Roots of Murder (27 page)

“You were fine,” Aaron assured her.

Nell wondered if he'd understood her implied message, but on this dance floor at this party was not the time to be more explicit.

The rest of the evening seemed a blur. She took another glass of champagne, but it only gave her a headache. She didn't return to the dance floor, citing the headache when asked.

Aaron sensed her changed state, but Nell couldn't tell if he had any clue of the real reason or if he took it to be only the headache. He fetched a glass of water for her and produced two aspirin. Then he was captured by a TV news crew. They were covering all the mayoral candidates—more likely trying to catch them sipping a drink or worse, as this was the more tabloid news team.

Nell suggested she could catch a ride home, but Aaron told her he was leaving soon. The party was winding down; he'd captured most of the votes he was likely to get. He was good on his word, and after a few required goodbyes, he was back at her side. “Probably too many candidates in the room,” he said. “That'd give any reporter a headache.”

“Or the politicos demanding I not run some stories.” Nell proceeded to get Aaron up to speed on both the mayor's and the sheriff's requests. It was a brief version; she left out her deal with the sheriff. There are some sins you just shouldn't confess on the first date.

Aaron listened sympathetically, murmuring about politics resembling swamps: dark, murky, and full of snakes. He then added he had to put in a token protest on the story about the bones, because if he didn't then it would look like he was encouraging her to run the story for his political advantage.

“And if asked, I will testify that you made a gallant effort to postpone more articles until after the election, but I insisted on having freedom of the press. Will that keep your hands clean?”

“Clean enough for an election,” Aaron agreed.

They headed for the door. They managed to arrive at the same time as Hubert Pickings. He didn't seem happy to see his rival in such proximity, and the amount of alcohol he'd consumed—his breath told a tale of bourbon—did little to turn him into an agreeable man.

“Well, Mr. Dupree. See you cozying up with the local press.”

“Good evening, Pickings,” Aaron said tersely.

“Think your Dupree money's gonna win you this election, don't you?”

“I think the issues and our abilities are going to win this election,” he retorted.

“You're speaking like you think your little lady friend is gonna quote you,” the mayor spat out.

On his face was a sheen of desperation. He had to know Aaron Dupree had a very good chance of winning. He was, Nell realized, fighting as a caged animal does—blindly, enraged, and with no hope of getting out.

“Good night, Hubert. I'll see you at our debate.” Aaron took Nell by the arm and brushed past him.

“Yeah, that's right. Thom McGraw barely in his grave and already you use your dick to get an endorsement,” Hubert Pickings called after them.

They both stopped and turned again to face him.

“You little runt … ” Aaron started.

Nell cut in. Using her most polite tone, putting every ounce of sugar she could into the vinegar, she said, “Excuse me, Mr. Mayor. I'm afraid I didn't catch that. I thought I heard you express a crude, sexist lie using terms suitable only for lowlife drunks. Since I know that anyone with the wisdom and experience to run the City of Pelican Bay wouldn't use such vulgar, foul terms, nor make up exaggerated and ugly stories, I'm sure I must have misheard you. Could you repeat what you just said?”

By now they were the focus of attention, with enough
blue-haired
Preservation dowagers at the mayor's elbow to ensure he would be not just a fool, but an utter fool, to repeat himself.

Nell was disappointed when he proved, at least in this instance, that he wasn't an utter fool.

“Uh, sorry, can't remember what I said. Somethin' like good night.” One of his friends had enough sense to take him by the arm and lead him away from the throng at the door.

“That's not what—” Aaron started.

“Let's go,” Nell interrupted. She whispered, “He's made a fool of himself. You don't need to do the same.”

They exited the house and into the evening.

The air seemed to cool Aaron down. In a rueful tone, he said, “And I was so looking forward to being a macho turd.”

“Defending the little woman?”

“Something like that. But I'm gathering the little woman can defend herself.”

“When I need to.”

“But can I punch him after the election?” Aaron asked.

