Body of Evidence

by Stella Cameron

  Emma doubted if anyone outside Wells ever saw the paper, but she would make sure she and Finn missed the mug shot.

  Back at the table, she told Finn what she’d found out.

  Jim returned to remove their bowls, then brought larger steaming ones. “Black-eyed peas, pigs’ tails and rice tonight,” he said. “Reckon my wife makes the best jambalaya around.”

  Already full from the first course, they still ate the jambalaya as if they’d been starved.

  “Reckon you got a taste for that,” a man sitting across from Finn said.

  “It’s the best,” Finn said.

  The man nodded his bald head. “Anythin’ you’re lookin’ for in the area? Richie at the end there does the real estate around here. Knows most everythin’ that goes on, too. He likes any chance to talk. O’course, I’ll help wherever I can.” He put a beefy hand across the table and shook Finn’s hand. “Just call me Bull.”

  Finn introduced himself and Emma—without last names—and felt better about the prospect of getting information around here.

  As soon as he finished his food, Finn whispered his intentions to Emma and excused himself to go locate the newspaper.

  At the paper, small windows onto the hallway showed an empty front room with a counter stretching from end to end, and he could see through glass behind the counter into a room beyond. Several people were working there.

  Finn pushed through a stiff door into the anteroom and waited, sniffing at the comforting scents of ink and paper dust. In the other room, a woman looked up and waved before bustling out to help him. “Good evenin’,” she said. “I’m Marge. How may I help you?”

  After he explained, she said, “I thought someone else might turn up askin’ about the movie death. The other one was supposed to come back, but it’s been weeks now.”

  “I wonder if the other person was someone I know.” The chances that he’d get a name out of her were slim, but he had to try.

  Marge rubbed her nose. “Good-lookin’ young woman. Now you ask, I’m not sure I got her name—not one I remember. I told her there’s unlikely to be much of anythin’ to find in the archives, but she got real excited and said I’d never know how much I’d helped her. She talked like someone in the business. Journalism, that is.”

  Finn wished he had a picture of Denise Steen with him. He would be surprised if Marge didn’t identify her as the previous visitor with an interest in the old crime.

  Within half an hour, he and Emma were in the dusty attic, where naked lightbulbs hung from wires and turned the place yellow. They were shown rows of oversized binders filed according to date. Marge helped them go through until they found those for the approximate date of the movie-set death.

  The attic was stifling. Without as much as a fan to move air about, the place reeked of old paper and older dust. Marge sneezed several times and said, “If there’s somethin’ you need to clarify, come on down and get me,” she said. “It’s too bad Belinda couldn’t have died at a slow news time, but you know how seriously we take weather around here.”

  Finn knew. “Thanks for your help, Marge.”

  “You’ll find it easier to put the binders on the table over there,” Marge said. “Please feel free to make copies down in the office.” She all but ran from the attic, coughing as she went.

  Emma staggered under the weight of a stack of binders, and he took it from her.

  They went through each volume page by page. Finally Emma found a write-up on the death, with a slightly fuzzy picture of Belinda Page in one corner. The article stated what had been found, by whom, and that an investigation was under way.

  Finn removed the page from the binder to get a copy. Most pages were in duplicate, but he didn’t want to take originals.

  Two hours passed, and they’d collected very little on the case, and nothing to make them as excited as the woman Marge had described. Footsteps scraped heavily up the stairs, and a man appeared. He wore a pale, sweat-stained fedora and suspenders to hold up his jeans. He raised a hand and gave a big, tired smile. “Marge told me you were here. Thought you might like to paw through these. Doubt there’s anything here, but you never know.” He put a file box between Emma and Finn, and took the top off. The inside was crammed with photographs.

  “Took ’em around the set of that movie,” the man said. “It was interestin’, and we published a few of ’em. But then that pretty thing was murdered and it didn’t seem right to keep on using ’em. Maybe there’s somethin’ in there that’ll mean somethin’ to you.”

