by Sherry Lewis
“I never said she was in love. I know she wasn’t. And that made it worse somehow. Knowing she didn’t even really want him.” She twisted her wedding ring on her finger and looked away. “I was hurt when Garrett took up with Suzanne. I won’t deny it. Of course, I still had Roger, but there hasn’t been anything between Roger and me for a long time. We’re more like an old habit than anything else.”
It was a shame, in Fred’s view, the way young people thought love only meant one thing. He and Phoebe had been married for most of their lives. Love had changed over the years, but he’d treasured the comfort they’d found with one another. If that meant they’d been like an old habit, he’d take it. “How long ago did your husband find out about your affair?”
Paula blinked at him as if the question surprised her. “I don’t know.”
“You must have some idea.”
“He’s known for a while,” she said. “A month before Suzanne came back to town. Maybe a little more.”
Well, that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. The county attorney would argue that there was too much water under the bridge for Roger to still be angry enough to commit murder. “And how long had you and Garrett been seeing each other?”
“Six months.”
“How did Roger react when he found out?”
“He was furious. He told me flat out to stop seeing Garrett and, of course, I promised that I would.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I meant to. I really did. But the night I was going to tell him, he got some bad news and I just couldn’t tell him then. I decided to wait, and then it got harder and harder . . .” She sobbed again and pressed her fist to her mouth.
Despite his opinions about the way she treated her marriage, Fred felt a flicker of sympathy for her. “The bad news Garrett got,” he said. “Do you know what it was?”
Paula nodded. “Yvonne—his ex-wife. He’d called her because he wanted to see Jenny, but Yvonne refused to let him. He even offered to drive down to see her—stay in a hotel and everything—but Yvonne wouldn’t even discuss it. I just couldn’t tell him what Roger said that night. He needed me. He told me I was the only one who made him feel better, and I know it was true. At least, it was then.”
That might explain why Yvonne and Jenny had missed the funeral, but it only made Fred curious about why Yvonne had denied Garrett visitation. “Did he have much contact with Yvonne and Jenny?”
Paula shook her head. She seemed a little less tense now that they’d moved away from her relationship with Garrett. “Hardly any. Yvonne was so unreasonable about his visitation rights after the divorce I think he gave up even trying for a while. But for the last few months, I think he wanted to patch things up with Jenny.”
Olivia hadn’t mentioned that, but maybe she didn’t know. “Do you know where Yvonne and Jenny are living now?”
“Just down in Idaho Springs,” Paula said. “Not far.”
“Yvonne didn’t bring Jenny back for the funeral. Do you have any idea why?”
“Because she hated him. She’d do anything to spite him. Even now.”
“Do you know why?”
Paula gave the question a little thought. “He never really talked about what happened between them. Funny, isn’t it? Most people can’t wait to tell their divorce stories, but Garrett never really talked about his.”
Fred didn’t hear the footsteps coming up behind him until they were too close to react, and he knew Paula hadn’t heard them either. A second later, Roger Franklin came through the trees and stop dead in his tracks when he saw the two of them standing in front of the door.
“What the hell’s going on here?” he roared. “I thought I told you we didn’t know that son of a bitch.”
Anxiety flickered across Paula’s face, but she replaced it immediately with a stoic expression. “It’s all right, Roger. Mr. Vickery stopped by to ask me a couple of questions, but I was just explaining that I didn’t know anything that could help him.”
“I already answered every question either one of us is going to,” Roger snarled. “Now get out of here before I throw you out.”
Fred thought that leaving might be a good idea—just as soon as he asked one more thing. “Where were you the night Garrett was killed?” he asked Paula.
Her face paled and her eyes flickered to her husband’s face. “I was here.”
“All night?”
“Yes.”
“Both of you?”
Roger’s face darkened like a thundercloud. “That’s none of your damn business. I told you to get the hell off my property.”
Fred lifted his shoulders, hoping he looked casual, and started to turn away. “It doesn’t really matter, I guess. You can answer when you get the subpoena from our attorney.”
“You can’t do that,” Roger insisted.
“You go right on believing that Mr. Franklin. I’ll see you in the courtroom.” Fred started down the sidewalk toward the street.
“Hold on a second,” Roger called after him. He still sounded angry, but his voice dropped several decibels. “Look, I’m sorry. This whole thing has me really upset. The gossip and all.” He draped an arm around Paula’s shoulders and Fred saw the effort she used not to pull away. “I wasn’t here that night. I’ll admit it. I was at a meeting.”
Fred tried to keep his face from showing his excitement. “Where?”
“In Cutler.” Roger held out his free hand in a gesture that looked almost pleading. “I know what people were saying about Paula and that dirt bag. I figured if they knew I was anywhere nearby, they’d start to wonder.”
Fred was certainly wondering. “What kind of meeting?”
“The Rocky Mountain Fly Fishers. We meet once a month at the Copper Penny.”
“What time did the meeting get over?”
“Ten thirty or so. But I usually stay a while and have a couple of drinks with some of the guys.”
“How long did you stay that night?”
