by Rick Treon
While discussing sordid pasts was taboo, I’d yet to meet someone on a job site who didn’t like talking about their ink.
This was the first time I’d seen Paul in a T-shirt since high school. Other than a sandy blond beard, the biggest physical difference were his arms, which were somehow even larger and covered in tattoos. His sleeves were a mishmash of shapes and words. A mermaid. An ace of spades. Something tribal that seemed homemade. Three black hearts.
“When did you get into tattoos?” I asked.
Paul paused, considering how much to tell me. “I guess it started in college, though most of these came after.” He looked down at his arms. “I spend too much money on them. But hey, I might’s well spend it while I have it, right?”
I thought about giving him my lecture on starting a Roth IRA, but before I could he slapped me on the shoulder. “I think I’m going to get going. We’ll see you two tomorrow.”
I watched Paul walk toward the door, then turned my attention back to Veronica and Jameson. I had no reason to care how she got information out of Jameson or anyone else. But that didn’t mean I had to watch it. I took my unopened beer, which only served to keep the other guys from handing me one, and went into the other room, hoping I had enough battery left to spend the rest of the evening distracted by my phone.
Veronica’s entrance into our hotel room was much less direct after a night of drinking. She weaved her way to her bed and flopped down, her legs hanging over the side.
“So, he didn’t admit it, but ol’ Jamie was definitely sleeping with Sylvia.”
“If he didn’t tell you, how do you know?”
“A girl just knows.”
I laughed. “Even if you’re right, that has nothing to do with why she was killed.”
“Sure it does. He’s married, and he told me his wife comes one weekend a month. If wifey found out, that’s motive.”
“But could wifey have done that to Sylvia? Bash her head in? And where did she get the screwdriver? No, that’s not right. There would’ve been a hell of a catfight, but it doesn’t explain Sylvia’s death.”
Veronica propped herself up on her elbows. “What if he did something to piss off Sylvia, and she threatened to tell his wife about the affair? Maybe Jamie killed her to keep that from happening.”
That was a scenario worth considering. But I had a hard time believing Sylvia’s secret identity and sabotage weren’t connected to her death. I still hadn’t told Veronica about that—or our resulting fight last week—and now was not the time. Though our interests were temporarily aligned, she had been looking to expose me as a liar and fabulist writer less than a week ago. She had good instincts. I didn’t want to give her a reason to turn her investigative spotlight away from Jameson and onto me.
Perhaps Jameson had also caught Sylvia scarring and burning pipe. He’d be angry. He had a key to Site One and, in theory, knew his way around a toolbox. So, whether it was jealousy or sabotage, Jameson was a likely suspect.
But when I tried to picture Jameson doing the deed—bashing in the side of her head, which he nearly took off with a power tool of some kind, then stabbing her in the face with a screwdriver—I drew a blank. Instead, I saw the man who’d shielded himself from a welder twice his age.
No. Jameson was not the killer. I relayed the story to Veronica, who considered what I was saying but seemed unconvinced.
“Fine, Mr. Big Time True Crime Writer. What’s your theory?”
I sat down on my bed and faced her. “I don’t have one. That’s why you’re here.”
“Bullshit. Bull Fucking Shit. You’re playing it cool, but I know you’re scared out of your mind about going to prison for her murder. You want to figure this out more than I do.”
She was right. But that didn’t mean I had to admit it. “You’re getting loose with your language, young lady.”
“Oh my God, how naïve can you be? I am not a good girl. You assumed I am because of how I acted when I interviewed you the first time.”
“I see. Well, I assume people are genuine and honest until I find out they’re not.”
“And that’s why you haven’t written anything good in a decade.”
I should’ve erupted in self-defense. But I couldn’t. She’d put into words a truth that haunted me for years. I was a one-hit-wonder, and that’s only because I was directly involved in something so horrible that everyone wanted to read about it, no matter who did the writing. I also had a team of people who knew that, if they could help me enough, we would all cash in.
Instead of arguing, I started finding clothes to change into after my shower.
“Oh God. Beck, I am so sorry. I’m drunk. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
I shuffled through my underwear drawer, unable to face her. “Yes, you do. And it’s okay. If you were wrong, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be at a desk writing something.”
“No, I’m sorry. Tell me why you think Sylvia died. I bet it’s a much better story than mine.”
I turned around. Veronica was sitting up now, cross-legged again, but staring at me with a softness that had been missing up until then.
“Well, it has to be someone who’s read Cold Summer. I know the investigators are taking that into account. They asked me for a list of people on the job site who bought a copy of it. I gave them a dozen names.”
“Were they mostly welders and helpers?”
“Yeah. And one operator.” I sat back down on my bed. “So, the way I see it, it’s kind of like a Venn diagram. In one circle are the people who know about Site One. In another circle are people who know how Summer Foster was killed. In the middle are the people on that list I gave to the Texas Rangers, which I would say doubles as our suspect list.”
“Would you be willing to re-write it for me?”
“Sure. But it’s basically everyone you’ve met on the job so far.”
