“I’m Detective Ford,” he approached her and extended his hand, giving hers a formal shake and quickly releasing it. She noticed the fanned-out creases at the outside of his
dark eyes, as if he might actually smile upon occasion. But not now. Right now, his face looked grim.
“Thank you for seeing me.” she replied, glancing back to the man at the front desk who was now drumming a pencil and staring directly at them. “I’m sure you must be busy.” Busy? she thought, instantly feeling stupid for saying it. Who was busy in a town this size? But then what did it matter anyway, it was only small talk.
“Come on back to my office.” said the detective, “such as it is.”
“This place hasn’t changed much,” she commented as she followed him down a narrow hallway.
“You’ve been here before?” he asked as he pointed to another burnt orange vinyl chair across from his cluttered desk. He moved toward the other side and sank down into a well-worn avocado green desk chair that squeaked loudly as he leaned back. “Been in trouble with the law here in Cedar Crest in the past?”
She forced a laugh. “No. But I was in here a couple times as a kid. Just routine things involving bikes and dogs, you know.”
“Yeah, you don’t much look like the kind of woman who’s had a lot of run-ins with the police.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but decided to ignore it and move on. “Detective Ford, I know you have other things to do, so let me get right to the point.”
He leaned forward and pushed a pile of papers aside. “Suits me.”
“Well, as I told you on the phone, Jasmine Morrison—uh, Emery—was a dear friend of mine. And her death has really shaken me up. I came to town hoping to get some answers, and all I’ve come up with are more questions.”
“Well, join the crowd.”
She looked at him curiously. Was he teasing her? “So, have you been investigating her death then?”
“I’m a detective, lady. It’s my job to investigate.”
She bristled. “So, then I assume it’s still a—what do you call it—an open case?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, I guess you could say it’s still an open case.”
“So.. .can you tell me anything about it?”
He rolled his eyes and sat forward again, then picked up a pen and clicked it over and over, studying her closely as he did. “Look, lady, unless you’re immediate family or some other arm of the law, I don’t need to be telling you anything.”
She felt her eyes flash in anger. But it was too late, she knew he’d noticed. Still, she was determined to remain cool and calm—at least outwardly. “First of all, I’d appreciate it if you’d quit calling me “lady.’ Judith is fine. Secondly, I was as close as a sister to Jasmine. And I’m only inquiring because I care.”
“Look, la—” he stopped himself. “Judith, I don’t know a thing about you. You walk into town and expect me to disclose private information about an investigation. This isn’t Mayberry, you know. Besides that, if you were such a good friend to Jasmine Emery, then where have you been all these years?”
“I lost touch with her. I didn’t know how to locate her—”
“You said you grew up with her here in Cedar Crest. Ever think of looking in the phone book?”
“I didn’t know she’d come back. Years ago, I tried over and over to contact her in Mississippi. I had no idea she was here—” her voice broke “—only a few hours from where I live.” She felt tears in her eyes, but didn’t care. If this was to be her last ditch effort for Jasmine, she might as well get it over with. “If I’d known she was here, I would’ve dropped everything and come. I would’ve done anything to help her—to have prevented—this—this—” She couldn’t go on. Digging, in her purse she finally found a rumpled tissue and wiped her eyes. She knew she was making a complete fool of herself, but somehow she just didn’t care.
After a brief and uncomfortable silence, the detective spoke up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but this is an odd case.”
She looked up at him, and saw he was glancing toward the open door. “An odd case?”
“You know, small-town stuff. I’m trying to do a thorough investigation, is all.” He set down his pen and looked evenly into her eyes. “If there’s anything you can share to help me out, I’d appreciate it.”
“Well, I’d expected to have something more by now...” She considered her next words. She was about to tell him about Aunt Lenore’s box, but suddenly felt cautious. Only moments ago, this Detective Ford had felt like her enemy. Just because he seemed to be softening didn’t necessarily mean she could trust him. Perhaps it was best not to divulge too much information. He’d certainly told her nothing she didn’t know.
“Something more?” he led.
“I’d hoped that by meeting Jasmine’s husband and whatnot—well, that I’d find some answers...”
“So, you’ve met Hal Emery then?” He studied her carefully.
She nodded.
“And what did you think of Jasmine’s husband?”
“I was a little surprised.”
“Surprised?”
“Well, he wasn’t exactly the sort of man that I would’ve imagined someone like Jasmine marrying.”
“Why’s that?”
“Did you know Jasmine at all?”
He shook his head. “Not in person. Although I feel like I’m getting to know her now.”
Her eyes lit up. “Really?”
He nodded. “Yep, and let me tell you, it was one sad little life.”
She pointed her finger in the air. “See! That’s what makes absolutely no sense. The Jasmine Morrison I knew was beautiful and funny and creative and kind and—” She felt her voice choke again, but determined not to give in to tears. “She was strong and clever and smart—and I just know she never would’ve married someone like Hal Emery of her own free will.” Before she had finished that sentence, the detective quickly rose and closed the door. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to get so loud.”
“That’s okay. But you should know that there are certain things that are better left unsaid in this town.” He sat down on the edge of his desk and studied her closely.
