The Complete Mystery Collection

by Michaela Thompson

  The lamp on the bedside table cast a pool of brightness in the dark room. The book, open to the last page, was heavy on Clara’s legs. She breathed deeply, and smelled the musty odor of the pages. She closed her eyes and saw Ronan’s images of Alice, many Alices, with tousled yellow hair and blue eyes. They smiled; they stretched their arms over their heads; they bared their breasts; they laughed flirtatiously. Their mouths were moving, as if they were trying to say something. Their mouths were moving, as if they were screaming.

  Clara gasped and sat up. All right, that was enough. She closed the book and put it on the floor beside the bed. She turned off the light and lay down, staring into the darkness. Words vibrated in her head: Ronan, what did you do?

  Part III

  36

  Vickie Ann Rhodes was in her bedroom, catching up with Facebook. She was so far behind! Her friends from the St. Elmo High School Class of 1990 had posted so many photos, so many fun comments about all the exciting things they were doing. Vickie Ann was pressing the “Like” button on everything. She wondered if these people had missed seeing her name, asked themselves where she’d been. She wanted to imagine that it mattered, that one or the other of her busy classmates had taken a moment to think, “Hey! What happened to Vickie Ann Rhodes! I haven’t seen her name lately.” She liked to imagine it, but she wasn’t sure it was really true.

  Vickie Ann rarely posted anything herself, and she didn’t even have a photo on her Facebook page. She was not pretty, like her Mama had been. She was overweight, and her eyes were too small. Her hair was straight and brown, while her Mama’s had been curly and golden. When Vickie Ann was a little girl Daddy Jim had said her face looked like a plate of dumplings. She had never liked having her picture taken after that. Vickie Ann was forty-two years old now. How time flew!

  She read another entry, her lips parted. There was a photo of her classmate Kerry and Kerry’s husband and two sons in front of the Eiffel Tower, in Paris. Vickie Ann pressed “Like,” even though she hadn’t seen Kerry since graduation.

  Vickie Ann had considered posting some news of her own, but she had decided not to do it. She couldn’t figure out how to say it, make it fit in with all the news about trips, and children, and even grandchildren, and gatherings of friends. She had thought about it some, but writing, “They have figured out who murdered my Mama,” seemed too abrupt. There needed to be more to it, and maybe a picture of her mother at the top. Vickie Ann had scribbled a few words down, pretty soon after Aaron Malone had told her and Daddy Jim the news. The paper was still here, on her desk: My mother, Alice Janine Rhodes, was murdered in August,1975. I was very little at the time, but I know she was the sweetest person in the world, and did not deserve that to happen to her. It took all this time, but the case has been solved by Mr. Aaron Malone, an investigator for the Sheriff’s Department. He did it with DNA evidence. The murderer, Ronan Trent, is dead and cannot be brought to justice to pay for his crime, and that is a big disappointment to me and my grandpa, Daddy Jim. But Daddy Jim and I thank Aaron for all his good work and for the closure he has given us.

  After reading the passage with pursed lips, Vickie Ann put it aside. There was no way she was posting that on Facebook. Probably nobody would even “Like” it. Probably nobody would even look at it at all.

  “Where the hell are you, girl?” a querulous voice called.

  Vickie Ann sighed. If she didn’t answer, he might figure she was out in the yard, and he would go back to his chair and television for another ten minutes.

  This wasn’t one of those times, though. She could hear him coming toward her, hear the thump of his cane on the bare wood of the floor. “Dammit, answer me when I call you!” he roared, and then he appeared in her bedroom doorway. Daddy Jim, Vickie Ann’s grandfather, was ninety-five, skinny as a rail, and mean as a snake. Bent over his cane, his white hair floating around his head, he fixed her with a keen glare that still measured close to 20-20 when he went to the eye doctor.

  “Sorry, Daddy Jim,” Vickie Ann said.

  “I got to talk to you, girl.”

  He beckoned her and turned abruptly to stump along back through the house. Vickie Ann followed him to the enclosed back porch, with its louvered windows shut against the light. This was Daddy Jim’s domain, where he had his recliner and his television set, where the tv table beside his chair was covered with his many medications, where the remote was at his elbow, fixed to the arm of the recliner with Velcro.

