by Ellen Hart
“What did you think happened to him?”
He sucked on his candy. “Oh, I don’t know, but I knew it wasn’t good. He wasn’t the kind of guy to hang his friends out to dry, never telling them what was going on.”
“Did he have enemies?”
“Not that I knew about.”
“So you had no idea what happened.”
“None. I did save his bike, just in case he came home. His father put it up for sale right after he disappeared, so I bought it. My oldest son rides it now.”
“What did you think of Sam’s dad?”
He grunted. “A real bastard.”
“Why would he sell his son’s bike when there was a chance he’d come back?”
“You tell me.” He crunched his Life Saver and gazed toward the street. “I figure it was just another way to stick it to Sam.”
“There are rumors that he murdered him.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. That man is cold as freakin’ ice.”
Jane made a few notes. “Do you know Dave Tamborsky or Monty Mickler?”
“Not well, but yeah, I know them.”
“I was talking to the man who’s in charge of the grounds at Holy Trinity cemetery. He said you’d worked for him when you were in high school.”
“Haven’t thought about that in years. Sure, I worked for him one summer.”
“He said you’d helped him dig Ida Beddemeyer’s grave.”
“Crap, did I? He could be right.”
“And that while you were taking a break, Dave Tamborsky walked by and said something that angered you.”
“Honestly, I have no memory of it, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Dave was a real pig, always calling me things like jungle bunny, coon—you get the picture.”
“But you have no memory of him walking past the grave that day.”
“Sorry.”
She was disappointed, but moved on. “I talked to Jim Hughes yesterday, one of Sam’s old buddies. He said there were a bunch of rumors flying around the school before Sam went missing.”
“Like what?”
“That Tamborsky and Mickler were gay, that they were a couple.”
Darius threw his head back and roared with laughter. “What a hoot. Maybe we should restart that rumor.”
“Is there any truth in it?”
“I doubt it. What else?”
“That Sam and his brother were angry at each other.”
“Don’t know about that.”
“What about a teacher seducing a student?”
He shrugged. “There were always rumors about stuff like that.”
“A girl got into a car with a stranger and was assaulted.”
He scowled. “Not very specific.”
“What about this?” said Jane. “I was told there was a party at a farm near town at the beginning of your senior year. Something bad happened and Sam was part of it. I don’t suppose you were there?”
He hesitated. “I may have been.”
“Do you know what the rumor is about?”
More hesitation. “It’s hard to remember that far back.”
He’d been so open at the beginning of the conversation, but after she mentioned the party, his tone changed. He seemed more wary. “I’m committed to finding out what happened to him,” said Jane. “I think he deserves that.”
“Yeah,” he said under his breath. “He sure as hell does.”
“Hey, D,” shouted a voice from inside the garage. “That car you’re working on’s not gonna fix itself.”
“I’m almost done, Dad,” Darius shouted back. To Jane, he added, “Sorry, but I gotta get back to work.”
Jane unhooked his mic and then hers. As he was about to head back inside, she handed him one of her cards. “If you remember anything that might be of help to our investigation, please give me a call.”
“Will do,” he said. As he walked away, his shoulders relaxed. Jane read it as relief that the conversation was over.
21
People often asked Kurt when his next book of poetry would be published. It was a question he loathed. Was he supposed to tell the truth, that he’d never wanted his work published in the first place? It was ultimately his choice, he supposed, but the journey that got him there hadn’t been.
Without ever mentioning it to Kurt, a friend had sent a cobbled-together manuscript of some of his poems to a small press. An acceptance letter was delivered to this friend several months later. Assuming that Kurt would be thrilled, the friend had stopped by to deliver the good news.
At first, Kurt was nonplussed. The man had no right to do it, but now that a press was on board, how could he say no? He was ashamed to admit that he’d been swayed by the stardust his new editor blew his way. And thus, the volume came out a year later.
Initially, Kurt enjoyed doing readings, meeting people to talk about the beauty of language, the importance of image and introspection. But over time, he found that the whole experience left him feeling exposed. He stopped writing. Stopped doing readings. He eventually moved beyond this “oversensitivity,” as he began to think of it, but his writing never fully recovered. The book hadn’t sold well. Even so, people continued to view him as a man with a certain status, a published writer, as if the two hundred lost souls who’d actually shelled out good money for the book meant anything at all. Why would someone want to know when the next book would be out if they hadn’t read the first? It all began to feel not only meaningless, but squalid, which was why he wished he’d turned his back on the contract and walked away.
Kurt sat at the table in his dining room, a glass of iced tea next to him, and tapped a pencil against an empty page in a wire-bound notebook. Emma had asked him to write a few lines about Sam for the reunion memorial, which was easier asked for than accomplished. Words still felt slippery to him, as if meaning itself was an unreliable concept.
