Past Due

by Jenna Bennett

  Chapter Twenty-One

  By the time we got back to Copper Creek, Dix was dressed and ready to head out. Six-year-old Abigail and four-year-old Hannah were bathed and in their pajamas, curled up on the sectional in the bonus room watching the end of a Disney Princess movie. It was the one about the Chinese girl who pretends to be a boy and goes to war to save her father and her country. I wondered whether that was Tamara Grimaldi’s influence—she’d given Dix’s daughters Police Barbies for Christmas—or whether Sheila had had hidden depths.

  “Ready?” Dix asked. He was practically shifting from foot to foot, so eager to get out of the house.

  The corner of Rafe’s mouth twitched. “Sure.”

  “Good job dressing down for the occasion,” I told my brother.

  He’s a preppy guy most of the time. He spends his workdays in suits and ties, and his weekends in chinos and golf shirts. He must have dug deep into the closet to find the pair of worn jeans and T-shirt. The shirt had a Land’s End logo on it, so not completely blue collar, but in low light it might not be noticeable.

  Dix flushed to the roots of his fair hair. “Thanks. I think.”

  Rafe chuckled. “You’ll be fine.”

  “When the movie’s over,” Dix told me, “have the girls brush their teeth and go to bed.”

  I nodded.

  “Tell them no dilly-dallying. Tomorrow’s a school day.”

  “I will.”

  “Don’t let them negotiate. They’re good at that.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure they go to bed. Just have a good time. And be careful.”

  Dix nodded, blithely walking out the door with no clue what he was in for. I turned to Rafe and lowered my voice. “Don’t let anything happen to him. I know he’s part of my family, but I like him.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder, warm through the fabric of my dress. “We’re just gonna go have a drink, shoot the breeze for an hour, and come back here. Nothing’s gonna happen. To either of us.”

  He gave my shoulder a comforting squeeze. His reassuring me wouldn’t keep me from worrying, of course, but I appreciated the effort. “Take care of yourself, too.”

  “We’ll be fine. See you in a couple hours.”

  He dropped a quick kiss on my lips—it was all he had time for, with Dix standing at the curb practically tapping his foot—and headed out. I waited until they’d driven away (in my Volvo) before I closed and locked the door.

  Thirty minutes later, Mulan had saved the day—and China—and gotten her guy. Abigail and Hannah tried to tell me that Dix always let them stay up until ten on Sundays, but I stood firm and hustled them off to bed. I did end up reading them each a story, though. I didn’t mind. It took time, and attention, and that was time and attention I didn’t spend worrying about what would happen to Dix and Rafe and Dusty’s Bar.

  But eventually, the ritual was concluded and the lights turned out, and there was nothing more for me to do. I did a sweep of the kitchen, tucking any used glasses away in the dishwasher and wiping down the counters, but after that, I was out of options. All that was left, was to sit down and watch TV.

  I was flipping through shopping channels when the doorbell rang. By then it was nine thirty: too late for a social visit, but probably too early for Rafe and Dix to be returning home. And anyway, Dix had a key, so he wouldn’t be ringing the bell.

  I turned the TV off and put the remote down. And I admit it, my heart was beating a little faster. It’s always a bit nervewracking to open the door late at night. Just in case something bad is going down.

  In this case, I was worried that it might be Todd Satterfield on the other side. For all I knew, he might be in the habit of stopping by Dix’s house. So my steps dragged a little as I made my way into the foyer.

  Dix’s McMansion has a solid wood front door flanked by two frosted glass sidelights. The light was on above the door, and the silhouette I could see through the frosted glass looked nothing like Todd.

  Did Dix make a habit of receiving women visitors when his girls were in bed?

  Or worse, was it my mother?

  I hesitated before unlocking the door, not sure I wanted to know who was on the other side. Either way, the encounter had the potential to be unpleasant.

  But Mother brought me up better than to leave a visitor cooling her heels on the porch in the dark, so in the end, I threw the locks and pulled the door open.

