Promises of Home Read online

  “I just lay on my bed. I’d figured they thought I’d gone to the store with Mom and Uncle Dwight, so I didn’t even move. I heard Trey wheeling himself around in the bedroom, talking to himself. It sounds stupid, but I crawled out the window and made a lot of noise coming back in the house. I didn’t want him to know I’d heard.”

  “Why?” Candace asked.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t like the way that Clevey fellow talked to him, it was scary. One minute sounding mean, like he’d just as soon spit in your face, the next minute sounding like he was your best friend ever.

  “If someone had told me Trey’d be murdered in a couple of days, I’d have said for sure that Clevey would have been the one to do it. But he couldn’t have. He was already dead himself.” Scott shook his head. “I don’t like this place. I don’t know why Trey wanted to come back here.”

  “THIS IS AN UNHOLY MESS.” HART QUADLANDER shook his head at me. Candace had taken Scott in, finally plying him with an offer of a more substantial lunch, and Hart had lit a cigarette. I saw his fingers tremble slightly, the smoke swirling around his hand.

  “Trey’s death has you unsettled, doesn’t it?” I asked him.

  “More than you’ll know,” Hart answered. I liked him; he was one of the last remaining icons of Southern gentility to be found in Mirabeau. He was tall, striking, dark, gray-streaked haired, gray-eyed, with a textured deep drawl that should have done public readings of the works of Padgett Powell or Larry McMurtry. Being the last of the Quadlanders counted for a lot in Mirabeau, and Hart wore his position like a mantle.

  “It was hard on me,” Hart said, halfway to himself, “when Trey left town. I’d grown real fond of him over the years. And of course, it just killed his daddy. Louis had always had a drinking problem, but it just got worse when Trey left. I reckon we can be thankful Louis ain’t here to see what became of his boy.”

  “Trey sent my sister money,” I said.

  Hart digested this news, drawing on his cigarette and breathing out a plume of smoke. “I hate to say this, Jordy, but the town gossips have Arlene pegged as the prime suspect. None of us can ignore her belting Trey at Truda’s house. It’s not helping her that Junebug pulled himself off the case.”

  “You don’t think that, do you?” My stomach sank. Hart Quadlander was highly respected in Mirabeau. His opinion could influence others.

  “I don’t believe in assessing guilt before you got all the facts. Maybe someone else had a reason to kill Trey.” He stubbed out his cigarette in the ceramic ashtray we kept out on the porch for our smoking guests and looked at me. “Frankly, Jordy, I can’t think of a soul other than Arlene with a motive. He’d been out of town for a long while.”

  “What about when he left town? Can you remember anything that happened then? Maybe he got killed ’cause he came home.” Over the years Hart and I had wondered about Trey’s reasons for leaving; but I had to ask.

  He shook his head. “He was here one day, gone the next. He must have been planning to run out on Arlene and Mark and his father. After all, he took those pictures that Scott found.”

  The pictures bothered me; they suggested a man who still cherished his family, not an abandonee. And something niggled at my mind regarding those pictures. “You sure you can’t think of anything?”

  Hart shook his head and lit another cigarette. “Son, I’ve gone over that time again and again. Louis was still drinking a little too much, but he was trying to stay off the juice. ’Course, when Trey left he started boozing all over again. Drank himself to death over that boy.”

  I still stung from the intimation against my sister. “So where were you when Trey died?”

  Hart shrugged and didn’t seem offended by the bluntness of my question. “Saturday morning I was over in Fayette County, at the Running Creek Horse Farm. Looking at some ponies to buy. I didn’t hear about Trey’s murder till I got home that afternoon at three.”

  “Did Trey tell you why he showed up in town again?”

  “God, no.” Hart rubbed his chin, a half smile on his face. “And that just about shocked the bejesus out of me. I never expected to see that boy’s face again. He showed up at the horse farm with young Scott and that Nola gal. Asked to talk to me alone.” He shrugged, “I was awful glad to see him. I don’t know if I would have felt that way a few years back. I blamed him too much for pushing Louis back to the bottle.”

  “Louis poured out his own death,” I snapped, perhaps a bit more bluntly than I should’ve. Louis Slocum had never been any good; he’d been a sorry father to Trey. Louis made his own choices in life. Not confronting his alcoholism was one of them. (Yes, I know it’s a disease. A treatable one.)

  “That’s easy for you to say now, Jordan,” Hart said with heat in his voice. “You didn’t have to see your best friend drink himself into a grave.”

  I didn’t answer. “Trey gave you no reason for why he’d left six years ago?”

  Hart rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. “None. And he offered no apologies. He told me that he wanted to see Arlene and Mark again. That he was tired of being away from home. That the accident had—had changed his viewpoint on many things. On people that he’d cared about.”

  “Too little too late,” I murmured to myself. Not only for those he’d left behind, but for himself.

