B00NRQWAJI (21 page)

Mrs. Barrett’s smile was small, but it was deep enough to contain all the wisdom of the ages. She crossed to the sofa, took a seat. She patted the cushion beside her so I joined her.

She was silent a moment. Then she said, “Adam tried to keep his own counsel. But the day Pamela Wentz was discovered and the stories started to fly, his grandfather and I sat him down at the kitchen table and asked him if he’d been involved with that girl. He said no, and he told us how she’d come to him in the barn. Adam was always a good boy, as honest as the day is long. We believed him. His sister believed him.”

“You told Elise?”

“This town was rife with rumor. We thought it best she be in on the conversation.”

“But Mrs. Wentz didn’t believe him,” I said, certain that that had been the case. “And neither did Pamela’s brother, Eric.”

“By then, Mrs. Wentz was only capable of believing what she needed to believe. I believed Adam because I knew that girl didn’t buy that nightie, though she’d ended up with it. I’d seen it. And it was just like he’d said.”

“How’s that?”

“I was shopping in Grieg’s the week before—Grieg’s used to be our local department store before all these chains sprung up—I’d seen Charlotte Mead sneak something red and silky into her handbag. I’d thought it was a blouse.”

“You saw Charlotte Mead shoplifting and you didn’t report her?”

“Well, that girl had a tough row to hoe. Her father decamped when she was little and her mother was a drunk. She had a fussy aunt in Boston, but the woman never bothered to come out here much. Charlotte practically raised her brother on her own. Most of Fallowfield knew it, so we looked out for those kids now and again. That day, I left a little money next to the till in the ladies section to cover what she took.”

“And when Pamela was found dead, naked…”

“I didn’t know what to do or who to tell. I’d long thought Charlotte Mead carried a torch for Adam, but I didn’t know how poor little Pamela had ended up with the nightgown.”

But I could make an educated guess. Charlotte had been one of the gang in high school. She was friends with Barrett, Luke, Vance, and Eric.

And Pamela, of course, was Eric’s little sister.

Certainly, Pamela knew of Charlotte’s crush. It seemed everyone had. Maybe Charlotte had pinched that nightgown because she’d intended to proposition Barrett herself, and maybe Pamela didn’t like it. With love on the line and to secure Barrett as hers, Pamela could’ve stolen the gown from Charlotte to shut her down. And to beat her to Barrett.

“Did you ever tell anyone you saw Charlotte with the nightgown?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, indeed. I reported it to Sheriff Bowker. I believe he even questioned Charlotte, though I don’t know what came of their talk. I only know my standing by Adam didn’t sit well with the townspeople—”

I remembered the report of their storming the orchard and setting the farmhouse on fire.

“—or with Adam’s mother.”

“His mother?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Barrett’s hands came together to form a gnarled knot in her lap. “Adam’s mother claimed she didn’t believe him. She walked out of this house the day Pamela’s body was found, and she’s never come back.”

Chapter 22

“Adam’s own mother,” I repeated, “thinks he raped Pamela Wentz?”

The notion made me feel sick all the way to the bottom of my soul.

I turned away from Mrs. Barrett, walked to the window. I looked out at the road across the orchard and at the end of the lane. Cars and trucks still crept by as the curious made what they would out of another girl’s rape and murder.

Well, Barrett hadn’t hurt Kayley. Despite any sentiment, despite any belief, I was sure of it because he’d been with me, in the barn, telling me how much he didn’t want me around. But was I kidding myself about his involvement with Pamela? Her brother, Eric, hadn’t shrunk from accusing him. And now Eric was dead.

I didn’t like how those events stacked up.

But Mrs. Barrett said, “Some people lie to protect others. Most lie to protect themselves. Libby, my daughter-in-law, lied to protect herself. She lied so she wouldn’t feel guilty about abandoning her children after her husband, my son, got killed.”

I thought of Stan Liedecker, lying to extort money from Hudson Paul, and I knew what the old woman said was true. We do lie to take care of ourselves. And if we’re willing to listen, we even tell lies to our own minds—and hearts.

“Libby was grief-stricken,” Miranda Barrett said, “and she was selfish. I don’t think either Adam or Elise have heard from her to this day.”

And as if that were all she could think about, Mrs. Barrett drifted to the piano again. She gazed at the photographs there. And got lost in her own thoughts.

