Saving Ben (26 page)

“And she just happened to have the combination?” Ben asked what everyone else was wondering.

Detective Breton pointed her finger at Ben. “That’s the interesting part. Neither Hollis Dennison nor his wife ever showed the safe to Emma, but she was in and out of it in less than ten minutes.”

“That makes me want to throw up,” I said to the detectives. “I’m sure she’s searched all through this house and the one in Richmond. Talk about feeling violated. I hope you told them we would have their things sent right back to them.”

Ericson nodded. “Only they said something about a leopard-skin fur coat. I don’t remember seeing it in the car.”

“That’s because she’s wearing it,” Ben said.

When both detectives looked at Ben suspiciously, I explained, “She had it on when she got here. She made a big deal about it.”

“And she was wearing it during the fireworks,” Archer added.

Breton walked over and stood behind me, looking over my shoulder. “Have you discovered anything useful on her computer?”

I’d been skimming through Emma’s emails while we were talking. “Actually I have. For the past few days, Emma has been exchanging emails with her old boyfriend. His name is Peter Packham, and he goes to school in Florida—at Flagler, I think. Apparently he’s down there now, working during the Christmas break at some seafood restaurant.” I scrolled down, looking for a particular e-mail. “It says right here, dated yesterday, that she was planning to leave our house after midnight and drive down to see him. She even mentions stopping along the way in Savannah to get a few hours’ sleep.”

“Now that’s disturbing,” Breton said, her face pinched and her lips puckered. “It’s evidence that Emma had concrete plans, which she’s probably missed out on. Can you find his contact information anywhere? The name or phone number where he works?”

I checked her contacts folder and then scrolled back through the e-mails. “All I see is the name of the restaurant, the Crazy Lobster.”

Detective Breton scribbled the name of the restaurant on an index card and stuffed it in her back pocket. “We’ll do our best to get in touch with him, but other than paying a visit to the Turners, there’s not much more we can do for the time being except wait.”

“What can we do to help?” I asked the detectives.

“You can pray that your friend makes it back safely.” Breton looked first at Ben and then me. “Because if she doesn’t, the two of you are going to have some explaining to do.”

For the rest of the evening, we ate hot wings and meatballs and chips covered in dip while watching one bowl game after another. Although no one mentioned it, everyone was aware of the seconds ticking away and the bell ringing the half hour on the ship’s clock on the mantle. Every minute we drifted further away from the alleged time of Emma’s disappearance, and every hour it became less likely she’d return.

I slept very little that night, although I tried not to toss and turn for fear of waking Archer, who snored softly beside me. As light began to creep through the blinds, I finally dozed off, only to be startled awake again by the sound of a car coming down the gravel driveway. The events of the day before came back to me, flooding me with fear, paralyzing every part of my body except my eyes as they came to rest on the alarm clock beside me. It was already nine thirty, and the house was still silent. Eerily silent. No one banging pots and pans around in the kitchen. No coffee aromas were drifting up the stairs.

A car door slammed outside followed by footsteps crunching the gravel and shuffling up the brick steps. The doorbell rang, a ring-a-ling-a-ling like the old-timey telephone that once hung on the tackle-room wall, followed by the sound of my parents’ hushed voices as they made their way down the stairs from their bedroom. My heart pounded against my chest, and my pulse throbbed in my ear.

I stepped into my slippers, grabbed my robe, and joined Ben who was already in position on the top step, elbows propped on knees, face buried in hands, waiting to hear what we both knew was coming. I pulled him close and hugged him tight as Detective Breton broke the news. I tried to wrap my mind around the details—the haunted boathouse; Emma’s skull bashed against a metal cleat; Ben, Thompson, and myself wanted at the station for questioning.

Ben ran to his room and I followed him, holding him as he sobbed for the girl he once loved. My mother joined us a little while later and we sandwiched Ben between us, smothering him with kisses and cooing our sympathies in his ear. When the appropriate amount of time had passed and Ben’s tormented sobs had subsided, my mother repeated what she’d learned from the detectives.

“Why Thompson?” I asked when she told me the detectives only needed to question the three of us, not Archer or Spotty.

“Because apparently he’s your alibi,” my mother said to me. There was no need for her to state the obvious. Thompson could vouch for me during the overnight hours since he’d been sleeping beside me in my bed.

“Did the detective say whether they’d gotten in touch with the Turners?” I asked.

Lying flat on his back between us, Ben glanced at me and then quickly shifted his attention to Mom, waiting for her response.

She nodded. “George has an alibi as well. His parents.”

I swung my feet over the side of the bed and went to the window. An image of the footprints was burned in my mind, Emma’s last walk on earth. I wondered if she’d been in a hurry or taking her time, moving her hips back and forth in her sexy way.

“There was only one set of footprints in the snow,” I said, turning back around to face my mother and my brother. “I don’t understand why that evidence doesn’t prove the innocence of everyone who slept in this house that night.”

My mother stood to face me. “It’s the best evidence in your favor, no doubt about it. But according to the detectives, they still have some concerns about the two of you.” She ran her finger down the angry red scratch on my face. “But listen, I have some good news as well. Your father called Max Robinson yesterday and put him on notice. He’s on his way down here now, so let’s get moving. We need to get dressed and find something to eat.”

Even though Ben and I had known Max Robinson for most of our lives, we’d only seen him once a year, on Christmas Eve, when we were dressed in our party clothes. He was unprepared for the sight of our disheveled appearance in our jeans and sweatshirts.

“Ben, you and Katherine need to go back upstairs and change.” Max pointed at Thompson, who was wearing nice corduroy pants and a cashmere sweater. “Put something on like this young man is wearing. And, Katherine, a dress please, maybe some tights, something that makes you look sweet.”

