Spirit Seeker (9 page)

I left it at that. The amber, and the strange things Glenda had said about its powers, seemed too bizarre to talk about with anyone, even Sara.

“Why don’t you ask your dad to share his information with you?”

“You mean like the medical examiner’s report and the crime lab report?”

She nodded.

I smiled and asked, “How do you know about all that stuff?”

“I watch detective shows on TV.” Sara grinned.

“I wonder if Dad really would answer my questions,” I mused.

“Try it,” Sara answered. “It won’t hurt to ask him.”

S
aturday. 7:10
P.M.
Mom and I had dinner alone. Dad didn’t show up until around eleven. I remember when Mom used to wait up for him. She’d make him something to eat and sit with him, sometimes just listening as he sounded off about the problems he was running into, letting him get some of the pressures of his job off his chest.

But lately Mom would trot upstairs to bed, pretending to sleep, by the time Dad got home.

This time she got up from her chair before the ten o’clock news began and gathered up her papers.

“Mom,” I said, “why don’t you wait awhile? Dad will be home soon.”

“Soon?” she asked, her voice as puckered as if she’d just sucked lemons. “Eleven-thirty? Midnight?” I guess she heard the sharpness in her words, because she said, “Sorry, Holly. I’m just … just tired.”

“You used to wait up for him.”

“Things used to be different.”

“I wish they were the way they used to be.”

Mom sighed. “It takes two to make a marriage work.”

“Maybe if you …”

“That’s enough,” Mom said firmly. “I don’t need a lecture. Please tend to your own business.”

Didn’t she understand? It
was
my business. I was a part of their marriage.

A flash of car headlights swept against the closed drapes at the den window. Mom gave a start, then without a word left the room and went up the stairs.

Dad came in through the kitchen door. I met him in the kitchen and said, “Hi, Dad. Can I make you a sandwich? Or heat some leftover meat loaf and string beans?”

His glance slipped to the door to the den before it rested on me.

“Mom’s gone to bed,” I said, “but I’ll be glad to cook for you.”

“Thanks,” Dad said. “How about a meat loaf sandwich? With pickle relish?”

“Sure.”

While he hung up his coat and shoulder holster and washed his hands, I put together a dad-size sandwich and poured him a glass of milk.

As he sat at the table and bit into his sandwich, I dropped into the chair opposite his.

“Good sandwich,” he managed.

“Dad, could you talk to me?” I asked.

He took another bite and chewed it hungrily before he answered. “About what?”

“About what happened to Cody’s parents.”

He frowned. “Holly, you know I can’t discuss the case with you.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you wouldn’t tell a reporter,” I said. “I’m not asking you to give away secrets. Please, Dad? We’ll share information.”

“What kind of information have you got?”

What did I have? Nothing. But I couldn’t give up. I supposed I could tell Dad about Glenda and her clairvoyant vision. If police used psychics on occasion, they might listen to a clairvoyant too.
Not Dad
, I thought, but I said, “You tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you what I find out. If I ask a question that you can answer, fine, but if you can’t or don’t want to, just say, ‘No comment.’ ”

Dad smiled. “ ‘No comment’? I’m not a politician.”

“Please?”

He demolished half the sandwich, took a long
swig of milk, then said, “Okay. What’s your question?”

I rested my arms on the table and leaned forward eagerly. “The man Mr. Arlington saw. Have you found out anything about him? Did you get fingerprints? Anything?”

Dad sighed. He had picked up the other half of his sandwich, but he laid it down. As he looked at me, I could see sorrow well up in his eyes.

“You can’t count much on so-called eyewitnesses like Ronald Arlington,” Dad said.

“But he saw …”

“He
said
he saw. He added that later, not when he was first questioned.”

“You’re not checking out his story? I don’t believe it!”

“Calm down, Holly. You said you wanted to
talk
, not argue.”

I fought back my rush of anger. “Sorry,” I mumbled.

“We did check out Arlington’s story. We have fluorescent powder, special lights, and lenses that can pick up fingerprints on nearly everything,” Dad said. “Luis Martinez spent hours going over the grass, the fence, every square inch of the area in which the alleged perp could have been, according to Arlington’s description, and he found very little that would support Arlington’s story.”

