Death in Reel Time (20 page)

“Our friends are accepting people,” Esme said, “otherwise I wouldn't have told them in the first place. But not everybody's like that.”

I thought Denny Carlson was exactly like that, but I could see Esme wasn't going to be moved by any argument from me right now.

A few moments later the man himself pulled up and parked on the street. He ambled toward the house, his long legs covering the walkway in a few strides.

“Good job,” he said, admiring our harvest display. “Makes me hanker for a cup of hot cocoa or something.”

“Well, come on in,” Esme said. “I can make you one.”

“Strong black coffee might do better,” Denny said. “I go on duty in an hour and I need every synapse firing.”

Esme put on the coffee and then got out a saucepan. “I think I want a cup of cocoa now that you've put the idea in my head. I like to make it the old-fashioned way, none of these foil packets with those gravels of marshmallow. That's sacrilege.”

“I called Jack this morning to let him know we're done with his place,” Denny said, settling at the table.

“I'm sure he's relieved,” I said. “He was creeped out big-time.”

Denny nodded. “Don't blame him. And there's still plenty to be disturbed about. The blood on the tarp was human blood and the type was the same as Blaine Branch's. We're still waiting for the DNA, but I have a hunch it's his—a strong hunch. I know that doesn't sound like cool, analytical thinking,” he shrugged, “but I believe sometimes you've got to go with your gut.”

“Yes, I believe that, too!” I said, giving Esme the wide eyes.

She returned a snort that muffled a French swearword.

“Anyway,” Denny went on, “I followed up on Alan Corrigan. Thanks for that lead. Turns out he was actually still in town the day Blaine died. He took the red-eye out of RDU that night. Jenny questioned him by phone and he says the last time he saw Blaine was that morning. Him and Peyton gave Blaine a ride to the store. I talked to Peyton and I'm convinced there's more to the story, but they've both clammed up. 'Nother thing,” he said, stopping to take a deep
draft of the coffee Esme set in front of him. “Jenny's got a burr under her saddle about that kid, Tony Barrett. Beth's neighbor has called the station probably ten times or more, insisting he was at the house the afternoon Blaine died. She claims she heard his motorcycle backfiring. Jenny remembers Tony from back when she was the liaison officer at the high school. He was trouble back then and I believe she's letting that color her judgment, but I expect she'll be dragging him in for questioning.”

“Are you telling us we should give him a heads-up?” Esme asked, stirring the pot as the aroma of hot cocoa permeated the kitchen.

“Not at all,” Denny said, giving me a wink. “I'm simply saying if you were to talk with him anytime soon you might mention that it would be a good thing if he could account for his movements for that entire day.”

After Denny left, Esme went up for her traditional Sunday afternoon nap. I put away our outdoor tools and checked my phone for the dozenth time to make sure I hadn't missed a message from Beth. I was just closing up the shed door when Tony pulled his motorcycle into our driveway.

“Hey,” I called out, wincing as he turned the key, expecting the motorcycle's backfire.

“You got a minute?” he asked, peeling off the helmet and shaking out his mop of hair.

“Just about that,” I said, making a show of looking at an imaginary watch. “I've got to be somewhere in a little bit. What's up?”

“I wanted to show you some of the footage from the interview with Charlie.”

I motioned him inside and he set up his laptop on the kitchen table. “You're a great interviewer,” he said, as he powered up the computer. “Even better than Beth, but don't tell her I said that. After seeing this I really want to go forward with this project on Charlie.”

“I'm glad, Tony,” I said, “but remember what I told you about my schedule. We leave for Wilmington on Thursday and I'll be gone for at least two weeks.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said, punching at the keys. “And we still have to convince Charlie, but watch this, then tell me you don't think it's worth the hassle.”

He played a series of rough clips and I watched, at first distractedly and then mesmerized by the emotions playing out on Charlie Martin's face. It was powerful.

“He's a charismatic old dude, isn't he?” Tony asked, clicking a key to put his computer to sleep.

I sighed. “Yes, okay, it's worth going after. We'll work out the logistics. I'm sure Olivia won't mind putting you up a while longer.”

