The Secret Between Us (21 page)

“This is a small town. And anyway, one of his men was at the service.”

“You didn’t call him yourself?”

“Absolutely not. It was a humiliating experience. I didn’t want to talk about it. All I wanted to do was climb in a hole.” Tom’s visit had helped. Then, and in every subsequent talk, he had been reasonable. But he had been asking about John last night. More than simple curiosity?

“Were you angry?” the second detective asked.

She returned to the day of the funeral. “At John?”

“At the McKennas.”

“No. I was embarrassed and hurt. They were grieving. I could understand what they were feeling.” She frowned. “Excuse me, but I’m confused. Where are you headed with these questions?” John had told her. She wanted them to confirm it.

But the first detective simply asked, “Were there other times you talked with John since the accident?”

“Yes. I was anxious about the reconstruction team’s report. I called him several times to see if it was in.”

“Couldn’t your lawyer have done that?” asked the second detective.

“My lawyer?”

“Hal Trutter. Did he call John, too?”

“You’ll have to ask him that,” Deborah said. She wasn’t speaking for Hal. “And he
is
a personal friend,” she specified to differentiate their relationship from the one she had with John. “I haven’t hired a lawyer.”

“He’s also a friend of John Colby’s.”

“They play poker together.”

The lead detective said, “Let’s get back to the chief of police. I understand he’s a patient of yours.”

“Yes. He and his wife. My dad’s been practicing in Leyland for more than thirty-five years. I don’t know exactly when John and Ellen signed on, but they go back a ways. John sees my dad, I see Ellen.”

“Why’s that?” asked the second detective, the bad cop of the pair.

Deborah looked at him. “Men are often more comfortable being examined by a man, women by a woman.”

“Then you’ve never examined John?”

Again she frowned. “What does this have to do with the accident?” She relented, but not to the point of discussing medical issues. “I understand that the widow is upset. She wants to blame someone for her husband’s death.”

“Did Colby tell you that?”

He had. But so had Tom—Tom, whom she had told about the poker connection; Tom, whom she had told about begging John for the accident report; Tom, whom she’d thought she could trust.

“John didn’t have to tell me,” she said. “I’m good at connecting the dots. Calvin McKenna’s brother was the one who led me away from the funeral. He accused me of hoping for a free pass.”

“Have you gotten one?” asked the second detective.

Deborah’s patience was wearing thin. She was disappointed in Tom, frightened by a civil suit, terrified for Grace. She only wanted to get Lívia’s dinner and head back to Jill’s. “You wouldn’t be asking that if you’d seen the state police team at the accident scene that night. They looked at everything. They
photographed
everything. Don’t you trust their report?”

“Their report wouldn’t reflect possible collusion between you and the police chief.”

“And is that your conclusion?” she asked. When Guy Fielding raised a mediating hand between them, she moderated her voice, but only slightly. She was furious. “The state team found no wrongdoing on my part. The report also states that the quote unquote
victim
wasn’t running on the road before my car came along. He came straight out of the woods and into the path of my car. Are you investigating that? Frankly, I’m starting to wonder who the victim is. My daughter and I have been through hell—because a man ran irresponsibly on a night when visibility was nil. My opinion,” she said and looked from one to the other, “is that you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“And where should we look?” the lead detective asked with what Deborah chose to think was respect.

“The widow. Ask her what her husband was doing there that night. Ask her why he wasn’t wearing reflective gear, and why he wasn’t carrying ID saying he was on a drug that could cause lethal bleeding. Ask her why she’s
so desperate
to pin his death on someone else.”

The gray car
had barely turned the corner when Deborah called Karen. “Is Hal home?”

“Not yet, but he did call. One of his clients is being indicted. He’s been working with the prosecutors for months to avoid this, but now the client has panicked. Hal’s with him.” She paused. “When I hear stories like this, I feel so guilty imagining the things I did. Tell me I’m stupid, Deborah.”

“You are not stupid,” Deborah said. “You’re human.”

Her voice must have held more urgency than the words warranted, because Karen asked, “Is something wrong?”

