Hay was scattered down the central barn aisle, and as I entered, several horses lifted their heads, hay sticking from their mouths. They continued chewing, a comforting sound.
The office was empty, and there was no sign of Carol Beth in the feed room. I slipped up the stairs to Bud's loft apartment. The door was open, and I could hear someone inside. Using all the stealth I possessed, I slipped through the stark den to stand in the bedroom doorway. Carol Beth was straining to heave the big mattress up and over.
"Need some help?" I asked.
She screamed, dropping the mattress and whirling on me as if she would attack.
I slipped my hand into the pocket of my jeans and pulled out the gold pendant. Dangling it from thumb and forefinger, I held it aloft. "Looking for this?"
"Give it to me." She made a lunge at me, but I was quicker. The pendant slid back into my pocket.
"Not until you answer some questions."
"Look, Benny is going to divorce me and leave me without a penny. I need that pendant. Where did you find it, anyway?" She pushed a strand of hair out of her face, and I realized that she was in a state of complete disarray. Her shirttail was pulled from her breeches, and dirt smudged the fawn color of her pants and white shirt.
"You know where I found it." I looked at the bed pointedly. "I want some answers, Carol Beth. Now."
"People in hell want ice water. Give me that jewelry. It's mine."
I stepped back. "Okay, if that's the way you want to play it." I turned and walked out of the apartment and down the stairs. After only a few seconds I heard her clattering behind me.
"What do you want?" she demanded.
"Where are the insurance papers on Avenger? Kemper took out a policy on that horse, and now it's conveniently disappeared." I never turned around, just kept walking down the barn aisle. "I was thinking maybe you didn't want Lee to collect."
She grabbed the back of my shirt. "I don't know. I never saw a policy. Why do people keep asking me that question?"
"Could it be because you're perceived as a chronic liar?"
"If I knew where the papers were, I'd tell you. They don't mean anything to me. I wanted the horse, not the money."
I doubted that, but there was a hint of desperation in her voice. "Why didn't you say that you and Bud were here, in the barn, the night Kemper was killed? Why did you lie?"
She paced down the aisle and back. Her face was composed when she finally looked at me. "The only thing I wanted was the horses. Benny will never believe that, though. I did what I thought I had to do." She tapped her fingers on the top of a stall. "None of that matters now. Bud is dead. My husband can never prove that I slept with him."
She was indeed cold-blooded, but she had a point. Now that she believed Bud and Avenger were dead, she'd be heading back to Virginia to mend fences with the man who paid her bills. I had a few more questions. "What's your relationship with Tony LaCoco?"
Her fingers stilled, and her dark eyes focused on me with the intensity of a laser. "I already had a bill of sale on the horses. They were mine. Legally. But Kemper was going to try and cheat me out of them. The double-crossing bastard took my money and apparently was going to try to collect on an insurance policy. Kemper owed LaCoco a whole lot of money. I thought I could work out a deal with LaCoco."
"What really happened that night?"
She turned so that she was in profile to me. "Bud wouldn't help me. I had to get him out of the way, so I went to bed with him and put something in his drink. Once he was unconscious, my intention was to load up Avenger and the mares and take them. I could have done it, too, but that moron Kemper was in the barn office, and he wouldn't leave." Her tone was laced with bitterness.
"You had the bill of sale. Would Kemper have tried to stop you?"
"He had no intention of honoring the debt. I couldn't risk it. He would have called Lee down to the barn. She would have taken steps to have my case disputed. There was a legal point. The horses technically weren't Kemper's to sell. I knew if the horses were in my possession, I'd stand a better chance in court." She turned to me. "Legally, they were mine—payment of a just debt."
"And the pendant?"
Her mouth twisted up at one corner. "Bud must have pulled it from my neck." She reached up to her throat. "I didn't realize it was gone until the next day."
"What else did you see that night?" It was out of character for me to believe anything Carol Beth said, but this story had the ring of truth to it.
