A Table By the Window (39 page)

Carley sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees. “He's a comedian, all right.”

The girl's face sobered. “We were all worried about you after we heard those shots. Uncle Rory asked the manager about it, and he came back and said the police told him some boys had been lighting cherry bombs. Patrick said that was pretty stupid, to do that with the chief of police around.”

“It was sweet of you to worry. We heard about the fireworks.”

“Well…you
heard
them too, didn't you?”

“We weren't at the park,” Carley said.

“I thought you went on a picnic.”

“Yes. We did.”

“You went to his land, didn't you?” Her eyes narrowed.

What happened to the girl who was too meek to use the dryer without asking?
Carley asked herself.

“Brooke,” she said in her best schoolteacher voice. “I never lived in any mansion when I was a girl. I've seen rats as big as cats, and once we lived across the street from a crack house. And anyway, look at Abe Lincoln, probably our greatest president.
He
was born in a one-room log cabin.”

She paused to gauge the effect of her words.

The girl's face was slack with puzzlement. “Huh?”

Patience,
Carley thought. “Don't you see? It's where you
end up
that matters.”

“You think I didn't want you to go because I'm ashamed of the dump I lived in?”

“Well, I wouldn't call it a
dump,
” Carley lied.

Sadness washed over the girl's face. She pressed fingertips against her lips.

“What is it?” Carley said.

After a hesitation, Brooke said, “If I tell you something, will you promise never to tell a soul?”

“All right.”

She looked at the open window. “Not here.”

The sagging velveteen sofa in the back room had long-ago gone to the Salvation Army. In its place were a steel frame futon with purple mattress from Ruby's garage, and a glider rocker with scratched arms and country-blue plaid upholstery from Byrle Templeton's attic. Carley sat in the rocker, while Brooke fetched something from her room.

“My cousin, Tracy Knight,” she said, returning, handing over a snapshot. A woman who appeared to be Carley's age sat on the steps of a familiar-looking porch, long bare legs crossed and long golden-brown hair draped over one shoulder. She wore what could only be described as a seductive smile. The blonde girl beside her wore a more innocent smile as she held two kittens up for the camera, one tiger-striped and one calico.

“You?” Carley said, even though it was obvious.

“I was eleven. Mr. Steve took that.”

Disappointment surged through Carley. “Steve Underwood?”

“Yes. Tracy had one of those disposable cameras she bought at Dollar General. That's where she worked.”

“Wait.” Carley looked up at her. “Look, sit down please, you're making me nervous.”

The girl flopped onto the futon and folded her arms.

“They were dating?” Carley asked.

“No. He came by that day to give her a ride to Soso, and Tracy asked him to take our picture. She liked him a lot, but I don't think they ever went on a date, or she would have told me. She didn't have many friends, and Dad wouldn't speak to her. I think he let her come stay with us just to tick off my mother's kin. She's my Uncle Alvin's girl.”

“I'm still lost, Brooke. What is Soso?”

“It's a town that makes Tallulah look like New York, Tracy said. That's where her great-grandma Willa on her mother's side lived. She was ninety-eight years old; she's most likely dead by now. Mr. Steve was writing a paper about Jones County so he could become a professor.”

“A dissertation.”

“I guess so. Tracy struck up talking with him at Dollar General, and he asked if he could meet her grandma. Something about Jones County not wanting to be part of the South during the Civil War. Even though her Grandma Willa wasn't alive in those days, Mr. Steve said she might have heard stories passed down.”

Brooke frowned and shook her head. “But that's not what I have to tell you.”

“All right.” Carley glanced at the picture again. “Tell me.”

“Okay.” The girl unfolded her arms to hold up both palms. “First, I already
know
it wasn't right for Tracy to be runnin' around like she did. Even when I was eleven, I knew that.”

She was poised for argument. Carley said gently, “Why was she living with you, Brooke?”

“Uncle Alvin caught her in the house with some neighbor man and kicked her out. So she hitchhiked over to us.”

“She became your friend.”

“My
only
friend,” Brooke replied. “She was good to me—brought home treats from Dollar General, and even the tea set on my dresser. Dad still had his job roofing houses back then, and on Tracy's days off we'd slip over to Chief Dale's pond so she could swim. The gate wasn't up in those days. We didn't think we were hurting anybody.”

“Didn't you swim too?” Carley asked.

“I can't. I sat on the bank.”

“You're kidding.”

The girl shrugged. “I don't like being in water. That's why I only take showers. My mother answered the phone and forgot about me in the tub when I was little. I don't remember, but Dad said he had to give me CPR. That was before Dad started drinking.”

“I'm sorry, Brooke.”

“It's not your fault.” The girl fell silent, face clouding.

“What is it?” Carley asked.

“Remember, you promised not to tell.”

“I won't break my word.”

“I think Chief Dale killed Tracy.”

Carley studied her face for any sign of jest, but her expression was as grave and sincere as any face could wear.

“Okay, Brooke,” she said wearily. “This time, don't show me the baby yet. Bring me through the labor.”

The girl nodded, drew breath. “It was the day after Fourth of July, I remember because the skins from our firecrackers were still in the road. Dad was putting up a roof somewhere, and Tracy called in to Dollar General that she had a headache. Only she told me someone was on his way to take her swimming. I asked to go, and she laughed and said not this time, that they wouldn't be wearing swimsuits. I thought she was kidding, but all she carried was a towel and her purse. I watched from Dad's bedroom window while she waited in the yard. After a minute, an old green car stopped out front. The windows were down, so I could see a man driving. She got in, and then they went on up the road.”

“In the direction of the pond,” Carley said.