  And found myself face to face with... not my mother. Nor Tamara Grimaldi. Nor anyone else I might have expected, like Yvonne McCoy. Someone with designs on my brother.

  I stared. “Charlotte?”

  She looked equally taken aback. “Savannah? I thought—”

  “This is Dix’s house,” I said. “But he isn’t here. He and Rafe went out for a beer. I’m babysitting.”

  There was a pause. The seconds ticked by while Charlotte bit her lip and tried to find a way to escape gracefully. Meanwhile, I was wondering what she was doing here. Was there trouble in paradise (or North Carolina) so she thought she’d take the opportunity to renew acquaintances with her newly widowed ex-boyfriend, or was this just a brief howdya between friends?

  “Why don’t you come in and wait?” I suggested before she could make her getaway. “I’m sure he’ll be home soon.”

  Or not. But I wasn’t about to let her leave before she’d told me what was going on.

  “I don’t know...”

  “The girls are in bed. I’m watching The Shopping Network on TV. I’d appreciate the company.”

  It’s a lot harder to refuse when someone intimates that your staying would be doing them a favor. Charlotte and I had both been brought up to cater to other people.

  “Come on,” I coaxed. “Just for a few minutes. If he isn’t back by ten, you can leave. I can have him call you tomorrow.”

  She glanced at her wristwatch. “I suppose...”

  I stepped aside, and waited for her to move past me into the foyer. Then I locked and bolted the door behind her.

  No, I wouldn’t really sit on her to stop her from leaving again. But now that she was inside, I wasn’t about to make it easy for her to get away from me, either. And besides, I’ve learned my lesson about open doors. Sometimes, people you don’t want to see come through them.

  We ended up in the kitchen, on either side of the kitchen island. I rustled up a bottle of wine and poured her a glass—the better to loosen her tongue—and settled in to winkle the truth out of her. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Charlotte said, sipping Chardonnay.

  “Do you and Dix hang out a lot?”

  She flushed. “Of course not.”

  “Yet here you are.”

  “If you’re going to be like that,” Charlotte said stiffly, putting her glass down on the granite with a decisive click, “I can leave again.”

  “I just want to know what you’re doing, knocking on my brother’s door at this time of night.” With her husband and kids eight hours away.

  “Not what you think.” She sounded both insulted and hurt, but she wasn’t getting off the bar stool.

  “I’m not thinking anything,” I said.

  Not technically true, of course. I’d been thinking exactly what she thought I’d been thinking. What she was telling me I shouldn’t be thinking. But what was I supposed to think?

  In fact, that was a pretty good question, so I used it. “What am I supposed to think?”

  “That I needed someone to talk to.”

  Talk, huh? “And you couldn’t talk to me because...?” I paused for a fake revelation. “Oh, wait. Let me guess. Because I’m involved with Rafe.”

  Charlotte flushed. For a minute or more she didn’t say anything. I was just about to prod her when she muttered, “I needed someone to talk to who wouldn’t pass it on.”

  “What can you tell my brother that you can’t tell me?” It was my turn to sound insulted and hurt. “I thought we were friends.”

  “He’s a lawyer,” Charlot
te said. “If I talk to him professionally, he can’t tell anyone what I said.”

  True. Within reason. There are exceptions to the attorney-client privilege. Like murder.

  “My brother does wills and estate law,” I said. “You aren’t dying, are you?”

  She hesitated, and for a second or two, my heart clutched. Then she shook her head. “I’m perfectly healthy. This is about something else.”

  “They’ve been gone a while,” I offered. “I’m sure they’ll be home soon.”

  Charlotte nodded. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure at all, but telling her that it could be hours would only make her leave sooner, and I hadn’t given up on finding out what she was doing here yet.

  But querying directly obviously wasn’t doing the trick. And Charlotte didn’t seem inclined to babble. She kept swirling the wine around in the glass, looking at it.

