Flashpoint (27 page)

“And the roll of money I had on my dresser,
your
best earrings, and Jester's little pistol.” Ray Ben did not seem to have fond memories.

“A twenty-two?” Sam asked.

“Sure was. Cute little thing.”

Sonora looked at the thick curtains, wishing she could see outside. She pictured Selma aged fifteen, going down that gravel drive for good, all alone in the world. Three years later she had enrolled in Ryker Community College under the name of Selma Yorke. Where had she gotten tuition money? ID? High school transcripts?

“Did she graduate from high school?” Sam asked.

Ray Ben shook his head. “She was smart, but she didn't do nothing with it.”

Sonora would have given a lot to know what had happened in the three years from fifteen to eighteen. Selma had taken college courses in business and accounting for close to two years, leaving in the middle of her last semester, after a dorm caught fire just before Easter vacation. A boy had died in the fire—a dark-haired, brown-eyed boy. Sonora had seen his picture in the yearbook. He had been studying business administration, was on the intramural football team. He'd been on the swim team and was accounted a champion at table tennis. Dead now, eight years, in a fire of suspicious origin.

“Your sister's last name was Yorke?” Sam asked.

“Yes. She married Bernard Yorke. He worked for Ashland Oil. Had a real good job, made good money.”

“More than we ever did,” Ray Ben said. “For all the good it did him. We still wound up raising his daughter.”

And what a fine job you did of it too, Sonora thought.

Sam leaned toward Marta Adams. “What was it that made her leave all of a sudden?”

“We didn't say all of a sudden,” Ray Ben said.

Sam smiled gently. “Middle of the school year. It's cold out, she's fifteen years old. Must have been something.”

Ray Ben shrugged.

Marta Adams looked at the floor. “That was just Selma. She did stuff like that.”

39

The principal's office of Jack's Creek High School was a square box, the walls concrete block, the floor overwaxed linoleum. The yellow pinewood desk was cluttered, and one of the filing cabinets hung open. The chair behind the desk was undoubtedly the most comfortable in the room, but it was empty.

Sonora sat in a straight-back wood chair next to Sam, waiting for the next teacher.

“Get the feeling she wasn't much liked?” Sam was saying.

Sonora nodded. The principal had been new and young, and did not know Selma Yorke, but he had lent them his office and instigated a parade of teachers who did.

Someone knocked at the door.

Sam looked at his watch. “Last one.”

The woman was past retirement age, tall and broad shouldered, with well-rounded hips but no extra weight. She wore a blue print dress that hung loosely to mid-calf, thick cotton socks, and scuffed deck shoes. Reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck. Her hair, gray and white, was thickly plaited and hung down her back.

“I'm Ms. Armstead, the art teacher.”

Sam stood up and shook her hand. “Specialist Delarosa, and this is Specialist Blair.”

Armstead nodded at Sonora and sat down. She inclined her head toward Sonora's recorder. “Are you taping this?”

Sam smiled at her. “We record all our interviews, it's standard procedure.”

Sonora leaned forward. “Ms. Armstead, the principal talked to you already, didn't he, about a student named Selma Yorke?”

“I don't remember all of my students, Detective, and this
was
over eleven years ago. But the fact is, I do remember Selma, very well.”

Sonora and Sam exchanged looks.

“Why very well?” Sam asked.

“I'm an art teacher, and Selma was very talented. Talented and … tortured.”

Sonora settled back in her chair. “Why do you say that—tortured?”

“I'm speaking internally. Let me give you a for instance. We always do a unit on portraiture—one student models and the others sketch. Selma couldn't do it, she could not draw another human being. Sometimes she would sketch a number, instead of a face. It was weird, it made the other children uncomfortable. She was not well liked. She tried, I'll give her that. I saw the child sit there, time after time, pencil in hand. She would break the lead, tear the paper. One particularly bad day she went to the restroom and … and cut off her bangs.” Armstead's voice went breathless. “I went to her. I took her aside, but she was a difficult child to get close to. I will tell you honestly that I did not like her. But I did respect her talent. I haven't had another student like Selma.”

Good, Sonora thought. But Armstead looked bereft.