  The television was blaring. Daddy Jim’s hearing wasn’t as good as his eyesight. Vickie Ann said, “If we’re going to talk, do you mind if I turn off the TV?”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, looking as if she had proposed throwing the set out the back door. “Just turn the sound down a little,” he said. “I was watching that.”

  It looked like cartoons, some kind of kids’ show. Vickie Ann detached the remote from the chair and put it on mute.

  “What is it?” she said. “I’m going to start lunch in just a minute. Chili con carne.” Daddy Jim loved chili con carne. She hoped she had a couple of cans in the cabinet.

  Daddy Jim eased himself back into his chair. He said, “I need my gun. I want you to get me my gun.”

  Vickie Ann nodded. “OK,” she said. “What do you need it for?”

  He gave her another squint. “You know what for, girl,” he said. “You know that bastard killed your Mama. That was my daughter Alice he killed. You think I’m going to let that slide?”

  This was the problem. There were many things Daddy Jim didn’t remember, but he certainly remembered his gun. It was a thirty-eight special revolver he had bought years ago, before Vickie Ann’s Mama was killed. For a long time it had been locked up in a cabinet. Once Daddy Jim started getting confused, Vickie Ann had kept the key to the cabinet on a chain around her neck.

  But ever since Aaron Malone came around and told Vickie Ann and Daddy Jim he’d identified the killer of Alice Rhodes, Daddy Jim had been stirred up, and he’d taken to demanding his gun. Was this what closure was supposed to be about? Vickie Ann said, “Daddy Jim, the man who killed Mama is dead. Aaron told us, remember?”

  “Dead, my ass,” said Daddy Jim. “I just saw the bastard yesterday.”

  “No, really,” Vickie Ann said. “The killer was named Ronan Trent, an airman from the base. By the time Aaron tracked him down he had already died.”

  “Aaron Malone is a no count sorry-ass,” said Daddy Jim. “He couldn’t find his butt with both hands. What name did you say he gave us?”

  “Ronan Trent. But he’s dead.” Vickie Ann had read the stories online about Ronan Trent’s death. “He lived over at Luna Bay. He went camping on Loggerhead Point all the time, stayed for weeks, and he was over there a while back and he died of a heart attack or something. They didn’t find him for a long time.”

  Daddy Jim squinted at her for a minute, taking it in. Then he said, “You and Aaron Malone are a pack of fools. It wasn’t no Ronan Trent that killed Alice. I never even heard of him.”

  Vickie Ann wondered how many times she would have to explain. “The DNA said Ronan Trent did it. The State of Florida did the tests, not Aaron.” Feeling more than a little bit frazzled, she said, “What would you rather have for lunch? Chili con carne, or spaghetti and meatballs?”

  “You think I don’t know?” Spittle flew out of the old man’s mouth. “She was my daughter. Are you telling me I don’t know? I told you to get me that gun.” He grabbed his cane from beside his chair and brandished it at her.

  “Yes, sir.” Vickie Ann knew from experience that when he started waving his cane around it was best to get out of his way. She left the room and, just in case he got up and watched, she walked into the living room and over to the wall-mounted cabinet where the gun was kept. She wasn’t about to touch the key. She didn’t want Daddy Jim to know it was hanging around her neck. She stood there, motionless, listening.

  A few minutes went by. Then she heard music coming from the TV. She waited a full five min
utes before she returned to the porch. The old man was sitting in his recliner, watching the cartoon show.

  He glanced at her when she stepped into the doorway. Vickie Ann said, “I’m going to start lunch. What about chili con carne today?”

  He shrugged, and his eyes moved back to the screen. Vickie Ann went into the kitchen and sat down on a chair at the kitchen table. She leaned back and let her eyes close, just for a minute.

  37

  Aaron Malone had parked his car and was walking down the baking sidewalk in downtown St. Elmo, thinking about the burger he intended to order at the Blue Jay Cafe, when his phone rang. It was Vickie Ann Rhodes, and she sounded stressed: “Aaron, can you come help me, please?”

  Aaron stopped walking. “What’s the problem?”

  “I need some help with Daddy Jim. Please.”