Brooke swallowed audibly. “I heard two shots about five minutes later. I was in the house, but it sounded like they came from that direction. I didn't know what to do. If I called the police and Chief Dale—or anybody else—went back there and caught them, Tracy would never speak to me again. About an hour later, I was so worried that I put on my shoes and walked up there.”

“What did you see?” Carley asked, even though she knew the outcome of this story. Brooke's cousin had run away with Emmit White's son-in-law.

“I heard something first. A car, coming real fast. That made me feel better. But I knew Tracy would get mad, so I hid behind a tree. After it passed, I looked. It was a police car.”

“Dale's car, you mean?”

“I couldn't tell who was driving,” Brooke admitted. “I jumped out in the road and waved my arms in case he'd look back in the mirror, but he didn't even slow down. So I kept going. I could tell by the weeds bending forward between the tracks that a car had been on Chief Dale's land.”

“Well, you had just seen the patrol car.”

“But there could've been more than one car, right? I went on back to the pond, but there was no one there. And no one's ever heard from Tracy again.”

And that's all you have?
Carefully, Carley said, “Surely you know she was with Emmit White's son-in-law. His family hasn't heard from him either.”

The girl's face clouded again. “Rick Bryant. Yes, everybody says they ran off together. Even Dad, but he always said Tracy was a tramp.”

“What else could have happened? Why would you think Dale did anything to them?”

“Well, they were swimming…without clothes on his land.”

“That's no reason to kill anybody. Especially when you're—”

“I know,” the girl said wearily. “When you're the chief of police, and everybody says you're such a hero. But he has a temper. Just ask Brad.”

“The word of a thief,” Carley said.

“Tracy wouldn't have lied to me about swimming. And if she
did
run off, she would've called to let me know she was all right.”

Carley tried to place herself in the scenario. “You're still seeing this through eleven-year-old eyes. Tracy was probably afraid you would try to stop her, perhaps call someone before they got far away. And once they were gone, Rick Bryant may have pressured her so he couldn't be hunted down. People get arrested for not paying child support.”

“Why didn't she pack anything but her purse?”

“Well, she couldn't have
had
many belongings,” Carley reasoned. “Not if she hitchhiked her way over. And anyway, why would she even have needed her purse, if she was just going up the road to swim?”

“Her comb. She was fussy about her hair.” Finally the girl looked away. “And she kept birth control stuff in there. I saw it when I was looking for gum.”

This has been one long day,
Carley thought, rubbing her temple.

“You have a headache?” Brooke asked.

“No.” Carley gave her a sympathetic smile. “I know you miss your cousin. But I have to tell you, if you're suggesting Dale shot Tracy and Rick, where did he…hide the bodies? Did you look?”

“Well, not that day. I figured I'd made a mistake. There's another swimming place miles farther down, where Black Creek Road crosses the creek at a rickety old bridge, and Tracy hadn't actually said they were going to the
pond
. I worried that the bridge might have caved in. Dad wouldn't drive me—he said it was good riddance to bad rubbish. So I rode down there on my bike the next day, and the bridge was still there.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

She nodded. “When Mr. Rick's wife called, screamin' bad things about Tracy, I told her about the swimming—but not the part about no swimsuits—so she would get somebody to look for them.”

“And…?”

Brooke's shoulders rose, fell. “The police looked for tire tracks at all the creeks, even the river.”

“And did they look around the pond too?”

“Well, yeah,” the girl replied with hopeless tone. “But Chief Dale would be smart enough to cover the tracks. And besides, with him being the chief, how hard do you think he looked?”

Carley said, gently, “Everything you've said points to their running away, Brooke.”

Brooke blew out her cheeks. “I know that, Carley. I started thinking everybody else was right, and then a couple of days later, I walked down to Chief Dale's property to have another look, and there was this big gate with a lock, and
Posted
signs all over the place. And the
For Sale
sign was gone. That was how I cut my arm, climbing through the barbed wire.”

“And what did you find?”

“Nothing,” the girl conceded. “It was snake season, so I didn't go too deep in the woods. But I looked over every inch when the weather cooled, lots of times.”

Carley could only stare at her. “Then, why are we having this conversation?”

Tears filled Brooke's eyes. “Because that pond's deep enough to hide a car.”

Rising, Carley went into the kitchen for a paper napkin, returning to sit next to the girl.

“Here now,” she said, dabbing her face gently, then handing it over so that Brooke could blow her nose. “I understand. Tracy was good to you, and you miss her. But when we feel very strongly about something—or someone—our emotions can cloud the facts. Dale took the land off the market because he decided he'd like to live on it when he retires. And just today he complained about hunters, which would explain the gate. You mentioned snakes. Perhaps he came across one—
if
it was him indeed who fired the shots. He joined the police force because he respects the law, Brooke. He's no murderer.”

Brooke turned to her, eyes red-rimmed and smeared with liner, her expression bleak with
you too
?

“I
know
he did it,” she said thickly, shaking her head. “Every time I look at him, it's like I can see it in his eyes, and he
knows
I know.”

“Brooke…”

The girl sighed, blew her nose again. “You think I'm crazy now.”

“No. I understand that feeling. But that's not enough.
My
intuition says he's a good person who couldn't have done it. We can't both be right. Our emotions can lie to us.”

She combed her mind for an example. “Okay, Brooke, this is not to be repeated, but during my first few times around Blake Kemp, whom you say is so funny, I had a creepy feeling that told me not to trust him. It went away as I got to know him better.”

“This is more than creepy, Carley.”

“Okay, then, let's do something about it.”

“No! You promised!”

Carley shook her head. “So, you'll just go on the rest of your life, believing Dale killed Tracy and Rick, and not try to find out if it's really true?”

“I
tried
.”

“Then there's another way. We find Tracy.”

Brooke blinked at her. “How do we do that?”

“I have a private investigator's card in my wallet. We'll call him, ask his advice.”