“Had she done anything like that before? Gotten mad and cut her bangs?” Sam asked.

“When I gave them the self-portrait assignment, Selma couldn't even begin. She got very angry, then came in the next day, bangs chopped right off, the same thing. She was very apathetic. Said she'd take a failing grade for the project, moped around the room while the others were working. Then she came to me and asked if she could draw Danny instead.”

Sonora looked at Sam. “She mentioned a Danny. A couple of times.”

“Tell us about him,” Sam said.

“Daniel Markum: He was older than she was, twenty-two, twenty-three. His brother went to school with Selma, and he worked the family farm and ran a repair shop from the house. Some of the teachers thought he shouldn't have been fooling with a girl as young as Selma, but she was crazy about him.”

Sonora leaned forward in her chair. “Did she do it? Draw him?”

Armstead nodded. “A very credible job; she
was
talented. She did him, but never anyone else.”

“Have you seen her since she left? Heard from her?”

Armstead shook her head. “I did what I could when she was my student, but we were not close. I kept things, some of her work, locked away in my private cabinet. Would you like to see?”

A bell rang just as they left the principal's office, and the hallways flooded with kids in blue jeans. Armstead led them past a thinly populated trophy case, through double doors into 101-A—the art room.

The walls were covered with vibrant masks of papier-mâché, bright greens, yellows, blues. Armstead went past a paint-streaked sink and opened a locked cabinet. Her head disappeared, and Sonora heard rustling noises.

A girl peered in the doorway and looked at Sam. She grinned and left.

“Here we are.” Armstead brought out a fabric case and unzipped it over her desk, took out a canvas, and held it up.

It was thickly painted with throbbing, dark color.

“Selma loved to paint. Disturbing things, hot hard colors as you see here, very abstract. The other students, the other teachers, thought it was just splatters on canvas. Ignorance.” Her voice sounded clipped and irritable. She rummaged in the satchel and pulled out a square of canvas paper. “This is the sketch she did. Danny Markum. The likeness is good.”

Sonora held the sketch by the edges. It had been done in charcoal, by a hurried, almost frantic hand, and something about it disturbed her. The likeness to Keaton Daniels was superficial, but marked. She passed it on to Sam.

He looked up and caught Armstead's eye. “What happened with her and Danny?”

Armstead winced. “She did this just before the … that business at the river.”

“What business at the river?” Sonora asked.

“You don't know?”

Sam shook his head.

Armstead settled slowly into the chair behind the small square desk. “Nobody really knows for sure what happened that night, and there were a lot of versions flying at the time, let me tell you.” She looked out the window, seeming far away. “I told you Danny had a brother, Roger, and he was in Selma's class. Selma was jealous of Roger. She was jealous of anybody that went near Daniel, but Roger in particular.

“The two of them, the brothers, had a habit of going night fishing once a week. It was a sore point with Selma. She had a thing about the river. Anyway, Selma was always agitating to tag along, but Roger usually talked Daniel out of letting her go. This one night, Roger said Selma came anyway, fought with Danny, then stormed off. The story goes that after Selma left, Roger went back to the car for more beer. And when he came back, Danny was gone. Nothing there but his fishing pole and bait, and a half-empty beer can.”

“They doing a lot of drinking?” Sam asked.

“Probably. More than they should, no doubt. They dragged the river and found Daniel's body. The official ruling was that he waded out over his head and drowned. He couldn't swim. Most of the kids around here can't.”

“Then the rumors started,” Sonora said.

Armstead propped her chin on her elbow. “More than just rumors. Roger made a big fuss. He said Selma came back and pushed Danny in. But the sheriff let it go. He said that Selma loved Danny and, after all, she was a little thing, and Danny was a solid six foot. But they … they found one of Selma's earrings in the mud. Selma said she lost it the first time, when they had words.”

Sam looked at Armstead. “The
first
time? She said that?”

Armstead nodded. “I heard her say it, here in class.”

“You tell the sheriff?”

“I … yes.” Armstead traced a finger across the desk. “Roger wouldn't let it be.”

“Is that when she left?” Sonora asked.

