When You Find Me

by P. J. Vernon

  * * *

  Enormous raindrops struck my windshield, and my thoughts went to the body divers that were no doubt scouring the marsh beds as I drove home to Auntie Tilda’s. The weather and water chop might prove an obstacle, but nothing was insurmountable. If there was a body to find, they’d find it. And I needed them to find Paul—a homicide case built without a body was hollow—but not too quickly. It was an ironic position to be in as an investigator.

  Doubts aside, Sammie gave my plan the buy-in I needed. After we’d sketched out a false timeline to follow, we’d settled on how we would switch the focus to kidnapping and determined precisely what information we wanted access to. We would hold off on confronting Charlotte until after the monitors were secured in the home. Importantly, our rationale needed to be airtight, both for the Kings and Sheriff Burton. Even if we got Joanna’s signed consent to listen in, I wanted deniability regarding wiretapping under false pretenses. That’s where Annie and her calls fit perfectly.

  So much work to be done, but at least we were finally getting somewhere.

  My turn signal clicked as I hung a left into Auntie’s driveway. James from next door waved at me with a garden-gloved hand as he weeded his flowerbeds beneath an umbrella. What an odd man. Exiting my car, I nodded hello and ran to avoid getting wet. My keys stuck more than once in the front door.

  Inside, a sermon played on the TV, which meant Auntie was having a good day. Good enough to get up from bed on her own. The refrigerator door rattled from inside the kitchen. Was she feeling well enough to eat something, too?

  Auntie greeted me as I sat my bag and keys on the kitchen table. She offered a small grin and turned back to the open refrigerator. I snatched a dishtowel off the wall rack and wiped the rain from my face.

  “Can I get you something, Auntie? Fix you something to eat?”

  “Oh no,” she protested. “I can do it myself. I woke up this morning thinking of fried eggs. I might not be able to eat a whole one, but I couldn’t get the thought out of my head.”

  As she fumbled with the egg basket, I reached into the cupboard for the skillet. She shouldn’t be doing anything herself, but I had no intention of taking this away from her. The next time she crawled into that hospice bed might be her last.

  Gnarled hands trembling, she cracked an egg into a bowl and shuffled to the stove. I’d already melted a slice of butter in the pan.

  “I’ll take care of it,” she told me. “Go on and take a seat. You want one, too?”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “No, Auntie. I’m not hungry.”

  As the egg sizzled, a thought I’d been carrying around for two days grew louder. I had to question Auntie Tilda about Gray’s allegations. I needed the corroboration, of course, but the decades of severance checks got me thinking: Were they connected in some way?

  For all the reasons Auntie might take severance money from Joanna, only one possibility came up over and over again. Did Auntie know about the abuse? Were the checks really hush money? My stomach tightened. Was Auntie the kind of person who’d actually take it?

  She slid the fried egg onto a plate and hobbled to the table. Today was a good day for her. The best she’s had in quite some time. There may not be another chance to ask her. But as she took a seat across the table, I decided to let her finish her food first. She’d woken up thinking of fried eggs, after all.

  Golden yolk oozed out as her fork sank into the egg. She’d fried it to perfection in spite of the cancer choking her organs. After a few bites, Auntie rested her fork next to the half-eaten egg on her plate. “Do you mind helping me up?” she asked. Before she finished her question, I’d already slid out of my chair to give her a hand.

  One foot in front of the other, we made our way to the bedroom together. It occurred to me that this might be the last moment I had with a faultless Auntie Tilda. Tilda who’d never take money for a cover-up. For everything she was, everything she’d done, I’d put her atop a pedestal. If she came off it, I’d grieve the loss.

  Pulling her knitted quilt over her chest, I swallowed a hard lump in my throat and took a seat on the bed beside her. “Auntie, I need to ask you something. Something very important.”

  “What is it?” she asked, closing her eyes. The simple act of making an egg had drained her.

  “I need you to tell the truth. I need you tell me the God’s honest truth.”