“So I’ve heard.”
“From whom?”
She pressed her lips together and firmly shook her head.
He nodded knowingly. “I guess you have been asking around.”
She felt another part of her guard come down. “But I don’t get it. What’s going on here? I feel like there’s some deep, dark oppression hovering over this place, and I just can’t—”
He glanced toward the door again, and then pressed his forefinger to his lips and shook his head. “You grew up in a small town, Judith. I’m sure you know how a small town can be—a little ingrown, you know.”
She wanted to say it was more than that—much, much more than that! But she knew he was clueing her into something. And then she remembered what Polly had said about watching who she trusted at the police department. She looked at him carefully, and despite herself, felt he had an honest face. Yet who could tell? She sighed in frustration. “I just don’t know what to do.”
“Go home.”
She bit her lip.
“Go home to your husband, your family, your dog, cat, or whatever. I’m sure you have a happy little life somewhere far, far away from here.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then continued. “Go home, Judith. There’s nothing you can do for your friend now. So, why don’t you just save yourself a lot of unnecessary heartache and go on back home.”
“Look, Detective,” she said firmly. “Heartache is something I’m pretty familiar with. And for some reason I can’t let go of Jasmine just yet. And if it’s all the same to you— and even if it’s not—I intend to stick around as long as it takes to find out what in the world happened to her!” She stood up now, her hand poised on the doorknob.
“Thanks for nothing!”
And with that, she stormed out of his office, out of the police station, and back into the bright June sunlight. A lot of good that little meeting did! She got into her car and started the engine and prepared to tear right out of the parking lot. But where was she to go? Last night, she’d planned to see Aunt Lenore again and perhaps even stay with her for a few days. But now that seemed highly unlikely. She had no idea where Aunt Lenore had been taken. And by whom? She remembered her promise to Martha that she’d water over there. Perhaps that was the best thing to do. Go and care for Aunt Lenore’s beloved garden, and perhaps she might even get to talk with Martha again. Somehow their brief chat had given Judith a faint glimmer of hope. Next to Aunt Lenore, Martha seemed like the most normal person she’d met since returning to Cedar Crest.
After her unsuccessful and somewhat tumultuous meeting with Detective Ford, it felt soothing to be in Aunt Lenore’s little backyard, watering her vegetable garden and puttering about pulling weeds. Judith had kept an old-fashioned garden very similar to this in their Victorian house in Vancouver, back before Jonathan had become sick. She’d forgotten how much pleasure tending green, living things had once given her.
“Hello there.” called Martha from the other side of the fence. “Is that you, Judith? I thought I saw your little green car out front.”
“Yes,” answered Judith, coming over to peer beyond the gate where Martha sat comfortably in a chaise lounge on her patio. “I’m watering and whatnot over here. This is such a lovely place, I could stay here all day.”
“Any news on Miss Barker yet?”
Judith shook her head. “No, but I plan to do some checking when I finish up here. I just can’t imagine anything bad happening to her.”
“Well, she’s awfully old, dear. Best to prepare yourself for the inevitable.”
“I suppose, but I’ve had so many losses...I just hate to think of another.”
“Want to come over and have a glass of iced tea?”
“Oh, that sounds divine.” Judith opened the gate and walked over. “But you look comfortable there, and I know your arthritis is bothering you, so why don’t you just give me directions and let me get it?”
“Thank you, dear, that would be lovely.” Then she told Judith to go right through the dining room and turn left to find the kitchen.
Judith took a moment to examine a beautiful oil painting in the dining room, a landscape of a mountain lake, obviously the work of the late Mr. Anderson. She examined several other nice pieces here and there as she gathered the iced tea and glasses and returned to the patio. “I couldn’t help but notice Mr. Anderson’s artwork in there. I had no idea he was so talented.”
Martha laughed. “He never liked the kids at school to see his work because he was afraid they’d either criticize his amateur efforts, or else feel discouraged that they weren’t at that level yet. But in my opinion, he really was a fine painter.”
“I agree.” Judith took a sip of the tea. “In fact, it might even be inspiring me to pick up a brush again.”
“Great, you’ve gone from considering sketching on to painting in just one day.” Martha took a long sip. “Now, tell me, how did you happen to meet Miss Barker? I’m sure you’re much too young to have had her as a high school teacher before she retired.”
“Yes, you’re right. Actually she was my friend’s great-aunt.”
“Your friend?” Martha’s brow raised.
“Yes, uh—Jasmine Morrison—well, Emery. Did you know her?”
Martha set down her glass and cleared her throat. “So, you met Miss Barker through the Morrison family?”
Oh no, thought Judith, realizing she’d let her guard down again. And she could tell by the edge in Martha’s voice that it was too late to backtrack. But perhaps she could explain. “Yes, you see, as children, Jasmine and I were best friends, and—”
“Then you must be friends with the Morrisons as well?”
“No, not exactly. We lost touch and—”
“Do you have any idea how Miss Barker felt about the Morrisons?”
“Well, not exactly. We’d been out of touch since yesterday—”
“And what did you say to her yesterday?”