"Kemper was in the office, from about eight o'clock until I left at one. I waited and waited for him to leave. He was on the phone, talking to someone he owed money to. They were threatening him."
"How could you tell?"
"He was lying, saying that he would have the money in a few days. He said he had a plan. A guaranteed plan. Then he laughed. He said he'd get the money and show his bitch of a wife who was boss. He said he'd kill two birds with one stone."
"Did you see him try to kill Avenger?"
She shook her head. "Bud started to come around. I knew I had to leave then."
"And you never saw anyone else in the barn?"
"You mean Lee?" She pushed a strand of mahogany hair behind her ear. "I wish I could say I saw her bash his brains out, but I didn't see anything."
"Lee confessed that she and Kemper were fighting, that she went to the barn and he followed her."
Carol Beth walked slowly toward the office door. She pointed inside. "He was there, at the desk, alone. That's what I saw." Anger crept into her voice. "If I'd taken Avenger, he would be alive now. Think about that. Kip would be alive. Lee would have her daughter. It's all such a stupid waste."
Pulling the gold pendant from my jeans, I tossed it over to her. She caught it and clutched it in her fist.
"This is the only bit of evidence that could possibly prove I had anything to do with Bud Lynch," she said. "I'm home free with Benny."
It was almost more than I could stand not to tell her that Bud was alive and still very capable of giving Benny the fine details of her sexual misconduct. Instead, I said nothing.
"I'm going back to Virginia," Carol Beth said. "Give Lee a message for me. Tell her she's a fool. Everyone in town is gossiping about her kid and what a psycho she was. Tell her that if she'd listened to that Memphis psychiatrist and put Kip in an institution, Avenger, Kip, and Bud would still be alive today."
She spun around and walked down the barn aisle, a long, lean silhouette who'd turned her back on what she'd once hoped was her future.
25
Driving through the darkness, 1 pondered Carol Beth's cruel words. As Cece often pointed out, it was impossible to keep secrets in a small town. If it was true that Dr. Vance had recommended institutionalization for Kip, then it was time for Lee to face the truth. Sacrificing herself would not save her daughter.
The parameters of my case had changed drastically. My original assignment had been to dig up the details of Kemper's life that would prove he deserved killing. I'd accomplished that, and more. No one could dispute that Kemper needed to die.
Now I had to convince Lee that she should let Kip stand trial for the act she'd committed. Temporary insanity was still a viable defense for Kip, and a legitimate one, from what I'd been able to discover. With some professional help, Kip might stand a chance of holding on to a portion of her future.
I doubted that Dr. Lazarus Vance would talk to me at all, especially not late on a Sunday evening, but I was determined to give it a try. This was a call I dreaded making. I'd grown fond of Kip, and I didn't want to confront the possibility that she was mentally damaged.
I got Dr. Vance's home phone number from Information and placed the call. I was surprised when he answered the phone, identifying himself immediately.
I explained who I was and why I was calling, expecting the standard line about doctor-patient privilege. Instead, the psychiatrist cleared his throat.
"I've been very worried about Kip," he said. "I was so sorry to hear of her
death."
"She isn't—" I stopped myself. He'd never talk to me if he thought she was alive. "How did you find out about the fire?" A barn fire in Zinnia hardly seemed the kind of story the Memphis newspaper would cover.
"Another of my clients told me. I've tried to contact Mrs. McBride, but she isn't taking my calls."
"As you can imagine, Lee's horribly upset. I'm trying to help her," I said. "What can you tell me about Kip?"
"I'm afraid I can tell you nothing."
"Dr. Vance, Kip is gone. I need information if I'm going to help her mother. I'm sure this isn't a violation of any doctor-patient privilege. Kip would want you to talk to me. She left a note clearing her mother of the murder."
"Since she's dead, I suppose there's no harm in talking," he answered, and I imagined that he was settling back into a comfortable leather chair, a pipe close at hand.
"Kip was a brilliant child. Too smart for her own good. And too conscientious. She carried the weight of that farm on her shoulders. The turmoil of her circumstances affected her more severely than it might another teenager, because of her need to protect her mother and the farm."