  I gave her a moment to respond, but she stayed silent. Something told me she knew what I was going to ask. My involvement with the Kings had been all over local news and radio. Maybe the brief pause permitted her to gather herself. As the moment stretched, my heart fluttered. Fearless Auntie Tilda may not be as fearless as I’d believed.

  I took another deep breath. “Does Joanna King write you checks for your silence?”

  Still no words from Auntie. She rustled uncomfortably beneath the sheets. Maybe if the question was more specific, she’d answer. Hearing the allegation might startle her into telling me. I didn’t want the checks to have anything to with this, but I needed to rule it out with facts.

  Pulse racing, I asked again, “Did Gray’s cousin once touch her inappropriately? Did Joanna want you to keep quiet about it? On account of Seamus’ run for office, maybe?”

  Auntie breathed a staggered sigh and opened her eyes. They glistened wetly. “No, Nina.”

  I dug my nails into my palms. Why did I have to do this? Why did I have to push her? I spoke forcefully, “I need you to be honest with me.”

  I held my breath as Auntie looked into my eyes. Regret welling in hers.

  “That boy didn’t touch her just once.” She choked up as she spoke, trembling. “It happened so many times.”

  Something uncomfortable stirred inside me. Questions searching for answers bubbled to the surface like bits of leafy matter in marsh water. “How do you know?”

  She drew a long, pained breath. “I had my suspicions. The way that boy’s eyes lingered on her. The way her drawers weren’t flush in her dresser after he’d been over—their contents not the way I’d folded and tucked them. But I had no proof. I followed him around that house as best I could, but I couldn’t be everywhere.”

  I winced, biting my lip as she continued speaking.

  “More than once,” Auntie paused, as if to gather strength for her next words, “I walked in on them alone in a room, and I knew. I just knew. I tried to tell Seamus and Joanna. They wouldn’t hear any of it.”

  A prickly knot grew in the back of my throat. “What sort of parents cover up abuse of their own child?”

  “It was all about that damned election. I’ve never seen such willfully ignorant people. Matthew’s daddy was the campaign lawyer, if I recall right. Between that and being family, they wouldn’t hear it.”

  “What changed?”

  “When Gray spoke up herself. She told her mamma what happened, and even a woman as cold as that one is couldn’t deny it any longer. Mrs. King was keen to have Gray seen by the family doctor. Wanted to make sure that boy hadn’t given her little Hummingbird any venereal diseases. I was glad to learn Joanna had a soul, because you best believe I seriously doubted it.”

  “And Seamus?”

  “Mr. King was mad as hell—he even threatened Matthew’s life if he ever showed his face again at Piper Point—but what was done was done. He didn’t think it made sense to drag the whole family down.”

  Taking a deep staccato breath, she continued, “The checks are to keep my mouth shut, but not for the abuse itself. I agreed to sign my own name to the paperwork so there’d be no record of having a child tested. It was the only way to get that girl some care. Doctor took samples right there in Joanna’s bathroom. HIV, syphilis, all of it. Tubes of drawn blood, urine, all bearing my name.”

  That’s when it dawned on me. “You stuck a tape recorder in her pocket all those years ago. That’s why you knocked over a drunk Seamus King’s dinner tray.”

  “I had to get the truth out in some way,” she said. “If not the actual truth, the
n I could at least let the world know what sort of folks the Kings were. I waited till the South Carolina primaries to do it, Nina. I waited till it would do the most damage.”

  It didn’t make up for what she’d done, but I understood why she’d been complicit. She did care for Gray. She’d wanted her tested, and she’d wanted the Kings to suffer for how they handled it.

  “Who was the family doctor? Who forged the STI tests for Joanna?”

  “Dr. Conner,” Auntie replied. “Mary-Ann Conner. A selfish woman whose medical oaths aren’t worth the paper they’re written on.”

  “Can I get you to make a statement? Declaring what you’ve just told me?”

  “You write up what I told you, and I’ll put my name to it,” she answered. Her eyelids sagged. I had to move quickly. “I don’t have a thing to lose by telling the truth now.”

  As I made for Auntie’s desk for a pen, Auntie cleared her throat again. “The doctor wasn’t the only call Joanna made that night. Not even the first one.”

