and music playing, I expected the roof to come down at any moment.
Volunteers were setting out platters and bowls of food on a long table against the far wall. Since Stu didn’t have the capacity, staff, or equipment to cater food to a crowd this big, he’d agreed to allow a potluck inside the bar as long as the drink tabs kept adding up. That wasn’t going to be a problem.
But if they didn’t get the food uncovered and ready to serve soon, so wake-goers had something inside them to sop up some of the alcohol, half the customers would be in drunken stupors before long.
I loved the Irish culture.
Jackson did, too. I could tell. He had a big smile plastered on his face, and his head was bobbing to the tunes piping through the sound system. Since it was too loud to hold the conversation I had hoped to have with him, I gave up and watched the action.
Holly and Patti swung across the floor, dancing together, attempting a really poor example of an Irish jig. Hands on hips. Legs flying. They looked more like electric-shock patients undergoing treatment than real dancers.
Looking around, I saw a few Kerrigans, but none of Lauren’s immediate family. I wondered how they were coping with their loss.
The band finished the set. They went off to take a break, giving some of us the opportunity to toast Chopper.
“Hope he gets to heaven before the devil finds out he’s dead,” someone called out, paraphrasing a typical Irish toast. Cheers went up and everybody took a drink of whatever was in his or her hand.
One of the Murphys started singing and everybody joined in:
In Heaven there is no beer, that’s why we drink it here.
Most of those celebrating were customers of mine as well. Some had small businesses in town. My dentist came into view, and I hunkered down a little. If he saw me, T. J. would run over and start blabbing about my cavity, and badger me into setting up an appointment. Knowing him, he probably had his appointment calendar in his pocket.
Three residents were noticeably missing (other than most of the Kerrigans and Norm Cross, who had already told me he wasn’t coming): Hunter wasn’t in the bar, but that was because he had work to do on the case. I really hadn’t expected him. And Carrie Ann hadn’t made an appearance, which, on one hand, surprised me because if she was drinking again, wouldn’t she be bellied up to the bar? On the other hand, last time I saw her she was spooked and talking about going into hiding.
The only other resident missing was Johnny Jay. If he was as calculating as I suspected, he’d stay away. Nobody thought too highly of him at the moment.
The band started back up with “Danny Boy.” I went to the ladies’ room and met up with Patti inside. “I saw you sitting over with the medical examiner,” she said. “What did you learn?”
“Not a thing. He won’t say a word.”
“Ply him with alcohol.”
“I’m working on it.”
Patti looked into the mirror and met my eyes. “Let’s kidnap him and make him talk.”
“Please tell me you’re kidding?”
Patti didn’t blink.
“Let’s reserve that in case we get really desperate,” I suggested, meaning it was never going to happen.
Suddenly, right in the middle of “Molly Malone,” the music stopped. I found out why when we walked back into the bar. Because one of the missing residents had arrived after all.
Johnny Jay had the mic. And the floor. Every head in the place rotated toward the ladies’ room, so I had to be involved in whatever was taking place. Patti stepped away from me, blending into the background. Before she disappeared, leaving me alone—not for the first time, either—I saw her whip out her handy video recorder.
Jeez, I hated being the center of controversy. I really did. Sure, I liked attention just like everybody else, but not this kind.
Johnny Jay’s head swung and he followed everybody else’s gaze until his cold eyes locked onto mine. And I read the message they conveyed loud and clear. I knew exactly what was coming next, and he wanted me to know none of it was for my benefit.
“I’d like everyone’s attention for a moment.” His voice boomed with the added amplification provided by the mic, which the man didn’t really need.
You could have heard a maraschino cherry drop, the place went so quiet. I froze.
“I came to pay my respects to the memory of Chopper Murphy,” he said, “and I want you all to know that I mean it from the bottom of my heart. Chopper and I got to know each other pretty good.”
He didn’t mention that they had plenty of time to get acquainted because Johnny kept arresting Chopper for public drunkenness, but we all knew that.
Nobody said a word. Patti was standing on a chair with her arm extended, the video rolling.
“What the hell!” That’s what Johnny Jay said next, with his eyes fixed on Patti. “Are you video taping me?”
The raging bull was snorting and stomping at the surface. It sure didn’t take much. The only positive thing about this was that I realized I wasn’t the only one in town who could rile him. Patti had a gift for it, too.
“Put that thing away! Now!”
Patti lowered her arm and jumped down from the chair.
Johnny Jay struggled to control himself. And actually won.
“Chopper was a forgiving man,” Johnny went on. “So he would have appreciated what I’m going to do next. You all know Missy . . . I mean Story Fischer and I had an altercation recently and I want to apologize to her in public. And this is the best place to find everybody together. Can you come up here please, Story?”
