Summer Shadows (32 page)

44

H
i Julia,

Just a note to let you know that the position has been filled. I put in your name, but, unfortunately, the boss already had someone in mind.

Good luck on the job hunt. My best to you.

Markie

J
ulia fell back against her chair, stunned. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how much hope she had put on Markie’s recommendation. She had let the other job searches go, she’d charted out her new work route, and budgeted around the pay cut. In her mind, she’d approached the move with the children, bought a new house, hired moving vans, and argued Miriam down to the ground about putting Ron into a lesser, more affordable junior high. She’d built an entire life for them, based on the slender promise of a nearly forgotten school friend.

She pressed her hand to her mouth and fought the welling tears. Around her, the bookstore café hummed with muted activity, the rustle of pages, and the clink of dishes. The kids were in the children’s section, listening to Story Time. They were there to just keep Jack company, or so Amelia said. For all their protests that they were too old for a story, they had been awfully worried about missing the opening.

It was Friday. After several quiet days at home, everyone needed a break from the little house, Ron especially. He’d done a lot of crying and a lot of talking with Julia, and he was doing lot a better, but he was still fragile.

Now, Julia stared at the computer screen and fought her rising panic. She’d been so certain of Markie’s job, so wrapped up in the house and the murder mystery and then the robbery, and Robert, that she hadn’t been paying proper attention.

She scrolled through her emails and logged on to her job search engines, finding no responses. Her resume had netted her nothing but the standard invitation to attend a conference on insurance salesmanship – which would cost her only an “affordable” amount.

She shut down the websites and opened up an email from Sherry, who wrote that she hadn’t any interest in the Franklin house yet, but was expecting an offer on the Springfield house. Wouldn’t Julia reconsider and sell?

Julia thought she’d soon be in a position where she couldn’t afford to refuse a decent offer. Taxes were due soon, and she’d have to find health insurance by the end of the month.

She shut off the computer and leaned back into her chair again with her cup of coffee, thinking about her conversation with Robert the night before. If his suspicions were correct, Stephanie was killed in her back bedroom and then brought back to the house, where the murderer set the scene to look like a robbery gone bad. That was a new spin on the original story, but did it automatically clear Brad Lang?

From what she’d been able to gather about Brad, he was crazy enough about his wife to commit murder during a jealous mood swing, but then why move the body out of the Purcell place and into his own house? Aside from trying to preserve the fiction of his happy marriage, having Stephanie found in his house would only make things more difficult for him.

Julia pulled open her purse and pulled out the copies of the sketches found under her floor boards. There had to be a clue among them.

She shuffled through them. Even the most unfinished ones were impressive. The art world had, indeed, lost a great talent when Stephanie Lang died. She paused when she came to the one that resembled J. C. Irwin. Looking at the sketched design, she studied the lines on the face, the scruffy goatee, and the jeans with the torn pocket. He had a devil-may-care pose, his back to the artist while looking over his shoulder. There was a mark on his upper arm that was either a mistake of the artist’s or a tattoo partially covered by his short sleeves. Julia tried to picture the courteous, almost servile John Irwin living a James Dean youth on the back of a motorcycle.

“Aunt Julia!”

Dana and Amelia raced to the table and dropped a heavy book onto it. A black and white photo of Stephanie Lang, paint brush in hand, smiled up at her, her large eyes looking dreamily off into the distance.

“Look what we found!” Dana announced a little too loudly for the quiet confines of the café. Julia got a few startled and annoyed grimaces. “See! It’s all about the dead lady!”

“Hush, now, Dana,” Julia said, staring at the book.

“Isn’t it cool?” Amelia plopped down in the seat across from Julia, then moved to the side so Dana could share it. “It has tons of photos and stuff, and it even has a picture of the postman!”

“Noel Hickey?”

“Yes, him. He’s funny looking in it.”

“He’s funny looking anyway,” Dana said, and the two started giggling.

Julia knew that she should correct them, but she was too taken up with the book to pay attention. It was expensive, finely bound, and thick, with glossy pages that were light on text but rich in color photos and reproductions. She flipped through a few pages, noting the celebrities, the expensive clothes, and the familiar locations of the photographs. There was even a picture entitled,
Young Stephanie Meets Jackie Onassis
. Stephanie’s family was
very
well connected, apparently. It was a wonder that the local police had been able to hold onto the artwork at all.