“Not exactly. Not long after that, Roger had an accident. He was working late in the family tobacco barn, and a fire started. He didn't make it out.”

Sam spoke gently. “Any ruling on how the fire started?”

Armstead spoke through clenched teeth. “Someone emptied a gas can that was there for the tractor, and then dropped a match. Roger never had a chance.” She looked up at Sam. “Everyone said Selma did it. And
that
was when she left.”

Sonora and Sam exchanged looks.

Armstead took the canvas paper from Sam. “It's a very focused sketch, don't you think?”

Sonora thought obsessed would be a better word. “Ms. Armstead, do you think Selma killed Roger? Do you think she killed Danny?”

Armstead raised a hand in a gesture that looked hopeless and tired. “I wouldn't—I couldn't know. I will tell you that after Danny died … she tried to draw him, but she couldn't.”

40

Sonora looked up at the fifth floor of the Board of Elections building, saw that all windows were lit. She looked at Sam.

“Go home, babe, see your kiddo. How's she doing?”

“They're still running tests, Sonora. Always running tests.” He chewed his lip. “Naw, I better—”

“Go
home
, Sam.”

“Go home, okay. Call if you get something.” He leaned across the seat and kissed her cheek. “You're looking tired, Sonora.”

“I am tired, Sam.”

He watched her walk from the car to the side door—cop watching cop in at cop headquarters. Sonora glanced up at the video camera in the doorway.

The elevator was slow. She rested her head against the wall, thinking she would like it if Sam kissed her more often.

Her phone was ringing as she walked in. She almost passed it by, then thought it might be Stuart or the kids.

“Homicide, Specialist Blair.”

“Hello.” The voice was high and fluting, vaguely familiar against a noisy background. “This is Chita Childers. You know, from Cujo's?”

Sonora's heartbeat kicked in hard and heavy. Tell me she's there, she thought. Tell me she's there.

“He's here.”

Sonora leaned against her desk. “He?”

“Yeah, um, that guy, you know? The one in the picture?”

Sonora felt a chill, then her heart settled. Keaton, of course. “Solid build, dark curly hair?”

“Yeah.” Chita was chewing gum, which over the phone sounded like a wad of plastic in her mouth. Sonora wanted to tell her to spit it out.

“Thank you, Ms. Childers. I appreciate the call.”

“Should I try to keep him here or something?”

“No. He's not a suspect.”

“Just a law-abiding citizen having a drink, huh?”

Sonora pictured Chita Childers behind the bar, hands on her slim hips.

“You might want to know that he's asking after her. That blonde in the jean skirt. He's not a cop, is he?”

“Did he say he was?” Sonora asked.

“No.”

“He's not.”

“So I shouldn't have called, huh?”

“Certainly you should have. I appreciate it.” Women always needed to be reassured, Sonora thought. “If you see the other one—”

“The girl?”

“The girl. Don't approach her, and call me right away.”

“Will do.”

Sonora called home. “Stuart? Don't wait up, I'm going to be late. Can you stay?”

“Bartender went home with the flu twenty minutes ago. I was going to wait till the kids went to bed, then take off. You think they'll be all right, or you want me to stay?”

“They should be all right, just make sure they're all locked up and the alarms are on.”

“No problem. Case breaking?”

“Side issue. Trying to keep John Q. Public out of trouble.”

“Maybe John Q. wants trouble.”

“He's going to get it, he doesn't watch out.”

41

Sonora ran a pick through her hair and reapplied her makeup, smearing Sulky Beige heavily across her lips. She looked in the rearview mirror. Nothing she could do about the hard exhaustion in her face and the newly acquired slump to her shoulders. She straightened her tie when she parked the car, then changed her mind and stuffed the tie in the glove compartment.

Cujo's was winding down—it was late, a weeknight. Sonora wondered if Selma was around, watching him, watching her. She paused in the doorway, and people stared. Something about her always said cop. Keaton sat by himself a few feet from the bar where he could see the front door, the restrooms, and the television. He was close to the end of his beer. His khakis were wrinkled, but his shirt was freshly pressed and he had shaved after five. He looked tired and pale and wonderful.