So, instead of concentrating on the task at hand, Kurt kept stealing glances at an envelope addressed to his son which had come in the mail that day. He was dying to know what was in it. Danny wouldn’t be home from work for a while, and even when he did come home, there was no guarantee that he’d tell Kurt what it was about. It was probably nothing, but because Kurt was already worried about so much else, he figured he might as well add the letter to the list. He wasn’t in a good mood and didn’t see that changing anytime soon.
Hearing the doorbell, he pushed away from the table and padded in his stocking feet to the door. Emma was outside, looking windblown and lovely. “Hey, come in,” he said, brightening just a little.
“What are you cooking out there on your porch?” she asked, sniffing the air. “Is that a roaster oven?”
“It’s actually a smoker,” said Kurt, inviting her into the dining room. “Can I get you something to drink? I’m having iced tea.”
“No,” she said. “I can’t stay.”
“To answer your question, I’m smoking a pork shoulder. Brought one home from the shop at lunchtime and got it going. That Oster is ridiculously easy to use. It doesn’t turn out the same kind of smoked meat as a real smoker, but it’s pretty close. Danny and I both love it. You’re welcome to come for dinner. We’ll pull a section of the roast, add some barbecue sauce, and pile it on some buns. There’s plenty to go around.”
“That sounds so tempting, but I’m afraid I’ve already got an engagement.”
“With Mr. X? The guy who has no name?”
She laughed. “Yeah, with him.”
“When am I going to meet this dude?”
“Probably never. It’s nothing serious. I’ll be leaving next week to go back home. I really miss my daughter.”
The thought of her leaving filled him with sadness. “I knew that was coming. I’ll miss you.”
“Not as much as I’ll miss you.”
The comment warmed him more than he could say. They remained silent for a few seconds.
“What are you working on?” she asked, nodding at the notebook.
“My
comments for Sam’s memorial.”
She fidgeted with the clasp on her purse before finally opening it, removing a folded piece of paper. “Here’s mine. I thought you should read it, tell me what you think.” She waited while he scanned the page. “I’m hoping Ted will read the class memorials. There are only three. I’m afraid if I tried, I’d start crying.”
Kurt felt the same way. “This is beautiful.”
“You think so?”
“It’s perfect.” His phone rang. Removing it from his back pocket, he saw that it was Dave Tamborsky. “Oh, jeez. I need to take this. Can you stay just a little while longer? This should only take a second.”
“Sure,” she said, sitting down on his chair. “No worries.”
Walking into the kitchen, Kurt said hello.
“I need to give you a heads-up,” came Dave’s voice. “Some idiot sent a note to the police department saying he had information about Sam’s death but couldn’t come forward because he feared for his safety. He listed four names, people who might know something.”
“Like who?”
“You, Jim Hughes, Darius Pollard, and Scott Romilly. Here’s the deal: None of them know squat. The only one who does is you. Just stick to the story and we’re home free, okay? There’s zero way anybody can know what happened unless someone who was there talks. So be careful, man. You hear me?”
“Yeah,” said Kurt.
“Text me when you get the call to come down to the station.”
“Won’t you be doing the interview?”
“Bobby Saltus will.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Looks like Justin Bieber?”
“Oh,” said Kurt, groaning. “Him.”
“Just be your usual, casual, earnest self. You’ll be fine. Peace, man.”
“Peace,” repeated Kurt, feeling like a speeding train was headed straight for him.
“What’s wrong?” asked Emma as Kurt dragged himself back into the dining room.
“Nothing.”
She studied him. “I don’t believe you.”
“Emma, I can’t get into it right now. But don’t you ever feel overwhelmed?”
“Frequently.” She sat for a moment more. “I’m here for you, Kurt.”
She wouldn’t be if she knew the truth.
“If you ever need to talk—”
“Thanks.”
“Well,” she said, rising from the chair, “I’ll catch you later. Oh, don’t forget the reunion meeting on Thursday night.”
“I’ll be there.” If I’m not in jail, he thought grimly.
“If you talk to Ted, remind him about the meeting tonight. He said he’d come. And enjoy your pulled pork sandwiches.”
“Oh, we will.”
As she crossed to the front door, Danny breezed in.
“Hey, Emma.”
She gave him a quick hug on her way out.
Danny dropped his backpack next to the couch. “There’s a guy outside hiding behind a tree on the other side of the street.”
“Really? A cop?”
“No, a guy in a three-piece suit. Should I go chase him away?”
Kurt glanced at the envelope with his son’s name on it. “You got something in the mail today.”
“I did?” He took it and studied the return address. “Cool. I gotta call Tanya.”
“But…” said Kurt, watching his son charge up the stairs to his bedroom. How was he ever going to initiate a conversation with Danny about the elephant in the room—or, as he’d begun to think of it, the herd assembling near the couch.
22
Emma had a couple of hours to kill before leaving to have dinner with Scott. She wasn’t looking forward it and intended to make the evening a short one.
Sitting on the patio with a Coke and her cell phone, she decided to give Verity a call. She kept in touch with her daughter daily, mostly through texts, but also calls and FaceTime.