Another giggle from the other side of the table brought her attention back to the girls.

“Aren’t you two supposed to be with Ron and Jack?”

“Yes, but we saw that, and we had to show you,” Dana grinned.

“We know that you’re really into the murder and everything,” Amelia added.

“And, plus, there’s a picture of our house!”

Julia’s mouth fell open. “A picture of what?”

“Of our house! That’s what was so exciting. Come on, I’ll find it for you.” Dana slipped around the table, under Julia’s arm, and began flipping pages.

“We were hoping to see some pictures of the body,” Amelia said. “But all they had was of the police at the house, which was still really cool, but not really creepy. Can I take one of those sugar cookies?”

“No.”

“Bummer.”

“It’s around here somewhere,” Dana fretted. “I know I saw it. It’s in this section and there was a picture of a dog on the other side… Oh! Here it is!” She tapped the page and beamed up at Julia. “See? It’s our house!”

Julia took a good look. The picture was grainy, even on the glossy pages of the brand-new book. Stephanie Lang was on her bicycle, her painting kit strapped on the back, laughing into the camera. She had been caught off guard while talking to a man in a dark, collared shirt and the white, grainy jeans that were so popular at the time. It was impossible to say who he was, as his back was turned, and he was wearing a baseball cap. The photographer must have been standing across the street, because the house was very visible.

It was, indeed, their house, the one her sister had bought: there was the same porch, windows, walk-way, drive-way, even the same bushes, although they were much smaller at the time.

Here’s proof of the connection between my house and the murder.

But, a second later, she thought,
don’t be silly. So the woman stopped in front of the house. She lived right down the street, for Pete’s sake. Of course she must have passed it.

“Isn’t that weird?” Dana said. “It’s kind of creepy.”

“Why?” Julia asked.

The answer was simple: “Because she was at our house and now she’s dead.”

Julia looked back at the photo and stopped short. The man in the photo was wearing jeans with a torn back pocket – the same tear captured in the sketch of John Irwin. This wasn’t a random stranger that Stephanie was talking to. It was her subject.

The two girls were chattering, distracting her, so Julia asked, “Aren’t you missing the ending of the story? Jack and Ron will be wondering where you are.”

“The story is really boring,” Amelia said. “Is it all right if we go look at the magazines instead?”

“Sure.” Julia scanned the picture again, taking in the smaller details, like the way Stephanie was brushing her hair back from her face. At first glance, she seemed as cool and confident as in every other picture, but something about this one made Julia think that she had been caught unaware – and didn’t like it.

She read the caption:

Stephanie, only a few weeks before her murder. Photo courtesy of the Lang Memorial Museum.

Julia realized that the photo belong to the Mones. They must have known that John Irwin and Stephanie knew each other, so why hadn’t they brought up the connection before now?

More importantly, why hadn’t John Irwin brought it up?

If he knew Stephanie well enough to have his portrait sketched, certainly he would have mentioned it – it would be a bragging right in a town like this. After all, the murderer had been caught, so there was no reason not to claim the relationship.

Unless there were reasons that he didn’t want the world to know.

Perhaps he had known her too well. Stephanie was an acknowledged man-eater who nevertheless stayed with her well-connected husband. Perhaps she’d pursued John, then rejected him, and he killed her in a fit of jealous rage. Hating her husband, he might very well have planted the body in the Lang house and arranged the robbery in order to frame Brad, the man he’d then been thrown over for. His keen interest in Julia’s renovations could easily be explained by his concern that she was going to turn up the old evidence.

Julia suddenly felt very cold.

This was John Irwin she was thinking about, not some stranger in a book. This was a living, breathing man who had not only been one of the first to welcome her into town, but had sent her two bouquets after her attack. They were sitting on her counter at home right now - over-flowing vases that had embarrassed her when they arrived. She’d been confused why a happily-married man she hardly knew should be so generous. It hadn’t made sense.

Unless the gifts weren’t prompted by generosity, but by guilt.

Julia looked at the pictures in the book again. There was Stephanie and John in conversation, her worried expression captured for posterity. She didn’t look like a vixen in that photo. She looked like a victim.

But John Irwin Junior as the killer? That still didn’t feel right.

