Tell Me

  “Yes, he can,” Nikki agreed.

  “He lives around here now.”

  Bully for him. “I heard.”

  “How’s that for a fuckin’ coincidence.”

  Not much of one. His cell phone must’ve vibrated because he turned his attention away from Nikki and Blythe, while reaching into the pocket of his jeans. Seconds later he was reading a text.

  Good. She really didn’t want to talk about the former boyfriend who had dumped her years ago. She’d dated him during her rebellious period, when his bad-boy good looks and irrepressible, irreverent attitude had fascinated her. He’d even taken on her father, not letting Judge Ronald Gillette intimidate him. But in the end, he’d found someone else. When his white-hot affair with Cindy had sputtered out, he’d attempted a reconciliation with Nikki, his rekindled interest concurrent with the Grave Robber’s reign of terror. Thankfully, by then Nikki was over him and his dark side. These days she didn’t want to even think about him.

  If Sean hadn’t left her, she might never have met Pierce Reed, fallen in love, and become his fiancée. Oh, crap! She was supposed to call Ariella, the wedding planner.

  “It’s really time for me to go anyway,” she said to Blythe, grabbing her keys from her purse, sliding a business card from her wallet, handing it to her. “If you think of anything else, call.”

  “She won’t,” A.J. said, not bothering to look up from a text he was writing. “Not unless you think of some way to pay her for her trouble, and even then it’s a big maybe.” He managed to glance at his girlfriend as his fingers flew over the tiny keypad. “I say go with the highest bidder, babe.”

  Blythe’s jaw hardened, but before she could say anything, A.J. headed into the kitchen, where he opened the door of the refrigerator and peered inside. “Babe, we got any beer?”

  “I don’t know.” Blythe added under her breath, “He’s really not like this when we’re alone, you know.”

  “Get the hell outta here!!” he yelled sharply and stomped the floor. Like a bolt of greased lightning, the cat streaked from the kitchen.

  “I’m sure,” Nikki said dryly, as she witnessed A.J. hold the fridge door open with his shoulder, grab a carton of orange juice, then open it and start chugging. Yep, a lover if there ever was one. At the door, she said to Blythe, “If he can’t treat you with a little respect in front of other people, then maybe he’s not worth the trouble.” God, she sounded like her own mother, and Blythe shrank back as the hapless cat again vaulted into her lap.

  Geez, Nikki, when are you going to ever learn? Now you may have lost a valuable source! “Sorry,” she apologized. “It’s none of my business. I was out of line.”

  Blythe didn’t respond.

  “I’ll be in touch. Thanks. Good-bye. See ya, J.A.”

  Blythe said, “It’s—”

  “I know.” But Jack Ass is more like it.

  December 10th

  Third Interview

  “Okay, so you don’t like that line of questioning. I get it, but don’t you want to let the world know you’re innocent?”

  I sit on my stool in the prison communication area, hoping beyond hope that I can break through the icy facade of the woman holding the receiver to her ear, but I know it’s pointless.

  The eyes behind the booth’s thick glass reveal nothing, and I think of her as she once was: beautiful, smart, a woman who would make men’s heads turn. A woman who instilled envy in other women, who wished their husbands wouldn’t look in her direction.

  She is still slightly imperious, despite the drab prison garb and the fact that her graying hair hasn’t seen a touch-up or professional cut in months.

  “I can help you. You know that. Your story needs to be told.”

  The face beyond the glass doesn’t so much as flinch. No twitch in the corner of the mouth. No movement in the cold, cold eyes. Could anyone be so outwardly callous and still be innocent?

  “Why not tell the world exactly what happened that night, not the same old story you’ve been repeating since you were incarcerated?” I ask, wanting so desperately to know the truth. “Are you trying to protect yourself? Your reputation?” I lean closer. “Well, it’s too late for that. Now only the truth, and I mean the whole truth, not some whitewashed, lawyer-sanctioned story, will help you.”

  She won’t respond. It’s almost as if she’s a statue as she sits on her stool, locked up for what could be the rest of her life. It’s incomprehensible to me, but there has to be a way to get through to her, so I try a new tack.

