Fallen Sparrow

by D. A. Keeley

  “Sherry, you sounded really upset on the phone,” she said.

  Sherry nodded. “Thanks so much for coming. I hope I didn’t call too early. I couldn’t sleep.”

  The call came at 7 a.m. sharp, but Peyton shook her head.

  “We shared a room for a month,” Peyton said, “so you know I’m an early riser.”

  “When I lived with you?” Sherry said.

  Peyton didn’t comment on that, just said, “I was already awake, making Tommy’s breakfast.”

  “That was a hard time for me,” Sherry said.

  Peyton knew it had been. Sherry’s father had heard Freddy teasing his ninth-grade sister about kissing a boy at a dance. Fred had become enraged and grounded his daughter. When Sherry tried to rebel by experimenting with alcohol and sex (at least that was Peyton’s armchair analysis, years later), her father had thrown her out of the house. With nowhere to turn, she’d lived with the Cotes for a month.

  “I’ll never forget your family,” Sherry said. “Few people have been so kind to me. I’ll never forget that.”

  Peyton tried not to notice the whoopie pies diner owner Francine Morgan was sliding into a glass case near the cash register. But whoopie pies were, after all, Maine’s official dessert. And, judging from the aroma, this batch was fresh from the oven. Focus on bran muffins, she told herself.

  Tina Smythe, Maine State Police Detective Karen Smythe’s older sister, approached with a coffeepot. Her T-shirt, beneath the apron, was green with the acronym NMCC across the front. Tina was taking evening classes toward an associate’s degree at Northern Maine Community College and waiting tables at Gary’s by day.

  “Regular coffee, Peyton?”

  “Yup. Just black. Good memory, Tina. And”—her eyes, once again, ran to the whoopie pies—“can I get a damned bran muffin?”

  Tina followed Peyton’s eyes and chuckled. “You and my sister. So self-disciplined. I bet you already ran today.”

  “Not true,” Peyton said.

  Tina went to the counter to check on a man eating ployes, a thin pancake-like food made with buckwheat flour that people in the region had enjoyed for years. Peyton watched him carefully roll one, dip it into maple syrup, and eat it. Shepherd’s pie and ployes—two foods her mother prepared better than anyone on the planet. Lois’s shepherd’s pie was loaded with salt and her ployes were carb-heavy, but nothing tasted better.

  Gary’s was the hub of the green-and-white John Deere-hat-wearing universe at this time of day. The parking lot was lined with pickups. In a landscape of flannel and jeans, a blond, narrow-waisted college professor dressed in a sleek pantsuit and suede boots sitting with an auburn-haired uniformed Border Patrol agent drew looks.

  Sherry glanced around. “Sometimes I miss living up here. It really is a simpler life.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You can trust people here.”

  “Can’t trust people in southern Maine?”

  “Can’t trust people many places,” Sherry said, “can you?”

  Peyton just sipped her coffee.

  “I shouldn’t have bothered you,” Sherry said. “Maybe I just get myself overwhelmed.”

  “You were crying pretty hard when you called,” Peyton said. “I was worried about you. Where’s your husband?”

  “I’ve been thinking about things since yesterday. I feel like the world is coming at me a thousand miles an hour.”

  “Understandable,” Peyton said. “The loss of your parents and the accusations against your brother—the past forty-eight hours must’ve felt like a whirlwind.” Peyton glanced around. “Again, I’m sorry for your loss. Is your husband joining us?”

  “No. I told him I needed to talk to you alone.”

  “Why, Sherry?”

  “I don’t want him to hear us talk.” Sherry looked down at her coffee mug; it was nearly empty.

  “You sound like you’re trying to protect him from something. What do you need to talk to me about?”

  “It’s just that I haven’t seen you in so long, but I never forgot you. There have been so many times, over the years, when things made me stop and think that maybe you were the only one who ever really understood me. And that’s because you knew my father, knew what he was like.”