Then, as Julia’s eyes ran over the picture again, she saw something that changed her mind.

Behind Stephanie, in the driveway that was now Julia’s, a pickup truck sat, shiny and new in the photo. Only half of it was visible in the picture, and part of that was obscured by Stephanie’s bicycle wheel. But she didn’t need to see the whole truck to recognize it as the same type of truck that she’d seen on Sunday night - the one that Mrs. Jurta had taken a shot at, the truck that had driven off with Julia’s attacker behind the wheel.

44

T
he more Julia thought about her new-found revelations, the more she was convinced she was right. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to call Robert yet. There was still too many things unexplained, the chief among these being, why would John Irwin and Stephanie Lang be in Julia’s little house at all?

If he was at the party at the Ojacor’s, how could he break into her house and be there in time to surprise her? And who had called him while he was there?

Surely there were explanations, but she couldn’t find them - and until she did, she was not about to drag J.C.’s family through the muck.

She was silent on the way home. When Ron asked her if she was okay, she answered that she was still tired from her head injury. He seemed to accept that, settling back in his seat to listen to his iPod. The kids in the back of the van were too caught up in their own conversations to notice her mood.

Back at the house, the girls let the dogs out, and they chased the squealing Jack all around the backyard. Ron helped Julia unload the van and was in the kitchen when Mrs. Jurta let herself in.

“Good afternoon, Julia,” she said cheerily. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

“Like a million bucks,” Julia said, and gestured towards a chair. “Make yourself at home.”

“I can’t stop. I have some news to tell you. First is that, since I can’t take Dexter to Florida, the SPCA found a vet in New York who can do the surgery there. They’ve arranged transportation and everything.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!”

“Mmm. Unfortunately, I’ll have to pay full price, but what can you expect? Anyway, I wanted to know if I could borrow some of your kids for an hour or so to lend a hand. Now that I’m not going to Florida, the pound sent over a few new dogs for me to look after, and I need help taking them for a walk.”

Julia looked at Ron, who nodded eagerly. Unlike his former self, Ron was starting to enjoy the dogs, spending all of the afternoon before trying to teach Horatio how to fetch. Even Jack was starting to warm up to them.

“I think that’ll be fine,” Julia said. “How many did you want?”

“Ron, Amelia, and Dana, if you’ll let me. They’re a rambunctious bunch.”

“Ron?”

“Fine by me,” he said. “We can take Horatio and Tigger at the same time.”

“Why don’t you go and get them leashed up and ready to go,” Mrs. Jurta suggested. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Right.” He dashed eagerly out the door.

Mrs. Jurta chuckled as she turned to Julia. “He’s really coming out of his shell, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Julia said, sitting down herself in a kitchen chair. “It’s nice to see him smiling. Horatio’s been a huge help in that respect.”

“Dogs are wonderful creatures,” she agreed, then surprised Julia by dropping into a kitchen chair and leaning forward eagerly. “Have you heard the news?”

“News?” Julia frowned. “No, what…”

“John Irwin Junior’s been arrested.”

Julia’s mouth dropped open. “John Irwin? When? Why?”

“Two hours ago. The police came right to the hardware store and took him away in the patrol car. One of the clerk’s said that his fingerprints were found on the sketches your intruder found in the back room. The whole town’s in an uproar.”

“John…” Julia sat back. So John Irwin had been involved. The voice she’d almost recognized was his. She felt a strong sense of disappointment wash over her. “Oh, his poor family…”

Mrs. Jurta was looking at her curiously. “I’m surprised. With you being so tight with Robert, I’d have thought he’d call you about it.”

She shook her head, biting her lip. “No, he didn’t tell me.”

“I suppose they’re trying to be discreet, although taking him away in the middle of the day wasn’t the best way to do that.” She gestured to the two bouquets, one of them looking a little wilted now. “It explains those. You know, some of us were thinking that he had a crush on you.”

Julia looked at Mrs. Jurta, puzzled. “Why would John have been in my house?”

“Retrieving those Lang sketches, of course,” was her prompt reply. Mrs. Jurta leaned forward and whispered confidentially, “You know, John Irwin was working on this place at the time of the murder. Henrietta, God rest her, was in Oregon at the time, visiting her daughter when the whole business happened. She hired John to redo the place while she was gone, and Sheila O’Reilly and I have the suspicion that more went on here than a little wallpapering.”