  Aaron sighed inwardly. Ever since he had closed the Alice Rhodes murder case, Alice’s daughter Vickie Ann had shown a tendency to call on him for support. Aaron wasn’t sure how deeply he wanted to get into this role, but Jim Tuttle could be a handful. He said, “Be right there,” and turned around to return to his car.

  The house Vickie Ann and Jim shared was a pleasant brick bungalow on a street that dead-ended at the highway. On the other side of the highway was St. Elmo Bay, shining blue and gold to the horizon. The house had a spreading mimosa in the front yard and a couple of chinaberry trees in back next to a separate two-car garage. An unpaved alley behind the garage bordered a vacant lot that had gone to seed, overgrown with tall grasses and small shrubs. Aaron pulled up in the driveway and immediately saw Jim standing in the back yard near the garage, swinging his cane around. Vickie Ann, wringing her hands, was under one of the chinaberries, out of striking range.

  Aaron got out of his car and strode toward them calling, “Mr. Jim! Mr. Jim! What’s going on?”

  Jim tottered a bit and put his cane down so he could lean on it. He glared at Aaron. “What the hell are you doing here, you damn fool?”

  “Daddy Jim!” Vickie Ann moaned. “Please don’t act ugly!” She pulled a tissue out of the pocket of her apron and blew her nose.

  Aaron said, “I came over to visit you, Jim. See how you’re doing.”

  “None of your business how I’m doing,” snapped Jim.

  “Aaron, I’m so sorry,” Vickie Ann said. “He wouldn’t take his medicine, and now he’s real agitated.”

  Aaron had a fleeting image of himself having a burger and fries at the Blue Jay. Improvising, he said, “Jim, I’ve got a couple of items I want to discuss with you. Can we go inside and talk?”

  “Discuss, re-cuss,” said Jim with infinite scorn. Still, Aaron thought the old man looked interested.

  “Come on, let’s go inside,” Aaron said.

  Vickie Ann took a couple of steps away from the tree. “Let me help you,” she said to Jim in a tremulous tone.

  Jim raised his cane. “I don’t need no help. Get away!”

  Tears rolled down Vickie Ann’s face. “You see how he does?” she said to Aaron. “I can’t do anything with him when he’s like this.”

  Privately, Aaron thought he himself had been handling the matter well enough without Vickie Ann sticking her oar in. Through clenched teeth he said, “Just let me talk to him, all right?” He moved a few inches toward Jim. “What’s got you so riled up, my friend?”

  Jim leaned toward Aaron on his cane. His face reddened. He said, “That bastard killed my daughter!”

  Aaron glanced at Vickie Ann and said, “He’s upset about Alice?”

  Vickie Ann’s head bobbed up and down. “Oh, Aaron, you don’t know the half—”

  “He killed my girl, and he’s out walking around! Not even locked up!” Jim bawled.

  All right. Now Aaron understood. He said, “Jim, like I told you before, the man that killed Alice is dead. I’m sorry we didn’t get him while he was alive, but—”

  Jim looked fit to explode. He yelled, “He ain’t dead, you fool! I’ve seen him! He’s been creeping around here!”

  Caught off guard, Aaron was speechless. Vickie Ann said, “It’s what he’s been saying. He’s real upset about it.”

  In a reassuring tone, Aaron said, “Really, Jim. Ronan Trent is dead.”

  Jim’s eyes were bulging. “Ronan Trent! Ronan Trent! Who the hell is that?”

  Aaron decided this had gone far enough. “I tell you what. Let’s go inside, so we can talk this over before any of us has a stroke.”

  Jim did look as if he was starting to fade a bit. In a weaker voice he said, “Why don’t you get him, you fool. He’s been creeping around here. I’ve seen him.”

  Moving toward Jim, Aaron said, “Let me get this straight. You’ve seen Ronan Trent creeping around here? I mean— lately?”

  Jim shook his head in wide arcs. He said, “Who the hell is Ronan Trent? I never saw no Ronan Trent.”

  Aaron was next to him now. “Who did you see, then? Who was creeping around?”

  Jim gathered himself. He took a deep breath. He bellowed in Aaron’s face, “Coby, you fool! I saw Coby!”

  Aaron took an involuntary step back and got his handkerchief from his pocket to blot his face. Vickie Ann looked stunned. After a moment’s silence she said, in a tight voice, “He never mentioned my daddy before. He never once said Coby.”

