Dear Daughter (23 page)

“But I just said—”

“Objection, your honor. Immaterial.” I turned to the mirror, examined my reflection, and reached into the neckline of my dress to adjust my boobs.

“Jane,” she said.

I fluffed my hair. “What.”

“Look at me.”

There was something in her voice that made me obey. She was wearing pearlescent white silk that lit her skin like moonlight, transmuting her from granite into marble. Her eyes, limned by three coats of Chanel Inimitable Waterproof, were a deceptively placid blue, slicked shiny by the benzos I knew she took most nights. I fingered the hem of my skirt and took a small step back.

“One day you’ll have a daughter—”

“Not if I can help it.”

“One day you’ll have a daughter,” she said again, mildly, as if she were a waiter telling me the daily specials, “and when you do, then you’ll understand what you really are.”

“Let me guess—a slut? A brat? A crushing disappointment?”

“No.” She reached forward and tipped up my chin. “A missed opportunity.”

Silly me, I’d always thought she’d just meant I wasn’t living up to my potential. But maybe what she really regretted was that I was even living to begin with.

I turned the key in the ignition and listened to the indifferent hum of the economy rental. It wasn’t too late—I could still let
this
go. It would take me a little more than twelve hours to drive to the duplex in Wisconsin. A key was waiting for me there, hidden under a doormat that read “Go Away!”—Noah’s idea of a joke. The duplex had two bathrooms, Noah had told me. That meant I’d have my pick of
two
places to sleep. A 100 percent improvement on what I had now.

But I might never have another chance to find out who my real father was.

I wondered if he’d look at me the same way my mother had.

I drove east on I-90 as far as the Badlands before changing my mind and turning back toward Ardelle.

Idiot
.

B
EVERLY
H
ILLS
P
OLICE
D
EPARTMENT

I
NCIDENT
N
O. 2938-A

N
AME OF
P
ERSON
G
IVING
S
TATEMENT

Officer Michael Balmores

O
N
J
ULY 15TH, 2003,
O
FFICER
G
REGORY
T
UCKER AND
I
RESPONDED TO A REPORT OF A POSSIBLE HOMICIDE AT THE HOME OF
M
ARION
E
LSINGER ON
L
AUREL
W
AY
. W
HEN
I
ARRIVED
I
WAS MET BY
J
ANE
J
ENKINS
,
WHO HAD CALLED IN THE REPORT
. A
LTHOUGH
J
ENKINS SEEMED TO BE CALM AND COLLECTED, HER CLOTHES, HANDS, AND FACE WERE COVERED WITH BLOOD.

J
ENKINS ESCORTED ME TO AN UPSTAIRS BEDROOM, WHERE
I
FOUND A WOMAN OF APPROXIMATELY MIDDLE AGE LYING ON THE FLOOR.
S
HE HAD BLED HEAVILY AND HAD BEEN INFLICTED WITH WHAT APPEARED TO BE GUNSHOT WOUNDS.
I
T WAS CLEAR THE VICTIM WAS DECEASED.
I
SECURED THE CRIME SCENE AND ALERTED THE CORONER.

W
HEN
O
FFICER
T
UCKER AND
I
BEGAN TO ASK
J
ENKINS ABOUT THE CIRCUMSTANCES IN WHICH SHE HAD FOUND THE BODY, SHE WAS UNABLE TO PROVIDE ANY DETAILS.
A
S WE CONTINUED TO ASK, SHE GREW INCREASINGLY AGITATED.
I
ASKED
J
ENKINS TO CALM DOWN, AND AT THAT POINT SHE BECAME PHYSICALLY AGGRESSIVE.
S
HE ATTEMPTED TO ATTACK ME, AND
O
FFICER
T
UCKER WAS FORCED TO RESTRAIN HER.
A
S SOON AS ADDITIONAL SUPPORT ARRIVED,
O
FFICER
T
UCKER ESCORTED HER TO THE STATION FOR FURTHER QUESTIONING.

CHAPTER TWENTY

When I got back to Ardelle, I stopped first at the inn to drop off Peter’s keys.