  “I’ve thought about you over the years, too,” Peyton said, “and what I think is that it must have been hard to be in your house, with your father. He was one of the most domineering people I ever met.”

  “He just wanted the best for us,” Sherry said.

  Peyton said nothing. She didn’t wish to speak ill of the dead.

  “He knew I had academic potential. He was right. But in other ways he made my life so difficult.”

  “In what ways?” Peyton asked.

  Sherry shook her head.

  Tina returned with Peyton’s muffin and freshened Sherry’s coffee. Sherry stirred in cream.

  Moving on autopilot, Peyton took out her iPhone and checked her emails. Nothing pressing. But she wasn’t really interested in messages. She was buying time. And thinking.

  What did Sherry have to say that her husband couldn’t hear? And from what did he need protection?

  “You come back to the area often?” Peyton asked, casually sliding her phone back into her cargo-pant pocket.

  “Why do you ask? What reason would I have to visit this area?”

  “I imagine your folks wanted to see their grandchildren,” Peyton said, realizing she’d used the past tense. She wasn’t sure Sherry picked up on it.

  “Actually, Chip has taken them here more than I have in recent years. I’ve been traveling for work.”

  “Where?”

  “Where what?”

  “Where have you traveled?”

  Sherry made a little flutter with her right hand. “It’s not im-

  portant.”

  “You’re talking to a single mom who works fifty hours a week and hasn’t traveled outside the country, beyond distances she can walk to from a Border Patrol vehicle, in ten years. Humor me.”

  “I spend a lot of time in Prague, actually. It’s a focal point of my research.”

  “Prague?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “You go there alone?”

  “Yes, why?”

  Marie St. Pierre and Simon Pink had plane tickets for Prague. But Peyton said only, “I hear it’s a romantic city.”

  “Yeah, it is. But when I go, I’m there to research.”

  “Have your parents ever been there?”

  “My parents? Why would they go?”

  Peyton shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe on an anniversary.”

  “You knew my father, Peyton. Romance wasn’t exactly high on his list of priorities.”

  Peyton sipped more coffee. “What are you researching?”

  “Why?” Sherry ate some Cheerios.

  “Sherry, I haven’t seen you since high school.” Peyton wrapped both hands around her porcelain mug. MPG, the Maine Potato Growers’ initials, were painted green across the side. “And you called my home, sobbing, at seven a.m. And you’re on your way, I assume, to visit your brother, who’s sitting in a holding cell, facing First-Degree Murder charges. I’m trying to start a light-hearted conversation.”

  Sherry set her spoon down and looked away again. “You always were a good friend. Most of my research has to do with the political landscape in the Czech Republic.” Her cell phone chirped then. She retrieved it from her purse, looked at the caller ID, and sent the call to voicemail.

  “You don’t want to take that?” Peyton said.

  “No.”

  “But your phone said ‘Chip.’”

  Sherry shook her head.

  To the left of their window, three cars away, a light-green Ford Escape idled in the parking lot. The raven-haired driv
er sat reading. Peyton watched him turn the page of his book.

  “What are you looking at?” Sherry asked.

  But Peyton realized that Sherry, too, was looking at the man.

  “Same thing you are,” Peyton said. “That man. Never seen anyone sit in this parking lot before. Usually people come in, sit at the counter or a booth.”

  “I’m not looking at him,” Sherry said.

  “Jesus, look at his hand.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

  “Not really,” Peyton said and thought of the destroyed cabin. “I’m genuinely curious about what happened to him.”

  She had reason to be: Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall’s mother had seen two men walking toward the cabin before the fire and explosion. Simon Pink may or may not have been one of them; that left at least one suspect at large. Peyton retrieved her phone and made a note of the green Escape’s license plate.

  From fifty feet away, she could tell the man was missing two fingers and saw smooth strawberry skin, the result of a traumatic injury. She guessed a burn. But his wounds didn’t look recent: no bandages.

