She spun around. The streetlight was shaded by the long oak branches that stretched out to touch one another, sending shadows skittering across the sidewalk. But she could see no one.
She forced herself to calm down. She’d told Luke she could protect herself. Now she had to prove it.
She began walking again, taking ten careful steps, and then, bracing herself, she whirled again, ready for a fight.
There was no one behind her.
She felt bewildered. Betrayed by her own body. She’d been certain there was someone there.
She was nearly to the lights and traffic of Habersham Street. She was nearly to safety.
There was nothing else for it. She turned and ran.
When she reached the lights of Habersham, she didn’t slow down.
She was out of breath and relieved when she turned in to College Row a few minutes later.
Nobody stood outside the Library, as they normally would on a Thursday night. Bruce Springsteen’s melancholy voice poured through the bar’s entrance.
Junior held out his fist for her to bump as she opened the door.
“What’s happening, Harper?” His gold teeth gleamed when he smiled.
Harper forced herself to give him a tense smile in return.
“The usual,” she said, and hurried by, in no mood for banter.
The bar was nearly as empty as it had been when she came to meet Luke—a scattering of people occupied the tables. Nobody was on the dance floor.
The murder was killing business.
At the bar, Bonnie was waiting impatiently.
“Finally,” she said, one hand on her hip.
“I’m sorry I have a job that’s eating my life.” Harper climbed onto a barstool. “And other personal problems.”
She tried to keep her tone light, but Bonnie paused before replying.
“Well, at least you’re here now.”
Without asking what she wanted, Bonnie flipped the cap off a bottle of Beck’s and pushed it across to her.
She’d dressed casually tonight, in denim shorts and ankle boots, her black Library T-shirt belted at the waist. Her blue-blond hair was loose over her shoulders. A dozen bracelets jangled when she moved.
“Add a Jameson’s chaser to that, would you?” Harper said.
A surprised look flickered across Bonnie’s fine-boned face. But “Sure” was all she said as she picked up a glass and lifted the slim, dark green bottle from the rack behind her.
“Man, it’s dead in here.” Harper turned to take in the room.
Setting the glass on a cardboard coaster in front of her, Bonnie gave her a significant look.
“It’s not great. Fitz is losing his mind.”
“Has he been in?” Harper glanced at her. “I keep trying to call him but it goes straight to voice mail.”
“He’s hardly ever here,” Bonnie confided. “When he does come in, he’s wasted. The day manager and I, we’re holding this place together. For now.”
She hesitated before asking, “The cops don’t still think it’s him, do they?”
Harper didn’t mince words. “He’s on their list because of what happened before, and because he hasn’t got an alibi. But they want it to be Wilson Shepherd.”
Leaning her elbows on the bar, Bonnie looked at her.
“Was it Wilson, do you think? He always seemed like such a sweet guy.”
Harper thought of Wilson’s earnest, heartbroken face. And her own lingering doubts about his honesty.
“I don’t think so. But I don’t know anything, anymore.”
She took a sip of whiskey, hoping it would burn some of the last twenty-four hours out of her. The heat of it made her shudder.
“Oh hell, I wish they’d solve this thing,” Bonnie said with unusual vehemence. “Not knowing is tearing everything apart. It’s breaking Fitz’s heart and ruining his business. And mine—I’m not getting any tips. I don’t know how long I can afford to keep working here.” She looked around the room, books gathering dust on the shelves. Music clicking to another song. “I come in here every night and think of Naomi. And what she must have gone through. I can’t even imagine what her dad’s dealing with.”
“He’s trying to solve this murder,” Harper told her. “Just like the rest of us.”
The thought was depressing. She’d done nothing but think about the murder all day. She hadn’t come here to talk about it more.
“Enough sadness,” she said, changing the subject firmly. “Tell me some happy news.”
Bonnie smiled broadly. “Well, if it helps, I think I’m in love, with a capital L.”