  “Did you hear about Matt?” I asked. “And Danny? And Willem Gunther?”

  She looked up at that, and I swear all the color leached out of her face. “Who?”

  “Matt Perkins. We went to school with him. He was friends with Ethan Underwood. And Danny Emerson. Jan’s husband. And Willem Gunther. He was two years older. Dix’s age.”

  Charlotte nodded. “I know who they are. Hear about what?”

  She said ‘are’—present tense—so whatever the reason she was here, it wasn’t to confess to the string of murders.

  Unless she was trying to throw me off.

  And no, I didn’t really think so. Although the fact that the thought crossed my mind—that I was capable of suspecting my best friend of cold-blooded, brutal murder—was a bit shocking.

  “They’re dead,” I said.

  I wouldn’t have thought it possible for her to turn any paler, but she managed. “All of them?”

  “Not Danny Emerson. He’s in the hospital.”

  She swayed on the stool, and I rushed around the island to grab her arm. “Let’s go sit somewhere softer.” And closer to the ground. If she fainted onto Dix’s tile floor, I wouldn’t be able to move her. Couldn’t risk doing anything to dislodge the baby inside me. It’d be much better for us both if she were sitting on the sofa when or if she dropped.

  I thought she might protest, or head straight out the door, but she came along with me, docilely. When I had her situated in the living room, I went back for the glass of wine and handed it to her. “Here. You look like you could use a sip.”

  She took a sip. More like a swig, really. Maybe even a gulp. “What happened to Matt and Danny?”

  “Danny’s in the hospital with carbon monoxide poisoning. He’s lucky to be alive. Matt’s dead.”

  “How?”

  “The same way Ethan died. Stabbed multiple times in the chest, throat, and groin.”

  Charlotte gulped. It might have been the mention of the groin—not a ladylike word—but it could equally well have been the mental picture I painted. It wasn’t a pretty image.

  “Willem Gunther is also dead,” I added. “Stabbed and mutilated.”

  Charlotte’s face didn’t just turn pale, it turned green.

  “Bathroom’s down the hall,” I said. “First door on the right.”

  She didn’t get up, just gave me a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding sort of look before leaning back and closing her eyes.

  “I’ll get some Coke,” I said, getting up. “Maybe that’ll be better for you than the wine.” And I could enjoy some of it, too. It might not be the optimal beverage to indulge in this time of night, with all that caffeine, but I wouldn’t be going to bed until Rafe was back safe and sound anyway. And with Rafe next to me, wearing me out, it was rare that I wasn’t able to sleep.

  Part of me had thought that Charlotte might take the opportunity to escape while I was off in the kitchen. I’d halfway expected to come back to an empty living room. But she was still there when I turned the corner with a glass of Coke over ice in each hand. She’d opened her eyes again, and was staring into space, eyes huge.

  “Here.” I handed over one of the glasses and took the other to a seat on the opposite end of the sofa.

  “Thanks.” She wrapped both hands around it, but made no move to drink.

  “I’m sorry I broke the news that way,” I said. Although to be honest, I had wanted to see her reaction, so putting it to her gently would have defeated the purpose. Then again, she didn’t need to know that.

  “It was a shock,” Charlotte admitted.

  “I didn’t think you knew any of them particularly well.” Although now that I thought about it, there had been that moment last night, at the table during the reunion, when Ethan’s name had come up and Charlotte had looked uncomfortable. I added, “Did you?”

  “No.” But she avoided looking at me.

  Uh-oh.

  But it’s not like you can come right out and ask someone—even your supposedly best friend, especially when you haven’t seen her for years—whether she was raped in high school and never told you. That’s not the kind of thing that’s acceptable in polite company.

  A lady wouldn’t ask at all. I’ve gotten over being a lady from my association with Rafe, but I still couldn’t bring myself to pose the question quite that bluntly.

  So I talked around it instead, in the approved Southern Belle fashion.

  “I had dinner with some of the other girls earlier tonight.”

