Steps to the Altar (19 page)

He bent down and rested his elbows on the truck’s window frame. “Want to come up and see what we’re doing to the barn?”

I hesitated for a moment, then said, “Sure.”

He opened my door and swept his hand out in front of him. “After you, Mrs. Harper.”

I walked up the rough driveway, gravel crunching like hard-packed snow under my boots, acutely aware of his presence behind me. When I reached the barn door, I stepped inside and stood for a moment, looking around. This barn was a local landmark, one I’d driven by hundreds of times. I was glad one of the groups of people in San Celina who cared about preserving San Celina heritage had decided this was worth saving. Too many of our old buildings were being torn down in the name of progress.

“We’re working on the framing first,” the detective said, coming up beside me. He pushed up the sleeves of his gray sweatshirt and pointed toward the barn rafters. “Another year or so, this baby would have tumbled to the ground, the wood was so rotten. That would have been a shame.”

“Yes, it would,” I said, my eyes following his finger to the newly replaced framing inside the weathered structure. There were gaps in the roof wide enough to see the stars, visible now that the storm clouds had moved south. A chilly wind blew through the barn, causing me to shiver inside my flannel-lined jacket.

“Hey, I’ve got some hot coffee here,” he said, stepping over a pile of lumber and picking up a large red thermos. “There’s only one cup, but I swear I don’t have any infectious diseases.”

“On your mawmaw’s grave?” I asked.

He laughed and untwisted the cap. “Absolutely. On my mama’s good name too.”

I shook my head and frowned. “Please, Detective, let’s not even get into the mother thing or I’m outta here.”

He held out a steaming cup of coffee. “Could you please do me one favor? Call me Hud. I think we’ve known each other long enough for first names, don’t you?”

I took the cup and brought it up to my lips. “I suppose.” One swallow of the strong, black coffee caused me to gasp, “Geeze Louise, this isn’t coffee! It’s hot mud.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “None of that Starbucks dishwater for this Cajun boy. That there’s Community brand coffee. Best on earth. Guaranteed to put hair on your chest . . . or wherever you want it.”

“It’s terrible,” I said, handing the cup back to him.

He took it, drank after me, then said, “Say it.”

“What?”

“Say my name. I won’t believe you until you say it.”

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud . . .”

“Say it.”

“You’re nuts.”

“Say it or I’ll make you finish this coffee.” He thrust the cup back into my hand.

“Okay, okay,” I said, setting the cup down on a makeshift table of plywood and two sawhorses. “Hud. Hud - not - the - government - agency. Hud - like - the - movie. Hud - who - doesn’t - look - at - all - like - Paul - Newman.” I looked directly in his eyes. “Are you happy now?”

He gave a slow, thoughtful smile. “Ecstatic.”

I cleared my throat and said, “Actually, the reason I drove by—”

“Was because you’re investigating this murder of Garvey Sullivan and wanted to see the murder scene. You’ve decided Maple’s innocent, haven’t you?”

I didn’t answer. It was annoying that he could read me so well.

“You hate it that I know what’s going on inside you, don’t you?” he said, still smiling. “Drives you crazy.”

“You don’t know squat,” I snapped.

He shrugged. “My mistake. I was going to offer to let you inside the house, but if you’re not interested . . .”

I bit the inside of my cheek, thinking. I did want to go inside the house, not necessarily to see the murder scene but to see if I could find any of Garvey’s letters to Maple or anything that told me something about his side of the relationship. Something that would either confirm or disprove Maple’s guilt. I didn’t particularly want Hud involved. This was a personal quest for me and I didn’t want to share it with anyone.

“Why do you have access to the house?” I asked, sticking my hands deep into the pockets of my denim jacket. The temperature had dropped at least another ten degrees in the last hour, and irritating husband or not, my warm bed was looking better and better.

“I’m kind of the unofficial caretaker,” he replied. He picked up a flashlight sitting on the ground and switched it on, motioning me to follow him. We left the barn and started up the sloping gravel driveway toward the Victorian house, towering dark and menacing ahead of us. Wisps of fog were already starting to form and drift around the house, and the overgrown oak trees around it gave it a traditional haunted house look. His police issue flashlight was a single white beacon up the dark path. Feeling the sudden urge to grab the back of his belt, it occurred to me that coming back tomorrow in daylight might be a better idea.