  “Well, I don’t think his hand looks that bad,” Sherry said.

  Peyton shifted in her seat. The butt of her .40 was digging into her back.

  “Peyton,” Sherry said, and she pushed her cereal away, “I need to talk about my brother.”

  “Don’t you want your attorney to do that?”

  “Peyton, Freddy didn’t kill anyone. He’s innocent. You’ve known Freddy since we were young. You can’t honestly think he’d kill anyone.”

  Peyton sipped some coffee.

  “You won’t tell me what you think?” Sherry said.

  “Did you know your brother was dating Nancy Lawrence?”

  “Yeah, sure, of course,” Sherry said, and quickly looked out the window, focusing on the man in the green Escape.

  Peyton didn’t for one second believe Nancy Lawrence was dating Freddy St. Pierre. And given Sherry’s inability to hold her gaze, she doubted Sherry did either.

  “If your brother is innocent, I’m sure the system will bear that out.”

  “You can’t actually believe that,” Sherry said. “You and I both know many innocent people are on death row in this country.”

  “Well, I believe in the criminal-justice system,” Peyton said.

  “But you know it’s flawed.”

  “I have faith in it, Sherry.”

  “You have to, because it’s your job. But you know Freddy.”

  “What is it, exactly, you want from me?”

  “Can’t you talk to the state police, tell them—”

  “That’s why you wanted to meet with me?”

  “I wanted to meet with you because I need a friend right now.”

  Peyton looked at her. “Okay, but think about this, Sherry. What are you asking me to tell the state police?”

  “It might sound crazy, but it isn’t. You can vouch for Freddy’s character.”

  “Sherry, you know the system doesn’t work like that.”

  Sherry dropped her head into her hands. “I know. I know.” Her voice was muffled. “I’m just in over my head.”

  “In what?”

  “I’m just overwhelmed, Peyton.”

  When Sherry looked up, her eyes were pleading. Peyton had seen the look before: desperation. Sherry needed someone, just one person, to understand.

  “I’m so tired of always relying on other people,” Sherry said, “of always needing other people.”

  “Sherry, what was your mother’s relationship with Simon Pink?“

  “He worked on the farm for a time, I think.”

  Sherry was a worrier, and Peyton saw the little frown lines tighten at the corners of her eyes.

  “You think?”

  “Freddy would know, Peyton. I haven’t been around a lot.”

  “Your mother was planning to fly to Prague with Simon Pink.”

  “Why?” Sherry said, looking at her coffee. She’d already added cream but spooned in more. “This coffee is weak,” she said.

  “In fact, locals bitch about how weak it is,” Peyton said. “So why are you adding more cream, Sherry?”

  “Huh? I’ll be right back.” Sherry stood and then was gone from the booth, heading to the ladies’ room.

  Peyton ate part of her bran muffin. She looked at the whoopie pies as she chewed. The muffin had all the flavor of a shoebox.

  At quarter to nine, the morning crowd had thinned, and the chime of the bell on the front door drew her eyes. Peyton waved, and Dr. Chip Duvall approached the booth.

  “I’m Peyton Cote. Sherry is in the ladies’ room.”

  Chip introduced himself. “Sherry has talked about you from time to time over the years.”

  “Have a seat,” Peyton said.

  He did, and said, “You’re exactly as she described you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Confident. She notices that in other people,” he said.

  Tina was back to take his coffee order.

  Sherry approached the booth, head down, hand in her purse. She looked up at Chip and was startled.

  “Oh, hello, sweetie. I’m surprised to see you.”

  “I used the lost-phone app to find your phone and figure out where you were,” he said.

  “I see. Please don’t be angry.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “Writing. The book is going well. My research is coming together. I had to make some overseas phone calls and didn’t want to keep you up. So I went down to the other room.”

  “I’d like to know where you are, at least,” he said.

