She pulled into the school parking lot, parked where she usually did when she did volunteer work there. Carrying an empty manila envelope, she went in, smiled at the principal who was walking to his office.
“Hi, Mr. Sanders,” she said.
“Juliet,” he said, hesitating in the hall. “I heard about your sister-in-law’s death. I’m so sorry.”
So word was getting out. Abe had probably told them. “Yeah, it’s tragic.”
“I hope they’re not putting you to work today.”
She sighed. “I just came to talk to somebody.”
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do for your family.”
Did he know that it was her brother in jail for the murder? Had her son blurted that out too?
She dropped her head as she walked past him. She didn’t want her children to have to suffer for the biases against their family.
She walked down the kindergarten hallway and went to Jackson’s class, knocked lightly. Jackson’s teacher, Mrs. Bernard, turned to her and smiled. She knew Juliet well, because she’d been the homeroom mother the year Abe was in kindergarten.
“Hi, Juliet. How are you?” Her soft tone indicated she was aware of Annalee’s death.
“I’m okay. Just wanted to check on Jackson.” She scanned the room and her gaze landed on his empty desk. “He’s not here today?”
Mrs. Bernard crossed the room and stepped out into the hallway. “No, he’s not here,” she said in a low voice. “I heard about his mom. I’m so sorry. His dad’s probably keeping him home today.”
Juliet didn’t want to correct her. Disappointed, she went back out to her car and sat behind the wheel. She melted into tears as she said a prayer for her little nephew, that he was being well cared for and that he wasn’t upset, that someone was seeing to his needs.
Meanwhile, Juliet would talk to people who worked with Annalee’s latest boyfriend. Max had told Michael he had an ironclad alibi, but she wanted to see for herself. They couldn’t leave any loose threads in this investigation. Her brother’s future depended on them.
CHAPTER 26
Holly pulled into the post office parking lot and drove to the far end so she wouldn’t be noticed. She backed the car into a space, facing the building. She didn’t want to go in there and stand around the post office boxes all day long. That would call attention to herself. The postal employees would wonder what she was doing.
Right now the parking lot was mostly empty. There were two doors to the post office. One led to the counter where customers could buy stamps or mail packages. The other led to the post office boxes lined up on the walls. She would watch the people coming and going from that door and go in if one of the men they were looking for arrived. Michael had put their pictures on her smartphone, so she flipped through them now, reviewing the details of their features, what they might look like in different clothes, different haircuts, maybe even different color hair.
She hoped she could stay awake. She hadn’t slept well last night and had awakened early with morning sickness.
Her gaze drifted to her rearview mirror. The abortion clinic was just next door to the post office — right behind her. She had been there several times before to drop off women who didn’t want their cars identified by the protesters across the street. They always got nervously into her cab, hoodies up, and were tragically quiet on the drive to the clinic. When she returned to pick them up, it was always the same. Tearful silence … blank expressions.
Could she handle being one of them? A few protesters stood the legal distance away with signs that had unborn babies on them, babies who were only weeks old in their mothers’ wombs. She laid her hand flat on her stomach. She wasn’t even sure how far along she was exactly — four weeks? Five? But the thought that the little life forming inside her already had a soul and spirit and mind filled her with shame.
No, she couldn’t think like that. It would be so much easier if she didn’t believe that. It was no big deal. She was just delaying her motherhood a few years until she was ready.
But those ideas rattled like rocks in her head.
If there was ever an unfit mother, she was it. Self-hatred cleated through her.
A car pulled into the clinic’s parking lot, and she watched in the mirror as protesters called out. A girl got out, a scarf over her head, hiding her face as she hurried up the sidewalk to the clinic.
If Holly wore a coat and a hood, maybe she could be disguised when she went for her appointment. She had tried numerous times to make the phone call to schedule an appointment, but had hung up each time they answered. She was a coward. Too cowardly to carry her child; too cowardly to get rid of it.
Unable to stand the sight any longer, she got out of the car and walked into the post office. As she stepped into the dimly lit building, the sound of the protesters’ voices faded away.
Relief washed over her.
She tried to refocus and found the post office box in question. She went to lean against the postage machine. She would have to alternate between standing inside, sitting in her car, and taking calls so she could make a living. Despite the heat, she’d have to do it with her windows up so she couldn’t hear the protesters, with her eyes away from the rearview mirror.
It was going to be a long day.
Holly took three calls during the time that she was watching the post office, and each time called Juliet to take over for her. In each case, there was a window of opportunity in which the box owner may have come to pick up his mail. But they could only do their best.
When she was free again, she went back to the parking lot, switching off with Juliet, who had to go pick up her kids from school. She angled her taxi a little differently this time so her rear view wasn’t of the abortion clinic. She locked in on the face of everyone who drove up. No one fitting the descriptions of any of Cathy’s enemies came.