“So he was
working
here,” Julia exclaimed. “But why didn’t that come out at the trial?”

“It did, but he was out of town at the time it happened, so he was in the clear. Or so he said.”

“So you think he murdered Stephanie?”

Mrs. Jurta hesitated and looked doubtful. After a moment, she shook her head.

“You know, up until Sunday, I would have said no. John Irwin couldn’t hurt a fly, hasn’t the stomach for it. But knowing that he was here, knowing that he sent you to the hospital – if a man can do that, why couldn’t he kill, too?”

At that moment, Ron appeared at the door.

“Ready to go, Mrs. Jurta,” he said. “Aunt Julia, Jack doesn’t want to come.”

“He’s probably ready for a time out,” Julia said. “Why don’t you bring him in before you go?”

“Right.”

He left again, and Mrs. Jurta hopped up, as energetic as ever. “I’ve got to fly. Dexter has another appointment later today.”

“I hope he’s doing better.”

“Well, you must be feeling much better, anyway. Knowing that the intruder is caught and behind bars must be a huge load off your mind.”

“Yes,” Julia murmured. “It should be.”

But it wasn’t. It worried her as she set to work, starting a dinner of baked chicken, and then tucking Jack up in his room with Yellow Teddy and instructions to rest.

Back downstairs, she set the table, paced, and puzzled. While green beans warmed on the stove, she took out the sketches and spread them on the table before her, with John Irwin’s sketch set out on top of the rest. Tapping the table with nervous fingers, she studied it.

Something about the sketch bothered her. Something about the whole situation bothered her. Julia thought back to the Fourth of July party, to her sitting on the picnic blanket, talking with John and Caroline about the party, and John insisting that she come. He was setting her up, of course, but how did he get to her house and back without arousing suspicion at the party? Who called him in the middle of his investigations? Was it a warning? It had to be – he had bolted from the room as soon as he got the call, which meant someone else was involved. But who? His son, J. C.? Julia couldn’t believe that. It was almost as hard to believe as it was to know that John Irwin was the one who’d hit her over the head and terrified her children. And knowing John was in her house didn’t explain who was in the Lang House, kicking Ron at the same time.

The pot began to boil, and she automatically got up and adjusted the heat. When she turned back to the table, the sketch caught her eye again and she picked it up.

She broke the sketch down to components: subject, John Irwin. The background had only a few strokes, but seemed to indicate trees and a yard. Her backyard? No, too expansive. The Lang backyard? Julia had never seen it, so she didn’t know.

She then catalogued the subject’s clothing. Torn jeans, beaten boots, a printed t-shirt, scruffy facial hair, a tattoo on his shoulder, half-hidden under the short sleeves…

A tattoo.

Again, she pictured the picnic: John’s smiling face, his insistence that they should come to Joseph’s party, slapping his bare arm at a mosquito, the skin on his arm bright pink with sunburn… And nothing else.

Whipping around, she scanned the counters until she found her phone. Her fingers trembled as she pounded in the password and found Robert’s numbers.

She pressed call and the phone went right to voicemail. Trying to keep her voice from shaking, she spoke quickly.

“Hi, Robert, it’s me. Look, I know that you’ve taken John Irwin in for questioning today in connection with the break-in and the sketches, but I think I’ve uncovered something about that sketch.” She was about to say what, but another thought struck her and she wanted time to play it out before explaining it in a short message, so she finished by saying, “I… Well, give me a call as soon as you can, okay? Thanks.”

She hung up and stared at the picture. Of course, John could have had the tattoo removed, but Julia was willing to bet that he’d never had one to begin with.

“This isn’t John,” she said out loud. “This is his brother, Michael.”

“Well, well,” said a familiar voice from behind her.

Julia’s heart leaped into her throat. She turned.

Someone who looked very much like John Irwin stood at the other end of her kitchen. His hair was grayer, his skin more weather-beaten, and he now wore a jacket over his t-shirt, but the cocky stance and the insolent smile were unmistakable. It was Stephanie’s last subject. And he was holding a nine millimeter handgun.

“Looks like I don’t even need to introduce myself,” Michael Irwin said.