  I paused. “Who else did she call?”

  “The police.”

  “So Joanna called the police on Matthew?”

  A cough from Auntie. “She tried. Sheriff came to the house, but Seamus convinced him to put it away. Told him it was handled and things were best left alone.”

  I braced, asked, “Which sheriff?”

  “Deputy sheriff,” Auntie replied. “Funny what details you cling to after all the years. I’ll never forget how the man looked me up and down as he introduced himself.”

  “What was his name?” I whispered.

  “Your boss, Nina. Deputy Sheriff Jim Burton.”

  30

  Gray

  I’m terribly sorry to hear about your mishap, Hummingbird. Please know you’re in my prayers. So is Paul. When we lose loved ones—and it does seem likely that Paul’s been lost—it’s often helpful to gather all the photographs we have. To misplace any memories would only add unnecessarily to grief. As such, I’ve included some pictures of Paul that were in my possession from the happy times we spent together.

  Warmest regards,

  Annie

  * * *

  She’d slept with Paul. Annie was Paul’s sociopathic lover.

  The first picture put me on my knees in front of the toilet, my broken shoulder throbbing as I steadied myself against the porcelain rim. Later, I lay on my back atop a made-up bed in the Yellow Room, frozen from head to toe. I couldn’t unsee them, the glimpses of Paul’s affair attached to Annie’s email. Thoughts of separation and divorce surfaced before vanishing again beneath the filthy images—so many of them—things even the darkest corners of my mind could never create. And calling me Hummingbird? That meant that beyond the affair, the bizarre fetishes, they’d spoken about me intimately. Mocked me.

  Invisible spiders danced up and down my limbs. Needle legs prickling my skin. Tickling in between my toes, behind my ears. I imagined turning up a bottle of dry red. The slippery glass mouth on my own. The glugging sound. Swallowing gulp after gulp till the green bottom appeared, and these fucking spiders fell off me.

  I was wrong about Annie. So wrong. She never wanted to help me or Paul. She didn’t get lost on the way to Cirilo’s. She intended to stand me up. Taunted me because of my husband. Sour acid climbed up from my stomach. I didn’t want to vomit again.

  My heart stopped as I considered a new possibility. The facts flashed across my mind in rapid succession as I dug my nails into my arms.

  And it does seem likely that Paul’s been lost.

  She was right. The goddamn bitch was right.

  Annie hadn’t reached out to me until after Paul vanished. She knew about the accident, too. Even if she stood me up, that still meant she was in Elizabeth. She’d at least been down Oleander Avenue.

  Paul could very well be dead. Murdered in cold blood that night off the highway while I’d been slouched over in the passenger seat, passed out from drinking. Annie might’ve killed him. But if that was true, why hadn’t she killed me at the same time? Unless this is what she wants, to torture me. Killing me would’ve been too easy. It would’ve spared me from all of this.

  I shut my eyes tight, placing myself back in the bar. Back in Ruby’s Pub on Christmas Eve. I’d just finished my first drink, my mind focused on getting another with laser-like intensity. I searched my memory of the crowd for a woman’s face. One that stood out from everyone else’s. Even if I didn’t recognize Annie, there must’ve been something off about her. Someone who’d do something malicious to Paul and still come after me? She must hate me. Could she have concealed her loathing if I’d walked by? But I’d avoided looking at other patrons as I made my way to the counter. I hadn’t wanted to catch a glance from a familiar person and delay my next drink. Damnit, Gray!

  Frantic and quaking, I leapt up and reached for my phone. A confluence of anger and fear had my hands trembling and sweating. Wet fingers smeared and smudged the screen of my cell. Scrolling through my contacts, I finally landed on Nina Palmer’s mobile.

  She needed to know about this. All of this. The email, the pictures, everything. No more keeping secrets from her. I learned that lesson, and my arm rested in a sling to prove it. There must be some way to trace the email or the photos. Something the police could do. Someway Nina could help me.

  The sooner we found Annie, the sooner we’d find Paul. Or at least find out what had happened to him. The not knowing was eating away at me. The not knowing might kill me.