  Finn thanked the photographer.

  “Sorry to hear you’ve had some of the same trouble down your way. We’d sure like to hear it was the same jackass and you caught him.”

  Emma looked up at Finn, and that was when he realized these good people assumed the two of them were there in an official capacity.

  When the man had gone away again, Emma said, “The sheriff may not like outsiders, but the locals surely do. We’ll get copies of everything relevant and take a look at the photos in the room—if that’s okay with you. I can hardly breathe up here.”

  “Okay with me,” Finn said. There weren’t any chairs in the room, so they would have to sit on the bed. He would take any opportunity to get close to her.

  As soon as they had made copies on the ancient machine in the newspaper offices, they left to go upstairs to their room.

  “Hold up.” The photographer caught up and gave Emma a card. “I shoulda said I’m Jackson, not that you’ll remember, with there bein’ so many of us around here.” He chuckled. “I wanted to tell you to take any of the photos you want. Just put a note in the box to let me know which ones so I can replace ’em. They’re numbered.”

  The instant they closed the bedroom door, Emma remembered their few toiletries. She wanted to go down and get them, but he wouldn’t let her. “Put your feet up. I’ll be right back.”

  Still wearing her scarlet dress, she flopped flat on her back atop the bed. “I’m glad I’m a woman. Always havin’ to be the strong one would get real old.”

  “I’m glad you’re a woman, too,” he said, studying her and holding his breath at the sight of her. The most single-minded part of him stirred. But what else could he expect?

  She met his eyes, and he left in a hurry.

  The men still sat on the front steps. Finn took it they’d demolished a number of glasses of whatever they were drinking by now, but he noted the only extra animation was the thumping of their feet in time to the music that still came from Jambalaya Jim’s.

  “How late do they play?” Finn asked on his way down to the car.

  “Never any later’n you want ’em to,” he was told. “Should be done around noon.”

  Finn left the subject there. He got the bags and went back into the building.

  Walking along the corridor toward the room, he contemplated spending the next few hours alone with Emma. He didn’t just want her, he needed her. Before too long she would be divorced and a free woman. What would that mean? What would each of them want it to mean?

  He passed the second guestroom and the bathroom, and put one bag under his arm so he could use his key.

  The fan in the bathroom clanked as if screws were rolling around inside. Then the fan went off and the door opened.

  Rusty Barnes stuck his head out to look in both directions.

  35

  Squished into the one small room, sitting cross-legged on top of the bed with their knees all but touching, Finn, Rusty and Emma talked their way through what they knew and what they didn’t. To Emma, it felt as if there was a lot they didn’t know.

  Rusty had seen the tear sheets from the newspaper before. Denise had them. “That’s why I came here,” he said. “I hoped I could find something to help out with the Pointe Judah cases. And help get Billy Meche off my back. Denise told me months ago that she had a story folks would read all over the country. With every day she got more excited and more sure of herself. Then she was dead.” He bowed his head.
>
  Emma and Finn looked at each other. They gave him all the time he needed to get himself together.

  “It was something to do with your dad,” he said, looking at Finn. “You’ll never know how much I wanted to read those papers I left for Emma. But I couldn’t risk it.”

  “Why not come straight to me, then?” Finn asked.

  “I didn’t know you. Still don’t, but if you’re good enough for Emma, you’re good enough for me. Denise loved her. He’s out there. Whoever’s done all the killing doesn’t stray too far. He could stop now, but he’ll be back. I want him.”

  Emma arched her neck. “We all do, Rusty.”

  “No. You don’t understand. I want him.”

  “I do understand,” Finn said. “But you and I should stick together—and hang in with Billy and the police, because they’ve got access to things we can’t get at.”

  Rusty didn’t say he agreed, but neither did he protest. “The papers were about your father, weren’t they?”

  “Yes. Denise must have taken them out of the record.”

  “She didn’t,” Rusty said. “Like I told you before, only you weren’t listening, she told me there were and still are things missing. Like your father’s badge—and those records.”