“Again?” Harper picked up her beer.
“This time it’s real,” Bonnie promised.
Harper gave her a dubious look. Bonnie went through boyfriends like Harper went through pens.
“Okay.” She motioned for her to talk. “Let’s have it. Who is he?”
“His name is Charles Harrison,” Bonnie said. “He owns a small gallery in Charleston. He saw some of my new paintings hanging at SCAD. He called and asked to see the rest of them, and then he offered to show them. Last night we went out to dinner and I swear to God I fell right in, headfirst. I’m telling you, he could be the one.”
She looked flushed and happy.
Harper, though, had seen it all before.
“Well, that’s wonderful,” she said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “I’m happy for you. Tell me about him. Does he live up in Charleston?”
Missing the flatness in her voice, Bonnie nodded.
“I haven’t been up to his place yet, but I’m going up there in a couple of weeks to see the gallery. Do you want to see a picture of him?”
Without waiting for Harper to respond, she picked up her phone and touched the screen, pulling up an image. She turned the phone around so Harper could see a smiling, well-dressed man, with brown hair graying at his temples. He wore a white shirt, open at the neck.
“He’s a little old for you, isn’t he?”
“He’s forty-three and he’s perfect,” Bonnie said, defensive.
“Terrific.” Handing the phone back, Harper took a casual sip of her beer. “Do you know much else about him? What part of town does he live in?”
A suspicious look crossed Bonnie’s face. “Why do you want to know?”
“Look.” Harper dropped the pretense. “Don’t argue. Give me the basics and I’ll get someone to run a criminal background check on him.”
“Absolutely not.” Bonnie glared. “You always do this, Harper.”
“Yes I do. And that is how we found out the super cute artist from Oklahoma who you wanted to marry had a wife and children in Tulsa,” Harper reminded her. “You can’t trust anyone, Bonnie. When are you going to learn that?”
Bonnie’s chin rose.
“I will not have you invading his privacy.”
“Fine.” Harper shrugged. “Date a pedophile if that’s what you want to do.”
“He is not a pedophile.” Bonnie’s voice rose, attracting curious looks from the man at the end of the bar who’d been drinking so quietly they’d both forgotten he was there.
Bonnie gave him an apologetic glance.
“He’s not a pedophile,” she assured him. “He owns a gallery.”
“I don’t see what the problem is,” Harper said, after the man had turned away. “If you give me his address, I’ll check him out. He never needs to know.”
Unexpectedly, Bonnie reached across the bar and squeezed her hand.
“You don’t have to protect me, Harper. I’m a big girl. I can look out for myself.”
Harper was caught off guard. All her irritation faded.
“I’ve protected you since I was six,” she said. “I always will.”
Bonnie smiled. “I know.”
She began taking glasses out of the dishwasher and placing them on the shelves below the counter. She worked in silence for a few minutes before looking up at Harper.
“He lives on Belmont Street
in Charleston. I don’t have his exact address.”
Memorizing the information, Harper took a sip of beer.
Well, she had Bonnie’s news. Might as well share her own.
“I suppose now would be a good time to tell you that I slept with Luke.”
Bonnie set a glass down with a crash.
“You sneak. How could you not tell me this before? You had sex news all along. How was it?” Her smile faded as her clear blue eyes searched Harper’s face. “Or do I want to know?”
Unexpectedly, tears burned the backs of her eyes.
She shook her head.
“Oh, hell.” Bonnie leaned across the counter, reaching out for her hands. “What happened?”
Mortified, Harper ordered herself not to cry. She emptied her whiskey glass before she replied.
“He said he missed me. I believed him. We had sex and then he told me he was seeing someone else.” She drew a breath. “And that was the end of our little reunion.”
“Oh, Harper. This is all my fault. I made you wear that hot outfit.”
She squeezed her hands.
“Dammit. I can’t believe it. I never pegged Luke for a son of a bitch.”
Harper gave her a rueful smile. “Me, neither.”