Roger shrugged and looked down at Paula. “‘Till the bar closed. Look,” he said, returning his gaze to Fred. “You want to subpoena me? Go right ahead. That’s exactly what I’ll tell your lawyer and anybody else who asks. And Paula was asleep when I got home.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Don’t get me wrong. I hated that jerk, but I didn’t kill him. And I think your son deserves a medal for what he did.”
TWENTY TWO
Fred knew he could make it to Idaho Springs in a little over an hour if he didn’t drive all the way back to Cutler first. He’d already been gone for hours, and he felt a little guilty about leaving Douglas locked up at home with nothing to do. With Douglas’s impulsive nature, he must be climbing out of his skin by now.
But Fred didn’t know of taking Douglas with him was the right solution. Fred knew there was a chance that Yvonne wouldn’t open her door if Douglas was there. Then again, she just might. But Fred didn’t want Douglas to hear the type of sentiments about the murder and about Douglas’s supposed part in it that Fred himself had been exposed to the past couple of days.
Figuring a phone call to check on Douglas might be a fair compromise, Fred stopped at the strip mall in the center of town and found a pay phone. But when Douglas hadn’t picked up after eight rings, he started getting a little nervous. He tried to convince himself the boy was outside working in the yard. And the story worked long enough for him to get back to the car. But by the time he climbed inside and cranked the engine, Fred knew he didn’t believe it.
He dug another quarter from his pocket, went back to the pay phone, and punched in Margaret’s number. She answered almost immediately.
“Dad? Where are you? You disappeared so fast after the funeral I didn’t even get a chance to invite you for supper.”
“I’m running a couple of errands, sweetheart. I’ll probably just eat something while I’m out.”
Margaret’s voice immediately grew cautious. “What kind of errands?”
“Oh, you know, this and that.” Fred purposely
kept his answer vague. Margaret wouldn’t like the truth and he didn’t have time for an argument.
“Why don’t you just came by when you’re finished?” she asked. “We can wait for you.”
Fred glanced at his watch. It was already two-thirty. If everything went according to plan, he could make it. If not . . . “Better not count on me,” he said. “I’ll just grab something—”
“—at the Bluebird,” Margaret said. “I know. You’re making up excuses.”
Yes, but maybe not for the reasons she suspected. He tried changing the subject. “Have you talked with Douglas this afternoon? Have you invited him?”
“I spoke with him a little while ago. Why?”
“I just called home,” Fred told her. “I didn’t get an answer.”
“No, you wouldn’t. He’s gone to the Copper Penny with Webb.”
In the years since Webb had started frequenting the Copper Penny, Fred had never found one good thing about it. Until now. Webb would keep Douglas busy all afternoon, and Fred could head to Idaho Springs with a clear conscience.
He made a noise of disgust—the one he knew Margaret was expecting—but his heart wasn’t in it. “Hope he doesn’t do anything foolish.”
“You and me both.”
“Nothing I can do about it, I suppose.”
“I suppose not.”
Fred knew that Margaret wouldn’t risk upsetting Webb by going after Douglas. He couldn’t have asked for a more perfect setup.
“We’ll eat at seven,” she said, trying to sound stern. “Try to get here.”
“Don’t wait for me.”
“I don’t want you eating at the Bluebird,” Margaret chided. “I’ll save you a plate. Come by even if you’re late.”
Fred groused for a moment, mentally patting himself on the back for the skilled way he’d handled the conversation without arousing Margaret’s suspicious.
But just as he was ready to hand up, Margaret asked, “So, did you find her?”
“What? Who?”
“Paula Franklin. Did she tell you anything helpful?”
“What makes you think—?”
“Enos called.”
Fred rolled his eyes, but he should have expected it.
“Did she tell you anything?”
“Not really,” Fred said. “Nothing I didn’t already know.” He hesitated, wondering if Margaret could handle the truth. There was only one way to find out. “I’m just going to run down to Idaho Springs,” he said. “I want to talk to Yvonne Locke before I head home.”
Silence hung between them for a minute before Margaret said, “Be careful, okay?”
Well, well, well. She’d taken that well. “I will,” he promised.
“Because I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“I asked Enos to stop you, you know.”
Fred smiled. “I figured you might have.”
“He says he can’t stop you from helping Douglas.”
“He’s right about that.”
“I worry about you,” Margaret said, as if he didn’t know that already. “I want you home in one piece. You’re too bullheaded to listen to reason, but if you let anything happen to yourself, I’ll never forgive you.” And with that, she broke the connection.
Fred replaced the receiver slowly and shook his head all the way back to the Buick. Imagine Margaret calling him bullheaded. Come to think of it, Phoebe had used that expression for him a few times, and she hadn’t been one who could afford to toss that accusation around, either. She’d been one of the most stubborn women he’d ever known, and Margaret was just like her mother.
He got into the Buick and started the engine. Then again, he told himself, maybe it wasn’t so bad being called bullheaded. It sure beat being called old.