“Hey, I'm a paying tenant now. I finally got paid for a wedding video job I did a while back. I got my motorcycle fixed and, after some fast talking, I got Olivia to let me chip in for the electric and water I'm using at least.”

“I'm really glad to hear your bike won't be backfiring anymore,” I said. “And speaking of which, are you sure you didn't go by Beth's house at some point earlier on the day Blaine died?”

“No, not till you all sent me over there to check on Beth just before dinner that night. You already asked me that. Twice. Why are you bringing it up again?”

I told him someone thought they'd heard his motorcycle backfire. I tried to keep it offhanded and didn't mention names.

“Let me guess,” Tony said, his chin jutting out. “That lady next door. Man, what did I ever do to her? She hates me for some reason.”

“She hates pretty much everybody; try not to take it personally,” I said. “Thing is, she's pushing her claim pretty hard, so it might be a good idea to work up a timeline and whatever documentation you can gather that shows where you were at any given time on that day.”

“Okay, here we go again,” Tony said, throwing his hand up in exasperation. “Anything bad happens, pin it on the juvenile delinquent.” He clicked some keys on his laptop again. “Like I told you before, I was out shooting b-roll stuff. I may have gone somewhere
near
Beth's house, maybe even near enough for that old hag to hear my bike, but I didn't go to the house and I didn't see either one of them that day until Beth came to Olivia's for supper that night. Here,” he said, turning the laptop so I could see the screen. “Here's my b-roll from that day.” He hit the fast-forward button and I watched as he zipped through a series of shots in and around Morningside. I was relieved. The video was time-stamped and it covered most of the afternoon of the day of the murder. Still, there were several gaps where he'd presumably been moving from place to place, and since the time of death had been difficult to pin down, the gaps were problematic.

“Wait,” I said, as an image on his laptop caught my eye. “Slow it down.” I squinted at the screen view of a couple of guys in a kayak out on Potter's Creek. They paddled in
unison, veering toward the shoreline of the river. I recognized the spot. It was about a quarter mile down from The Sporting Life.

“That's Peyton Branch and who's that with him?” I asked.

“It's that college friend of Beth and Blaine's, the one who came to visit from Chicago. Alan somebody,” Tony said.

I watched as the two men continued to paddle toward the shoreline. They made a sharp turn and I saw Peyton's hand reach down to the water. A moment later he lifted a paddle from the water and pulled it into the boat and they reversed direction, moving toward the pier in back of Blaine's sporting goods store.

“Somebody must've lost an oar,” Tony said.

“Yeah, an oar,” I said, my mind spinning.

*  *  *

After Tony left I decided Beth must have changed her mind about talking to me. I was seriously considering laying a fire in the family room fireplace and snuggling up for a nap, but then Olivia called, sounding frantic. I told her I'd be right over.

As I was searching for my keys, Jack called to ask if I wanted to hang out. I told him I couldn't and got perverse pleasure in how disappointed he seemed. I told him I'd call him later if he was willing to play it by ear.

He was.

This was the wonderful thing about being friends instead of a couple. We didn't get hung up on expectations or pout about being neglected or any of that stuff.

That's what I told myself.

Olivia met me at the door and practically marched me to the backyard. She grabbed an afghan off the back of the sofa when we went through the family room. Beth was sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs next to a cast-iron fire pit. It was filled with red embers so it must have been going for quite a while.

Beth smiled at me, but her eyes looked vacant. “Thanks for coming, Sophreena.” She motioned toward a matching chair and I sat down. Olivia handed me the afghan.

“Mom,” Beth said, frowning as if she needed to concentrate to get her words into the proper sequence. “I'd like to talk with Sophreena for a few minutes. And then I want to tell you and Daniel some things. Would you call him and ask if he could come over? Tell him it's important.”

“Beth, you're scaring me,” Olivia said.

Beth made a tutting sound. “There's no reason to be afraid, Mom. Not anymore. Just tell Daniel to come and we'll all have a talk later, okay?”

“Okay, honey,” Olivia said, wringing her hands. “I'll leave you two alone.” She started back into the house, but stopped a couple of times to look back as if she thought Beth might change her mind and ask her to stay.