“I live here, as a matter of fact,” he said over his shoulder.

“In the house?” It was definitely in the middle stages of restoration so I couldn’t imagine anyone living there. It couldn’t possibly have working plumbing or safe electricity. Not to mention it would creep out anyone with an ounce of imagination.

“Not in the big house,” he replied. “There.” He pointed behind the barn toward a wooden clapboard house whose windows shined yellow bright and comforting in the dark hazy night. “Old caretaker’s house. It’s not huge, but it’s great for a divorced guy who only has his daughter every other weekend. Maisie loves coming out here. She’s become quite a little nail banger.”

“Doesn’t it get lonely?” I couldn’t help asking.

He stopped at the Sullivan house’s steps and turned to look at me. I couldn’t see his eyes in the smoky black shadows. “Sometimes. But I don’t mind. Contrary to my party-loving demeanor, I’m actually quite a loner.”

“Why?” The question popped out of my lips before I could stop it.

His smile was sad as his left shoulder lifted in an almost imperceptible shrug. “Guess you’d have to ask my mama. She’s the psychology expert.”

I blew out an angry breath. “She probably studied under Sigmund Freud too.”

His laugh was softened by the rapidly thickening fog. “She’d scalp you if she heard you say that. Not only is it an insult to her age, she never did cotton to Freudian theory.”

“And she’d know the proper way to scalp me, right?” I said. “Because she’s half Cherokee and learned how to scalp the white man at her own mama’s knee.”

He grinned. “You been peekin’ in our windows, ranch girl?”

“Let’s just see the house,” I said, annoyed that my sarcasm didn’t even faze him.

“There’s a lot to see,” he said, walking up the steps. “Careful now, some of these aren’t nailed down too good. What are you exactly looking for?”

I hesitated, not wanting him to know any more than he had to. But if I wanted to find out anything tonight, he was the only one available to ask. Unfortunately, patience has never been my strong suit. “Actually, I was interested in looking at some of Garvey’s things. I’m kinda looking for some letters . . . or something like that.”

“His love letters to her,” Hud said, unlocking the elaborately carved front door. It was in the mid-stages of restoration, the bottom half painstakingly hand-sanded. When this house was in its prime, it must have been incredible. What a lifestyle change for little Maple Bennett of Mercy Ridge, Kentucky.

I didn’t answer him, not wanting to verify what I was trying to do.

“You want to see if he loved her as much as she professed to love him,” Hud said softly, holding the door open for me.

I ignored his comment and stepped over the threshold. The spacious entry hall smelled of a mixture of sweet mildew and grainy sawdust. I caught the faint scent of a skunk and wondered just how neglected this house had become before the historical society claimed it. I swallowed hard, a deep sadness coming over me. Her hopefilled letters were such a contrast to how their lives eventually turned out.

He waved the flashlight around the entry hall so I could see the carved moldings and the hammered copper ceiling. “You really can appreciate it more in daylight. Want to see where it happened?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling unexplainably pulled to the spot. But what did I think it would tell me?

“It’s up in the attic. Watch yourself on the stairway. It’s not carpeted and kind of slippery.”

I followed him up the steep stairway, feeling the wood creak and give with the pressure of each step. Halfway up, I stumbled and fell to one knee.

“Dang it!” I exclaimed, rubbing my throbbing knee.

“I told you to be careful,” he called over his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” I mumbled, scrambling to keep up with him and his flashlight. The stairs up to the third floor were just as steep, but I managed to maneuver them without a mishap.

A door closed off the attic to the third-floor hallway. He opened it and shined the light up the stairs. These were enclosed and I felt like I was suffocating when I followed him up.

The attic was empty except for one old metal trunk.

He nodded at the trunk. “There’s nothing in it.”

I gazed around the room. There was nothing special about it except for the weirdness of seeing it in the shadowing frame of Hud’s police-issue flashlight.

