Last to Know (12 page)

“Jesus.” Jemima subsided onto the sofa. All her former bravado and brilliance at Ruby’s seemed to have deserted her. Even her flame-red hair seemed suddenly paler.

Harry got on the phone and called for a squad car, then he got Rossetti on his phone, told him what had happened and that he was bringing Divon Formentor in. Rossetti said he was already on his way.

“You’re coming with us for questioning,” he told Jemima, who shriveled under his gaze.

“I’ll only come to help him,” she said defiantly, making Harry smile.

Rossetti was waiting at the station. It was a busy night, cops in uniform filling out paperwork, detectives conferring in corners over cold coffee, a smell of pizza over all. Divon was quickly processed. He already had a rap sheet; arrests for drugs, juvenile probation, no violence. Social services had had their hands on him early, but once he was sixteen he’d eluded them and gone his own way, dealing small time on street corners.

“Until I met that woman,” Divon told them.

*   *   *

They were in a small interrogation room. Jemima had taken Squeeze for a walk. Harry was sitting opposite Divon at the bare table. Rossetti fetched coffee and set it in front of the young man, who was now without the cuffs.

“Drink it, son,” Rossetti said. “You’ll feel better.”

“I’ll never feel better,” Divon blurted suddenly. “Not with this hanging over my head. I don’t do murder,” he said, panic sending his voice higher. “I tell you it wasn’t me…”

“Why not start by telling us how you knew Lacey Havnel,” Harry suggested. “She wasn’t the kind of woman who’d hang in your hood.”

“I didn’t find her. She found me. You guys know me, you know all about me,” he said, suddenly quieter. “You know I dealt, small time. One day she just drove up the street, she spotted me on the corner, she was looking for cocaine, Oxycontin, heroin, whatever. She told me to get in her car, we needed to talk, she said she would use me as her only dealer, she’d pay me well if I could keep quiet.”

“So?” Harry said. “Did you become Mrs. Havnel’s dealer?”

“Yes, sir, I did. And she paid me well. And I didn’t ask for none of the sexual favors she was offering either,” he added, angrily. “She was what good women call a cheap bitch, even if she did have money to burn. Always in short skirts and sneakers and her blond hair in a fluffy ponytail pulled through that visor she always wore, pretending like she was a young tennis player or sump’n.”

There was a knock at the door and a cop entered with a file marked “Lacey Havnel,” which he gave to Harry, who opened it and quickly read the two pages it contained. He raised his eyebrows and handed the pages over to Rossetti.

The info on Lacey Havnel was spotty: she had moved around a lot, born in a small town in Idaho to a single mom. Her name was then Carrie Murphy. She had dropped out of school at sixteen. No known family. Resurfaced age eighteen in Florida, where she got work as a waitress. They had that information because she had lost her social security card and applied for a new one.

The next time her name surfaced officially was for a marriage license, to a Florida man, in his sixties. The time after that was a year later, for a death certificate. The husband was out in his backyard, chopping logs for the house. The ax slipped and he cut right through an artery. The police report was consistent with an accident.

Lacey was left comfortably off and also left the area. She surfaced officially again with a second marriage several years later. This time the husband died of a heart attack. Again Lacey inherited, though this time not without a fight from his distraught family. Again, she left town. Neither of the husbands was named Havnel. If there had been a Mr. Havnel, which Bea claimed there had not, then he had been in one door and out the other, and the presumably pregnant Lacey was left holding the baby. There was no official birth certificate for Bea, which seemed to mean Lacey had failed to register her birth, and had been using faked documents. She and the kid moved to Boston where she started a new life as a merry widow and party girl.

It was Harry’s guess that Lacey had been running out of funds. She had needed a new business. He guessed there had been no willing new wealthy suitors waiting in line for her to say yes. She had found drugs an easier way. And had died because of it. There was no doubt in his mind that Divon had supplied the necessary, if simple, ingredients to manufacture methamphetamine on a large scale.

Rossetti brought more coffee. He said to Divon, “So, tell us, son, were you at the lake house that night?”

Divon’s eyes flashed panic. “I wasn’t sir, no, no … not me…”

“Come on, Divon,” Harry said. “Wasn’t that you rowing over to the island?” He just threw out the question, thinking of Wally Osborne, and maybe Len. But it could have been Divon on the lake that night.