When she'd closed the door I waited. Beth stared into the fire for a long time. Finally she brought her chin up slowly and looked me square in the eyes, a deep frown furrowing her forehead.

“I always liked you, Sophreena,” she said. “Did you know that?”

“Well, not really, but I'm glad to hear it,” I said.

“I mean it,” Beth said. “When we were kids I used to like
it when our families got together. I always found you had interesting things to talk about and you were smart and funny. There was the age difference then, but now we're both adults and we're on equal footing. And I know I can trust you to keep a confidence. I can, can't I?”

“Yes,” I said. “If what you have to tell me doesn't hurt anyone else, I'm good at keeping things to myself.”

Beth nodded. “I'm sorry we've never gotten to be closer friends. You may have noticed I don't have any close friends.”

“Well, that's certainly not true, Beth,” I said. “You've always been one of the most popular people I know.”

Beth smiled ruefully. “I have a lot of very lovely acquaintances,” she said. “And back in high school and college I did have friends. Wonderful friends.” She stared into the fire again. “But later I wasn't allowed friends,” she said at last. “Do you understand what I'm saying?”

I did. And I thought I could make things easier for Beth by just coming out with it. “Blaine wanted you under his control. He isolated you. It's the pattern of controlling men.”

Beth's eyebrows went up. “You knew?”

“No, I had absolutely no idea. Not until recently. I always thought you were the happiest couple around.”

“We were,” Beth said with a wry laugh. “For an occasional fifteen minutes at a stretch.”

I decided that since Beth had asked me here to talk, she might welcome a chance to simply get it all out. “How bad did it get?” I asked.

“Bad,” Beth said, her eyes flooding with tears.

“Physical?” I asked.

Beth nodded. “Lately.”

“Who else knows?”

“Alan Corrigan and Bonnie Foster suspect. They saw how it was from the beginning. Blaine was showing signs of this kind of thing even back when we were in college. But I just thought he was jealous and honestly I was a little flattered by that at first.”

“Who else?”

“Peyton knows.”

“Is that why you and he were arguing? Was he pressuring you to keep this quiet?”

“I can't talk about Peyton,” Beth said with a sigh. “I just can't go there right now, Sophreena. I don't have the energy.”

“That's fine, I'll drop it,” I said, reaching over to pat her leg and give myself time to delicately frame my next question.

“Beth, does any of this play into how Blaine died?”

“No,” Beth said, startled. “No, how could it? I just needed to tell someone. I've held this in for so long. And when I heard you and Esme this afternoon telling Mother what happened to her father, I couldn't believe it. History repeating itself like that. Isn't it strange? But, no, I don't see how this could have anything to do with Blaine's death. No one knew how bad it had become. No one but Peyton. And that only made things worse.”

I wondered just how far the historical parallel went. After all, it had been her grandfather's own brother who'd ended up killing him over just this issue. Though in the present case it seemed Peyton's issues were with Beth, not with his brother.

“So the violence had escalated lately?” I asked.

Beth nodded. “And I let it.”

“Beth,” I said, “you know it wasn't your fault. You're a smart woman.”

“Yes,” she said, the tears spilling over and running down her cheeks. “I consider myself a reasonably intelligent person. Which makes it all the more perplexing. And makes me feel more a failure. Why couldn't I fix it?”

“It wasn't up to you to fix him, Beth,” I said. “But I've got to confess it is hard to understand why you stayed.”

Her chin began to tremble and she crumbled. “Do you know what this would do to Blaine's parents if it ever got out?” she asked, her voice ragged. “Sterling and Madeline have been wonderful to me. And they thought—
think
—Blaine was the perfect son, the perfect husband. It would kill them if this came out. Maybe literally in Sterling's case. And they'd hate me for making the claim. Plus, I can't face people knowing I was a victim. I won't have it. I'm asking you to honor your word and keep this to yourself. I'm going to tell Mother and Daniel; it's time I did that. And Esme will be able to comfort Mother, so you can tell Esme, but no one else is to know.” She looked at me like a drowning woman begging for a life jacket. “You have to swear to me, Sophreena.”