Her gaze drifted back to her rearview mirror. Unable to stop herself, she adjusted it so she could see the clinic again. If she chose to abort, she would be just one in a steady stream of patients, and it would be the end of this problem. She’d never have to tell her sisters, her brother. She’d never have to bring them further down with this news. She’d never have to shame her family as she had done already so many times before. It would all be behind her.
But could she really go through with it?
Someone knocked on her window and she jumped. Warren Haughton stood at her door, frowning down at her. Surprised, she lowered the window. “Warren!”
“Thought that was you,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
She groped for an explanation. “I’m just waiting here for my next call.”
“I thought you usually hung out at the airport.”
Was he giving her the third degree? “Yeah, well. I’m working in town today. How’s Jackson?” She looked for his car. “Is he with you?”
“No, he’s home. He’s hanging in there.”
Holly’s mind dredged up her nephew’s screams as they’d taken him away. Was that Warren’s version of “hanging in there”? She thought of accusing him of insensitivity and cruelty, but that wouldn’t help Jackson. There had been a time when Warren had a crush on her. He’d even asked her out a couple of times. Maybe if she played to his attraction he’d at least let her check on Jackson.
“Listen, about yesterday,” she said in a gentler voice. “I’m sorry I was so rude. We were all grieving and upset.”
He stood straighter. “No problem.”
She forced herself to meet his eyes. “How are you doing?”
His face changed, hard edges softening. “I’m okay. We were trying to arrange the funeral, but the Medical Examiner hasn’t released her body yet.”
Holly swallowed, sick at the thought of her sister-in-law lying on an autopsy table. “So the funeral plans are on hold? Maybe that’s good. I know Jay will want to be there with Jackson.”
His jaw tightened again, so she tried to connect again. “But waiting must b
e agony.”
“It’s been really hard,” he said, looking toward the post office. “I didn’t sleep at all last night.”
“I didn’t either,” she said. “Did Jackson?”
“Not much. We decided to let him sleep in this morning. But he’s gonna be all right.”
A car with a man pulled into the lot. Holly watched him until he got out of the car. No, not one of Cathy’s enemies. She turned back to Warren. “I know you love him and that you’re taking good care of him,” she said, “but would you mind if I stopped by this afternoon and just said hello? I could bring food so you don’t have to cook tonight.”
He met her eyes, stared at her for a moment as if trying to decide whether that was a good idea. “No more food. Our fridge is full. Mom’s friends have been cooking like crazy. But I guess you could come by if you don’t get him upset.”
“I won’t. Maybe I could bring him a toy or something.”
“Yeah, we can’t get into his house yet.”
“Okay,” she said. “Then I’ll be there, maybe around four.”
“I should be home,” he said. She watched as he sauntered up to the post office, holding some letters in his hand. That was good, she thought. She could get in and see Jackson. At least maybe their fears would be put to rest. Maybe things weren’t as bad as they thought. Warren and his mother did love him, after all.
Her phone buzzed — the taxi agency. She clicked it on. “Hey, Jambo. Whatcha got?”
“Pickup on Grand Avenue, 314,” her dispatcher said.
Holly started her engine. “Okay, I’m there.”
As she drove away, she glanced at the faces in the cars pulling in. So far she hadn’t seen Andrews, Winthrop, or Moore. Maybe they just didn’t pick up their mail every day, or they weren’t expecting anything. Or maybe they’d only opened the box for that one order.
Discouragement rolled over her. How were they ever going to figure this out? The idea of sitting still … waiting for them … seemed futile. Detective work wasn’t as exciting as she’d hoped.
Tears filled her eyes as she made her way to the address. Her brother was probably miserable in jail, sitting there where he never thought he would be, racking his brain trying to figure out the identity of the murderer who had set him up. Worrying about his child.
She wasn’t sure that she was any better at being a PI than she was at anything else. But this time, her brother’s future might depend on her competence.
CHAPTER 27
Cathy spent the morning on the phone and computer, tracking all the information she could find about the activities of the men on Michael’s dry erase board.
Though her windows were open and the ocean breeze whispered through from the beach across the street, it was already starting to feel muggy and hotter than normal for April.
She got up from her desk and stretched, then went to the window. From her home office, she could see the ocean between the small houses across from her. A man walked his dog on the sidewalk in front of her house.
His proximity made her feel vulnerable. Quickly, she closed the drapes.
Finally she went back to her computer and checked her blog again to see if her new pen pal had written her back. There were three hundred seventy-five comments to her post addressed to the “bottom-dwelling psychopath,” all supportive of her. None of the comments indicated veiled bitterness or vengeance. He hadn’t replied.
Turning back to the phone, she decided to work on Lex Andrews, the man who’d been accused of killing his wife, though he’d only served time for embezzlement. After a few phone calls to contacts she had in his town, she got his place of employment. He’d gone from helping run his father-in-law’s contracting firm to working at a telemarketing business. She managed to get someone from Human Resources at Andrews’s job to talk to her.
“I’m just checking on Alexander Andrews, goes by the name of Lex,” she said. “Is there any way you can tell me if he was at work Monday, the day before yesterday?”
