“What the hell, man! You got Ronan Trent’s DNA!”
“Let’s pretend the case isn’t closed,” Aaron said. “You were a suspect back then. You never told us where you were when Alice was killed. So I’m asking you now.”
“But the DNA—”
“I’m asking you now, Coby. You aren’t going anywhere until you tell me. Start off with whether or not you saw Jim Tuttle at Luton’s Landing that day.”
After a moment Coby said, “Jim always hated me.”
Aaron didn’t answer.
“You’re trying to blame me for killing Alice, and I never did.”
Silence.
“Let me out of here. I got somewhere to go.”
Aaron stifled a yawn and shuffled through some papers on the table in front of him.
At last Coby said, “God dang it.”
Aaron looked up. “Go ahead.”
Coby grimaced. “I did not kill Alice, all right? Are you hearing me?”
“I hear what you say.”
Coby sighed and began, “Like a lot of people around here, I was in the marijuana trade back in nineteen seventy-five. Alice and I had split up by that time, and I knew old Jim hated me, and he wanted me to stay away from Alice and the kids. But then I got in trouble with some of my partners, and I needed some money quick and I needed it bad.”
“I see,” Aaron said. “In trouble.”
“It wasn’t no fault of mine!” Coby said. He went on, “I was aware Jim had some money, and I came down here looking for him. I thought I could offer to go away again if he’d loan me what I needed. It was a Saturday, and Jim always went fishing on Saturday. He kept his boat at Luton’s Landing, so I went out there and waited until he showed up.”
He stopped for a moment, gazing into space. “He was not happy to see me,” he went on. “He acted mean right from the start, saying what the hell was I doing here and all. So I asked him right out could I borrow the money, and if I could I’d get right out of town. And he didn’t even think about it for a split second. He said hell, no, he wasn’t loaning me a dime and he wanted me out of his sight in two minutes. I mean, he didn’t even stop to consider! And I had been his son-in-law, the father of his grandbabies! It hurt, you know?”
Aaron nodded. “What then?”
Coby’s face took on a mournful look. “I got mad,” he said. “I admit it right here and now. I shouldn’t have said what I said, but he had hurt me bad, acting like he did. So I said that maybe Alice better look out, and those children too, if that was the way I was going to be treated.”
Aaron said, “You threatened to hurt Alice? And the children?”
“I didn’t mean nothing! I would never hurt a hair on any of them. If Jim had been a little bit nicer to me I wouldn’t have said something like that!” Coby leaned forward. “You can’t use something like that against me! I didn’t mean a thing by it!”
“What did Jim do?”
“Oh, he got real mad then. He told me to get out of his sight, and out of town, and don’t come back. He said if anything ever happened to Alice or Vickie Ann or Donnie he would know who was to blame. And he said he was getting himself a gun that very day, and he would shoot me himself if I ever showed my face around here.”
“So what did you do?”
“What the hell could I do? I took off!”
“You weren’t mad enough to stay around and murder Alice that evening?”
“No! I told you no! I took off, and I got right away! I had my partners after me, and if I didn’t get money from Jim I had to disappear.”
“Where did you disappear to?”
“Up the river and into the swamp. I went way up yonder, and I lay low. They were looking for me, I told you!”
Coby sat back. That seemed to be all he had to offer. “I’m going to need some corroboration,” Aaron said.
“What? It was years ago. Half the people I met were on the run, just like me. We used nicknames, not our real names. I can’t even remember the faces.”
“Well, you’re going to have to try,” Aaron said. “I guess I can see why Jim never gave up the idea that you killed Alice.”
“It was just words! That’s all! I didn’t do it. You found the other guy’s DNA, not mine.”
“You let me worry about that end of things,” Aaron said. “You’re going to have some time to cast your mind back forty years and see if you can come up with an alibi.”
He neatened his papers, stood up, and told the guard to take Coby away.