“I never rowed, I don’t like water, I can’t swim, it scares me, that lake…”

“Bullshit.” Rossetti was losing patience. “You were there and you know it.”

There was a long silence. Divon did not drink the coffee.

Finally, “It wasn’t me,” he said, in that same shrill, scared voice. “It was him. That writer.”

Harry flashed a glance at Rossetti then back at Divon. He said calmly, “Which writer would that be?”

“The famous one. He was at the house after I left, I saw him coming when I was getting into my car.”

“What car was that, Divon?”

“The old Corolla I’d bought so I could access her at the lake house, bring her the stuff. He—that writer—came rowing over, I saw him and so did she and she told me to get lost, so I did.”

“Was he in the house when you left?” Thinking about Rose Osborne, Harry almost didn’t want to hear Divon’s answer.

“He was rowin’ up, like I said.”

“And you’re sure it was Wally Osborne?”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure.”

“Did you see him get to the jetty, get out of the boat, tie it up? Did you see Wally Osborne walk up to the house?”

Divon shook his head. “No, sir. I was outta there like I said. And then I wasn’t only halfway down the road round the lake, when it all exploded and like I just kept on movin’ because I thought they’ll pin this on me sure as hell and now it’s all happening and I’m tellin’ you, Detective, it was not me … I don’t kill women…”

Somehow, Harry didn’t think he did. But what about Wally Osborne?

“But I did see the son at the house earlier,” Divon added, as an afterthought. “The older, good-lookin’ one. Roman, I think she called him. I know he and Bea knew each other. That’s for sure.”

“How did they ‘know’ each other?”

“Well, like I said, I seen ’em together. Sometimes. Walking by the lake.”

Harry fixed his eyes on Divon’s; could he be lying? Seeking to lay the blame elsewhere. But why Roman Osborne?

“When did you see Roman with Bea?” he asked.

But Divon shrugged. “Could be I was mistaken,” was all Harry could get out of him.

21

It was late and Diz was on his branch, listening to his mom and dad talking. Rose and Wally were on the terrace looking out at the lake. Tiny white lights marked the perimeter and the lake shimmered like black ink. Wally’s face was angry as he said, “You will cancel the arrangement, tell the cops to get somebody else, we want nothing to do with those people.”

Diz didn’t really want to hear this, he hated that his parents were fighting, and especially over the skinny blonde who he didn’t want here anyway. As if his vote counted. But his mom was determined to do good and his father was determined she should not.

“I’ve given my word,” Rose said. “Come on, Wally, she’s having a hard time, losing her mother and her home, she has no one else, poor child…”

“She is not a poor child. She and her mother were involved in drugs. Why do you think that house exploded, anyway?”

“Wally! How do you know this?” Rose pulled her hand-knit cardigan closer.

“I heard it around town,” Wally muttered. “You know I always keep an ear tuned for that sort of thing, for my books.”

“So what you know about Mrs. Havnel was purely research?”

Rose’s voice was colder than Diz had ever heard it. He did not like what was going on. He did not like that his dad was lying to his mother. He didn’t know for sure why he was lying, only that he was, and that he could say nothing. He could never tell his mom.

Wally had stepped away from Rose. He seemed to be holding himself in tight check when he turned to look at her. “Rose, I didn’t know that woman. I just knew about her. Okay?”

Rose was silent, looking at him. Diz was silent, also looking at him. Had they both got it wrong? Could Wally be telling the truth?

“Look, okay, I give in.” Wally took a step back toward Rose. He ran a hand through his already rumpled blond hair, gave her a sort of half smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I got a bit carried away. Our life here is so peaceful, nothing like this has ever touched us in all the years we’ve been coming to Evening Lake.”

“Nothing’s different, Wally,” Rose said quietly. “Only you.”

In the silence that fell between them, Diz could hear his dad breathing heavily, as though he was holding back from saying something more. The lake rippled under the freshening night breeze. A bulb went out with a tiny hiss on the string of lights slung around the terrace rail.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Wally said bitterly. “I’m wrong, and you are who you are, the person you are, the loving caregiver. How could I expect you to turn down a young woman in need, when I know if it were your own daughter you would expect someone to help her. I’ll just get out of your way early tomorrow, go fishing, let you get her organized. Okay? And I promise I’ll back you up. Okay?” he asked again. Diz heard his mother’s answering sigh.