Yvonne and Jenny Locke lived in an old Victorian-style house backed up against the mountain on a piece of property too steep to be called a yard. A narrow set of steps climbed from the road to the house, and Fred’s breath came in shallow gasps as he climbed them. His knees ached by the time he’d gone only halfway. They were about shot when he reached the top.
Only the sound of a radio playing inside made him feel better, and that only because it meant somebody was home.
He knocked, and someone lowered the radio’s volume. A second later, the front door swung open. He remembered Yvonne Locke as a thin, mousy woman with vapid blue eyes and nondescript hair. He recognized her face, but the resemblance to the women he’d known ended there. He didn’t recall her being so tall. Or so thin. Or so self-assured.
Her eyes, no longer dull, burned with life. She’d cropped her hair in a style so short it would have looked right at home on a boy. She wore a red suit with a skirt that stopped several inches above her knees, and high heels to match. She’d probably just come from work. Even so, Fred thought she was a little overdressed.
He must have looked surprised because she laughed, a very pleasant sort of laugh, and her eyes danced with merriment. “Fred Vickery? Is that you?”
“Yvonne Locke?” he said with a laugh, “is that you?”
She grinned broadly and stepped aside. “Come in. What brings you here?” Before he could even get a foot through the door, she stopped moving and he saw realization dawn in her eyes. “It’s about Garrett.”
“Yes.”
“Come in,” she said, but this time her voice held no hint of her earlier delight. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Nothing thanks.”
She led him through the entryway into a sensible-looking living room and settled into a wingback chair near the fireplace. Fred chose its mate and leaned back into the chair’s thankfully firm form. It was good, solid furniture.
Yvonne let him get comfortable before she asked, “So, what can I do for you?”
“I suppose you’ve heard that my boy, Douglas, was arrested for Garrett’s murder.”
She nodded. “Yes, but I can’t believe it.”
“Neither can I,” Fred said. “He’s innocent.”
“I certainly hope he is,” Yvonne said softly. “I have a hard time imagining that he’s guilty.”
Fred felt tears of gratitude sting his eyes, but he blinked them away. “I’d like you to tell me anything you can about Garrett. Anything at all. I need something that will help my son.”
Yvonne chuckled, but she didn’t sound amused. “I’m not the best person to ask for a character reference.”
“I don’t want a character reference,” Fred assured her. “I want the truth about him.”
She studied him for a long time, the rubbed her forehead with her fingers and looked out the window through its lace curtain. “What do you want to know?”
“You didn’t ring Jenny back for the funeral. A lot of people are wondering why.”
“Are they? Good for them. And what do they say?”
“I haven’t heard any answers yet,” Fred said. “Just the questions.”
“Jenny didn’t want to go,” she said. “It’s that simple.”
“Can I ask why?”
“She didn’t like her father.”
“Again—why?”
Yvonne stopped rubbing her forehead and met his gaze. “Because he was a despicable man.”
It wasn’t a surprising judgment from an ex-wife, but it made Fred sad. “What can you tell me about your divorce?”
“I could tell you a lot, but what does any of it have to do with his murder?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”
Yvonne crossed her legs and rested both of her arms on the arms of the chair, as if she was seeking its support. “What’s the rumor going around Cutler about that?”
“There isn’t one. At least not that I’ve heard.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Listen, Yvonne, I know it’s probably all very personal and hard to talk about, but my son’s life is on the line here . . .”
“It’s not hard to talk about,” she said. “I stopped playing
victim several years ago.” She gave him a thin-lipped smile. “What do you want to know?”
“Why did you get divorced?” he asked. Blunt, yes, but he was growing impatient with the way everyone wanted to dance around the truth.
“Because I had to get my daughter out of there.”
“You denied visitation—”
“I had to. For Jenny’s sake.”
Fred shifted in his seat, not liking the similarities between Suzanne’s arguments and Yvonne’s. “You heard that Douglas and Suzanne got divorced? And their daughter—”
Yvonne interrupted again. “Is she all right?”
The question caught Fred off-guard. “Who? Alison?”
“Their daughter. Is she all right? I’ve thought about her a lot since Suzanne called.”
Fred blinked in surprise. “When did Suzanne call you?”
Yvonne’s top foot jiggled rapidly in agitation. “A few days ago.”
“I didn’t know you and Suzanne kept in touch.”
The foot stopped jiggling. She crossed her legs the opposite way and the left foot began jiggling almost immediately. “We didn’t. I hadn’t spoken to her since I left Cutler.”
He waited for her to explain, but she just smiled and said nothing. He had the definite impression they were dancing circles around each other, and he didn’t like it. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Her smile grew a little wider. “Am I that obvious?”
“Either that or I’m extra sensitive.”
Yvonne’s smile faded and her expression grew serious. “Suzanne obviously hasn’t told you.”
“Told me what?”
“She called me a few days before Garrett died and asked me the same sorts of questions you’re asking now.”
Was that supposed to tell him something? He shook his head, more confused now than he’d been when he walked through her front door. “Because she was worried about Alison?”
Yvonne stood and crossed to the window, pulling back the lace curtain and staring outside for a long time. “I divorced Garrett when I found out that he’d been molesting Jenny.”