  “If you don’t explain what happened, the world will go on thinking that you’re a cold-blooded killer, that you have no heart, none whatsoever. Is that what you want? Is that what your final epitaph will be?”

  Is there just the tiniest dilation of her pupils, a hint that some of what I’m saying is piercing her icy, unbending exterior? Can I reach her?

  With an effort, I keep my own voice even, since I don’t want her to have the slightest inkling of how much this bothers me, that I too am involved personally, that my own guilt is immense. Could I have seen this coming? Prevented it?

  Two stools down, a middle-aged man coughs and next to me, partitioned off, a woman softly weeps, her voice tremulous as she whispers into her phone to the woman seated so close to her, but separated by glass.

  I can’t think of them now, I have to concentrate, to find a way to get to the truth. “What about Amity? Tell me again. Why was she a threat?”

  Is there just the slightest tightening of those lips, a speck of cruelty in the set of her chin, the tiniest spark of evil within her eyes?

  “Is that why Amity died? Because she was young and beautiful and somehow in your way?” I throw the questions out there, thinking about my innocent friend and how she died, how she became the central point in Blondell O’Henry’s sordid tale, but, of course, once again I get no response. The once-beautiful face beyond the glass is for the most part impassive, as if nothing matters, the people who died, the innocent victims, were all just pawns in a master killer’s cruel game.

  “Come on,” I whisper, and she hears the desperation in my voice, sees my frustration, and that must please her because she smiles. I can imagine that same cold, hard grin crossing her face as she pulled the trigger . . .

  CHAPTER 13

  “Well, that was a bust,” Morrisette said, collapsing theatrically into the side chair near Reed’s desk. “So Niall O’Henry found God, the one that tells him it’s okay to play with rattlers and copperheads, then finally recants. Great. Just effin’ great.” She ran a hand through her already spiked hair and twisted her lips in an expression of disgust. “I see why he was confused, but why all the change now? He recently loaded up the whole damn family and moved back to Daddy’s farm. What’s that all about?”

  “Maybe he just couldn’t afford his house.”

  “He left his job to go back to farming. I’m checking to see if that was voluntary, or if he was let go.”

  “Could be the old man needed him.”

  She snorted. “Calvin and June O’Henry, they’re like a Tim Burton version of The Brady Bunch. Yours, mine, and ours, and add in the creep factor. Calvin sues Blondell for the wrongful death of Amity and her unborn child.” She shook her head in disbelief. “What he thought he could get out of Blondell is anyone’s guess, though he did manage to sell his side of the story to one of the tabloids.”

  “We have a copy of that?” Reed asked.

  “Might be in the archives. Anyway, I think he made some money off it, and he kinda basked in the quasi-fame of it all. Even did a round of talk shows. Paraded his kids on one of our local shows. Milked it for all it was worth until no one was interested anymore.” She spit her gum into the trash. “A scumbag of the lowest order. Played the victim himself. It was all such crap. And now, hallelujah, we get to talk to him again.” Her cell phone rang and she checked the screen. “Not important,” she said. “Bart. Since he doesn’t have the kids, I’m not taking it.” She clicked off and slid
the cell into her pocket.

  Reed returned his attention to his computer monitor. On the screen were photographs of the original crime scene in the cabin.

  “Our job is to build a case against Blondell, or rebuild it, this time without Niall’s testimony,” he said.

  “There’s always his sister, Blythe.”

  “Five years old at the time, twenty years later. Not credible.”

  “But she’s in a wheelchair. A real victim. The judge will connect with her.”

  “Not solid enough,” Reed said.

  They both knew Morrisette was grasping at straws, that they’d lost the only credible witness at the scene. Other than Blondell, that is, but she was sticking to her story of the masked intruder. Reed had learned that from her new attorney, Jada Hill. Nonetheless, he still wanted to interview Blondell face-to-face, get a little insight on what made her tick. Though he was as disappointed as everyone else in the department about Niall’s change of testimony, he figured if Blondell was really guilty, as she probably was, then they’d figure out a way to keep her behind bars.