  Aaron took Jim by the arm. He said, “OK, Jim. We’re going inside so we can talk. I think you better tell me all about this.”

  38

  Once Jim was inside, he seemed to lose the urge to communicate. He got into his recliner, let Vickie Ann give him his pill, and rebuffed with irritated grunts Aaron’s questions about when or how he had seen Coby Rhodes creeping around. As Aaron and Vickie Ann hovered nearby, he turned on the television and became absorbed in a show about home renovation. Apparently, that was that.

  Vickie Ann said, “Aaron, would you like a glass of tea?”

  Aaron did not want a glass of tea. He wanted his burger, a large order of fries, and a dish of vanilla ice cream for dessert. Still, he accepted. He could see that Vickie Ann had been upset at the mention of Coby, her long-absent father, and he didn’t think it was right to leave her until she had calmed down.

  He followed her into the kitchen and sat at the Formica-topped kitchen table while she fussed with lemon and ice cubes. When the glasses and paper napkins were on the table at last, Vickie Ann sank into a chair and said, “Oh, my mercy.”

  Aaron said, “What on earth has gotten into Jim?”

  Wrong question. Vickie Ann puddled up again and wiped her eyes with her napkin. “Aaron, don’t take this the wrong way, but ever since you solved Mama’s murder he’s been agitated. Used to be he wasn’t a bit of trouble. He just watched his TV, ate his meals. Didn’t say much, but cooperated real good. It’s all different now.”

  Aaron didn’t really want to ask, but he said, “Different how?”

  Vickie Ann shrugged. “He gets real upset now. About Mama. He yells, and says he’s going after the bastard that killed his daughter. And I’ve told him a million times the man that killed her was named Ronan Trent and that he’s already dead, and Daddy Jim gets mad and says that isn’t true.”

  “Does he say why it isn’t true?”

  “No. But he gets real nasty about it.”

  Aaron could believe Jim got nasty. “He was waving that cane around pretty good. Has he hit you? Hurt you?”

  Vickie Ann shook her head. “No. I can dodge him all right. His legs are kind of shaky.”

  “And what’s all this about Coby?”

  Vickie Ann made a circle on the tabletop with the damp bottom of her glass. “He’s been talking about seeing somebody creeping around, but he never said ‘Coby’. He hated my daddy all right, but he never said Coby until just now.”

  “You haven’t seen anybody, have you?”

  Vickie Ann shook her head. “No. I figure it’s Daddy Jim’s imagination. Maybe some of those pills make him see things that aren’t there.”

  Aaron thoug
ht that explanation was the most likely one. Jim had pretty much lost touch with reality since his wife, Sissy, died a few years ago. He said, “If you see anything at all, you let me know. Right away.”

  “I will.” Vickie Ann took a swallow of tea. After a moment she said, “Donnie always told me he thought our daddy did it.”

  Donnie was Vickie Ann’s older brother, both of them raised by Jim and Sissy. Donnie turned out to have a rebellious streak, and when he was a teenager he had stolen a motorcycle one evening. He had been killed that same night, when he tried to ride the bike too fast around a curve on the road to Westpoint. Aaron said, “Really? Donnie thought Coby did it?”

  Vickie Ann nodded. “I don’t really remember Daddy, but Donnie said he was the meanest man alive.”

  That pretty much tallied with everything Aaron knew about Coby Rhodes. He said, “Vickie Ann, did Donnie have any good reason to think he killed your mother? Does Jim have any reason?”

  Vickie Ann sighed. “Well, you know Daddy Jim claimed he saw my daddy that time. Back when Mama was killed. Daddy Jim claimed he saw my daddy at the boat ramp that day, when he was coming in from fishing.”

  Aaron well remembered the episode, and had not missed its eerie echo in the current situation. After Alice Rhodes was killed, Jim had shown up claiming he had seen Coby Rhodes on the day of the murder, at Luton’s Landing, on the canal. When Jim started making those statements they had investigated, of course. Nobody else had seen Coby— at the landing or anywhere else— and the department had spent considerable time and manpower trying to track him, without success. Aaron had thought, privately, that Jim, distraught with grief over Alice’s death, believed he had seen Coby and had convinced himself that Coby killed Alice. The reopening of the case had brought it all back up.