  “So how did you get them?” Emma said.

  “Anonymous call from a woman,” Rusty said. “She was scared, but she was angry, too. She said it was wrong for Denise to die and he ought to pay for it. He. That’s as close as I got to an identification. She said she had papers that needed looking into and Finn Duhon was the one to do it. All the rules were hers, including telling me she’d find out if I broke ’em and read the stuff myself. She made it clear if I messed up, it was all off, so I didn’t mess up. What did the papers say?”

  Finn got off the bed and stood with his back to them.

  Emma looked at Rusty and shook her head for him to leave Finn alone.

  Nevertheless, Rusty said, “Denise and your folks got along, Finn. Your dad liked the way she went after things, I think.” He cleared his throat. “She told me once that Chief Duhon said she reminded him of his son.”

  Finn didn’t move or say a word.

  “She didn’t believe he killed himself,” Rusty said, making patterns on the quilt with a forefinger. “There wasn’t too much she shared. She was a reporter to her soul and kept things to herself. But she told me bits and pieces, as if she wanted to be sure someone knew at least some of it. This last year since Tom Duhon died, she was possessed with the case. She hardly slept. In the middle of one night she said there were times when she wished Tom could have let the movie actress’s murder go, but he never would.”

  “Chief Duhon was really involved with it?” Emma said, ever conscious of Finn’s back, his crossed arms.

  “Oh, yeah. He hated the way it was done and how Belinda Page never got any real breaks in her life. Her father left when she was a little kid. Her mother managed to keep things together, then died of cancer only months before Belinda died herself.”

  “And my mother was dying of cancer,” Finn said. “He would have identified with that.”

  “Denise said, just once, that she thought the chief was on to something.”

  “How long before he died?” Finn asked.

  Rusty looked up sharply. “Not long, I don’t think. Denise liked your mom, Finn. She went up there and helped out. Eileen’s husband made it hard on her, because she wanted to be with your mother all the time, but Denise talked to Eileen and convinced her to ignore him.”

  “I’m glad,” Finn said.

  “I knew when things started to break for her,” Rusty said. “She got so excited, and she let it slip that she thought she had the case cracked…. Then the bastard killed her.”

  “Because she knew too much,” Finn said. He sat on the floor, his back against the wall and his knees drawn up. “You sure she didn’t say anythin’ else, Rusty? Any little thing?”

  Rusty shook his head slowly. “She lost her free run of the cop shop once your dad died. Billy Meche took over and… Y’know, she said the funniest damn thing once. She said she sometimes thought Billy blamed her for Duhon’s death. Now why would she think a thing like that?”

  Emma heard the back of Finn’s head hit the wall. “He was off base, but Billy had his reasons,” he said. “I’m goin’ to tell you what I’ve got for the same reason Denise shared some of her information. In case somethin’ happens to me, I don’t want what I know to die with me. Too bad Denise held things back.”

  “Don’t say that,” Emma said. She couldn’t bear it. “You’re goin’ to leave this investigation to the police now.”

  He smiled into her eyes and blew her a kiss. “Why did it take so long for me to find you?”

  She couldn’t look at Rusty.

  “Emma and the mayor are history,” Finn said to Rusty. “They were before Emma met me. I owe you that much information about us.”

  Rusty didn’t comment.

  In a steady voice that showed little emotion, Finn told them what the papers contained. In one place he stopped, and she wondered if he would continue, but then he went on. She didn’t think he missed a thing, and she felt the hurt it cost him, even though he didn’t believe the conclusions that had been drawn about his father.

  At last it was finished, and Finn turned to Rusty. “I want you to hole up here,” Finn told him. “In your own room, if you don’t mind. Just until we let you know Billy’s moved his attention elsewhere. What are they callin’ you here?”

  “Sam Smith.”

  “Original,” Finn said. “If it’s okay with you, we’ll say good-night. Don’t use your cell phone in case they trace it. I’ll get to you another way.”