I didn't doubt any of this. "Kip said she was having blackouts."
"Yes, a minor break with reality when she couldn't bear any more.
She'd just slip away, deep into a safe place in her own mind. It isn't that uncommon, really. Many of us do a similar thing in the form of daydreams. We're bored or uncomfortable, so we slide just beneath the surface of the mind. The danger is when such incidents become a frequent pattern, and when the break from reality is so deep that reconnection is difficult or time is lost."
"Could a person commit an act he or she didn't remember in such a state?"
He chuckled. "You're building a case, aren't you, Ms. Delaney?"
"I'm exploring a possibility."
"The answer is yes. In extreme cases."
"And was Kip an extreme case?"
"The answer is . . . yes. Kip was extreme, in more ways than one."
I didn't like the undertone of what he was saying. "What does that mean?"
"I got the feeling that Kip was frequently playing with me. She was a very clever girl. Of course, our relationship had not fully developed. She was my patient for only a few months."
My stomach knotted. "Playing with you how?"
"Pretending to be emotional, volatile. It did occur to me that Kip didn't actually suffer from blackout periods, that, perhaps, she was establishing an alibi for something. As I said, she was very clever. Quite a challenge."
"You prescribed several drugs for her." I kept my tone neutral.
"Standard practice. Kip had acted aggressively and violently toward another pupil. She was in danger of expulsion. Our public schools have become a battleground for many things, Ms. Delaney, among them the rights of certain students to disrupt the rights of others to learn. It isn't an easy choice, for a parent or a doctor. Kip needed to stay in school, and the school needed some assurance that she would not attack another student."
"Attack? Is that an accurate description of what happened?"
"The classmate was taken to a doctor's clinic for eighteen stitches and a broken wrist."
"What?"
"Suffice it to say that Kip believed it was an accident. In her mind it was a shoving match, and the other young lady fell into an open locker. I have no way of knowing what actually occurred, but as you can clearly see, Kip was in serious trouble at school."
"Was Lee aware of the seriousness of Kip's condition?" Even if I didn't ask it, someone else would.
"We had several conversations about Kip. Mrs. McBride resented the fact that Kip was required to see me. She felt that Kip's anger and frustration were justified."
"Thank you for your time, Dr. Vance." I hung up the phone consumed with a gnawing dread, and a slow burning anger at Lee. Her attempts to protect Kip from the truth had only made things much, much worse.
Dr. Vance had spooked me. Badly. The one thing I knew for certain was that if Kip was brought to trial for Kemper's murder, somehow Lee was going to have to prevent Dr. Vance from testifying.
I got up and replaced the phone. The blinking red light on the answering machine indicated that I had missed calls. On the off chance that someone had something good to report, I punched the play button.
"Sarah Booth, it's J.B. here. Sorry you didn't make it to Playin' the Bones this mornin'. I was lookin' forward to seein' you. But I do have something to tell you. Somethin' important. The rats are really runnin' around here, and you'd be surprised who's head of the pack. Why don't you give me a call, or even better, drop on around by the Breeze to talk with me. Maybe we can have a drink afterward. I'll keep my ear to the wall until I hear from you."
A drink with J.B. sounded like the best offer I'd had in a while. He'd also proven to be an accomplished eavesdropper in the past. It sounded like he'd overheard something big.
The clerk at the Holiday Breeze connected me with J.B.'s room, and I let the phone ring ten times before I gave it up and decided to drive over.
The motel vacancy sign buzzed neon orange as I turned off the highway just before an eighteen-wheeler rolled over me. The suction from the truck made me wonder how anyone slept in the motel. There were about five cars pulled up to the front of the rooms, including the black Town Car. I drove past the manager's office, where I could see a slender man leaning forward intently into a television.
J.B.'s room was dark, and I knocked loudly. Zinnia wasn't exactly a hotbed of late-night activities, so when there was no answer, I knocked again. Another truck roared down on me in the night, and I tried the doorknob. To my surprise, it turned easily.