  “You know there are already protests,” Morrisette said. “I saw it on television. People with placards at the governor’s office, demanding Blondell O’Henry stay in prison.”

  “Caught it on the noon news. But there are still some people who believe she’s innocent. They’re out there as well.”

  “A sucker born every minute,” she muttered. “If that’s true, what the hell happened to the masked stranger who came in, guns blazing? And why would she never name the father of the child she lost? Why act so distant and cold in the ER after a drive that took way too long, long enough for Amity to die? Blondell’s guilty. That’s all there is to it.” When she saw he was about to argue and play devil’s advocate, she waved him off. “If Flint Beauregard bribed the kid and somehow coerced him to testify against his mother, that’s a problem. But it doesn’t change the fact that she tried to kill all her kids in cold blood. All for the attention of a jerk-wad of a boyfriend.”

  “Who hasn’t been located.”

  “Do you blame him?” she asked. “Roland Camp is no damned prize, sure, but he thought his nightmare was over.”

  “Guess he was wrong,” Reed said.

  She reached into her pocket, found a pack of antismoking gum, and popped in a fat, little stick. “So where are we?”

  “The lab is working overtime on the blood samples and cigarette butt, anything they can find that might be able to help. They’ve got Blondell’s clothes, which, presumably, still have GSR.”

  “Gunshot residue she claimed came in the struggle for the gun,” Morrisette reminded. “Means nothing.”

  “We’ve still got the remains of the snake.”

  “I sure as hell hope Blondell O’Henry’s incarceration doesn’t hinge on what’s left of a twenty-year-old copperhead.”

  “I’ve got Lyons searching for the new addresses of all the players from back then.” A junior detective, Denisha Lyons was the latest addition to the unit, smart as a whip, twenty-six, and eager to make her mark. “I’ve also got a call in to Acencio in Phoenix. He was out of town, but I spoke with the secretary for the Phoenix Detective Unit, and she said he should be back tomorrow.”

  “Hopefully he can shed some light, since Beauregard’s no longer with us,” she said, chewing thoughtfully. “I’m thinkin’ we’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

  “I know, Mom. I’m late, I get it. I’m on my way! You and Ariella can figure out the problem with the chairs!” Nikki clicked off and tossed her cell into the passenger seat, then swore a blue streak, hitting the gas.

  “Calm down,” she told herself, easing off the accelerator a quarter mile later. There was no reason to drive like a madwoman through the city and hit a bicyclist or pedestrian like that ass who’d nearly hit her earlier—all because the color ivory wouldn’t go with white.

  She shook her head in frustration. She really didn’t care about all the silly details that her mother found so important. All she wanted to do was get married in a simple ceremony, which she should have arranged to have done at the local courthouse. If she’d wanted something more romantic, she would have eloped to Fiji, Barbados, or Timbuktu. She could have gotten married anywhere other than her mother’s church, and she certainly didn’t have to have a reception at her father’s stuffy old country club.

  She’d pointed all that out for the last time in late August when she’d dropped by to talk about the wedding with her mother and found her sister and niece already at the house, Charlene in the kitchen squeezing the last of the tea out of bags she’d had steeping in the sun. Pressing hard against the bags with a wooden spoon, Charlene watched the dark tea swirl into the already-amber water inside a glass Pyrex pitcher as Nikki had breezed in, armed with all kinds of excuses as to why the wedding needed to be scaled back.

  “Hi, Mom,” Nikki had said, tossing her purse onto a bench in the entry hall and pressing a kiss into her mother’s pale cheek, seeing Lily and Phee already at the table.

  “Were your ears burning? We were just talking about you,” Charlene said.

  “That we were,” Lily agreed, grinning that secretive smile Nikki found so irritating.

  “Aunt Nikki!” Phee ran toward her aunt to be swung off her feet. Her dark hair was untamed by pink barrettes that were barely visible in her mop of wild curls. Ophelia was six years old, full of questions and irrepressible energy, and Nikki adored her. If she’d ever thought she might not have children of her own, Phee had changed her mind completely. The little girl was definitely the apple of her eye.