I carried her words with me as I traveled upstairs. On autopilot, I got in the shower, but the hot spray couldn’t wash away all I’d seen and heard since sunup. Or all I’d felt, either.

If I were completely honest with myself, I was certain Barrett hadn’t harmed Pamela. It was only the doubts of others that got in my way. The evidence hadn’t pointed to Barrett when he was in high school, and after the attack on Kayley, none of it pointed to him now.

I toweled off, got dressed, and retreated to Elise’s old room. The sun had begun to set, painting the panes of glass in the window with great swathes of orange and rose. Outside, in the lane, I heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

I looked out and down and saw an unwelcome visitor.

Vance McCabe, in his butternut truck, bumped toward the garage. Barrett emerged from his apartment on the second floor, met the pickup as it rolled to a halt. Vance barely got his door open before Barrett grabbed him by the shirtfront—and dragged him from the cab.

I couldn’t make out a word of their conversation. But it was heated. I wondered if it was about drugs and last night and Vance’s meeting at the Cherry Bomb. When Barrett jabbed his thumb at the house—and Vance turned his moon face toward my window—I suspected the topic had turned to Kayley, Barrett’s grandmother, or me.

I withdrew into the shadows. But not so far that I couldn’t see Barrett return to his apartment to grab his denim jacket. Or to see him climb into the truck alongside Vance and leave.

Snatching up my own brown wool blazer, I thundered down the stairs and into the kitchen.

The room’s warmth, a whistling teakettle, and Barrett’s grandmother slowly setting delicate cups on the table’s cloth made me wistful. I knew I could choose to stay in this comfortable bubble, tune out what was happening with Barrett and the rest of the world. But that wouldn’t do, so I steeled my heart.

“Mrs. Barrett, may I ask a favor?”

“Of course, my dear.”

“May I borrow your truck? I need to check into something.” And given what had happened when I’d driven to the Roadhouse, I didn’t want the driver of Eric’s stolen car to spot my gleaming green one again. “I’ll gladly leave my Jaguar keys with you.”

A ghost of a smile dashed across Miranda Barrett’s wrinkly face. “Oh, Jamie. I couldn’t drive that beast if I tried. Besides, with all that’s happened, I plan to stay in, in any case.”

“Thanks,” I said, depositing my keys beside the sugar bowl on the kitchen table despite her protestation.

She told me her grandson had likely left the truck’s keys in the vehicle. That behavior, I figured, was a holdover from working on the farm and a time when several hands and members of the family would be sharing the truck to get the work done. After all, I knew Barrett didn’t leave his keys in his own Ram pickup in New Jersey.

But in this little town, we were a world away from there.

The blue-and-white Chevy was parked in front of the Barrett farmhouse, exactly where Barrett had left it when we’d come back from the Cherry Bomb the night before. And sure enough, its keys dangled from the ignition. I slid behind the massive steering wheel, turned the engine over.

The truck chugged along the country roads pleasantly. I kept one eye on the landscape and one on the rough map Charlotte had sketched for me. I supposed if I’d grown up in the area, the landmarks she noted would make plenty of sense. But I hadn’t and they didn’t. I took a wrong turn more than once.

Sooner rather than later, however, I found myself on a paved road behind a handful of other cars and trucks. When every one of them turned at an old windmill, I took a chance, assumed the asterisk Charlotte had penned on the menu represented the machine, and turned off with them. That’s how I found myself driving along a faint track running across open pasture.

The trace dipped through narrow woods, opened onto a clearing. Vehicles of all kinds had parked in the high autumn grass. None of them were Eric’s Mercury.

The cars in front of me tapped their brakes. They parked alongside the others, so I did, too. Drivers and passengers got out. I rushed to join them. And walk with them over a gentle slope.

Some of the men and women carried insulated coolers between them. A few hauled lawn chairs. Here and there, a person carried a blanket or two. Most folks were my age, give or take a couple of years. They would’ve been Eric’s friends, or at least his classmates. They would’ve been Barrett’s, too.

But coming to this makeshift wake and remembering Eric proved to be a multigenerational affair. Kids of all ages trotted along at their parents’ sides. A trio of boys even dodged into the open field for an impromptu game of chase—until a stern word from Mom brought them to heel.