18
Clara spent the rest of the day trying to figure out what, if anything, she had learned from her stay in St. Elmo. Had she found proof that Ronan had not murdered Alice Rhodes? No, she hadn’t. She thought there was room for considerable doubt, but nothing definitive. The Book of Alice and the Warning from a Friend were the most compelling discoveries she’d made, but the fact was that they could point to Ronan’s guilt rather than his innocence.
Looking at The Book of Alice, at the images of a closeness and affection Clara herself had never experienced with Ronan, had led Clara to one conclusion. She now believed that whatever had happened the night Alice Rhodes was killed had changed Ronan irrevocably. Ronan had been a young airman who played poker, drank beer, and had a talent for drawing. He fell in love with a sexy older woman and had a consuming affair with her. Her murder— whether he himself committed it or not— forged him into the withdrawn, mercurial artist Clara met several years later. He had changed, and his art had changed too. The drawings of Alice that spoke of passionate love became abstracts that, it now seemed to Clara, were filled with the passion of anger and loss.
She lay down, hoping for a nap, but she couldn’t sleep. When Clara thought of Ronan’s death, alone at Loggerhead Point, she was assailed once again by the guilt that had plagued her since it happened. He had been dead for weeks before she even reported him missing. How could she have been so negligent? It made no difference to say that Ronan had gone away for extended periods during all their years together. Somehow, this time she should’ve known. She should’ve sensed a problem. She should’ve done something.
Clara had not been to Loggerhead Point since Ronan’s death. She had not seen the place where Ronan died, where his body had lain untended. She had not been able to face even the thought of it. Now, her avoidance stuck her as yet another shameful act of neglect. She sat up. How many other sins would she uncover, how many other instances where she could blame herself? At least in this case she could make a gesture. She would go to Loggerhead Point and pay her respects to Ronan at the place where he died.
Her phone rang, and she answered. It was Aaron. He said, “What a day. This is the first chance I’ve had to call and make sure you got home all right.”
The sound of his voice, so ordinary and reasonable, had a calming effect on Clara’s overstretched nerves. “I’m here. I got here all right,” she said.
“And you’re feeling OK?”
Clara hesitated. “I’ve been thinking about Ronan, trying to face the fact that I may never know whether or not he killed Alice. Maybe I need to make my peace with the uncertainty.”
“Speaking for myself, I’m not happy with uncertainty,” Aaron said. “My job is about knowing things for sure. That’s one reason I called. I want to talk with you.”
Clara sat up straighter. “About what? Has something happened?”
“A couple of things. For one, I’ve got Coby Rhodes in custody, and right at the moment he can’t produce a firm alibi for the night of Alice’s murder. But there’s something else, too. Are you free tomorrow? Can I come over and talk with you?”
Clara was immediately wary of what Aaron might have to say. She said, “I was thinking of going to Loggerhead Point.”
“Really?” Aaron sounded surprised. After a moment he went on, “Why don’t I take you? I can borrow a boat from my buddy at the department over there. It’s a lot quicker to go by water than to hike in from the parking lot.” When Clara didn’t answer he said, �
�If you don’t mind me coming with you, that is.”
Clara realized that the thought of Aaron coming with her was a relief. She said, “Great. I’d like for you to come.”
“Fine. I’ll stop by your place first, all right? We’ll talk, and then we’ll go over there.” They arranged for him to arrive the following morning at ten, and said good-bye.
It was amazing, Clara thought after she hung up, how much better she felt after talking with Aaron. She washed her face and went downstairs to check with Nadine and see how things were going at the gallery.
The next morning at a few minutes after ten, Aaron was sitting in Clara’s living room with a cup of coffee. He was dressed for the boat ride, in a short-sleeved shirt, khakis, and sneakers, his sunglasses hanging around his neck. Clara, with her own cup of coffee, said, “What was it you wanted to tell me?”
Aaron gave her a long look. “I don’t want to get your hopes up too high, all right?”
“All right.”
Aaron went on, “Since I met you, and we’ve been talking about the case, I thought maybe I needed to know more about DNA evidence. For my own satisfaction, you know? And yesterday, in the middle of everything else, I got a call back from a guy who knows quite a bit about it.”