I expected to feel something—a leftover sadness, violence,
something
—that verified that a tragedy had happened here. That a life . . . no, more than one life . . . had ended here fifty years ago.

But things like that only happened in cheesy horror novels and cable TV movies. All I felt was the cold dampness of an empty room in an old house. Whatever feelings that had taken place in this room fifty years ago were not soaked into this wooden floor.

“Where did it actually happen?” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure why. Who was I afraid would hear me?

“I have no idea,” Hud said, turning the flashlight square on me.

I held my hand up to shield my face from its brightness.

He pointed it down at our feet. “Sorry.”

“I wonder if I could find out.” It seemed an important fact to know.

“This is technically within city limits. It was fifty years ago so that depends on whether the San Celina Police Department keeps murder books that long. You certainly have the resources to find out.”

“I’ll ask Gabe,” I murmured. I gazed around the room and then back at Hud. “Don’t you find it odd she would shoot him up here?”

He tilted his head, jiggling the flashlight in his hand in a nervous gesture. “Not especially. People kill people in the strangest places. There’s no real logic to domestic murders. Most of the time, it’s just an unplanned moment of anger. In my opinion, we all walk that edge in our relationships. Any of us could pull the trigger given the right circumstance.”

“You really think so?”

His face was grim in the shadowy light. “Yes, I do.”

“So do I.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Now, I didn’t expect that coming from
you.
”

“Shows that you don’t know all that much about me then, doesn’t it?” I said coolly. “But I still don’t buy her shooting him up here. If what you said is true, I would have expected her to have shot him in the bedroom . . . or the kitchen. That’s where people fight. It just doesn’t make sense up here.”

“Like I said, domestic homicides hardly ever make sense.”

I shook my head. “Not make sense, maybe, but most people do things in a basically logical way. I mean why would they be up here? I bet this was the maid’s quarters back then . . . or storage. What reason would he have to come up here and what reason would she have to follow him? If they were arguing about some other man, it would probably have taken place downstairs.”

“That’s the most convoluted reasoning I’ve ever heard and it is just pure speculation on your part. Not an ounce of
logic
in it. Besides, there’s no way to find out now.”

“Maybe there is, maybe there isn’t.” After seeing the place where she’d supposedly shot and killed her husband—aided, some believed, by her lover—I was more convinced that there was more to their story than we knew. “I’m going to try and find out, though.”

“How?”

“I’ve got some ideas.”

“Need help? I have plenty—”

“No,” I interrupted, turning to leave. “Let’s get out of here. What I want isn’t up here, but thanks for showing it to me.”

We didn’t talk again until he’d locked the front door and we were walking back toward my truck. A breeze had come up, swirling the fog around us. The setting was so perfect for the story, it could have been a movie set.

“You know, they don’t keep any of his possessions in the house,” he finally said.

“So I guessed.”

“I know where they are.”

I stopped and turned to glared at him, fully annoyed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t actually ask.”

“But you knew that’s what I wanted!”

“You wanted to see the scene of the crime too, didn’t you?”

He had me there. It just made me mad that he’d withheld information he knew I wanted until
he
felt like revealing it to me.

“So, where are they?” I asked, still irritated.

He pointed over at the caretaker’s house. “Some of his things are in the garage behind my house. Some are kept at the historical museum. Some are at the college.”

“What about written things?”

“Like his letters, you mean.” He smirked at me.

I was sorely tempted to smack his face. “Yes, his letters. Do you know where they are?”

He started walking toward his house. I followed after him, stumbling once on the rough path when his flashlight’s beam got too far ahead of me.

“Be careful,” he called cheerfully over his shoulder.

“Eat dirt,” I mumbled.

Inside the caretaker’s house, it was warm and yeasty smelling, like someone had just baked bread. From the living room, where the decor could be called early bachelor since it consisted of a sofa, recliner, a couple of plain tables, a wall clock, and a stereo, I could see into the small yellow-and-white kitchen. On the gray formica counter sat two round loaves of freshly baked bread covered by plain white tea towels.

“Baking bread relaxes me,” he said, noting my observation.