All Deborah could say was, “Cal McKenna’s widow went to the D.A. Will you have Hal call when he gets in?”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. I will.”

“On my cell.”

“Definitely,” Karen said.

Hal’s excuse to Karen might be totally valid, Deborah realized, but she wasn’t in the mood for excuses. She phoned his cell again. This time, she left a message. “I don’t know where in the hell you are, Hal, or who you’re with, but if I don’t hear back from you within an hour, I’m getting another lawyer.”

With her anger focused on Hal, she went inside, grabbed Lívia’s pot of chicken stew, carried it to the car, and put it on the floor. She drove back to Jill’s with an eye on the clock, determined not to say anything to Grace until she’d spoken to Hal. One hour. That was all she would give him.

He took forty
minutes, and the timing couldn’t have been worse. Deborah was reheating the stew in Jill’s kitchen, distracted enough to have asked Dylan three times how he was feeling. Grace happened to be nearest the phone when it rang. She saw Hal’s name.

“What’s he want?” she asked, passing Deborah the phone.

Deborah couldn’t lie. She had done that once, and it had become a wedge between Grace and her. “The widow is making trouble,” she told the girl, then asked Hal, “Where’ve you been?” She sounded bitchy and didn’t care.

“Client emergency. What’s up?”

Walking into the living room, she told him about the detectives. In response to his prodding, she related as much of the conversation as she could.

“They’re fishing,” he said.

“For
what
? The accident team report clears me, doesn’t it? What more could they possibly find?”

“The widow claims the local police monkeyed with the evidence.”

“But
John
didn’t collect it. The
state
team did.”

“Cool it, Deborah,” Hal said. “A man died. They need to reassure themselves that the investigation was conducted properly. They’re only doing their job.”

“They’re wasting my time!”

He sighed. “Don’t tell them that. You don’t want to rile them up. Obstruction of justice is a felony.”

“A felony?”

“But hey, it doesn’t sound like you told the detectives anything you shouldn’t. I just wish you’d called me.”

A
felony
? She swallowed a moment’s panic. “I did call you. You weren’t there. You never are.” A felony charge was
bad
. “Where’ve you
been
?”

“You sound like my wife.”

“Maybe she has a point. What’s up, Hal? People need you, and you’re not around. You’re playing an awful lot of racquetball these days.”

There was a pause, then a cautious, “Are you suggesting something, Deborah?”

“That depends. Are you guilty?”

“Me, no. Let’s talk about you. A felony conviction is serious. Hell, if the D.A. files charges, you could be prevented from practicing pending the outcome of a trial. Is that what you want?”

“No. I don’t want
any
of this,” Deborah cried.

“Then you don’t want to rile me, either. I know the D.A. I can negotiate. I may just be your best bet at putting this case to bed.”

She might have lashed back, arguing that there was
no
cover-up and that he was changing the subject, but she saw Grace watching her from the kitchen. She forced herself to calm down. Hal was right. She didn’t want to rile him. “Okay,” she said. “Thanks for calling. Can we talk tomorrow?”

“Your choice, sweetie. You want me, you call.” He hung up.

If Deborah had any doubts, they were gone. Hal was a two-timing bastard.

But Grace was staring straight at her with terrified eyes. “It’s not over, is it,” she said. “It won’t ever be over.”

“It will,” Deborah vowed. Pushing her hair back, she tried to think straight. “We always knew this was a possibility. The widow is angry. She feels she has to do something.”

“Tell them,”
Grace whispered.

Deborah went to her, but when she would have taken her daughter’s hand, Grace crossed her arms. Deborah felt the loss. She was the one who had needed the comfort of a human touch.

Feeling on the edge of a panic that she could not let her daughter see, she asked, “What good would telling them do? It won’t change the widow’s case. She doesn’t care who was driving, Grace. She’s saying that John didn’t do a thorough job investigating, but the
state
team investigated, so she doesn’t have a case. The D.A. will never press charges.”

“Like Mr. McKenna won’t die?” Grace asked and quietly turned away.

