Replacing Gentry (11 page)

Chapter Twelve

C
ome on boys, you’re going to be late,” I hollered up the back stairs. I was anxious to get the boys off to school so I could resume my investigation.

It had been a little over a month since the morning Paul had cornered me in the kitchen. First the cadaver, then Johnny, next that creepy Gentry lookalike, and lastly Paul—four different admonitions but all very similar, and all counseling me to either leave Tennessee or stay out of . . . what? And if I didn’t, I’d lose everything? But what none of them knew was that threatening me would only make me work harder to find the truth. I might have been imagining things, but I had this nagging feeling that my life, and the safety of my family, depended on me getting to the bottom of whatever these people were hiding.

I’d continued my amateur sleuthing starting with an Internet search for “Iphiclesian.” All Google had yielded was a bunch of websites devoted to Iphicles, the mortal brother of Hercules. Dead end. Turning my focus back to Gentry, I’d continued to comb the Internet for clues as to her true character, hoping to unearth a possible explanation as to who that woman from the cemetery could have been. Again, I’d found nothing useful. I was hesitant to involve anyone else, but since my investigation had hit an impasse, I’d called Anna-Beth. She had yet to return my calls.

“Bridger. Bodie. If you’re not out here in two minutes, I’m leaving without you,” I warned, like I would leave them when I had nowhere else to go this early in the morning but to drive them to school. As I waited, I glanced up at the small television screen built into one of the cabinets.

A graph with a few decades worth of numbers showed the ever-increasing gap between the wealthy and poor. “As you can see from these graphics,” the newscaster was saying, “the middle class seems to be shrinking not only in the US but in developed countries around the world.”

The camera zeroed back in on the commentator’s flawless complexion and brightly whitened smile. “And in entertainment news, reality TV star Morgan Adams is showing off her new body after losing a whopping thirty pounds.”

A picture of the star engulfed the screen. Her body, pencil thin, was attached to the bulb of a head that looked too heavy for her thin neck to support. Her bone structure protruded noticeably beneath the milky smoothness of her skin. Take away the makeup and the airbrushing, exchange the Anglo skin for a more ethnic look, and this image would prompt viewers to send money and food in sympathy.

What kind of twisted society esteems what it pities?
I asked myself as I grabbed my purse, stepped out the back door, and onto the porch. The spring heat wave along with the stifling humidity that had settled in over the last few days gathered around me like an oppressive fog.

“Ouch!” I said when something reached up and bit my baby toe. Hopping on one foot, I looked down to see a pair of rose clippers lying open and deserted on the concrete. Picking them up, I pinched them closed, secured the lock, and looked around for Herbert. He was a stickler about his tools and I couldn’t imagine how a pair of his clippers had been left out.

As I returned them to his workshop at the far end of the garage, I noticed that Daniel’s Aston Martin was missing. Since we’d been married he’d never once driven that car downtown. The legislature was on break but he’d mentioned he had a meeting up at the Capitol and had left earlier than usual this morning.
I wonder why he drove—
I’d only begun to consider when I heard the grumblings of the boys.

Toting backpacks and large duffels full of gear over their shoulders, they walked with a hitch in their step under the weight. It was the middle of May and the height of spring. A time of frequent rains, exploding blossoms, grass that grew faster than it could be mowed—and baseball.

Popping the trunk hatch with the button on my key, I stood back while the boys tossed their bags into the back of my car with a thud. When the last bag had settled, I could have sworn my car lowered two inches. Though the hatch closed by remote, Bodie slammed it down with a force that rocked the car.

“Hey, easy now,” I warned, patting my beloved RX. “That’s my baby you’re man-handling.”

“If only Bodie could swing a bat half that hard we’d be a cinch for the championship,” Bridger chided as he headed for the front passenger side.

In response, Bodie gave his brother a generous shove from behind. Bridger stumbled, recovered his footing and whirled around, posed to deflect another blow. “Try that again when my back’s not to you,” he challenged.

“Like that would make a difference,” Bodie shot back. “I can beat you blindfolded and hogtied.”

Bridger made a move toward his brother, and I quickly stepped between them before things got out of hand.

“That’s enough,” I said in a firm voice.