He was bantering, but Nell recognized under it was a real urge to have gotten into a fight, or at least mark his territory. Part of her appreciated it and part of her detested it. Her headache took it to the detest side.

“The man was drunk and stupid. Can't you let it go?”

“I'm trying, but he just pisses me off.”

“Beat him in the election. That ought to be close enough to fisticuffs.”

“Not when you want blood.” He opened the car door for her.

“I'm sorry, Aaron. I'm tired and have a headache and I'm not in the mood for blood.”

He seemed chastened at her words and was silent. Then he said, “My mother was always after my dad to put up more of a fight, accused him of being too reasonable. Guess I was listening to my mother's voice.”

“And your reasonable dad ended up one of the richest and most powerful men on the coast.”

“You're right. My sister said the same thing. Maybe I should listen to the reasonable women around me.”

“Wise choice. You can take this one home and let me sleep off my headache,” Nell said, but as she did, she noticed that the cool air and being out of the confines of the crowd eased the tension of her head.

They talked little on the way home. Nell realized she was melancholy. Aaron was a nice man, but he wasn't Thom, and being with him seemed only to bring home that she would never be with Thom again. All the coming dinners, the parties, the charity events, would be without him. Even though she'd told Aaron to blow off the mayor's comment, it rankled her, echoed the accusing voice in her head. Thom McGraw was barely in his grave. Nell knew she wasn't ready to get involved with anyone, but a physical part of her wanted to be touched. She briefly wondered what it would be like to invite Aaron in, to go to bed with him, to linger however fleetingly in the oblivion of physical passion. But the longing was quickly intermixed with the vision of taking him in the same bed she and Thom had shared for so long.

They pulled into her driveway.

“Aaron, I had a good time with you … ” Nell said, her hand on the car door. Do I say it now, she wondered, or do I just open the door and worry about it the next time?

He didn't give her a chance. His answer was to wrap his arms around her and kiss her.

Nell was shocked at how quickly her body responded to him, how much she wanted this. Then the mayor's taunt, “Thom McGraw barely dead in his grave,” reverberated in her head and she pulled away.

“I'm honored and I'm flattered and … I can't,” she said. “I'm not ready for this, I'm sorry. But … it's too soon.”

“No, I'm sorry. I was out of line,” Aaron said gallantly.

“I'm … ambivalent about this. Right now … I'm terribly lonely, but it's because I miss Thom. I can't want someone else yet. Someday, when I can put away things like the cheap pens he used to use without bursting into tears, I hope I'll be ready for something more.”

“I understand. No, I probably don't understand. What I went through was divorce. By the time the separation was final, the love was gone. I don't want to be a cad, but I can't promise to wait around for five years, either. Keep me in your life, Nell. Let me know where you are.”

“That sounds fair. I sincerely hope I can get beyond this in less than five years … but I don't know. Maybe six months, maybe longer.”

He bent in and gently kissed her on the cheek. Then he was quickly out his door and around to open hers. Nell got out and walked to her front step, but said nothing. She glanced back once as she entered the house. He was waiting by the car, watching her.

After she gently pulled the door closed, she heard his car pull away. She felt both relief and loneliness. She hurried into the bedroom and flung off her dress, as if it was evidence of her betrayal. She then rushed to the bathroom, throwing water on her face, washing off the makeup, a bare bit of blush and powder and lipstick. But the face looking back at her in the mirror still showed guilt and despair.

This is too hard, she thought. I take a few steps out of my numb shell—going back to work, contemplating finding love again—and all it does is crash me into grief and guilt and an empty house with empty rooms.

Nell quickly threw on an old pair of jeans and a sweater. She felt she just couldn't be in the house right now, with the memories and without the needs of her children to force the demons away.

Where am I going, she thought as she pulled out of the driveway? She answered herself, it doesn't matter. First she headed to the beach, to drive along its moonlit length, but that held memories. Sometimes she and Thom would detour, a few extra minutes in each other's company with the waves and the sun, or the glistening water and the moon.