“Oh, Wally, I know we’re doing the right thing,” she said so softly Diz almost could not hear. “Trust me, she’ll be fine.”

Diz wondered why his mother thought that and his father obviously did not. He thought about his father rowing back from that house right before the explosion. Of course he could be mistaken, Wally might simply have gone for a row around the lake, working off steam; he did that sometimes when he got uptight when he was writing. Diz hoped so anyway. And he hoped the skinny snake wasn’t gonna wreck their family.

*   *   *

Wally had already departed when Bea Havnel arrived the following morning. Rose was surprised to see her alone; she’d expected Harry Jordan to be with her. She was also astonished to find her prediction come true when a long black limo crunched up the driveway. The driver opened the door and Bea stepped out clutching a bunch of plastic Target bags. Her hair was pulled back into a braid held by an elastic and her smooth face was un-madeup. She was long-legged in tight washed-out jeans and skinny, as Diz had earlier observed, as a snake. She stood uncertainly as though wondering if she’d got the right place. Rose noticed that her new T-shirt still had a size sticker on the shoulder. S for small. She looked so pathetic Rose’s heart went out to her. She knew she was doing the right thing.

“Bea,” she called, “I bet you thought there was no one here to greet you. Welcome, dear child, welcome to our home. I thought Detective Jordan would have brought you.”

“I wanted to come alone,” Bea said.

Rose held her close. She could feel the girl’s ribs under her hands. Harry Jordan had said how frail he thought she was. “Come on in and let me show you your room,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind I had to put you next to Diz. He’s only eleven but he’s a quiet child and you won’t be disturbed by loud music. We insist he wear headphones because the rest of us can’t stand the racket.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind.” Impulsively, Bea took Rose’s hand in hers as they walked together up the shallow steps into the house and into the large open living area with its view through the birch trees of the lake. And also, unfortunately, of the blackened remains of Bea’s home. Rose thought it better not to mention this right now and walked her guest quickly to the kitchen.

“Just put your stuff down on the table, honey,” she said. “Take a seat while I get us a cup of coffee. I’m sure you could use one after the horrible stuff they gave you in the hospital.”

“Oh, it wasn’t too bad. Not really.”

Bea was looking around and Rose noticed the pleased smile on her face.

“It’s lovely here,” the girl said. “So much nicer than our house ever was. It’s just so … well, homey, I guess is the right word.”

“Then I’m glad you feel at home. We aim to please. Take a seat.” Rose swept the copy of the local newspaper,
The Lakeview Monitor,
to one side and placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of Bea.

“A Peter Rabbit mug,” Bea exclaimed. “I always loved those books as a kid.”

“It was Diz’s when he was small, somehow it’s survived the years. There’s also banana muffins fresh made this morning, though, I confess, not by me. Madison did it, she likes to cook. Maybe she’ll end up a chef somewhere.”

Bea took a sip of the coffee then took a small polite bite of the muffin Rose placed on a handy saucer in front of her.

To Rose, the girl looked as though she had not had a decent meal in a long time. She wondered about that mother. Even though the woman was dead and she should not be thinking bad about her, it was apparent the daughter had been neglected. Not only had she obviously not been eating properly but Rose would bet she was also emotionally starved.

Bea hunched over the table, her eyes fixed on the muffin on the saucer as though wondering what to do with it, and Rose wondered if after all she was doing the right thing. Harry Jordan might have talked her into the biggest mistake of her life, looking after this troubled young woman.

“Madison, the girl who baked the muffins, is one of my twin daughters,” she explained. “The other is Frazer. They’ve just turned sixteen and are full of teenage angst.”

“I don’t remember any teenage angst.” Bea frowned. “I don’t think angst was allowed in my house.”

The Havnels had only lived at the lake for a couple of months and now Rose wondered exactly where that house, where Bea had spent her angst-less teenage years, was.

“You a Boston girl, then?” she asked casually, biting into a muffin and the hell with the calories; this girl made her nervous as no other child ever had.