Jeez, he was looking straight at me. All I wanted was to disappear from view, get down and crawl out the door, because no way did I want to accept an apology from Johnny Jay. He didn’t mean one word of it.
Somebody gave me a little shove, so I walked up to the center of attention on numb legs.
“Story Fischer, I am sorry for any harm or hurt I caused you. Will you accept my sincerest apology right out in front of the whole town?” He grinned at the crowd. “Or do you want me to get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness?”
Someone yelled, “Yes, do it!”
And everybody laughed and thought it was one big joke when he actually got down on the floor and pleaded with his hands clasped together and that stupid grin still on his face. When I looked around the room, I could tell he had them eating out of the palm of his hand.
And he waited, still smiling, but his eyes when they pierced mine weren’t laughing along.
I licked my lips.
“I’ll think about it, Johnny Jay.” I saw him flinch when I called him that, but right now he wasn’t police chief, and I didn’t have to bother with titles and respect. “But I’d like you to start over again from the beginning and let Patti Dwyre preserve your heartfelt apology for eternity.”
He really hated that, almost lost his place in the script, but for the moment I was directing and he went along, doing as I said.
“You can get up now,” I said, after he repeated the performance for P
atti, who took her job very seriously. “And I’ll give you an answer after I’ve thought on it long and hard. In the meantime, the next round of drinks is on The Wild Clover and Story Fischer.”
And that was the end of that scene, because buying the whole place a drink beat out just about anything else in the world.
I showed Johnny Jay my back and returned to my table.
Mom slowly shook her head at me, implying that either I hadn’t handled the situation well or I shouldn’t be buying drinks for everybody. Or both.
Jackson had pushed back his chair and was standing. His body language told me he was leaving and by the way he was swaying without any music, he’d had too much to drink. Partly, or mostly, thanks to me.
I couldn’t let him drive.
“I’ll walk out with you,” I shouted to him since the band had resumed. I watched Johnny Jay make his way to the door and leave, so I stalled until I was sure he wasn’t in the parking lot any longer. Then Jackson and I walked out together.
I decided to try one more time to pump him for information. “Are you sure you can’t tell me just a little about what you found in the autopsies?” I asked.
Jackson stopped next to his car.
“I’m sure,” he said, digging through one pocket, then another, searching for his car keys. “But I can tell you I still disagree with the jury’s findings in the case against Lauren Kerrigan.”
“You and all her family.”
“Especially how she ran over Wayne Jay.”
“What about it?”
“Why did she run over him twice?”
“Everybody wonders that,” I said. “Even Lauren didn’t know.”
“See, that question has bothered me all these years and it’s never been answered. The way it happened didn’t make sense. I wasn’t a medical examiner at the time, way too young, but I was studying up and watching her case.”
Jackson leaned against his car, and he tried to focus on me with glazed-over eyes. He actually closed one, thinking that might improve his vision. He hadn’t slurred any of his words. What came out of his mouth was well formed and thoughtful, but the rest of him . . .
“Why don’t I give you a lift home?” I said, thinking he would tell me more on the drive over to his house.
“I’ll be fine. Think I’ll go back in, though, and see if there’s any coffee on that table.”
“If not, ask Stu to make some.”
“Good idea.” Jackson pushed off from the car.
“Wait a minute. Don’t go yet. You were telling me about the trial and your theory.”
“Oh, right. Here it is. Based on angles,” Jackson used his hands to supplement his speech, making imaginary angles, “Lauren ran over his legs the first time, so the man was still alive. Right?”
I nodded, remembering what came next, which had a lot to do with earning her an extra-heavy sentence.
“Then she put the car in reverse, backed up, shifted to drive, hit the gas, and ran over him again. That time she killed him.”
“Yeah,” I said a little impatiently. “Nothing new there.”
“Okay, Miss Smarty Pants. My question was, she had so damned much alcohol in her bloodstream, how did she even drive at all?”
I shrugged. “Drunks drive plastered all the time. It’s unfortunate, but they do.” Like this very minute when Jackson was nearly going to get behind the wheel and drive when he shouldn’t. The hardest thing about someone soaked in booze is that they don’t realize how drunk they are. So they resist everybody’s efforts to help them.
“It had rained earlier that day,” Jackson continued, still swaying, but still speaking perfectly fine. “So the ground was soft. The shoulder of the road from The Lost Mile into town was soft, too. There wasn’t a single sign, not a hint of a recent tire mark. She hadn’t swerved off the pavement from the time she left the rest of you until she came to the curbed street in town. Not once. She drove perfectly straight until the very end. Then she swerved right into Wayne Jay. It didn’t add up then and it doesn’t add up now.”
“So what are you saying?”
“You tell me? You’re a smart woman.”
Jackson stood, swaying, waiting for my answer.
Explaining why she ran over him twice was easy.