Someplace else, Nell thought, turning away from the shore. She found herself driving on the highway, the strip with its garish chains of
fast-food
restaurants and
low-budget
stores. This was the mecca for the newly enfranchised with driver's licenses. Besides her, the oldest person on the road was the police car that was slowly cruising along. She turned off the highway into a residential section. Its streets were quieter: cars parked, windows softly lit, an occasional blue of a TV screen visible.

But even these quiet homes with quiet lives held demons. Nell resented them, the placid existence she supposed they lived, all the horrors of life safely on television. She knew she wasn't being fair. Her house would show the same façade, the same gentle light. But alone in her car, Nell didn't have to be fair. She could be angry and scared and desolate.

Get away from the quiet houses, the ones that mirror my own; go to an unfamiliar part of town, with no memories, no glimpses of happier times. She turned down a road and then another and ended up on the old highway that used to connect Pelican Bay to other towns, but its worn two lanes had been replaced long ago by one with four lanes and then the interstate. Now it was a strip of tired donut places, auto repair shops, and bars, the tense zone between the poor white section of town and the poor black one.

The bright colors of neon beer signs alternated with the dark and shuttered businesses. There were few people on the street: several outlined in the fluorescent of the donut shop, one man in a shapeless coat pushing a shopping cart that was probably his home.

Then Nell spotted his truck. It was pulled over and parked on a side street, but there was no mistaking J.J.'s massive black truck with the Confederate flag in the back window. Nell turned and parked in front of it, staring at it in her
rear-view
mirror as if mesmerized.

There was still a dent in the front end, one of the headlights smashed, remains of the damage J.J. had received from the accident. That front fender had swerved into their car, crumpling the hood, sending them veering off the road
head-on
into the trees. One of the thick branches had come through the windshield on the passenger side—where Thom has been sitting.

How dare he be out here drinking, driving that truck, like he hadn't killed a man with it? Suddenly furious, Nell scrabbled in the glove compartment, looking for something sharp, something that could scratch or gouge. But even the usual pen wasn't there, given to Lizzie a few days before because she'd forgotten to put one in the purse she decided to use that day.

“Damn it,” Nell swore aloud. She looked at her keys, debating whether to risk breaking them. “Goddamn it,” she swore again. She couldn't just leave his truck in peace, as if it hadn't so horrifically invaded her life. What if he's drunk and kills someone again?

She silently got out and walked to the corner of the street. All was quiet and no one was about. There were vague noises from the bar in the middle of the block, presumably the one where J.J. was celebrating his bail and freedom. A disco beat was playing, voices raised over it. There would be a sharp increase of the noise if the door opened, Nell decided. That would have to be her warning.

She returned to the truck and knelt next to one of the tires, fumbling off the air valve in the dark. Using the tip of a key, she pressed open the valve. The hiss of air was loud and sharp in the dark. Abruptly, Nell stopped, her heart thudding. Someone must have heard, she thought. But there were no noises save for the background from the bar, a shush of wind in the trees. She opened the tire again, stopping every few seconds to listen.

I wouldn't be a good crook or a vandal, she thought as she again listened for any sound of discovery. The tire seemed little affected. I could be here all night. Her only hope was that J.J. would stay in the bar for an equally long time.

Nell let the tire hiss for a long time before pausing again, but the sidewall still felt firm to her touch.

“Goddamn it!” she suddenly let out, a wave of anger and frustration coming over her. She pounded the tire with her fist, its firmness at each impact mocking her. “You bastard,” she muttered. She again jammed the key in the valve, the rush of air escaping obscuring the sound of footsteps until she felt a hand on her shoulder.

Nell jumped and whirled away, her keys still in her hand, ready to scratch and fight.

“Calm down, it's a friend.” Marcus Fletcher stood before her.

“What are you doing here?” they both said at the same time.