Deborah didn’t know
whether it was mention of the name McKenna, or simply a natural progression of thought, but having told off both the detectives and Hal, her focus settled on Tom. Her anger built slowly, almost without her realizing it, simmering all through Lívia’s dinner and the ride home. She didn’t know if Tom was a friend, but she felt betrayed. It was absurd, she knew. But there it was.

Dylan fell asleep. She tried to talk to Grace, using Jill’s pregnancy as an icebreaker, but Grace gave dismissive, one-word answers, finally pleading that she had to do homework, study flash cards for her PSATs, and cram for a biology AP exam. If she’d had more strength, Deborah would have discussed Grace’s terseness, because there had been accusation in the listing.

But she was tired of fighting. Leaving Grace alone, she climbed into bed, but sleep wouldn’t come. After an hour of tossing and turning, she kicked back the covers, went down to the kitchen, and made tea. When that did nothing to soothe her, she turned on a light in the den and tried to think who she could call. She didn’t want to wake Jill, and Karen didn’t answer. In desperation, she called Tom.

He had been asleep. She was upset enough not to care. Nor did she care about pleasantries. She had lived her life on pleasantries, and, like so many other things lately, they seemed a waste of time. As soon as he said that groggy hello, she said, “I trusted you.”

There was a pause, then, “Deborah?”

“I trusted you,” she repeated, suddenly on the attack. She was angry. And hurt. “I told you things I shouldn’t have about my family. I actually thought we were friends, but now I’m wondering why a pair of detectives confronted me with all the information I told you last night. Were you working with Selena all along? Is that what the conversations we’ve had were about?”

There was silence, then a quiet, “No—”

“Maybe it was my fault,” Deborah interrupted before he could say more. “Maybe I imagined a bond where there wasn’t one. I mean, we were both agonizing over family crises, and even though they were different, I thought we understood each other. Was I wrong? Was I seeing something that wasn’t there at all?”

He started to speak, but she raced on. “And besides, why would I have ever thought we could be friends? One look at you, and my daughter
freaks out.
We just want this over, Tom. But now, another investigation? You know there was no crime committed. Dragging things out won’t bring your brother back.” With the worst of her anger spent, she added, “I trusted you. Maybe I was a fool for that. I thought the trust was mutual.” When he didn’t reply, she said softly, “Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not saying anything.”

“You needed to vent.”

“See?” she cried. “That’s what I mean. Why are you being so nice?”

“Was I wrong?”

“
No.
But your reaction is very misleading given everything that’s happened. Do you think I’ve tried to cover up anything? Are you helping Selena?”

“No to both.”

“But you didn’t stop her from going to the D.A.”

“I didn’t know she was going.”

“Does she know what the report says about Cal?”

“She knows,” he said with feeling.

“And what does she say? I mean, his behavior was
bizarre.
Doesn’t she
see
that there was no way we could have avoided hitting him if he just darted out of the woods in front of us?”

“She can’t admit that. She’s too emotional.”

“Well, so am I,” Deborah cried, because, when it came down to it, Cal’s behavior was too suspicious to ignore. “Your brother sounds disturbed. Maybe he
caused
the accident.”

“Don’t you think I’ve asked myself that question?” Tom burst out.

“We can come up with lots of other theories, like that Cal was disoriented by the glare of my headlights, or that he wasn’t feeling well, or that he had a bad reaction to some other medication his wife didn’t know about. When you put all the clues together, though, they suggest your brother was suicidal.”

“You don’t think I’ve wondered about that, too?” said Tom loudly. “I can’t do this on the phone,” he muttered almost to himself, then asked, “Can we talk tomorrow? Not on the phone, in person?”

“You’re suing me,” Deborah reminded him.

“I’m not. I have nothing to do with it, but we have to talk. I do trust you, Deborah. That’s why I keep speaking with you. You understand what I’m saying. I need your help with this.”

Put that way, what could she say?

Once they agreed
to a time and a place, Deborah ended the call and returned to bed. She awoke Thursday morning to the sound of Dylan’s keyboard. “Mr. Tambourine Man” was so lighthearted after the dismal news that had come the day before that she smiled all through breakfast.