“Not even footprints?”

“There were plenty of footprints—by the fence and near the flower bed where the knife was found. They were probably made by Arlington himself in his early morning prowling through the
yard. Unfortunately, if there had been any incriminating prints, they’d been obliterated.”

“How about on the other side of the fence, where he’d jumped?”

“The ground was hard packed and covered with a thick, uncut mat of St. Augustine grass. Luis found one indentation, which could have been a heel mark, or could have come from any of a number of sources.” I had opened my mouth, but before I could speak, Dad anticipated me. “And nothing of any significance was found in the Rollinses’ yard.”

“Weren’t there any fingerprints on the fence?”

“None.”

“The murderer could have worn gloves.”

“Holly …”

“Well, couldn’t he?”

“Yes. That would be possible. But wool or fabric gloves would have left small traces.”

“What about leather? Leather gloves wouldn’t leave traces, would they?” A pain started in my chest and rose into my throat. “And maybe,” I said, clinging to hope as if it were a life raft, “Mr. Martinez just didn’t look in the right places.”

“Not possible. Martinez is thorough.” Dad reached across the table and surprised me by clasping my hands. “Holly,” he said, “we didn’t believe Arlington’s story because he added it later—maybe to get some publicity.”

“No! He didn’t tell you at first because he was afraid the murderer would come back for him!”

Dad continued as though I hadn’t said a word. “We thoroughly searched the yard around the
back fence. As I told you, we try to find the truth, in spite of the fact that every time there’s a murder, a lot of disturbed people confess to the crime, give us false leads, and try to obstruct our investigation.

“Soon after Arlington’s story was reported on the TV news, his wife contacted us. She had been at the house late Friday evening. She and Arlington had been going over a list of their possessions, trying to divide them before going into court. She told us that the loud music from the Garnetts’ house began to irritate Arlington. He went to the Garnetts’ home, and you know what happened after that. At the time he told her nothing about seeing someone jump the fences.”

“Just because he didn’t tell her—that doesn’t mean anything,” I countered. “Besides, are you sure she’s telling the truth? If she was there, why didn’t she come forward and talk to the police too?”

“She said she didn’t want to get involved. She also said that Arlington has been getting therapy. He’s not only disturbed, he’s right on the edge.”

I held Dad’s hand tightly as tears blurred my vision. “I hoped … Oh, Dad, I hoped …”

Dad pulled his hand away and busied himself with his sandwich. I knew better than to cry in front of Dad. If I gave in to tears, he’d try to escape, and I wouldn’t get to ask him the rest of the questions I had in mind.

I sat up straighter and forced myself to regain control. “Okay, next question,” I said. “About
Cody’s car.” But another thought suddenly hit me, and I gasped.

Dad looked up. “What’s the matter?”

“Mr. Arlington,” I said. “Maybe he made up that story for a reason. Not because he’s a mental and emotional mess but because he’s covering up.”

Dad nodded. “Same thing occurred to us, that he might have concocted his story to cover up for a crime he had committed himself, but there’s nothing that would indicate Arlington had been inside the Garnetts’ house.”

“Maybe when the murder weapon turns up, you’ll discover that his fingerprints are on it.”

“That’s always a possibility, but I strongly doubt it.”

“But it’s a possibility! You said so!”

“Holly, don’t get your hopes up.” Dad polished off the last of his sandwich, finished the milk, and wiped his mouth with the paper napkin I put by his plate. “Any cookies?” he asked.

“Mom bought lots of fruit. There are some really good apples.”

“Cookies,” Dad said, so I got up and brought him a package of Oreos.

I took one myself, pulled the halves apart, and ate the filling. The tired lines in Dad’s face were grooving into each other, and I didn’t know how long I could keep him listening, so I spoke quickly, keeping in mind what Sara had said. “Did you get the reports yet from the medical examiner?”

“Yes.”

“What was the time of the murder?”

“The estimated time of death was between nine and ten.”

“It couldn’t be as late as ten, because Mr. Arlington called the police earlier than that.”

“He telephoned at nine-thirty-three, to be exact.”

“How can you be sure? He said he didn’t remember.”

“It’s recorded on the dispatcher’s tape.”

