Spirit Seeker (7 page)

Sara didn’t ask a lot of questions, and she didn’t argue with me. She just said, “Okay, so tell me. What can I do to help you?”

“I need to talk,” I said. Mom was watching, and it made me uncomfortable, so I turned my back. “Later,” I told her. “Okay?”

“Sure,” Sara said. “Just give me a call.”

I hung up and turned to Mom. “May I use your car—just for a little while?”

“Of course,” Mom said.

She didn’t ask where I was going. I realized that she took it for granted I wanted to see Sara. If I told her I was going to Cody …? No. I couldn’t take the chance. I fought back a pang of guilt, snatched up Mom’s extra car keys, and dashed out the door.

F
rank Baker’s house wasn’t hard to find. It was in a quiet subdivision, which was bracketed by two sets of large, busy shopping centers. Light brick, with a beige-painted trim, the house blended in with its neighbors, probably all built at the same time with nearly identical floor plans. Same trees in front, same flower beds, same thick carpets of St. Augustine grass—each arranged just differently enough to stamp a slight individual touch.

I was startled when Mr. Baker answered the door. I expected to see an older man, maybe dark haired, maybe balding; but Frank Baker looked as though he was in his mid-thirties. His blond hair had been bleached by the sun, and his tan was dusted with a light burn that gave it a reddish glow. Tall and good-looking, he wore a T-shirt and shorts, and was barefoot.

“So you’re Holly,” he said and smiled warmly. “Cody has good taste.”

Embarrassed, and puzzled because I expected soft words and an expression of mourning, I stammered, “I—I’m t-terribly sorry about your sister and … and …”

My face must have mirrored my thoughts. My voice trailed away like a worn-out tape, but Mr. Baker nodded as though I’d said exactly the right thing and took my arm.

“Nelda’s and Sam’s deaths are a terrible tragedy. An unbelievable tragedy,” he said. “But life has to go on. It’s Cody’s life that’s important now, and it wouldn’t help him a bit if I let go with all my own hurt and anger. Cody’s my nephew. I love him, and I’ve got to stay strong for him.”

Mr. Baker led me into the house as he added, “Cody’s waiting for you in the den. I’m glad you could come. You can imagine how he’s feeling.”

The wood-paneled den was dimly lit, its drapes across the sliding glass doors closed to keep out the hot sunlight. Cody, who was seated on a low sofa, raised his head from his hands. “Holly,” he said. “You came.”

He unfolded himself from the sofa like an arthritic old man, and, as he walked toward me, I cringed at the pain in his eyes.

“I told you I’d come.” Impulsively I stepped forward and hugged him, heedless of Mr. Baker, who dropped into a nearby easy chair.

“How about a soft drink, Holly? Or orange juice? I’ve got a box of assorted English cookies, if you’d like.”

“No thank you, Mr. Baker,” I said, wishing he would go away.

“Call me Frank,” he told me and flashed his brilliant smile again.

“I’d like some orange juice,” Cody said.

“And something to eat, I hope,” Frank said.

“No. I’m not hungry. I’m thirsty. I keep getting so thirsty.”

I followed Cody to the kitchen, which was deadly dull in beige tile, beige counters, beige-painted cabinets—even beige curtains at the window. The only relief to this sea of blandness was a cluttered array of cooking tools hanging on the wall every which way, from ladles, spoons, a knife set, and sieves, to those copper-bottom pans that have to be polished. It looked as though Frank liked to cook, but his taste in decorating would give anyone a headache.

I didn’t like being in this room. Something about it—maybe all that disordered mess on the walls—made me uncomfortable, so I was glad when Cody finished pouring his glass of orange juice, then led me back to the den and to the sofa.
He clutched my hand so tightly I felt nervous tremors tingle from his body into mine. “The police think I did it.” Cody’s voice was low.

“No they don’t,” I lied. “Detectives keep their minds open to all possibilities. They look for the truth.”

Cody didn’t answer, and Frank raised one eyebrow.

“Okay,” I said. “I know it sounds nerdy, but that’s what my dad’s told me over and over. That’s what he does.”

“In any case,” Frank said, “the three of us know that Cody didn’t commit the murders, so even though the circumstantial evidence looks bad, we’ll beat it.”

“There’s not that much evidence against Cody, is there?” I could hear the hope in my voice. “Just because he came back to the house … well, he had a good reason. He’d forgotten the key to the lake house.”

