Long Black Veil (30 page)

“What offer, Mr. Abernathy?”

“If I identified Jackson Duvall, I would get two hundred thousand dollars. Half when they arrested him and half when I testified.” He looked at Devon with pleading eyes. “I wasn’t able to work anymore, what with driving Rose to her appointments and taking care of her. We needed that money.”

Devon swallowed, but gestured for him to continue. “I didn’t think he’d go to jail, not really. I knew his folks had money. I just thought they’d hire some big shot lawyer and get the case thrown out or something. And when it started to look like he might be convicted, I went back to her and told her I couldn’t go through with it. But she threatened me—said if I came clean now, I’d be sent to prison and then who would look after Rose…” He looked down at the framed photo again.

“Who did you talk to? Who paid you?” Devon leaned forward before she could stop herself and had to be reminded to pull back by Gil’s hand on her arm. She forced herself to relax, to not be so pushy. The man was talking; if she just let him tell his story in his own time, he’d probably tell them everything. She just had to chill out.

Yeah. Like that would happen.

Still, she tried. She took a deep breath and smiled. “Go ahead, Mr. Abernathy.”

He looked up from the photograph for a moment as if ascertaining where he was. Devon put a hand briefly over his, trying to encourage him to speak. Finally, he began to speak once more. “I never could understand why she would want that poor boy to go to jail,” he said, his voice confused. “He and her son were thick as thieves.”

Devon felt something wind up tight inside her like clockwork springs. She managed to keep herself under control, but she felt like her jaw was going to shatter with the amount of force she was using to keep her mouth shut.

Gil bailed her out. “Jackson Duvall was close with the son of whoever paid you?”

Dwight nodded. “That’s right. Deacon and Jackson were joined at the hip in those days. Along with another friend of theirs—a girl. Didn’t see her much at the Mackson place though.”

She could hear the stutter step of her heart as it pounded in her chest. She felt hot, sweat broke out across her forehead and on her back and stomach. “So Charlotte Mackson was the one who paid you. She’s the one who came up with the plan to frame Jackson Duvall?”

Abernathy finally met her eyes. He seemed to look at her and really see her this time, rather than looking through her like he had been. He paled and drew back a little, shielding the photograph with his hands. “You look like him. Like Jackson Duvall.” He swallowed. “You his kin? Is that what this is about?”

Devon had always thought she resembled her mother more than anyone, but then again, she hadn’t ever gotten to meet, let alone learn the face of her father. She’d only seen newspaper photographs and the photographs her mother had stored in her memory box. This man though, had known Jackson Duvall; he’d sat across a courtroom and lied about him. She imagined the face of her biological father must haunt his dreams every time he closed his eyes. He’d condemned an innocent man to jail. A less charitable part of her hoped that he hadn’t slept peacefully since.

She didn’t want to tell him that yes, Jackson Duvall had been her father. But she wasn’t going to deny her mother either. “My mom is Lorelei Mackson—one of his best friends.”

He bowed his head. Devon waited for him to say something else. When he didn’t for several minutes, she asked, “Why would Mrs. Mackson want Jackson Duvall framed for a murder he didn’t do?”

Abernathy shrugged, surreptitiously wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “She never said why to me. And I knew better than to ask. It wasn’t my business.”

Gil spoke. “Why are you telling us this now?”

Dwight sighed, and turned his body so he could face Gil. “Because I’m old, and more than old. I’m dying. And when you know you’re dying, a lot of things become less important. And some things matter more.” His eyes flicked to Devon. “Truth matters more.”

Devon nodded. “Truth matters most,” she corrected.

He chuckled. “The surety of youth.” He shook his head. “Girl, someday you’re going to realize a hard truth of the world when you have to compromise your principles for something you love more.”

Devon didn’t answer him. But inside, she burned. How could he say that truth wasn’t the most important thing? Look at what hiding the truth, denying the truth had done to her family! If being truthful meant she was uncompromising, well, Devon could live with it.

Dwight spoke again, his eyes only on Devon. “And what do you plan to do with what I’ve told you?” He didn’t sound concerned about it. Maybe age took away fear. Or maybe death did.

She chewed on her thumb as she turned that question over in her mind. She had proof now of Jackson Duvall’s innocence. But he was long dead, and so was his best friend and rival, Deacon Mackson. Her mother was in jail and content to remain so. She already knew the truth and couldn’t live with her part in it. So what did she plan to do with Abernathy’s story?

“I’m not sure yet,” she answered, because she wasn’t. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear absently.

“Sometimes the truth doesn’t do anybody any good, at least those that are left alive. You think about that.”

“And what about the dead?”

He smiled sadly. “The dead don’t care.”

Devon thought of Jessamy and knew how wrong he was. The dead cared. Sometimes they cared very, very much.

Chapter Thirty-One

She could feel Gil’s eyes on her as they walked to the car. They would skip over to her when he was driving. Devon felt like she should say something, anything, to reassure him, but she couldn’t bring herself to right now. It was too much to process. She wasn’t even sure how to begin to order her thoughts about what she’d learned today.

They drove for a while in silence. Devon knew Gil was giving her some space. It just wasn’t helping her. Finally she sighed and said, “So say something.”

Gil didn’t take his eyes off of the road. “Like what?” His gaze darted sideways eyes off of his road for a second to gauge her mood. “Like your grandmother is a raging sociopath?”

Devon smiled, but it had no joy in it. “It’s a start.”

“What are you going to do?” His voice was tight, tense.

"We should call Brock," Devon said, wishing he was here with them right now. "But if his mom answers, she won't let me talk to him."

Gil pulled out his cell phone. "Leave it to me." He dialed Brock's number and hit Send. They waited in silence as the phone at the other end began to ring.