We’d crested the slope by then. Below, on a sandy patch of soil, a circle of rocks outlined the makings of an enormous bonfire. The stacked logs and accumulated brush pile had to be taller than me. No wonder Cal had called this the fire ring. When that heap was ignited, it would be an inferno.

I hung back and didn’t mix much with the arriving folks. I did this out of respect for Eric’s friends and his memory, sure. But I also wanted a good look at those who’d come to pay him tribute.

I spied Charlotte. She’d erected a card table and was laying out bags of what appeared to be hot dog and burger buns. Other women fluttered around her, opening coolers and readying snacks. Every time a newcomer joined the group, Charlotte hugged her. I tried to picture her as a teen, shoplifting a nightgown, and failed.

I spotted Vance, too, skulking in the lengthening shadows and nursing a can of beer. And I located Dawkins, out of uniform and sticking to the perimeter of the gathering. He flicked a sassafras switch at the heads of summer’s dying weeds and offered me a nod of recognition when our eyes met. Calvin was nowhere to be seen, but the crowd was thick and growing thicker. He could’ve been anywhere. To my surprise, Marc tramped past me with a man in a Fallowfield Football sweatshirt. He winked at me as he walked by—but how he’d wrangled an invitation to this shindig, I didn’t know.

A ripple in the throng drew my eye to Barrett. He carried a heavy stick, one end of it wrapped in fabric. It was a homemade torch and I bet he’d crafted it himself. But I didn’t believe his carrying it was why his former friends and neighbors gave him a wide berth. The sense of uneasiness followed him like a stench. And I could smell that the people gathered here were thinking of Pamela Wentz as much as they were thinking of her brother, Eric. Barrett’s presence reminded them of bad times. Of an unsolved crime and the suspicion that had fallen on him. And that that same crime had been committed again. Against a teenage employee at his family’s orchard. Against Kayley.

When Luke Rittenhaus materialized from the dusk, my heart leapt to my throat. But it turned out he wasn’t here in an official capacity. The sheriff had traded his uniform for jeans and the navy blue hoodie he’d worn to the Apple Blossom Café, and when he stepped onto a stump near the fire ring, a hush fell over his peers.

He lifted his voice and said, “I’m sure I speak for everyone here when I say thanks to Jeff Stephensen for bringing us together. I only wish it was in better circumstances.”

Murmured agreement ran through the group.

“In this world,” Rittenhaus intoned, “some people deserve what they get. Some get worse than they deserve. Let’s remember Eric tonight, a guy who served his country and our community—and who was a hell of a good brother.”

Barrett appeared at Rittenhaus’s side, steadied the torch while the sheriff doused the bundled fabric with lighter fluid. Then Rittenhaus struck a match, touched the flame to the material. The torch blazed like a comet across the night sky.

Vance chucked his beer can into the woods, joined Barrett and Rittenhaus, grasped the torch when Barrett offered it. He stabbed it at the dead brush heaped within the fire ring. The pile ignited with a whoosh. Firelight chased the darkness away. But not all of the darkness.

“I see Adam came to his senses.” Cal stood at my elbow. “He brought you after all.”

“Not exactly,” I admitted.

Around us, people began to relax. They broke into groups of threes and fours. Beer was handed round. Kids chased one another through the crowd. I could hear the gentle strains of a guitar as someone began to strum a melancholy tune.

I couldn’t quite name it.

Calvin invited me to take a seat on a fallen log, so I did.

I said, “Your sister appears to be in her element.”

“Oh, yeah. Char’s got to feed people. It’s a way of taking care of them. She’s still taking care of me.”

“Come on. You’ve done well for yourself. Ivy League. A PhD.”

“And yet I’m right back where I started. In Fallowfield. I guess I’m the classic underachiever.”

Or maybe, with his degrees and his suede-elbowed tweed, his fancy pocket square and his panache, Calvin Mead was actually an overachiever.

In my experience, overachievers had something to prove. To themselves, sure. But often to another person in particular. And I would know. Being the only child of a two-star general, and now the grown-up daughter of a United States senator, I’d always had to be smarter, quicker, braver, faster, and stronger so my father would accept me.

Sometimes he did.

And sometimes he didn’t.

There had been no such thing as unconditional love in my house, as there’d been in Miranda Barrett’s. She’d believed in her grandson, come hell or high water. My father still grumbled that divorcing my lying, cheating, ex-army ex-husband had been an error on my part.