“How could he do that to you? I could kill him for hurting you,” Bonnie fumed. “I don’t understand him.”
“Don’t kill anyone.” Freeing one hand, Harper held up her empty glass. “Just keep these coming.”
Bonnie reached for the bottle.
This time, though, after filling Harper’s glass, she poured one for herself.
“I think I need this, too.” She held her glass out to Harper. “To better men.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
They clinked their glasses.
Harper downed her whiskey in one.
Before Bonnie could ask all the questions Harper could see in her eyes, a woman came up to the bar to order, and she turned away to help her, leaving Harper time to think about her own questions.
Why had she slept with Luke?
She should have known something wasn’t right the night Wilson was arrested. The way Luke had appeared, out of the blue. All friendly and understanding. Like nothing had ever happened to rip their lives apart.
It was so obvious in retrospect what was going on. It was laughable, really.
Here she was thinking Bonnie made bad decisions about men. It wasn’t Bonnie who’d slept with her ex before finding out if he was already settling down with someone else.
That had been Harper’s brilliant idea. And look where it got her. Crying in a bar with a bottle of whiskey. That’s where.
After putting money in the register, Bonnie turned back to her.
“What about the break-in?” she asked, changing the subject. Probably—foolishly—hoping for some good news. “They catch the guy?”
Shaking her head, Harper reached for her beer. “Nope. And now we know he broke into my car, too.”
Bonnie’s jaw dropped. “When were you planning to tell me this?”
“Now,” Harper said. “He left a note. Turns out it’s the same guy who broke into my house last year. Or at least, it looks like him.”
“Are you serious?” Bonnie looked stunned. “This is not okay. Are you safe there? What do the cops think?”
Harper didn’t answer that question.
“I’ve done everything I can think of to make that place secure.” She sipped her beer, morosely. “And he just walked right in.”
“That’s it,” Bonnie told her firmly. “You’re not staying alone tonight. Either you come to my place or I’m coming to yours.”
Harper held up her empty bottle. “First, get me another of these. Then we can move in together.”
While Bonnie pulled a fresh beer from the fridge. Harper turned around on her barstool.
It was getting closer to closing time. The bar had emptied further while she’d been here. There was only the woman who’d come to the bar, and two men playing pool.
The music seemed too loud in such an empty room. She was thinking of asking Bonnie to turn it down when a door at the back of the main barroom opened, and Jim Fitzgerald shuffled in.
He moved slowly, bending over to close the door with effort.
Harper observed him with dismay.
The dapper bar owner seemed to have shrunk in a matter of days. His usually neat hair was unkempt. His clothes were rumpled. His face was blotchy and worn.
And he was very drunk.
He stumbled toward the bar.
“Bonnie,” he slurred, “I’m going now.”
From the cash register, Bonnie gave him a worried look. “Okay, Fitz.”
But Harper, who had been calling him for days now, couldn’t let this moment pass.
Jumping to her feet, she hurried over to him.
“Fitz, wait.”
He peered at her blankly before recognition dawned.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, without enthusiasm. “The reporter.”
“Please talk to me,” she pleaded. “I believe you’re innocent.”
He reared back, as if she’d struck him.
“Well, I am innocent, goddammit. I’ve never hurt anyone.” He waved his arm, taking in the empty room. “What’ve I done? I run a bar that people like. I mind my own business. I don’t understand…” His voice trailed off, and he looked at her desperately, as if she might hold the answers. “I don’t understand.”
Harper knew she was on shaky moral ground, interviewing an intoxicated murder suspect. But she was desperate.
“Talk to me about the night Naomi died.” She guided him back to the facts, ignoring the way Bonnie was watching her with open concern. “Where were you?”
He waved one hand in frustration.