"Hi, Mrs. Cutler," Gil said when Brock's mother picked up the phone. "This is Gil Loflin. Brock and I are partners for a project at school and I was wondering if I might speak to him." He paused while she answered him, then he said, "Thank you, Ma'am."

Devon silently clapped. He sketched a bow from behind the steering wheel. Gil's gift for prevarication never ceased to amaze her.

"Hey Brock," Gil said after a few minutes of waiting. "I'm going to put you on speakerphone." He hit a button, then handed Devon the phone. "You still there?"

"Yeah." Brock's voice came through loud and clear. Devon felt a catch in her throat, surprised at how much she was missing him.

"Hi Brock," she said, shocked when the longing she was feeling made its way into her voice.

"Hey Dev." There was something in his voice too. Perhaps he was missing her too? She liked to think so. "What did you guys find out?"

Gil gestured for Devon to handle the recap. She tried to keep it short and simple. "Charlotte paid Mr. Abernathy to lie about Jackson Duvall. He was nowhere near there on the night of the shooting. He made up the whole thing."

There was quiet on the other end. Devon waited, looking at Gil when it seemed the silence had gone on too long. Finally, Brock said, "Okay. So what do we do now? We know she did it, but this happened twenty years ago."

"And who's going to believe us if we say anything?" Gil kept his eyes on the road while he spoke. "Let's face it, we're not the most stellar group of witnesses—I'm gay, and you two are one step away from juvie. We're in high school! Nobody is going to listen to us."

Devon chewed the inside of her cheek. She knew Gil and Brock were right. When she started looking into this, it was all wrapped up with Jessamy, and then it turned into her wanting to know the truth about who her father really was. But now that she had found that out, and now that she knew what had really happened to him, what did she want?

"Hey Dev, Gil? You guys still there?" Brock asked when she didn't answer.

"Hang on, B," Gil said. "Devon's using that enormous brain of hers."

"Somebody has to," she shot back lightly, her mind still running through their options. "I think we should wait before we decide anything. I didn't come at this with the idea of outing my grandmother as a psychopath—that's just been a special bonus. We need to figure out what we should do."

"Cool," Brock said, then lowered his voice. "Hey, my mom's coming back. I got to go."

"Bye. I miss you," Devon said before he got off the line.

Gil wisely said nothing, just kept his eyes on the road. Devon put the phone on the console between them. She looked out the window for a few minutes, lost in thought as the foothills zipped by out her window.

Finally she knew what she had to do, what she wanted to do. Turning to Gil, she said, “Take me to Charlotte’s.”

*****

Gil offered to wait until she’d talked to her grandmother—to Charlotte, she kept reminding herself—but Devon sent him away. She wasn’t sure how long this conversation was going to last. She wanted privacy for it, and she wasn’t sure how she was going to feel when it was over with. So he pulled the car to a stop in front of Charlotte’s house, admonished her to be careful, then drove away after she’d gotten out.

Devon took a bracing breath, straightening her shoulders. She opened the white gate and walked up the carefully maintained path to the front porch. She remembered the last time she was here, and what she’d promised Charlotte—she’d promised her that they would never speak again. Devon didn’t want to go back on her word, but she had to confront her with the truth. Devon had to tell her that she knew what Charlotte had done.

She rang the bell. It was hard for her to stand there, just waiting. She didn’t know if Charlotte would slam the door in her face, but she would stand here all day, ringing that damn bell if she had to. Finally she heard footsteps. Charlotte opened the door, a frown of epic proportion on her face.

“I thought we had an agreement,” she said in a flat voice.

“We do, and believe me when I say I wish I weren’t here.” Devon’s voice was just as expressionless.

“Then what are you doing back here?”

“There’s one last thing I have to talk to you about.” Devon took a step into the house. Charlotte didn’t move, so Devon was forced to stop or shove her out of the way. “May I come in? I don’t think you want me saying what I have to say right here on the porch.”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that.”

“Okay.” Devon leaned against the doorframe. “I just got back from seeing a Mr. Dwight Abernathy.”

Devon waited for a reaction. But she didn’t get anything besides the door opening a little further, enough to allow her to come inside. Devon stepped past Charlotte but she didn’t go much farther than the parlor. Charlotte didn’t offer her to sit and Devon had no intention of staying. This wasn’t a social visit.

“Why would you go to speak to Dwight Abernathy?” Charlotte’s voice was frosty.

“I know what you did.” Devon didn’t want to beat around the bush.

“I’m sorry,” the older woman said, “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“He told me. Everything.”

Charlotte’s face showed no emotion. Devon stared at her, trying to read her, but got nothing. They stood in silence for several minutes, staring at each other.

Finally, Charlotte spoke. “How much do you want?”

Devon’s mouth dropped open. In all of the scenarios that she played out in her head, this had not even been among the top 100. “What?”

Charlotte frowned, the first sign of emotion she’d given. “I don’t believe I was overly complicated in my request. How much do you want?”

“This isn’t about money,” Devon hissed, anger bubbling inside her.

“Then what is it about?” Charlotte shot back, a hint of heat in her voice.

“You lied! And you paid someone else to lie too!” Devon’s voice was getting louder. She couldn’t help it; it was either yell or cry. And she wouldn’t cry in front of Charlotte Mackson. Not ever again.

A flash of anger crossed Charlotte’s face. “I think this conversation is over.”

“You can’t just buy me off!” Devon shouted. “I know—do you understand that? I know that you framed Jackson Duvall, my father, for a murder he didn’t commit! I know you paid someone to lie on the stand to convict an innocent man.”

“And exactly what proof do you have?” Charlotte drew herself up, a haughty cast to her face. “Do you think anyone will listen to you, the daughter of a junkie whore?”