  31

  Nina

  Any doubt that Charlotte was Annie disappeared as soon as I opened the images Gray forwarded from her phone.

  “Let me weigh our options, and I’ll call you back this afternoon,” I’d told Gray as I hung up. She’d been desperate for answers. I didn’t blame her. Annie possessed intimate knowledge of Gray and had obviously been sleeping with Paul. Only one woman checked both boxes.

  “Goddamn.” Sammie cringed as he flipped through the photos at my desk. “That’s some shit if I’ve ever seen it. And I’ve seen a lot.”

  “Ain’t it though?”

  “The hate isn’t what unnerves me most. It’s the charade. The way Charlotte acts as though she’s Gray’s only true ally in all this,” he replied, handing my phone back.

  “No kidding,” I said, plugging it into my desk charger. I hesitated, then added, “I feel for Gray. It’s a wonder she’s held it together this long. Matthew, Paul, and now Annie tormenting her? Possibly her own sister.”

  He nodded. “If anyone deserved a drink, it’d be her. I still can’t wrap my head around Matthew. No statute of limitations, but it’d be a hell of case to build from here.”

  I bit my bottom lip. “Short of a confession, no. It’s all hearsay. He said, she said…”

  “Your aunt said, too.”

  “Her statements are a starting place, but we need more than that. We need witnesses, corroboration on the STI test samples, additional victims if they exist.”

  “Speaking of,” he replied, “you gonna clue Gray in on her sister?”

  “When I figure out how to broach it. She’s pretty broken up at this point.”

  “Are you worried about how she might take it? How Charlotte might respond to her if confronted?”

  Shaking my head, I changed the topic. “To tell you the truth, talking with Auntie Tilda’s been the only thing on my mind. Tough to game through anything else. It was a whopper of a revelation.” And not the only one. Joanna had brought the police to Piper Point, before Seamus intervened. Whether money exchanged hands à la Auntie or it was a wink and a smile on Burton’s part, the fact remained: Burton had heard these allegations before. And done nothing.

  Now he was turning the screws on my handling of Paul’s case.

  Sammie shoved his hands in his pockets. “If Matthew was a pedophile back then, he likely hasn’t changed. We might have a predator loose in Elizabeth.”

  “Not just a predator,” I corrected him. “A defense attorney. A privileged predato
r.”

  “Should we pursue it?” Sammie asked.

  “I think so. These aren’t two entirely separate investigations. Charlotte was left unsupervised with Matthew the same as her sister, and that warrants an inquiry.”

  My desk phone rang. I knew why before I answered. Joanna King had arrived at my invitation. I puffed my cheeks and stood. Time to convince a woman with a pathologic aversion to disclosure to let me tap her phone lines.

  * * *

  For the second time in a week, Joanna sat at the conference room table. The look on her face—a barely concealed scowl—said she was none too pleased about it.

  “Good afternoon, Joanna.” Her floral perfume enveloped me. This time, peony and entitlement.

  “Detective,” she answered tersely. “You got any air in this building? I’m about to burn up alive in here.” She removed her blazer and rolled up the sleeves of her silk blouse.

  “I’ll see what I can do about the temperature in a moment.”

  Crossing her legs beneath the table, she muttered, “My tax dollars hard at work.”

  Disregarding the slight, I continued, “I’ve asked you to come in today because we’ve had a break in the case.” A lie—sort of.

  The scowl dissolved into a look of surprise. “Really? What sort of break? Shouldn’t Gray be here to hear this, too?”

  “This is a sensitive matter, and until we can be certain, the information is only to be distributed on a need-to-know basis.”

  “What could be so sensitive?” she asked, arching her brow. I’d piqued her interest—a good start since appealing to the woman’s sense of intrigue might be my only chance.

  “Annie,” I said.

  “What about her?”

  I folded my hands together atop the table. “We have reason to believe Paul’s being held against his will, and she’s an accomplice.”

  Mamma shifted in her seat. “Held against his will? Like kidnapping? That’s preposterous! If Paul had been kidnapped, wouldn’t there have been a ransom call or something? We’ve heard nothing from anyone.”