He pulled a couple of small pieces of scribbled-over paper from his pocket. “I described the nature of the evidence in the Alice Rhodes case, and what our conclusions were. He told me that while we could be correct in naming Ronan as the killer based on the DNA, it wasn’t any slam-dunk.”
Clara put down her cup. “What do you mean?”
Aaron consulted his notes. “He told me about something called the ‘Hidden Perpetrator Effect.’ Now, we saved evidence from the scene of Alice Rhodes’ murder back in nineteen seventy-five, and when I reopened the case it was tested for DNA. I also tested Ronan’s hat, and it was a match. So we know Ronan was there, even though he lied and said he wasn’t. But given everything we don’t know, we can’t be positive he’s the one who killed Alice. And— here’s the thing— we can’t be sure somebody else wasn’t there, too. Ronan’s DNA is the only one we saved, but that doesn’t prove he’s the killer. There’s a saying: Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. Do you see?”
“Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence,” Clara said. “So that means—”
“It means that somebody else could’ve been there. We just didn’t take or preserve a sample of that person’s DNA. That’s the Hidden Perpetrator. And considering that in nineteen seventy-five we didn’t even know what DNA was, much less how to test for it— well, it’s not surprising that the evidence is limited.”
“I see,” Clara said. “It doesn’t mean Ronan is innocent. It just means he could be. And somebody who didn’t leave DNA behind— DNA that you found, anyway— could be guilty.”
“It’s a possibility,” Aaron said.
“So there’s a chance—”
“There’s a chance either way.”
“My God,” Clara said. “I don’t even know how to think about this.”
Aaron put his slips of paper back into his pocket. “Think about it this way,” he said. “I’ve got Coby, and I’m pressing him for his alibi. And there are some other avenues to explore. Ronan is still the most likely suspect, all right? But we’ll do some more digging.”
Clara nodded. “That’s fair,” she said. “That’s very fair, Aaron. Thank you.”
“We’ll see what happens,” Aaron said. He put down his coffee cup. “Now let’s go to Loggerhead Point.”
19
The morning was sunny and hot. They drove to the Luna Bay marina in Aaron’s car, and he went in the office to ask about the boat while Clara, in straw hat and sunglasses, waited on the dock. Soon they were underway. The boat was open and lightweight, with an outboard motor. As they skimmed over the blue-green water, Loggerhead Point was a dark line on the horizon. Clara thought of the many, many times Ronan had made this trip across the bay to a place where, perhaps, he felt more comfortable than anywhere else. The boat pounded the choppy waves, and salt spray moistened her face.
In less than an hour, they were approaching the sandy spit of land at the tip of Loggerhead Point. Aaron cut the motor to low, and Clara said, “Ronan had a shack— sort of a lean-to. It was around on the other side, not too far down from here.”
Aaron guided the boat in the direction Clara indicated, and after a few minutes she saw the weathered structure. She pointed. “There it is.”
The sandy beach was blinding in the sun. Clara realized she had imagined a scene of calm and contemplation as she visited the place where Ronan died, but in fact she saw several people on the beach, including a sunburned man standing waist-deep in the water fishing and a couple of children running back and forth. A short way beyond Ronan’s cabin a tent was pitched. It was, in fact, a lively scene.
A woman sitting in a beach chair near the tent waved at Clara and Aaron, and they waved back, as protocol demanded. “Campers, looks like,” Aaron said. “I’ll pull up a ways down from them, and we can walk across to Ronan’s place through the dunes.”
Giving the campers some space, he let the boat drift up to the beach. They clambered out, pulled the boat up, and started walking toward Ronan’s hideaway. Green vines of blossoming beach morning glories made patterns on the sand in front of the dunes, and sea oats stirred in the warm breeze.
Soon they had reached the weathered gray structure. It seemed to be listing toward the earth, ready to break apart in the next gale. Clara knew that Ronan had shored it up repeatedly during the years he used it, but now it was succumbing to the elements. “It was primitive. No electricity or plumbing,” she said, her voice tight.
“It’s a beautiful spot, though,” Aaron said.