The room was dark, but the truck lights briefly illuminated the double beds, the disarray of clothes, the television on the floor, and beside it a pair of legs that disappeared behind one of the beds. The black-and-white images were seared into my brain.
The passing truck suctioned the air out of my lungs as the lights faded and the room was returned to blackness. My hand was frozen on the doorknob. I stood there, breathing, unable to move. At last I reached inside and flipped on the light. This time the images were full color—a vivid bloodred.
Blood had soaked into the carpet beside J.B.'s outstretched right arm. I forced myself to move forward, to look at him. The blood seemed to come from a wound on the back of his head. His eyes were closed and his face was very, very pale.
"J.B." I whispered his name as if I didn't want to disturb him from a light sleep.
In my entire life, I'd seen only a handful of bodies. Finding Lawrence Ambrose dead last Christmas had been a trauma, my first view of fatal violence. Before that, my experience with death had been relegated to the paneled, carpeted chapels of the local funeral homes where the dead reposed with painted faces and crimped hair.
My impulse was to run, but I knelt beside him. Hand shaking, I touched fingertips to J.B.'s neck, surprised that he was warm. Beneath my fingers a thready pulse flickered.
"Nine-one-one!" I grabbed the phone by the bed and got the clerk on the line. "Nine-one-one," I repeated. "Call them now. Send an ambulance and call the sheriff."
"We don't have no trouble in the Breeze," the clerk said gruffly.
"There's a man injured. Call an ambulance now!" I hung up and went back to kneel beside J.B. "Hang on, J.B. Help is on the way."
I forced myself to look around the room. I tried to think of the things I should do—the actions a private investigator would take in such circumstances. My job was to observe, to note details, to register the small things that might be useful in determining who had attempted murder. I touched nothing, but I did note the suitcase thrown against the wall, clothes spilling out everywhere. J.B.'s possessions had been searched. The bathroom door was off the hinges.
The weapon was easy enough to identify: the base of the bedside lamp. It was a heavy, ugly piece that now lay beside J.B.'s cracked skull.
He moaned softly, and I pressed lightly on his che
st to keep him from moving. I didn't know the extent of his injuries, but I was afraid that if he began to struggle, he would only do more damage to himself.
"Find her," J.B. said. His hand clamped suddenly over my wrist in a painful grip. "Find her!"
"I will, J.B. I will." I looked again at the bathroom. Had his mother returned? Was she injured, or dead, in the bathroom? "Everything's fine," I said, attempting to soothe him.
In the distance, I could hear the sound of sirens approaching. It seemed to take forever before the flashing blue lights stuttered through the window blinds of the room.
Coleman came in first, his hand on the butt of his gun. As soon as he saw me, kneeling beside J.B. in all that blood, he called the paramedics into the room.
J.B. stirred again, his brow furrowing as he tried to open his eyes. "Find her," he said again. "They're goin' to kill her."
"It's okay," I said, "we'll find her." I nodded at the bathroom, and Coleman instantly moved toward it. This time he drew his gun. It took only a few seconds to determine that the room was empty. By then, the paramedics had arrived with a stretcher and were busy stabilizing J.B. so they could transport him to the hospital.
"I'll follow the ambulance," I told Coleman.
"Then I want to talk to you," Coleman said. "I'll be waiting at the courthouse."
It was long past midnight when I left the hospital. J.B. had not regained consciousness, and there was talk of transferring him to Memphis. I had not wanted to leave him, but there was nothing else for me to do, and Coleman was waiting. I had no doubt of that.
Rumpled and tired, Coleman poured fresh coffee and pushed a cup across to me. We were standing in the main office, the counter between us. I was on the side of freedom, he on the side of the law.
"This is just one big tragedy," I said, wondering what, exactly, Coleman wanted to talk about. He was a perceptive man, and the telephone interview with Dr. Vance weighed heavily on my mind. While Coleman was sworn to discover the truth, I was hired to protect Lee, which meant protecting Kip.
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