“I wish I’d told them about it in the first place,” Cody mumbled. “That and the argument.” His eyes scrunched up in torment. “I wish I’d had enough sense to have told them, myself, about the argument.”

I
twisted to face Cody. “What argument?”

Frank leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He winced as he said, “Look, Cody, before we were interrogated, we’d said to each other, ‘Tell the truth, and we’ll have nothing to worry about.’ Right? So how’d I know that you hadn’t told the detectives about the argument with your parents? When they asked me what I knew about your relationship, I told them what Sam and Nelda told me.”

I grew so cold and so scared it was hard to speak. “Tell me about the argument,” I said to Cody.

Cody’s shoulders hunched around his ears as though he could hide inside them, like a turtle in his shell. When he didn’t answer immediately, Frank said, “It wasn’t anything special. It was the
kind of argument about money kids often have with their parents.”

“Money?” I asked. Cody’s parents seemed to have plenty of money. I’d thought Cody had everything he needed or wanted.

When Cody didn’t say anything, Frank filled me in. “Cody wanted money for a new car.”

Cody suddenly lifted his head. “Every cent I get goes into repairs on the Thunderbird. It has over one hundred thousand miles on it, and it’s going to need major work. I talked to Mom and Dad about it a dozen times, but I couldn’t get through to them.”

“That doesn’t sound like an argument to me,” I said. “It sounds like nothing more than a discussion.”

“It was … sort of,” Cody said, “until Friday night. I got kind of upset. Kind of … well, mad that they wouldn’t listen. I told them I’d work. I’d pay them back.”

Frank sighed. “I wish that was all you told them. I wish you hadn’t come back and yelled at them that you’d show them, that you’d get the money somewhere, somehow.”

“I didn’t mean it the way it sounds. I was angry. I just said things without thinking. Dad wouldn’t let go. He wouldn’t end the argument.”

“Did you witness the argument?” I asked Frank. I sounded so much like an investigator that I blushed. Well, maybe I had the right to be an investigator. I’d told Dad I’d prove that Cody was innocent, and I had to start somewhere.

“No,” he said. “I dropped by for a few minutes
after Cody had just left, a few minutes after seven-thirty. Both Sam and Nelda were so steamed by the argument with Cody that they sounded off and told me all about it. They lived well, but that was mostly because of Nelda’s half of the inheritance after our mother died. Sam is … was always pretty tight with a dollar and wasn’t about to shell out for a new car for Cody when he thought the old car had a couple of good years left in it.”

Tears rolled down Cody’s cheeks, and his shoulders heaved as he gave a deep, shuddering sob. “I wish I’d never said anything about a car!” he cried and beat a fist against the arm of the sofa. “It’s all so stupid!”

“That’s why you were upset and couldn’t sleep?” I asked.

“What are we talking about here?” Frank asked.

“Why the police couldn’t find Cody at the lake house. Cody said he took a sleeping bag out on the deck to sleep, but he had a lot on his mind and couldn’t sleep, so he drove around the lake and finally went to sleep in his car in the woods.”

Frank looked kind of sick. “Oh, Cody, Cody,” he said and slowly shook his head.

“I didn’t know there’d be any problem with what I was doing,” Cody mumbled. “I was upset, and I was angry. I just didn’t know.”

I moved to put my arms around Cody, but Frank got to his feet and said, “Holly, I think what Cody needs most right now is some food and some rest.”

Cody didn’t answer, so I stood up too. “And a lawyer,” I said. “Did you get him a lawyer?”

A smile briefly touched Frank’s lips. “You sound like your father. That’s just what he asked. And the answer is, yes. Before Cody was questioned, I hired a criminal defense attorney who sat in on the session. Paul Ormond and I work out together. He handles lots of defense cases, and he’s got a good reputation. Okay?”

I nodded and tried to smile in return. “Now if the police can just find the man who Mr. Arlington saw jumping the back fences …”

“What man? Who did Mr. Arlington see?” Cody slowly got to his feet, staring at me intently.

“Oh,” I said. “You don’t remember that I told you. You were still pretty much out of it.”

“Tell me again, Holly,” Cody said.

“Sure.” I took a long breath, speaking quickly. “Mr. Arlington told Dad and the reporters that he saw a tall, muscular guy jump the back fences. He apparently came from the Garnetts’ yard into his, then climbed over the back fence into the yard of the people who live behind Mr. Arlington. He was probably headed for a car parked on the next street. The women who live in the house behind Mr. Arlington’s said their dog barked at him.”