  “I already chucked the phone,” Rusty said. “Way back. I’ve been using phone cards and public phones—and cash.”

  He got off the bed and left.

  Finn got up and stretched out on the mattress.

  Emma lay down beside him, slid an arm under his neck, held him, her face in his hair, kissed him softly and watched him fall asleep.

  Until the first light fingered through the blinds, she sat beside Finn and went through Jackson’s box of photos. The man had wanted to share them, and she knew why. They were good, full of fun—full of life. Those photos were a small-town photographer’s view into a world of making movies, of a flirtation with make-believe, and he’d reveled in every moment.

  Most of the photos were in black-and-white, and Jackson had an eye. Dozens of shots took in the set, brought one frank moment after another to life. There had been lots of laughter. He caught his moments for all the right reasons. Belinda Page flinching as a stream of soap bubbles headed for her pretty face, the way she pursed up her lips when she looked at herself in makeup room mirrors—the admiration on a man’s face, the awe on that of a teenage girl.

  Emma looked at every shot, some of them several times. One or two scraps of paper marked a missing photograph Jackson hadn’t gotten around to replacing, but there were plenty to take their places.

  She closed the box and put it on the floor. The light had never been turned off, but Finn continued to sleep. Soon they would head back to Pointe Judah and the race would start again, but for the moment they were set free, just the two of them.

  Leaning over him, Emma touched her lips to Finn’s. He smiled, and his eyes moved beneath the lids, shifted his lashes, before he looked at her and gathered her into his arms.

  36

  “Are we glad to see you!” Eileen said the instant Emma entered the shop.

  “What’s wrong?” Emma said. “Oh, I’m sorry, I should have known better than to expect you to deal with this place—not without even knowin’ where anythin’ is.”

  “It wasn’t the shop,” Annie said, doing a poor job of smothering a grin. “Your husband’s called about every fifteen minutes since we opened up. Although we haven’t heard from him for a bit.”

  Emma felt her stomach land somewhere very low. “That’s too bad,” she s
aid. Darn the man. He had an uncanny way of knowing when she wasn’t where he thought he could control her. “I’ll give him a call. How have things been?”

  “Great,” Annie said. She’d cried too many tears for her eyes to be anything but puffy, but she still smiled. “I can understand why things sell so well. I want everythin’ I look at.”

  “Me, too,” Eileen said. “The man who owns the place was in, too. He said he hopes he’ll have a chance to stop by again soon.”

  Emma dropped her purse on the floor, aware that her red dress must look as if she’d slept in it, which she had, when she hadn’t been sleeping without it. “Is that all he said? He just wanted to drop by? Funny, he never did that before.”

  “He was very nice,” Eileen said.

  “Good.” Emma couldn’t worry about the owner now. If Orville had changed his mind about letting her keep the shop, she would cope. She’d coped with a good deal more and survived. “How are you two doin’?” They’d know what she meant.

  “We’ve decided we’ve got to talk about Denise and Holly,” Annie said. “If we don’t, it’s like they weren’t here except as somethin’ to be sad about. It is a frightenin’ time.”

  “Annie’s wise,” Eileen said. “She’s the one who makes sure I don’t do my usual silent number and go inside myself. Emma…”

  “Yes,” Emma said. “Eileen, are you tryin’ to tell me somethin’ big?”

  “In a way. Chuck’s not comin’ back.”

  Emma frowned. “I thought he was due back any day? Aaron said so.”

  “Chuck changed his mind. He says he never got a chance to do any of the things he wanted to do. Being tied down with a family—you know the routine. He’s moving on.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “I’m not,” Eileen said fiercely. “For Aaron, I’ve stuck with it, but the man hasn’t been a real husband to me.”

  “Does Finn know?”

  Eileen smiled. “I’ll let him know as soon as I see him. It’s not going to make a big difference, except financially. Chuck has less than a year to pay anythin’ toward Aaron. But I can work—I want to.”