  Sherry stared at her coffee. “Coffee’s very good here,” she said in a voice that was nearly a whisper. Then she caught herself, “But it’s a little weak. Or maybe I just added too much creamer. You know how I always screw things up.”

  When Peyton had pleaded with Sherry to argue with her father, to tell him that he couldn’t choose her friends for her, Sherry had said no. She just couldn’t bring herself to stand up to him, didn’t have it in her. And now, despite her academic prowess and publications, she was still blaming herself—even for weak coffee.

  “Where are you guys staying?” Peyton asked.

  “The Hampton Inn in Reeds,” Sherry said.

  “Or at least one of us is,” Chip said.

  “I’ve been very busy writing. And now planning a funeral and even trying to help with my brother’s defense,” Sherry said. “I haven’t spent as much time with you as I need to. That’s my fault.”

  “Sherry,” Chip said, “he drove away as soon as I pulled in.”

  Peyton felt like she had when she’d searched Marie St. Pierre’s bedroom—like a peeping Tom, given access to the personal lives of people she once knew well. Sherry’s relationship was rocky, and Peyton didn’t need to know that.

  “I need to get to work,” Peyton said, trying to politely recuse herself from the conversation.

  “Before you go, Peyton, tell me what my father said before he … before …”

  Had Sherry asked her this already? Grief made people do strange things, including forgetting. It wasn’t easy to replay the murder-

  suicide.

  “Your father said he was sorry just before he shot your mother.”

  “Good God. Sorry for shooting her?”

  “I don’t know what he was apologizing for. I was hoping you might be able to fill in some blanks for me.”

  “Well, I cannot,” Sherry said, her voice now formal and slow as if speaking to a stranger.

  Sherry leaned her head against Chip’s shoulder, a move that clearly caught him off-guard. He seemed to stiffen before awkwardly draping his arm around her, a gesture meant to comfort her, but one that, like Sherry’s spee
ch, was far too formal.

  Peyton felt like she was watching a stage performance. What was going on with this couple? And where had Sherry spent the night?

  “My parents didn’t always get along,” Sherry said. “You know that.”

  “Is that where Simon Pink comes in?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But my parents are dead, Peyton. Respect their memory, please.”

  Peyton sipped some coffee. “Sherry, your father was ordering your mother around while I was interviewing them.”

  “He treated everyone that way, but mostly women.”

  “Your mother was a classy lady with a lot going for her. She shouldn’t have stood for it.”

  “That’s easier said than done, Peyton. She couldn’t support herself. And not everyone is independent.”

  “He hit your mother. That’s why I was there. When she called the police, I went as backup.”

  “Why would she call for help? She didn’t need help.”

  “Did you hear me, Sherry? He hit her.”

  “That’s nothing new.”

  “Did he ever hit you?”

  “He wasn’t a bad man. And that’s all in the past. I don’t want to get into it. The past is over.”

  “The past is never over, Sherry. That’s probably why you called me.”

  No one spoke then, each of them thinking their own thoughts.

  “He was getting worse,” Chip finally said. “I wanted him to get a physical. I was concerned that he was getting clogged arteries. He smoked for years, ate terribly, and didn’t exercise.”

  Tina returned and asked Chip if he wanted to order. He shook his head.

  “My parents are gone,” Sherry said. “I can’t lose my brother, too. That would be too much.” She took in a deep breath. “We’ll handle it.”

  “So let me help,” Chip said.

  “Not you,” Sherry said.

  “Who, then?” Chip asked.

  Sherry shook her head. Then she turned to Peyton. “This is about that little slut Nancy Lawrence,” Sherry said, growing animated, reaching for her coffee, spilling some.

  Peyton was surprised but ignored the slur. “She’s your brother’s alibi, Sherry.”

  “No. He was at Tip of the Hat when Simon was killed.” Her hand bumped the coffee cup again. Some sloshed over the rim. She inhaled, calming herself, and wiped the coffee with a napkin.