Frank looked as surprised as Cody. “The police didn’t tell us that.”

“They probably wouldn’t,” I said. “They wouldn’t have any reason to.”

“It would have made us feel a lot better,” Cody said. He stood a little taller. “Could Mr. Arlington identify the man he saw?”

“No. He said it was too dark to make out clothing or features.”

They both looked so disappointed I quickly added, “Dad said they were checking it out. They’ll hunt for fingerprints or threads that might have caught on the boards, or footprints in the area—there’s a lot of evidence that most people wouldn’t even think about that detectives look for. And they’ll talk to people on that street to see if anyone saw the guy.”

Frank clapped Cody on the shoulder. “There you go,” he said. “We’ve got things working for us that we didn’t even know about. Things are looking up, Cody.”

“Yeah,” Cody said and, for the first time, seemed more like the strong, confident Cody I knew. “Come on, Holly. I’ll walk you to your car.”

“Come back soon, Holly,” Frank said, “and keep us posted about what’s going on. Okay?”

“I will,” I said, but I waited until Cody and I were out of Frank’s hearing before I said, “I’m going to prove that you’re innocent.”

Cody looked down and smiled at me teasingly. “You? All by yourself?”

“No. You’re going to help me.”

Cody gave me a quick hug. “You don’t know what a relief it is to find out that Mr. Arlington saw the murderer. I hope that it doesn’t take the police very long to find out who he is and catch him.”

“They don’t have much to go on, so we may have to help.”

“How?”

“I wish I knew,” I said. “But don’t worry. We’ll do it.”

His smile vanished as he said, “I feel awful about that argument with my parents. And I’m sorry you had to know about it. Sometimes it was hard to talk with my parents. Sometimes I blew it. Dad had a temper. I do too. You probably don’t understand what that’s like—”

“Sometimes I yell too,” I interrupted. “I don’t like it when I do, but Dad can make me so mad …” I broke off and shrugged. “Hey, everybody sounds off once in a while.”

Cody didn’t answer, so I said, “Why don’t you do what your uncle told you to do—eat something and get some sleep? We’ll get past all this. I promise.”

“I’ll never get over it, Holly,” Cody said. “Not ever.”

I
live in Bellaire, a nice community surrounded by the city of Houston. And it’s got a good high school—Bellaire High—which is where Cody and I met. The easiest way for me to get from Frank Baker’s suburb, in what’s called the Memorial area, was to take I-10 to the 610 loop, but I surprised myself by heading off the loop just past the Galleria area onto the Southwest Freeway, heading north, instead of following the loop into Bellaire. I knew I should go home and return Sara’s call but, instead, I swung off the freeway at the Kirby exit and drove down to the street on which the Garnetts lived.

The street was shaded with large, overhanging trees, and carefully designed and tended front gardens splashed the edges of the thick lawns with wild late summer color. At this—the warmest part of the day—everyone was indoors. I pulled up in front of the Garnetts’ house and parked.

The yellow crime tape had been removed, and the house faced its neighbors with a gracious and elegant neatness, so carefully guarding its secrets that no one could guess at the horror that had taken place inside.

But someone who lived on the block might not be so secretive. Someone might have seen the man Mr. Arlington had seen. Someone might know someone who could help Cody. I knew that Dad and Bill would contact all the neighbors, if they hadn’t already; but still there might be something one of the neighbors would think of later. It wouldn’t hurt to ask.

There was no point in talking to Mr. Arlington, so I began with the large house on the other side of the Garnetts’. A well-dressed, middle-aged man opened the door.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Holly Campbell.”

“Sorry, Holly,” he said as he fished out his wallet, removed a dollar, and thrust it at me. “I haven’t got time for a raffle-ticket spiel. Put this toward your school fund or whatever you’re collecting for.”

“I’m not collecting money for anything,” I said and waved the dollar away. “I’m investigating a murder.”

For an instant his mouth fell open. Then he
started to chuckle. “Houston’s youngest under-cover cop?”

“I’m Cody Garnett’s friend,” I said. “Cody and I are trying to find out who killed his parents.”

He raised an eyebrow. “From what I read in the newspaper, Cody could use an attorney more than an investigator. I assume he has one?”