The unlatched door hung loose on its hinges. Clara looked at it with sudden dread. Ronan had died inside this rickety structure, and his body had lain there and decayed to nearly nothing. Maybe she shouldn’t have come here. Maybe this was too hard.
“Let me go in,” Aaron said. He opened the door and left it open, and after a minute Clara stepped in after him. Except for the two of them, the room was empty. Light shone in through cracks in the walls, and sand covered the splintering planks of the floor. Clara could hear the waves, the faint sound of the children shouting on the beach. There was no smell, no rags in the corners, no scurrying rodents or crabs.
She walked to the center of the room. She could feel Ronan here. She imagined that, tormented as he was, he had found some solace in this place. He had died here, and at least for a time he had been left here, where he had so often chosen to be. It wasn’t much comfort, but it was something. She stood still for a long time, enveloped in her thoughts, before she turned to go.
She found Aaron outside, standing a few feet away. She hadn’t heard him leave. When he saw her he said, “Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m OK.”
They walked to the water’s edge. Clara took off her sandals and let the waves break over her feet and dampen the hem of her pants. She got a bottle of water out of her bag and offered it to Aaron. He opened it and took a sip, then handed it back to her.
Out of nowhere, a cheery voice called out, “Hey! How are y’all today?”
Startled, Clara and Aaron turned toward the voice. The woman they’d seen earlier sitting near the tent was walking along the beach toward them. She wore a blue bathing suit and a large hat of multicolored straw. She said, “Just thought I’d say hello. My name is Becky. Pretty day, isn’t it?”
“Real nice,” Aaron said politely.
“It sure is,” Becky said. She went on, “I saw you going into that old shack. I wanted to tell you that from what we heard, somebody died in there a few months ago. Just so you know.”
Aaron made a gesture and started to speak, but Clara said, “We know. The man who died there was my husband.”
“Oh my gosh!” Becky put a hand over her mouth. “Oh how awful! I’m so sorry.”
Clara w
asn’t sure if Becky was sorry for Ronan’s death or for mentioning it. “It’s all right,” she said.
Becky said, “It’s just that— we don’t let the kids go in there. Out of respect, you know.”
“I understand.”
Becky seemed disinclined to move on. “What an awful, awful thing,” she said. “Just horrible.”
Aaron took Clara’s elbow. To Becky he said, “Ma’am, you have a good day.” Clara felt him steering her toward the dunes and away from Becky, but they had gone only a few steps when she called, “Ma’am? Ma’am?”
Clara turned, and she said, “I may have something that belongs to you, if you want to come with me.”
Clara glanced at Aaron, and they followed Becky around to the family tent. She said, “My husband has one of those metal detectors, you know? He likes to see what he can find. And a day or so ago he found something in the tall grass, right beyond that cabin. I was thinking I’d give it to my sister, but if it’s yours you ought to have it.” She disappeared into the tent and emerged a few minutes later. “Here it is,” she said. She was holding something in her open palm.
Clara looked down. At first, she didn’t recognize the object. It was a ring— a silver ring carved with twining vines, with a setting of a small rose made of pink coral. She heard a rushing sound in her ears. She had seen this ring before. She had seen it on Alice Rhodes’ finger, in Ronan’s drawings in The Book of Alice.
Slowly, she said, “Yes, I’ve seen it before. It belonged to my husband.”
“It’s yours then, ma’am,” Becky said. “I’m glad to be able to give it back to you.” She held out the ring and dropped it into Clara’s palm.
Numb with shock, Clara stammered through words of thanks and an offer to pay for the ring. Becky refused payment firmly. “No, ma’am. You lost your husband. If this ring means something to you, you should have it. It’s good you came here today, because we’re going to be leaving this afternoon, heading back home.” She called her husband from his fishing spot and he showed Clara and Aaron where he had found the ring, in the sand not far from the cabin door. Clara wrote down Becky’s name and the address in Georgia where the family lived, thanked her again, and she and Aaron waved good-bye and returned to their boat.
The Complete Mystery Collection Page 145