“Oh.” I should have realized that. “What about the lab? What did they find from the crime scene?”

“We don’t have the complete report yet, and I’m not sure how much of it I can repeat to you when we do get it.”

“You can tell me if they found something that will help Cody, can’t you?”

Dad didn’t answer. He squirmed in his chair, and I didn’t want to lose him, so I didn’t waste time arguing. I said, “Let’s go back to my other question. Has the lab checked out Cody’s car?”

“From top to bottom.”

“And …?”

“I guess I can tell you. They didn’t find anything incriminating.”

“The sleeping bag was in the trunk. Right?”

“Right.”

“And the clothes he drove up there to get?”

“Yes.”

“But no bloody clothing?”

“No bloody clothing. Not yet.”

“There! You see?” I cried. “The murderer
would have got blood on his clothes. Since Cody didn’t, it proves he was telling the truth.”

“Not necessarily. The clothes he’d been wearing could be buried anywhere between here and Lake Conroe.”

“Dad!” I complained. “Why don’t you give up on Cody and look for the real murderer? I know you didn’t find enough evidence to prove that Cody was guilty, because you haven’t arrested him.”

“As of now the evidence we have is circumstantial. We don’t arrest anyone unless we have strong, factual proof we can take to the district attorney. In order to get an indictment from the grand jury and a good chance at conviction when the case goes to trial, the DA likes to have an eyewitness to the crime and physical evidence that would place the suspect at the scene without doubt.”

I felt an instant rush of hope. “You don’t have an eyewitness!”

“Maybe one will still turn up, and—even more likely—maybe we’ll get a confession.”

“No!” I shouted. “You won’t get a confession from Cody, because he didn’t do it!”

Dad rolled up the end of the cookie package, pushed back his chair, and got to his feet. “Speaking of Cody,” he began, “I’m concerned about you and …”

He had a look in his eyes I knew well. “Don’t say it, Dad. Please! Cody’s suffering terribly because of what happened to his parents, and it’s
going to get worse because some people will read the newspapers, and watch the television news, and believe he committed the murders. He’s being considered guilty until proven innocent, and that’s not the way it’s supposed to be! It’s not fair, Dad.”

“I have to think of your safety,” he said.

“Cody’s not going to hurt me. I promised to help prove he’s innocent of the crime, and I have to keep my promise. He’s staying with his uncle.” I paused. “By this time you’ve investigated his uncle, haven’t you?”

“I have. He seems to be okay. Small businessman. He came into a good-size inheritance, along with Cody’s mother, after their mother died six years ago. He invested his share in a restaurant, but it failed. He repaid all his debts—no problem there—and now he owns and manages a shoe store. He’s paying on a couple of loans, but nothing he can’t handle. He was married once, divorced, no children.”

“He’s a relative too,” I said. “Why isn’t he a suspect?”

“No motive,” Dad said.

“Where was he at the time the murders took place? Did you ask?”

“Of course I asked.”

“Well?”

Dad sighed impatiently and said, “Frank Baker was home watching television. He even told me the plots of the shows he watched.”

“Big deal. Anybody could get the plots from reading
TV Guide.
”

“Holly,” Dad said, “we’re getting off the track. Let’s get back to what I was trying to say. Until an arrest is made …”

I gasped, and Dad amended what he’d said. “
If
and
when
an arrest is made—until then you’ll probably be seeing Cody at school, but I don’t want you to go out with him.”

“How can you be so unfair? You’ve made up your mind that he’s guilty! And other people will too! Think of how people at school might treat him! Cody needs a friend, and I’m his friend.”

“Listen to me, Holly,” Dad said. “Whether he’s guilty or not, I’m making this rule for your protection and my peace of mind.”

“But …”

“No buts. Bill and I are counting on wrapping up this case within a few days.”

I couldn’t believe that Dad would do this to me. I was shocked and hurt and angry. My mind kept whirling with thoughts that went nowhere, tripping and splatting over each other, so it wasn’t until later, when I was in bed, staring into the darkness, that I remembered I hadn’t given Dad my share of the information. It probably didn’t mean a thing, but I had the uncomfortable feeling that I should have told him about Glenda Jordan.