  She looked up at that. “Who? Mary Kelly and Tina?”

  “Darlene and her girlfriend. And Epiphany.”

  “Oh,” Charlotte said, subsiding back into the sofa.

  “One of them mentioned something about rape.”

  Charlotte turned pale again.

  “That Ethan—and maybe his friends—weren’t always too particular about taking no for an answer.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “And then Cletus said something about not being there that night.”

  Anyone who had no idea what Cletus had been asking about—like me—would have said, “What night?” Charlotte didn’t.

  “Would you happen to know anything about that?” I asked.

  There was silence, and this time I didn’t break it. I just waited for Charlotte to break instead.

  If she hadn’t, I would have been prepared to push harder. As it was, it turned out to be unnecessary.

  She addressed her glass of Coke, not me. And she mumbled, so softly I almost couldn’t make out the words. “I went to a party there once.”

  “Where was I?” fell out of my mouth.

  It was ridiculous to feel slighted, I knew. Especially so many years later. I should be happy I hadn’t been there. I was happy I hadn’t been there, if something bad had occurred. But I’d had no idea that my best friend had gone to parties without me in high school. I’d thought we’d shared everything.

  She looked guilty. “I’m sorry, Savannah. But your mother never let you go anywhere.”

  “I went to plenty of places,” I said, stung, even though I’d thought those exact same words not so long ago myself.

  “With Dix or Todd. But she hardly ever let you out of the house without a chaperone.”

  The implication, of course, was that this was somewhere where Dix and Todd wouldn’t have been welcome.

  “I just wanted to have some fun,” Charlotte said, implying that I hadn’t been. Fun, I mean. Or my mother hadn’t let me be. “So when I was invited to a party at Willem Gunther’s house, I went.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! We could have worked something out. Said I was sleeping over at your house, or something.”

  “You never slept over at my house,” Charlotte said. “Your mother wouldn’t let you.”

  “That’s ridiculous. We slept over with each other many times.”

  “At your house,” Charlotte said. “Not mine.”

  Really?

  “Anyway, I knew your mother wouldn’t let you go to a party. And I thought you probably wouldn’t be interested anyway.”

  “Because I was just as m
uch of a stick in the mud as my mother?”

  She didn’t answer, which meant that yes, that’s what she’d thought.

  It took me a few seconds to get my bruised ego under control. “So what happened?” I asked eventually.

  “A bunch of us went to the party,” Charlotte said.

  “Who?”

  She looked vague. “Some of the cheerleaders, I think.”

  “You don’t remember?” Had it happened so many times that she couldn’t keep them straight, or what?

  “Not really,” Charlotte said.

  “It isn’t that long ago.”

  “I know. It’s just sort of... fuzzy.”

  Right. “Was that the only time you went to a party there?”

  Charlotte nodded. “First and last.”

  “Why?”

  She looked at me, and I added, “You never went back. Something must have happened. What was it?”

  “I don’t remember exactly,” Charlotte said, looking down at her glass of Coke. After a moment, she lifted it and took a sip. The ice cubes tinkled.

  I moved a couple inches closer. “What do you remember?”

  “Being there. Drinking. Dancing.” She frowned.

  When she didn’t continued, I asked, “Is that all?”

  “I remember waking up,” Charlotte said. “At home the next morning.”

  I blinked. “Home?”

  “I couldn’t remember how I got there. I had to piece it together from what my parents told me later. They said that Danny brought me home around midnight, that he said I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Danny Emerson?”

  She nodded.

  “Did your parents believe him?”

  “They weren’t stupid,” Charlotte said. “They probably figured out that I’d had too much to drink.”

  “Did you talk to him about it later? Danny?”

  “No,” Charlotte said.

  “Why not?”

  She rolled her eyes. “It was embarrassing. What if I’d acted like a fool?”

  “Did anyone say anything about you acting like a fool?”

  Charlotte sniffed. “No.”

  “I need to know who was there,” I said.