“Okay. So, the question is: Of the people in the middle of that diagram, who would’ve wanted Sylvia dead? And why would they try to copy how Summer was killed twenty years ago?”
“I don’t have those answers. But we do know she was lying to everyone about who she was. She must’ve been running from something.”
“Right. Jamie did say something interesting to me today. He said that every time they, quote, hung out, Sylvia was always ignoring phone calls and texts. He asked who it was, and she said it was her family. But he looked one time when she was in the shower, and the missed calls were from a blocked number.”
I had a hard time believing family members would block their numbers. “Maybe an ex?”
“Maybe. I’ll have to think more about it when I’m sober.”
I looked at the alarm clock on my bedside table. “Good idea. It’s already almost one o’clock. I’m going to take a shower. See you in the morning.”
As I turned on the water, I wondered who Sylvia really was—and who’d left her for me to find.
21
Excerpt from Cold Summer
Summer Foster was happy in the hours before the murder. She smiled and laughed with neighbors as she prepared her annual Fourth of July celebration.
Jeremiah Schmidt, a sanitation worker for the city who lived two houses down, was walking his dog and asked her to recommend a book for his son, Chris.
“I’ll be honest, I liked stopping and talking to Summer because she was beautiful. I mean, how often does someone like me—a guy who basically wades through shit all day—get to talk to someone like that? But mostly we talked about my son and school. Everybody loved her. That’s why her death was one of the worst things this town ever experienced.”
Before the murder, violent crime in Hinterbach was almost nonexistent. It was far from Rockwellian, but the town’s criminal element was mostly limited to drugs and petty theft. Kids would steal beer coolers out of the back of pickups on the weekends, and a car might be taken for a joyride outside of the convenience store on Main Street.
After the murder, four religious leaders in H
interbach called a community meeting. Hundreds packed into the Broadway Church of Christ. The topic of discussion: how evil can overtake a community.
A priest, a minister, and two preachers—those of other faiths were akin to atheists and therefore not represented—warned residents of the sneaky danger posed by small sins. They argued that the collective evil of hundreds of those infractions—drinking alcohol to excess, experimenting with drugs, sex outside of wedlock—could infect a town. They used verses from their varying versions of the Bible as evidence. In summation, the holy men told Hinterbach residents their collective hedonism had led to Summer’s murder.
It was their fault. And only a swift correction could keep it from happening again.
22
Summer Foster
July 4, 1999, 1 p.m.
Summer could not stomach Jeremiah Schmidt. He’d never intentionally done anything negative to her. But the way he looked at her, the way he spoke to her—the way she could sometimes see him get an erection if they talked too long—it was almost too creepy for her to handle.
But their sons were friends and teammates. So, even though she never ran by his house and checked her front window before stepping into the yard, Summer had to engage him a few times a year, including every Fourth of July.
She drew in a deep breath and forced a smile as he approached with his family’s dog, a half-canine, half-grizzly that lunged toward her and promptly began sniffing around her crotch.
“Howdy neighbor. Getting ready for tonight’s shindig?”
Summer scratched the top of the dog’s head and tried to redirect its nose. “Hi, Jerry. How are Delilah and Christopher?”
“Lily and Chris are good.” Jeremiah leaned in far too close for Summer’s comfort. “Speaking of Chris, I was really, really hoping you could help me out with something.”
Summer stood her ground, refusing to step back. It helped that she was a fraction of an inch taller. “Of course. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I want to help Chris keep his grades up this year. You know, for football and basketball. I saw something on the news about how reading books over the summer can help kids do better in school the next year.”
“That’s all very true.”
“Good deal. So, I’m sure you can tell that I don’t read a whole lot. Lily does, but I thought maybe I’d come see what you think Chris should read to keep his mind sharp and all.”
Summer was surprised by Jeremiah’s thoughtfulness, at his concern for his son’s education. He still creeped her out. But, for once, Summer was thankful Jeremiah had walked her way.
“Well, you could have him read Seabiscuit. It’s about a racehorse, one that won the Triple Crown way back when. The book has some bad language, but it’s an amazing story of hope and triumph. It was just released, so I don’t have a copy in the school library, but you can get it at the bookstore in Kerrville next week.”
“Seabiscuit. Got it.” Jeremiah took a step back and looked her up and down, stopping briefly when his eyes got to her chest. “I love what you’ve done with your hair. Brains and beauty. You’re the whole package.”
Summer closed her eyes and forced her facial muscles to cooperate. “Thank you for the compliment, Jerry. It’s been a pleasure as always, but I have to get back to setting up.”
“Okay, Summer. I’ll see you at the party tonight.”
“Looking forward to it,” she shouted over her shoulder.
Summer saw Butch dragging a picnic table to the middle of the yard, a decent distance from its usual home under the awning. He’d built that the previous July. Butch was a good man. Dealing with Jeremiah—and remembering what Paul had done that morning—gave her some perspective.
But every time she thought about Butch, she thought about Ruth Ann Beck.
Summer had sucked Butch off the morning after he killed Ruth Ann. Six months later, she still couldn’t understand how a man who’d taken the life of another person could think about sex less than twelve hours later. But he’d finished on her tits, then made them coffee as though nothing had happened.