Ben and I stared at him incredulously.

As if reading our minds, Mr. Robinson said, “I know it may seem disrespectful to your friend to be worried about how you’re dressed after just learning of her death. But you need to put those thoughts aside for now. This will likely be the most important first impression you’ll ever make.”

“But we’ve already met both detectives,” Ben argued.

“And you’ll likely meet some more today.” When Ben turned reluctantly toward the stairs, Robinson added, “And don’t forget to shave.”

I’d never given much thought to the difference in age between Thompson and me, but when he climbed in the front passenger seat of Mr. Robinson’s Yukon and began talking to him, man to man, about his concerns for our case, I felt like Ben and I were the children, relegated to the back seat for being naughty.

We reached the main road and made a left-hand turn towards White Stone. “Tell me about the haunted boathouse,” Mr. Robinson said to Ben and me through his rearview mirror.

Ben nodded at me, his sad eyes pleading for me to do the talking.

“Well . . . “—I thought back to the legend I’d heard dozens of times during my life—“a long time ago, way before we were born, a local fisherman’s wife lost her husband to a storm out in the Chesapeake Bay. For years afterward, the neighbors reported hearing sobbing coming from the boathouse on stormy nights. Which of course was the wife calling to him to come home. Tragically, the woman was killed when her house was struck by lightning and burned to the ground while she was sleeping.”

“Let me guess,” Robinson said. “The neighbors still claim to hear the woman crying in the boathouse during storms.”

“Exactly. But believe me when I tell you, we’ve spent many a stormy night camped out in that boathouse waiting for the woman’s ghost to appear.” I smiled gently at Ben. “And the only thing we ever saw was our first buzz off of a mason jar of vodka stolen from our parents’ liquor cabinet.”

Robinson chuckled, then turned serious again. “Here are the obstacles as I see them. In addition to your extensive knowledge of this boathouse and your close relationship with the victim, the biggest problem we are facing is that you were both seen fighting with this girl on the night she was killed. All of the above pretty much makes y’all murder suspects numero uno and numero dos.”

“But the foot—” Ben started to protest.

“Forget about the footprints,” Robinson said, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. Mr. Robinson was small in size, but his commanding voice made his presence known in any crowd. I’d never seen him perform in a courtroom, but I was glad he was on my side. “The two of you are the logical suspects, and you can bet every investigator on this case is going to try to pin this on you.”

I gazed out of the window, wondering how we’d gone from celebrating New Year’s to being questioned for murder. The bare trees along the side of the road reminded me of soldiers, sentries standing guard along the way to the prison. I glanced at my brother, who stared at the back of Thompson’s head and looked miserable, a man lost in his grief. Despite everything he’d told me, and all he’d tried to convince himself, he had never stopped loving her.

My grandfather’s words rang out in my ears—
If you are strong for Ben, he will be strong too.

“What do you know about George Turner?” I asked Mr. Robinson.

He waited for the car in front of him to make a left-hand turn at the stoplight in Kilmarnock before answering me. “Only that he has a very strong alibi: his father, the commonwealth’s attorney.”

“Trust me, George is somehow involved in this mess. I mean, think about it. A. He lives right across the creek. B. His boat is actually in the water instead of in dry storage like ours. C. He knew my roommate. He was at our house on New Year’s Eve when Emma arrived so unexpectedly.” I paused, debating whether or not to use my trump card and sacrifice my friend’s future to protect my brother’s. “And then there was the matter of his recent visit to rehab for anger management and alcohol abuse.”

Ben jerked his head toward me.

I shrugged.
What else could I do?

Ben nodded.
You did the right thing.

“Now that, Katherine, is some very useful information,” Mr. Robinson said, nodding his head with enthusiasm. “Let me ask you this. Have the two of you told the police the truth about everything so far?”

“Yes, sir,” we answered in unison.

“Then let’s make a pact. I’ll get to the bottom of this mess, but the two of you, in turn, must continue to tell the truth.”

We spent the next two hours answering the same questions over and over again. Finally, after assuring the detectives we wouldn’t leave town, we drove back to White Stone in silence. When we got to the house, we discovered that, in our absence, Archer and Spotty had taken Ben’s car home to Richmond.

“I don’t understand. Why’d they leave?” I asked my mother.

Mom placed a cheese-and-meat sandwich platter in front of Thompson and me. “They just have some things they need to take care of before they go back to school. Archer wanted me to be sure to tell you she loves you and to call her as soon as you can.”

“Translated—they felt like they were in the way,” Thompson said. “I’ve been wondering if maybe
I
should head on back to Charlottesville as well. I have plenty of work to do to get ready for next semester, and you have enough to deal with without having to worry about a houseguest.”

Mom handed Thompson a hoagie roll and a jar of mayonnaise. “I know we’ve only just met, but as far as I’m concerned, this murder investigation has moved us beyond the point of being guests to one another. From now on, I’ll expect you to make your bed and do your own laundry.”

This seemed to put Thompson at ease for the moment. But fifteen minutes later, when we were stretched out on the dock with our backs against a piling, enjoying the warmth of the sun on a rare fifty-degree January day, he raised the subject again.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you needed some space,” he said, taking a bite of his sandwich.

“Go back to Charlottesville if you need to, Thompson, but don’t do it because you think it’s what I want. Ben is in a bad place right now. He’s counting on me to give him strength, which is strength I get from you.”

“Say no more.” Thompson nodded and looked up toward the house. “Speaking of Ben, where’d he go?”

“Upstairs, to take a nap.” I took a gulp from my water bottle and wiped my lips with a napkin. “Listen, the police are too busy protecting the commonwealth’s attorney’s son to worry about finding the real killer. If we’re going to find anything that’ll help us get out of hot water, we’re going to have to do it ourselves.”