Bodie pushed forward, and I pushed back with a hand to his chest. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. If your dad comes home and I have a fat lip, you’re going to have a lot of explaining to do,” I said, gambling that the mere mention of Daniel would have the boys backing down. They weren’t afraid of Daniel as much as they were desperate for his affection. Disappointing their father would only bring more of his stern silence, an unfortunate rift made larger by falling short of his expectations.

I reaffirmed my hand against his chest and for a fleeting moment, Bodie’s eyes met mine with all the anger, confusion, and raging hormones one would expect from a teenaged boy. In that instant, when Bodie’s eyes softened at the mention of his father, I saw it, the reason why Daniel seemed to turn away when addressing his sons. Gentry. She was there in the shape, color, and even emotion, of their eyes.

“Why does Bridger always get to sit up front?” Bodie offered by way of acquiescence.

I ventured a glance at Bridger who shrugged in return. Bridger was the eldest by five minutes, but did that one distinction entitle him to sole possession of the front seat?

Having no possible response, “Get in the car, we’re late,” rolled off my tongue easier than it should have. A bad mom moment for sure; I might as well have said,
because I said so.

Twenty minutes later, we were barely through the bulk of the traffic on Hillsboro Road when Bodie broke the silence. “Can Bridger and I stay over at Mika’s tonight?”

“It’s a school night,” I said, thinking that was what a mom should say. Wouldn’t she?

The boys generally went to their rooms around ten o’clock every night, but I doubted they went right to sleep, so what difference would staying at a friend’s make, sleep-wise? There were only a few more weeks of school until summer vacation, but if I let them stay at a friend’s on a school night, would that small concession lead to expectations of more? What would they ask for next? A motorcycle? A beer? Tattoo? Body piercing?
Ugh!
How does one know where to draw the line?

“We have a project due in Latin tomorrow,” he added. “Mika’s our partner.”

Why is this the first time I’m hearing about it?
was hanging on the tip of my tongue when Bridger joined the conversation.

“More like his sister is home from college with her slutty roommate,” he said, and I choked on my reprimand as my quandary took on a whole new challenge.

A throaty, depraved voice echoed from the back seat. “
College girls . . 
.”

I couldn’t see Bodie in the review mirror to issue a critical stare, but I made one all the same. “Yeah, I don’t think so,” I said, and the whining began.

“Come on, Marlie,” Bodie said, drawing his words like every syllable was causing him considerable pain. “We
do
have a project, I swear.”

I sailed through the light at 21
st
and Blakemore, grateful that the school and the end of this ride were both in sight.

“I’ll think about it,” I said because I didn’t know what else to say. Maybe I should ask Daniel? But then, he’d been pretty stressed with work and I didn’t want him to think I couldn’t handle things at home. Besides, how was I supposed to concentrate with Bodie’s torrent of shifting emotions? Whoever said boys were easier than girls was clearly disillusioned.

“What does that mean?” Bodie wasn’t giving up. “Like, maybe? Or, ‘no’, and you just don’t want to say it because you’re afraid I’ll keep buggin’ you if you do?”

For the love of Pete!
“It means,” I matched his juvenile tone,
“
‘like maybe’.”

“What if I’m sweet to you all day?” Bodie’s voice turned to sugar.

Nice try.
“I won’t see you for the rest of the day,” I quipped.

“Then, I’ll be sweet for the rest of this ride.”

I pulled up in front of the school. “Ride’s over,” I said as my eyes caught a glimpse of Bodie sliding across the back seat.

Reaching forward, he wrapped his arms around my shoulders, locking his hands together against my collarbones with a squeeze. “See how easy that was,” he gushed. “You’re the best step-momma ever.”

He was playing me, I knew, but neither of the boys had yet to refer to me as their stepmother. Up to this point, I’d simply been, “Miss Marlie” or worse, “the woman our father married.”

I glimpsed his hopeful eyes staring back at me through the review mirror. Softening his brow, he further widened his pitiful eyes. My anger melted like butter in a cast-iron skillet. I should probably let them go but first lay down some specific conditions. But what would such conditions exist of?

I needed time to think. I patted his interlocked fingers. “I’ll let you know this afternoon.”