On her morning run, Summer had noticed the fresh dents in his truck that stretched from the rear of the passenger-side door to the middle of the bed. When asked about it later, Butch said someone else had backed into it. The story sounded believable enough.
He let Summer mourn over the next few days without acting out of the ordinary, though the smell of whiskey on his breath might’ve been a bit more potent. But then Butch came back to her house drunker than she’d seen him in months. He began crying and told her they needed to talk. He told her about getting fired from his job and going to the bar during the day instead. Then he told her about getting a little too drunk, about losing control of his truck and ending up sideways across both lanes of the Kerrville highway.
Butch said he’d passed out, probably from the spinning, and woken up to the sound of a honking horn. He told her how he couldn’t get out of the way in time, and how Ruth Ann had T-boned him. Through his sobbing, Butch said he got out to help her, but that she’d gone through the windshield and was dead by the time he reached her. He admitted to his cowardice and said he never called the police.
In retrospect, Summer was sure Butch had been expecting her to be shocked, but also forgiving. He had obviously not been expecting her to start hitting him and calling him every terrible thing she could think of. He’d asked her twice why she reacted so angrily that night. Butch knew Ruth Ann had been Summer’s neighbor for all eighteen years of her life, and that the two occasionally ran around town to help the girl improve her track times.
But what Butch didn’t know, what nobody knew, was that Ruth Ann Beck—the neighbor girl with blue eyes and the warmest smile in Hinterbach—was the love of Summer Foster’s life.
Until Ruth Ann, Summer had only slept with older men. Sammy’s father was a former Hinterbach High School star quarterback who’d been home from college. He’d gotten a scholarship to play for Texas A&M, though he wasn’t a starter. He and Summer fooled around some when she was a sophomore and he was a senior. They later hooked up during a party while he was home from College Station. She’d written him a letter telling him he was the father, but she never heard back and didn’t know if he ever got the message.
From there it had been a string of experienced men. Seniors during her freshman year at Texas State. Men in their thirties after she’d come home, one of whom seemed disappointed she was older than eighteen. She read later that he was caught with dozens of photos featuring underage girls. Then there was Butch, who was seven years her senior.
The only man her age she’d ever slept with was her piece of shit ex, Frank. Summer had admittedly been with him for financial security. And, although she now knew it was an obsession, the man had showered her with adoration and seemed to genuinely crave her affection.
Since Ruth Ann’s death, Summer had often considered how if one or two things hadn’t been happening at the same time—if only a couple of circumstances had been different—she wouldn’t have entertained the notion of pursuing a sexual relationship with the girl.
But after Frank had beaten her for cheating, Summer wandered into a strange place. She was still with Butch, who was sweet and a good boyfriend. He was fun and probably loved her in his own way, but he was also a loafer and a drunk. And, while Butch was fine in bed and ate her pussy like no one else, he was never going to ignite the passion in her that every person craves, whether they know it or not. At the time, Summer didn’t know what that passion felt like.
Meanwhile, Bernard Beck was looking to help his daughter live her dream of being a high school track star. Or, perhaps it was Bernard’s dream. In either case, he approached Summer in June, right after Ruth Ann’s seventeenth birthday, seeking her advice on sprinting. Ruth Ann was good at the 100-meter and 200-meter sprints. Everyone in town knew that Summer had come close to setting the Texas high school record in the 200. Summer was happy to help her neighbor.
It began with si
mple tips. How to come out of the blocks. Breathing techniques. Easy ways to improve her times. Then Ruth Ann asked if she could run with Summer in the morning, build her own routine. Summer had never enjoyed working out with others, but she relented.
To Summer’s surprise, Ruth Ann understood the solitude of a morning jog. She did not bother Summer, didn’t want to chat, never asked her to explain anything. Ruth Ann ran without saying a word, but within a week Summer began to initiate light conversation.
They eventually took it to the track, where Summer helped Ruth Ann put the tips into practice. Then she helped Ruth Ann develop a full sprinting routine, based on the one she’d learned in college. This included extensive stretching before and after the sessions.
Summer couldn’t remember who made the first move. It didn’t matter.
Even as a teenager, Summer hadn’t acted like she did around Ruth Ann. They found places and times to be together, risks she’d never tried with anyone. They went on like that for weeks before the reality of their situation hit, when Ruth Ann began to talk about her upcoming volleyball two-a-days. She was still in school. She was underage.
She.
Summer had never been attracted to women. Hell, she still enjoyed sleeping with Butch. But the intense connection Summer felt when Ruth Ann’s lips were on her body was indescribable. Summer hadn’t fallen in love with a girl, or a woman, or a student, or a lesbian, or a neighbor. She’d fallen in love with Ruth Ann Beck.
Summer never found out if the feeling was mutual. She’d never told Ruth Ann how strongly she felt. They’d never uttered the word love, though they found every excuse to be near each other. Summer made sure one of her senior classes was library aide, which afforded them many opportunities. They shifted their morning schedules so runs and sprints could be done before class. Lunch hours were spent together when possible.