Rue was sitting at reception, reading, holding herself so still I knew she had to be feeling the night before. Apparently Leo hadn’t swiped the last of her moonshine.

I dropped the keys on the desk just to see her flinch. “I was wondering if you could return these to Mr. Strickland for me,” I said. She looked up and blinked once, the motion exaggerated and slow, as if her eyelids were speaking English and I was a foreign tourist. Then she returned to her book.

“Still reading
Jane Eyre
?”

“Your powers of observation astound and amaze.”

“Wait a second—” My hand shot out and grabbed for the book, but Rue snatched it away. “Can I see that for a second?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I have to finish it by tonight.”

The paperback book had a pristine, unbroken spine—one of a matched set. And just yesterday I’d seen the others. That was my mother’s book.

Had she written anything in it?

“Can I borrow it when you’re done?” I asked.

She pressed it to her chest. “I’ve promised it to my friend.”

Behind me the front door jangled open. A pack of guests—presumably returned from whatever festival activity I’d skipped that morning—stomped away the cold, and Cora issued a jaunty invitation to afternoon tea. I didn’t take my eyes off Rue.

“Are you reading that for school?” I asked.

“I’m not in school. The one here closed, and Mom doesn’t want me driving all the way to Custer. So I’m getting my GED. It’s faster, anyway.”

Well, that answered that. Rue was lying—the GED didn’t test on specific works of literature. Or at least it hadn’t when I’d taken it.

I looked behind me. The guests were filtering into the salon, and Cora was rattling off a list of oolongs and rooibos and darjeelings. In a matter of moments she’d see me, and then I’d be stuck drinking more fucking tea and making more useless small talk. I’d have to come back to deal with Rue later.

I inched away from the desk, away from Rue’s hungover smirk, hesitating just once more before ducking down the hall, through the kitchen, and out the back door.

It was time to return Peter’s favor.

•   •   •

The police station was on the corner of Tesmond and Commercial, a hatbox of a building framed by two cast-iron street lamps that were on even at two in the afternoon. I paused at the foot of the stairs and tipped my face up to the sun like I was in the last shot of an antidepressant commercial. The sun wasn’t particularly warm, though, and the breeze sweeping down from the pass smelled of rotting pumpkins. I dragged myself inside.

The station consisted of a single room, which was square and high-ceilinged and painted a mucilaginous shade that made my eyes itch. There were two desks—one empty, one occupied by an affable-looking man in uniform—a wall of filing cabinets, and a jail cell with a stainless-steel toilet and a cot. Two booted feet rested on the bed frame.

I stood in front of the officer on duty until he roused himself from his paperwork. He had baby-plump cheeks and eyes so big his face projected perpetual delight, as if he were always opening a birthday present and finding exactly what he wanted inside. His nameplate read “
Officer Billy
.”

He smiled. “Can I help you?”

“Is Leo in?”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am, he’s gone for the day. Can I take a message?”

I clasped my hands in front of me and rocked forward on my toes. “Well, I’m not sure if he mentioned this, but Leo said I could have access to some of the old records. For research.” I hunched my back and shoulders a bit like I imagined a researcher would.

“Chief La Plante told you this?”

“He did.” Then, before he could keep thinking about it: “I don’t need to see everything you have, of course—just whatever you have from the early eighties or thereabouts.”

Before Billy could answer, the cot in the cell let out the eerie extenuated creak of a closet door that seems to be opening on its own; both Billy and I turned to look. The man inside sat up, and his deep-set eyes locked on mine. It was Walt Freeman. Master criminal. Pothead.
Shady
.

“You,” he said.

Billy looked between us. “You two know each other?” he asked.

“Of course not,” I managed.

Walt shook his head. “I don’t have time for this.” He leaned forward and threaded his arms through the bars, tapping his middle fingers against his thumbs. “Billy, dude, you’ve got to let me get online.”

“Walt, if you want better Internet access, maybe you should stop getting thrown in jail.”

“Or Leo could stop being such a cock.”