“I was here. I left at midnight. Went home and ate a ham sandwich on my couch and watched replays of the Falcons game from Monday night. I gave up in the third quarter. Knew how it ended anyway. Must have been around two in the morning. Then I went to bed with a Lee Child novel I’ve been working my way through.” He rubbed a hand across his face. Talking seemed to be bringing him more focus. “Next thing I know the phone is ringing, and they’re telling me Naomi’s dead.” He raised his red-rimmed eyes to meet hers. “Worst day of my life.”
People say drunk men tell no lies, and Harper knew full well that wasn’t true. But drunk men find it difficult to lie smoothly about things that matter.
Fitz spoke passionately, without hesitating or stumbling over his words. He didn’t fidget or avert his eyes. He didn’t show any sign of deception.
He appeared baffled and lost.
Maybe he was a murderer. But she doubted it.
“You’re going to be fine, Fitz,” she found herself telling him. “They’re going to catch this guy.”
“Well, they better catch him quick. Or it’ll be too late to save this place.”
Turning, he shuffled toward the door, stopping after a few steps to look back at her.
“Naomi wouldn’t want this,” he said. “Whoever killed her—I feel like he’s killing me, too.”
28
The next morning, Harper steered into the crowded parking lot behind the newspaper building, black Ray-Bans protecting her eyes. A slight thudding behind her temples was the only remnant of the night before.
It was less than she deserved, as far as she was concerned.
After the bar closed for the night, Bonnie drove her home. Harper hadn’t admitted to her that she didn’t feel safe walking home. But Bonnie was now obsessed with the break-ins and insisted on accompanying her anyway, so no confessions were needed.
While Harper made up a bed for her on one of the gray sofas, Bonnie lectured her about security.
“Until the cops figure out who this guy is, you’re not safe here,” she said. “You shouldn’t stay here by yourself at all.”
“I’m fine,” Harper had assured her. “I have perfectly good security.”
“That
’s ridiculous. If this guy lets himself in while you’re asleep, what will you do?”
It was late, Harper was tired. That was the only explanation she could come up with for what happened next.
Busy spreading the duvet, she talked without thinking. “I don’t know. Listen to him, maybe. Smith thinks there’s something he wants to tell me. I need to stay here long enough to find out what that is.”
“Did you say Smith?”
Harper’s breath caught.
“Lieutenant Smith?” Bonnie stared at her. “You’ve seen him?”
Caught in the glare of Bonnie’s horrified gaze, Harper sat down on the bed she’d just made.
A long silence fell.
“I talk to him,” she confessed finally. “Now and then.”
Bonnie searched her face as if she’d find clues there to her sudden insanity.
“You talk to Smith? Where? How?”
“I drive out to Reidsville Prison,” Harper told her. “And we talk.”
Bonnie lowered herself onto the couch next to her. She looked stunned.
“How long has this been going on? How often do you see him?”
“Since the start.” Unable to bear the bewilderment in Bonnie’s face, Harper looked down to where her hands worried the corner of the comforter. “I go out there every few months.”
It took Bonnie a second to absorb that.
“What do you talk about?”
“My mom’s case. The burglary. Smith thinks they might be connected, somehow. We’re trying to figure out how.”
There was a long pause.
“How is he?” Bonnie asked.
Harper hadn’t anticipated this question, but then, maybe she should have. After all, Smith had known Bonnie as long as he’d known her. He’d driven the two of them to roller-skating rinks when they were thirteen and picked them up after football games in high school.
Bonnie had always viewed him as sort of a kindly uncle who also happened to be a cop. Until he’d killed a woman.
After that, she had excised him from her vocabulary—rarely, if ever, mentioning him. It was as if she’d removed him from her memory altogether.
Now, though, she sat looking at Harper with an expression of such deep sadness it tore Harper’s heart.
“He’s grayer. Older.” She thought about how the lieutenant had looked when he walked into the visiting room a few days ago. “And he’s harder. It’s like prison’s absorbing parts of him that we knew and turning him into an inmate.”
A Beautiful Corpse--A Harper McClain Mystery Page 22