“Well, not much really, we just talked about my life and what had happened with Jasmine and—”
“Do you think it’s possible you may have upset her? Perhaps your visit is what has brought on her sudden illness or whatever it is.”
“Oh, but we had a—’’
“I can appreciate that my husband was your teacher, Judith, and I am sorry for the loss of your friend. But you should be aware that there are some of us in this town who don’t cater to the Morrison family or their ways. And although we may be the minority, we do keep to ourselves and our own opinions.”
“But I—”
“And now I’m afraid that I’ve had a little too much sun and I must be going inside. Just leave your glass on the table out here.” Martha pushed herself up from the lounge, the effort causing her glass on the table to fall and splatter into a mess of broken shards across the patio.
Judith jumped up and began to pick up the pieces. “I’m so sorry—”
“Just leave it!” snapped Martha as she went into the house, closing the sliding glass door behind her with a bang.
But Judith continued gathering the broken glass, her hands shaking as she set each piece on the table next to her half-full glass. Then just as she picked up a large, wet, shard, it slid between her fingers and sliced right between her thumb and forefinger, instantly bleeding. Hardly feeling the pain, she pressed her free hand against the wound to stop the blood flow. How had she managed to do such a stupid thing? Somehow she opened the gate and make her way back to the garden, finding the hose. As she washed the blood from her hand, she thought about Martha and how embittered she sounded toward the Morrisons. How could Judith make her understand that she was not friends with them—that she had her own concerns and suspicions about them? She wanted Martha to know that she only wanted to find out what the Morrisons were up to and what sort of influence they’d wielded over Jasmine. She knew that Mr. Morrison had always been extremely racist and bigoted, but she wanted to find out how all this was connected. Because for some reason, Judith felt that it was connected. She just wasn’t quite sure how or why.
By now she could tell that her cut was deep enough to require stitches. While applying more pressure, she grabbed a clean tea towel still hanging on the back porch line and firmly wrapped it around her now-throbbing hand. She hoped she could find her way to the hospital before she lost much blood.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT’S TOO DARK IN here. And I think I hear spiders crawling down that wall, or maybe it’s them other bugs—them big, brown, shiny ones that rattle across the floor so fast when you walk into the room. Maybe if I wrap myself up real tight and make myself into a little ball, then maybe they’ll all forget about me and just leave me alone. Alone. Alone. Always alone. But I don’t wanna be alone.
Well, then maybe I’ll just make friends with them bugs, maybe they can help me get out of this bad place. This bad dark place I hate so much. I’m scared. Miss Molly downstairs says that when I’m scared I should talk to God. She says he’s always listening to his children. But I’m not so sure he can hear me.
Oh, God, why do I have to stay here with these people that hate me so bad? Can you hear me, God? Can you see me here all by myself? Hiding in all this dark? I’m hiding in the closet, God, just until their voices stop yelling. Can you see your little Pearl? My mama used to call me that. And I don’t care what Carmen and Larry say, I do so have a mama. I know it. And I remember how much my mama loved me. And if I think real hard, I can still see her pretty face inside my head, “cepting it’s all kinda blurry and fuzzy like. But where is she, God? Where’d my mama go? And when’s she coming back to get me and take me back home with her? And why
’d she leave me here? And does she know that Carmen is mean to me? I want my mama back, God. Do you think that if I’m very, very, very good, and if I don’t make Carmen mad no more, do you think that I could have my mama hack? Old Miss Molly downstairs says that if I be good enough, I won’t get them whuppings no more. And I try and I try to be good, but I just can’t never seem to get it right.
I wish Carmen would quit screaming at Larry. Not “cause I like him much, “cause I don’t. I don’t even care if he does act all nice sometimes, or even that he gives me candy, “cause the rest of the time he makes me feel real scared. Carmen says he’s only bad when he needs his fix, but I think he’s bad all the time. And sometimes I think Carmen might not be so mean to me if harry just went away and never came back. But Carmen says that without Larry we wouldn’t have no roof over our head or nothing to eat. Most of the time we don’t got much to eat anyway, and that white stuff always falls off the ceiling every time them people upstairs start to clomp around. So if you ask me, Larry ain’t doing such a great job there neither. And besides, I heard him and Carmen talking once about some kind of money Carmen gets to take care of me. So I’m thinking I just might be the one who’s doing most of the helping out here. I don’t know nothing for sure. But I’m thinking maybe my mama is sending money to Carmen for me—not that I ever seen any of it myself
Even when I put my hands over my ears, I can still hear their voices screaming and yelling at each other—using those words that Miss Molly says are nasty bad. Hearing them going on and on like this makes me feel all sick inside of my stomach. Just like getting your innards all squashed flatter than a balloon that won’t hold air no more. And sometimes I worry that Larry is going to get so mad at Carmen that he’ll just take out his gun (and he’s got himself a big gun) and just shoot Carmen dead—kabam! And then what’ll I do? A boy named Lemuel, “cross the street, got shot dead. But I heard Sharista say her brother Sam’s gonna, shoot that kid who killed Lemuel. Sharista lives right next door to Miss Molly, and she’s the only real kid I ever get to play with “cause
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