  Lily had never named Phee’s father, preferring to raise her daughter on her own. She loved being anti-establishment, loved butting up against her oh-so-traditional parents. Her hair was nearly long enough that she could sit on it, though she braided it and pinned it in an unruly coil on the nape of her neck.

  Lily always looked so perfectly rumpled that Nikki bet she took pains to achieve that slightly unkempt style. In Nikki’s biased opinion, it was as time-consuming and self-involved as primping for the prom.

  Nikki had played with Phee for a little while, chasing her through the house while her mother poured the tea over sugar and ice in the large glass pitcher her own mother had once used.

  “Okay, sweetheart, I’ve got to talk to Grandma for a while,” she said to her niece.

  “Why don’t you draw something for Aunt Nikki?” Lily had asked, and Phee flew to the table, where crayons and art paper were already waiting.

  “A horse!” Phee proclaimed, her dark eyes sparking. Her skin was olive in tone, her eyes a light brown, nearly gold in color, her hair thick and near-black, unlike anyone else in the Gillette family. Obviously the dominant genes in Phee’s makeup came from her father, but on that topic Lily had remained mum since the day she’d broken the news to her parents that she was going to have a baby, and that the delivery would be without any husband or known boyfriend waiting in the wings.

  Big Ron and Charlene had been scandalized, of course.

  Lily, at least outwardly, hadn’t given a damn.

  When the precious little girl had been born, however, all perceived shame had disappeared into thin air. Of course, there had been questions about the baby’s paternity, but Lily had blithely refused to name the baby’s father and had kept the secret close to her vest.

  After years of prodding, Charlene had finally quit asking questions or speculating or even being ashamed of the circumstances of Phee’s conception, because she adored her slightly precocious granddaughter, as did Nikki. No child was more loved, even if there wasn’t a strong father figure in Phee’s young life.

  That day in August when Nikki had driven to her mother’s to explain about her feelings on the wedding, Phee had finally wound down and was coloring at the table, Lily standing at the island of their mother’s kitchen and rearranging a vase of roses and gardenias while enjoying the argument brewing between Nikki and their mother.

  Charlene Gille
tte’s appearance was frail, as it had been for the past five years, but her hands were steady as she had carefully poured them each a glass of sweet tea. “Lemon?”

  “None for me. Look, Mom, I just don’t want it to be such a big show,” Nikki had said. “I think a wedding should be personal, between two people.”

  “Why even bother?” Lily snagged her glass and stirred it with a long spoon she’d found in a drawer. “It’s just a formality, you know. Nothing more than a piece of paper.”

  “It is not!” Mother had been highly offended, her cheeks coloring, her eyes snapping fire. “I don’t know where you get your obscene ideas! Marriage is an institution, a sacrament!”

  “If you live under Pope Pius the Fifth in the sixteenth century, maybe,” Lily replied lazily. “But come on, Mother, we’re not even Catholic, and the last I checked we’re in the new millennium.”

  “Don’t get so high and mighty with me.” Despite all her health issues, Charlene Gillette still had a lot of spunk. “I’m just saying that a woman needs a man, legally, socially, and morally. Marriage is the answer.”

  “Not for me. Not legally. Nor socially, and especially not morally,” Lily said.

  “I’ve heard all about your marching to a different drum, Lily, but it’s not for everyone, dear.”

  “Nor is marriage.”

  Their mother had carried her tea into the family area and sat in “her” chair, an apricot-hued, tufted wingback with a tiny ottoman that, separated by a small table, was dwarfed by her deceased husband’s recliner. Though Big Ron had been dead for four years, his La-Z-Boy, complete with favorite throw and empty cigar humidor, stood at the ready, as if the judge were expected to burst through the door at any second.

  Charlene had eyed Nikki as she’d joined her in the family room. “We’ve already reserved the country club and spoken with Pastor Mc-Neal. It’s too late to back out now,” she’d said. “Besides it’s expected. You’re Judge Ronald Gillette’s daughter.”