With the boys deposited at school, I eased the RX back into the morning traffic, heading for home. It was true, what everyone said about motherhood being a rollercoaster ride. One minute the boys were inches away from killing each other, and then—
poof!
—I’m “the best step-momma ever.” If I hadn’t had a lunch date with Cooper and her Junior League cronies to dread, I could have anticipated that today would be a pretty good day.

I’d just rejoined the throngs of morning commuters when I noticed an Aston Martin two cars ahead at the red light. What were the chances it could be Daniel? He’d come in late last night, which wasn’t unusual except that, for the first time since our wedding, he hadn’t wakened me—we were still newlyweds, after all.

I strained to see over the traffic between us, thinking that if it was Daniel, maybe we could grab a quick breakfast. Since the wedding, outside of our bedroom, we hadn’t had much time to really connect as a married couple. I could ask him what he thought about the boys staying over at friend’s on a school night; and I might even glean a few clues regarding the dead ends I’d been hitting with my investigation.

Three good reasons for me to flag him down.

Following him through the light, I dialed his cell. It rang a few times then went to voicemail. Huh? I passed the cars between us and pulled up behind him just as the road curved to the right, heading into the morning sun, and stopped behind him at a crosswalk. The direct light highlighted the silhouette of his head and shoulders through the tint of his rear window. It was, in fact, Daniel.

I pushed redial and watched as his shadow lifted the phone from the center console, consulted the display, and then tossed it to the passenger seat. My good mood soured, settling like spoiled milk in my gut.

Daniel took advantage of the break in pedestrians, moved through the crosswalk, and drove on. As his car ambled up the narrow winding street, more Vanderbilt students with backpacks and professionals in business attire flooded into the crosswalk, forming a human barrier between his car and mine. The hubbub slowed to a solemn procession and his car slipped from view.

One impatient blast from the horn of the car behind me sent me flying out of my seat. Refocusing on the road ahead, I saw that there was another lull in pedestrians. “Okay, okay.” I moved my trembling foot from the brake to the gas and sent my car forward.

I hadn’t intended to follow him. To be honest, I wasn’t thinking about where I was heading. But then, a few blocks later, I caught up to the Aston Martin. The left blinker was flashing, indicating Daniel’s intent to take the ramp to Highway 40. Across the highway, Daniel would be at the Capitol, which was where he should have been going, but this route would lead him north, looping around the city instead.

That sour feeling in my gut turned over again, bubbling up to my chest. The RX seemed to take on a mind of its own as my left blinker switched on and I followed him around the curve. My heart jack-hammered against my ribs, my palms slipped on the steering wheel. Was I really spying on my husband, following him like some suspicious, insecure housewife? When he’d first asked me to marry him, he promised,
I’ll never lie to you
. So the fact that he had declined my call meant he was going somewhere he didn’t want to lie to me about.

Merging onto Briley Parkway, I followed him farther north and out of the city while keeping a safe distance in the diminishing traffic. At least, I
thought
it was a safe distance. What did I know about tailing someone besides what I’d seen in movies? I rehearsed possible excuses for why I was out in the middle of nowhere at eight in the morning. Coincidentally, on the very same unexpected road
he
was traveling.

I got lost, saw your car, and tried to flag you down when you didn’t answer my call,
I could say.
Why didn’t you answer my call, by the way?

No, I have a GPS and could have used it to get home.

I was taking a morning drive to . . . Timbuktu. Fancy meeting you here.
Might sound better.
Why
are
you here, by the way?

Stupid. He would see right through it. I had two options. Don’t get caught or admit I’d been following him. Unless this journey ended at a seedy brothel, option one was my best chance of not appearing psychotically obsessed. To be safe, I eased up on the gas, putting a few more car lengths between us.

Ten minutes later, at the exit for Ashland City, he took the ramp and turned right. A few miles down the deserted road, he slowed onto the gravel shoulder, turned right onto a dirt road, and drove through a grouping of trees. I pulled into the gravel and stopped, watching as he disappeared behind a cloud of dust. What to do now? I had no way of knowing what was beyond those trees, or if I could follow without being detected.

“What is this place?” I thought aloud as my gaze scanned a terrain of wild shrubs and trees. Then, on the other side of the dirt road, I spied a granite boulder.

Cut into the smooth, shiny part of the stone were the words, Hills of Calvary Cemetery.