I let their stupid squabble fade away. So Leo had arrested Walt after all. While I’m the first person to acknowledge my rampant narcissism, I knew it wasn’t remotely unfounded to suspect that this had everything to do with me. When I’d met them on the side of the road, arresting Walt seemed to be the last thing on Leo’s mind—but Walt was the only thing I had on Leo, and now that I’d come to town, he was a liability. What was Leo planning next? Was he going to arrest me? Blackmail me? Either way, I was in trouble.

“I’ve got things to be doing,” Walt was saying.

“Yeah?” Billy said. “There a Dragon Ball Z marathon on or something?”

“If you’re not gonna bail me out, at least let me use your ethernet cable.”

Billy’s mouth dropped open. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Come on. Sharing is caring, little bro.”

Walt did a sad-eye-pouty-lip sort of thing. Like a lost puppy. Who had rabies. “Pretty please?”

Billy threw up his hands. “Fine. Just don’t do anything illegal, okay? If you do, I’m telling Mom, and then she’ll never change her mind about posting bail.”

“Sure, whatever you say.” Walt turned and bent over, digging under his cot. When he stood up he had a heavy black laptop in his hands. He slid open the door and planted himself at the desk next to Billy’s.

I gave Billy an incredulous look. “You don’t lock the door?”

Billy flushed. “Chief La Plante has the only keys to the cell. But don’t worry, he’s not dangerous or anything. Except to me, maybe.”

“He’s your brother?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Is everyone in this town related?”

“Seems that way, sometimes. Mom always says it’s like a Thanksgiving dinner that never ends. Now, what were you saying you needed?”

I glanced at Walt. He didn’t seem to be paying attention. “Old case files and arrest records,” I said.

“I’d love to help you,” Billy said, “but I wouldn’t feel comfortable letting you go through our stuff without talking to Chief La Plante first.”

I batted my eyelashes before remembering they were hidden under a gross greasy fringe. “It’s just that I’m kind of working under a deadline,” I said.

“I could give Leo a call—”

“No! I mean . . . please don’t go to any trouble on my account. I’m sure I can track him down myself.”

“That’s probably your best bet. Doubt he’d pick up my call anyway.”

“Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“Depends if Mrs. Kanty got ahold of him. If she did, he’ll be at the VFW, helping her set up for tonight’s event. If not, he’ll be at the Coyote Hole.”

“That’s very helpful.” (Which it was—at least now I knew how to avoid him.)

“But if you can’t find him,” Billy continued, “Kelley has all those old papers over at her place—they used to publish the police blotter every week. On Mondays, I think. Maybe that would help? That’s what I told the last guy who came in here—uh, Paul or Patrick or—”

“Peter?”

“Yeah, that’s right. He was just here a couple hours ago. Maybe you can catch him.”

•   •   •

“You just missed him,” Kelley said when I walked through her door.

“Peter?”

“Leo.”

I tripped over the sill and caught myself on a rack of L’il Nugget onesies.

“He was looking for you, too,” she added slyly.

“This isn’t Mystery Date,” I muttered.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

God, Kelley’s smiles were such a pain in the ass. I scowled, which just made her smile more.

“Was Peter in here too?” I asked.

“He came to look through the newspapers again.” She led me back to the archives and pointed to the neat row of labeled plastic bins that had replaced the crumbling boxes. “He tidied up, too.”

“What was he looking for, do you know?”

Kelley shook her head. “No clue. Whatever it was, though, he seemed pleased.”

But a bank robbery in Custer wouldn’t have been in the Ardelle police blotter. Had Peter been looking for something else? About Tessa, maybe?

I knelt down and opened the bin marked
1982–1984
. I began to pull out the Monday papers.

Kelley sat down on the couch and propped her feet on the table, ankles crossed. “You know, I’ve never been much interested in anything after the turn of the century, but the way Cora keeps telling me
not
to write anything about the twentieth century makes me think I should totally write about the twentieth century.”

I found the first police blotter.

February 26, 1982

10:37 pm Caller on Tesmond Road reported that someone had rung doorbell but had not been there when the door was answered.