“The prosecuting attorney argued that after she hit Wayne Jay, Lauren knew she had seriously injured the police chief,” I said. “She panicked and ran over him again because she was afraid of what would happen to her if he lived to tell the truth. A dead man couldn’t accuse her.”
“Think outside the box, Story. Forget what everybody else thought or said, and work with the information I just gave you.”
My shoulders slumped. “I don’t know. Maybe the booze didn’t hit her until then. Come on, Jackson, just tell me what you think.”
He swayed once, then stood tall. “I thought then,” he said, “and I still think . . . that when her car ran down Wayne Jay, Lauren Kerrigan wasn’t the one behind the wheel.”
Twenty-seven
With that stunning declaration, which I hadn’t even seen coming, Jackson took off back inside. I followed him long enough to snatch his keys when he set them down next to the coffee pot and to ask Grams to see him safely home. She agreed, and I handed over his keys to her.
Grams and Mom were probably the only ones in the bar who would pass a Breathalyzer test. Someone with more foresight than me should have set up designated drivers and a shuttle service. Just as well I hadn’t driven Jackson home myself—I could feel the effects of the Irish wakes kicking in. I planned to walk home.
Later, I’d blame my lack of caution on the cocktails, not on my own impulsiveness, although it was completely in character for me to act first, think later. But, really, what could happen in two short blocks?
And so I set out walking.
And analyzing possibilities.
What the medical examiner had shared with me was mind-boggling. He thought Lauren had been too drunk to operate a car that night? If Jackson was right about a different driver (and in my opinion, that was up for serious debate), who was it?
And what about Hunter’s recent actions? Interrogating Gunnar and Carrie Ann, two of our original group of friends. None of us could have been involved. We’d all been together, right? Weren’t we together the entire time? I thought so. Well, most of the time.
Pure nonsense, I decided. Rubbish, as Mom would say. Jackson might have sounded sober, but he was drunk as a skunk when he came up with that baloney. Or I should say blarney, since we were into Irish tonight. I wasn’t buying the idea that it was a different driver. Lauren Kerrigan went to prison for it.
I had to get my hands on my cousin and make her talk. She’d been acting strange. She knew something.
If I could find her.
Where was Carrie Ann?
I crossed Main Street, not paying too much attention to my surroundings, because I knew the town inside and out. Moraine’s streetlights were bright, and traffic was light, as in next to nonexistent. Businesses along Main Street, including mine, were dark, closed up for the night. Crowd noise drifted over from Stu’s Bar and Grill as people went in and out of the bar. The sidewalk under my flip-flops felt like it was undulating to the heavy bass vibes from the music.
A full moon grinned from the sky, creating tall shadows from short objects.
And right then I paused, remembering unpleasant things through my pleasant alcoholic haze. Johnny Jay was out here somewhere, stalking me, plotting revenge against me for ruining his life. Not to mention the humiliating apology he’d had to endure. Twice.
I hadn’t fallen for his little act and he knew it. He’d even wanted me to understand that. He wasn’t nearly finished with me.
And here I was, alone, in the dark, not paying attention.
Isn’t that exactly how women got in trouble all the time? By not being cautious?
I hadn’t even told Holly or Patti when I left.
Nobody knew where I was, where I had gone.
Wouldn’t this be the perfect place and time for an attack? That was, if Story Fischer was actually foolish enough to walk home alone in the dark. Suddenly that short walk seemed like the longest ever.
Just as I talked myself into believing everything was fine, a car started up ahead of me at the end of the street. No lights, but I heard the engine.
It sped out of the darkness, like a bat out of the depths of hell, aiming straight at me.
My reflexes weren’t going to be as sharp as they would have been if I hadn’t been drinking. That was for sure. I glanced around for options. Nothing brilliant popped out.
So I did the only thing I had time for.
I got behind the nearest streetlight, not too close to it, but not too far away, either, and I closed my eyes, waiting for impact. With a bit of luck, the metal pole would stop the car’s forward momentum and save my life.
I backed up a few feet, thinking if I lived through this I would never, ever put myself in this kind of position, ever again.
Tires squealed. My eyes shot open in time to see the car veer off right before hitting the pole. I thought the driver might lose control after that, because the car swerved back and forth several times before it straightened out and sped off into the night.
“What a total moron,” I said, really talking about the driver but I could just as well have called myself that for being utterly stupid. In this case, I was addressing the driver because I’d actually found time in my terror to read the license plate number with my fine but trembling mind.
I even got cocky about it, while repeating the number several times so I wouldn’t forget it. What kind of pathetic attempt on my life was that? A real serious murderer should have planned for possible failure. If that had been me behind the wheel, I would have removed the plates beforehand. Just in case I messed up.
I ran up onto my front porch and collapsed in an Adirondack chair, panting, my heart pounding as the full realization struck. I had come uncomfortably close to dying.