“Why?” the woman asked. “Is he involved in another crime?”
Cathy paused. Of course the woman knew about his case. Everyone in that area did. “I don’t know if he was,” Cathy said. “I’m just checking on some things. If you could tell me that, it would really be helpful.”
“Sure,” the woman said. “I don’t guess that’s confidential information. Hold on a sec.”
Cathy waited as the woman checked her records. Finally, she came back. “Yeah, he was here all day Monday. He checked out at noon for lunch, then punched the time clock when he came back about forty-five minutes later.”
“Okay, that’s what I need to know,” Cathy said. “Any way he could have punched in and not actually been there?”
“No, someone in his department would have called. People are really stingy here. They don’t like for anybody to get one minute of pay they don’t deserve. He seems like a good worker. Hasn’t missed a day since he started working here.”
Cathy blew out a sigh. “Okay. I really appreciate it.”
“Should we be concerned?” the woman asked. “My boss knew him before all that happened. He insisted on giving him a break and hiring him. But if he’s involved in something else …”
Cathy felt a little guilty. Andrews would have had trouble finding a job after his short prison sentence and all the PR surrounding his wife’s murder. He had to make a living. And what if she’d been wrong about him? If he was really innocent, and all of her blogs about him had just made his life worse? What if he’d been set up like Jay had?
As sure as she’d been about his guilt … maybe she’d just played into someone else’s hands.
She tried to refocus her thoughts. “No, I don’t know of any crime he’s committed lately. I’m just ruling people out. If he was at work, then he’s probably okay. Thanks for the info.”
She quickly hung up and rubbed her temples. So maybe it wasn’t Lex Andrews.
Next, she called Winthrop’s place of employment. Of the three, the father of the autistic boy was probably the least likely to have done something violent, but if he saw Cathy as someone who had truly altered his life by making him look guilty, he might have snapped and decided to come after her. Bitterness did strange things to a person. She knew that better than anyone.
One of her father’s sermons from the book of Romans ran through her mind, along with one of the many scriptures he had made her commit to memory.
See to it that no one falls short of the grace of God and that no bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many.
How ironic, when the first bitterness she’d struggled with in her life was caused by the man who taught her that. But her father’s flaws didn’t make the principle less true.
And if Winthrop, Andrews, Moore, or Miller had cultivated bitterness toward her, madness may have followed. Her own bitterness had certainly caused trouble for them.
Winthrop worked for a carpet company doing installations, the same place he’d worked during his case. She called the store, waited until a young-sounding woman answered.
“TJ Carpet,” the girl said.
“Hi,” Cathy said. “My name’s Cathy Cramer. I’m investigating a case here in Panama City, and I wondered if you could answer some questions for me.”
There was a long pause. “You’re the one who kept harassing Paul throughout the trial,” she said. “Why should I talk to you?”
Cathy sighed. Clearly this girl wasn’t going to be an ally. “I wasn’t harassing him,” she said. “I was just writing about his son’s murder.”
“It wasn’t a murder,” the girl said. “The boy got lost and drowned.”
Cathy closed her eyes. “This is not about that case. I just want you to tell me one thing. Was Paul at work Monday?”
The girl hesitated. “Why? What has that got to do with you?”
“It isn’t classified information. Either he was, or he wasn’t.”
“Are you trying to start something up on him again? Becaus
e the guy is still grieving over his son. His whole family is. Can’t you leave him alone?”
Cathy set her chin in her palm. “So he wasn’t at work?”
“He was at work. He did three installations that day.”
“Were they all in your area?”
“Absolutely. Where do you want him to have been?”
Cathy breathed a mirthless laugh. “I don’t want him to have been anywhere. Someone left an anonymous note on my car a couple of days ago, and I wondered if it was from him.”
The girl’s voice grew more brittle. “Paul Winthrop is a good and decent man. Leave him alone.”
Cathy hung up. She leaned her elbows on her desk and closed her eyes. Well, there was certainly bitterness there. If the girl who answered the phone was that angry, Winthrop was probably livid. Did he blame Cathy for putting him under the microscope? She wasn’t the only one who’d harped on his possible involvement in his son’s death. Lots of others had jumped on the bandwagon after her.
But she had been the first.
Yes, Winthrop definitely had reason to hate her. She couldn’t be sure if the girl was telling her the truth or not about Winthrop being at work.
Rallying, she turned her attention to William Moore, who had relocated and adopted a new vocation since his trial. It was no wonder. It was unlikely anyone in his hometown would ever trust the guy again, even though he had been acquitted of the murders of his wife and children.
Now he worked for a landscaping company, doing hard, sweaty labor. She dialed the number she had found for his place of employment.
“Pine Lake Landscaping,” a man’s voice said.
“Hi. Who am I speaking to?”
“Jack,” the man said. “The owner.”
Cathy tried to sound light and upbeat. “Hi, Jack. I’m calling to verify someone’s employment. Can you help me?”
“Sure. I only have five guys.”
Truth-Stained Lies Page 12