She tapped in the number.
A male voice answered. “Philip?” said Emma, confused that he’d answered Verity’s phone.
“Emma? Hi. This is a surprise.”
“Why are you answering our daughter’s phone?”
“Huh?” A pause. “Oh. Yeah, it is hers. I thought it was mine. She left it on the kitchen counter.”
That wasn’t like Verity. If there was a way she could have the phone physically implanted into her body, she would. “Where is she?”
“Let me check.”
Emma took a few sips of the soda, looking up at the puffy white clouds scudding by overhead.
“She’s in the pool,” said Philip when he returned to the line. “She usually takes the phone with her. Must have forgot.”
“Okay, well, will you tell her I called?”
“Sure.”
“Hey, since I have your attention, I’m flying home next week. Haven’t bought a ticket yet, but, you know, just an FYI. Your trophy girlfriend should move her clothes out of my closet before then.”
“She has a name, Emma. It’s Sly.”
“Good description.”
“You flying in to San Jose?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Text me the info and I’ll pick you up.”
That was strange. He never offered to pick her up before. “If you decide to come, tell Sly to stay home.”
“Won’t be a problem. I haven’t seen her in a couple of weeks.”
So Verity had been right. He’d probably moved on to a younger version, which meant he was dating someone in high school. “Did she dump you or did you dump her.”
“You’re always so freakin’ binary, Emma. If you have to know, it was mutual.”
Sly had dumped him.
“Have you had enough of the outback?” he asked, his voice dripping sarcasm.
“Now who’s being binary? There’s civilization and there’s the hinterland.”
“Amazing as it may sound, I miss our sparring. Don’t you?”
“No.” Nothing binary there.
“Have you found some handsome hunk in Castle Swamp to replace me?”
“Would you care if I had?”
Silence. “Maybe a little.”
“Look, I’m keeping to our agreement. I’ll play the part of the dutiful wife for a while longer, but only in public.”
“Right. But … don’t you miss me just a little?”
“You’re frustrated because you don’t have a bimbo in your life at the moment, someone who makes you feel young and strong and virile.”
“I am young and strong and virile.”
“You know what they say about bimbos and buses.”
“How did we get here? When did you become so bitter?”
“When I realized you’d been cheating on me with every woman who happens to have a pulse.”
“You made your point, Emma. You can stop.”
“Just tell Verity I called. I’ll try again later.” She ended the call. The idea that her wayward husband might be inching his way toward some kind of rapprochement might have, under other circumstances, made her feel hopeful, but at the moment all she felt was annoyance. He was bored, and when he was bored he liked to play games. She finished her Coke, tapping her nails on the arm of the chair and seething. Castle Swamp, my ass. Screw him.
* * *
Soft jazz was once again playing when she entered Scott’s condo shortly after seven. He took her coat and hung it up in the closet, then reached for her hand and pulled her into his arms. “Just for old time’s sake,” he said, kissing her.
He was a good kisser, so she didn’t object.
“Are you hungry?”
“Famished.”
“I was hoping you’d say you were hungry for something else.”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you have a one-track mind?”
He smiled, released her, and went into the kitchen.
An old farmhouse table ran along the center of the kitchen, one that could comfortably seat six, eight if people snuggled up to
make room for the extra chairs. Tonight, it was set for two. Wine glasses rested on the counter next to a bottle of old vine zinfandel.
“I thought we said no booze.”
“Wine with dinner? That hardly leads to an all-night drunk.”
She wondered if he’d already had something. Alcoholism was in his family DNA. If his mother had died of anything other than a broken heart, it was that. Sam had managed to steer clear of it. She’d never seen him drink more than a couple beers at any one time. He liked weed—but then, back in high school, who didn’t?
Perching on a stool by the counter, she watched him cook. She liked the practiced way he used a knife, cutting up the mushrooms and shallots, chopping the dill. He turned to the refrigerator and removed a bowl of sliced beef tenderloin. As he heated the oil and began to brown the slices, he removed the cover on a pot of water to see if it was boiling. “Almost there,” he said, covering it back up. “How’s everything going with the reunion plans?”
“Good, I think. We have the final meeting on Thursday night. We’ll decorate the VFW hall on Saturday morning. I may not have mentioned this, but I wrote a short piece about Sam. We’ll have a memorial wall, and our class president will read short pieces about the three people who’ve died.”
“I suppose a lot of Sam’s old friends will be there.” Removing the slices of beef, he melted a couple of pats of butter and tossed in the mushrooms and the shallots. As they sautéed, he removed a small container of sour cream from the refrigerator, one of Dijon mustard, and reached over to get the bottle of cognac he’d set on the other end of the counter.
Emma’s stomach began to growl.
“I understand you’re throwing a party at your house after the homecoming game on Friday night. A kegger, yes? And a bonfire on the beach?”
She hadn’t invited him. She should have known he’d hear about it. Not that he seemed upset. He’d merely chucked it into the conversation.