  “He was awful sickly looking,” Hart said. “I wondered if he’d been honest with me about how bad his injuries were. Maybe he came home to die.” And I saw the horror dawn on Hart’s face as he realized the double meaning of his words.

  I shook my head. “Did he mention Clevey Shivers?”

  Hart stared out at the rain for a moment, then stubbed out his cigarette. “No. He didn’t mention any of his old friends. I don’t think I told him you were back in town.”

  I told Hart about the 2 DOWN scrawled in blood on Trey’s wall. “I hope no one intends to add to that score.”

  The story obviously jolted Hart; his jaw worked as though he were chewing unfamiliar, bitter food. “I—I don’t understand. Who’d want them both dead?”

  Candace appeared in the porch door. “Um, Jordy? Arlene and Mark are home now. You want to come in?” It was more of a demand than a request, and I suddenly remembered Scott Kinnard’s possibly disruptive presence in the house. I hurried in, followed by Hart.

  Silence reigned in the kitchen. Sister and Mark stood near the refrigerator, ill at ease in their own home. I was surprised to see Steven Teague hovering behind Mark. Scott was halfway through a hearty plate of roast beef, broccoli-rice casserole, copper-penny carrots, and rolls. Mama sat next to him, quiet as a mouse. Candaee was in the middle, a forced smile on her face. Wanda, Eula Mae, and Bradley stood together on the other side of the kitchen. Mark and Scott stared at each other.

  “Uh, hi, Sister, Mark.” I gestured toward our young guest. “This is Scott Kinnard. Trey was staying with Scott and his mother. Scott, this is my sister, Arlene, and her son, Mark.”

  Scott had the wide eyes of a trapped rabbit. Sister pursed her lips and stepped forward, offering her hand.

  “Hello, Scott. It’s nice to meet you.” Sister could be a spitting hellion at times, but Mama didn’t raise her to be rude to folks. I, however, was fair game.

  “Jordan, may I speak privately to you?” she asked.

  Explanations were in order. “Scott brought us some pictures, Sister. Pictures that Trey took with him before he left town. Scott thoughtfully returned them to us.”

  Sister’s face softened slightly as she glanced back toward Scott. “Well, I’m sure that was very nice of him. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am.” Scott, emboldened by her kindness, looked to Mark again. “Hi, Mark. I’m glad to finally meet you. Your dad talked a lot about you.”

  “Why would he do that?” Mark’s voice sounded wooden.

  Scott coughed, fumbling for words. “I don’t—well, he always said he was real proud of you.”

  “Proud of me? That’s a joke! How could he be pr
oud of me? He wasn’t here for me! He didn’t even know me!” Mark stumbled back, stepping on Steven Teague’s immaculately loafered foot.

  Scott looked helplessly at me, confusion on his face.

  “Course he knew what you did. It was in his letters.” He blinked at our blank stares. “Trey used to get letters from Mirabeau from some lady named Anne. He didn’t tell me who she was. They stopped about two years ago.”

  Scott glanced from Mark to me; but my gaze, along with everyone else’s in the room, went to my mother. She was tunelessly humming and drawing pictures with a fork on the canvas of her mashed potatoes. Suddenly aware that she was the focus of attention, she smiled brightly at us.

  “If Mama wrote him, he must’ve written her. If he was moving around like Scott said, he would have to tell her where she could reach him.” Sister fumed as she paced up and down the back porch. “Mama never threw a thing away in her life. Ever. We’re gonna find those letters. We’re going to tear the house down if we have to.”

  “I can easily see Mama destroying any letters Trey wrote her,” I interjected. “She might not have wanted you to see them.”

  “How could she? How could she carry on a correspondence with the man that deserted me and my child?”

  “Look, we don’t even know why he left town.”

  “Of course we do! He was a coward, Jordy! He was tired of the responsibility of a wife and a child.”

  “All of a sudden, without warning? Why would he do that?”

  Sister’s eyes narrowed. “That woman. Nola Kinnard. Maybe he was seeing her on the sly. She used to spend her summers here as a kid, Hart says. She’s got family here. Maybe he met her when she was visiting them. They had an affair and he left me for her.”

  “Then why would he write Mama? Why would she write him back?”

  She shook her head. “Maybe Scott’s lying.”

  “Why would he?”

  “Well, he brought back those pictures. Why doesn’t he produce these so-called letters?”

  “I asked him. He said he doesn’t know where they are. Maybe Trey didn’t keep them.”

  “God!” Sister collapsed in a wicker chair, her hands balled into fists. “I don’t know anything anymore. Goddamn him.” She looked up at me, her face pale, the blackened eye like a smudge of ash that her tears couldn’t rinse away. “I can’t take this, Jordy. This is killing me. I always was strong. I had to be, for Mark. And then I had to be for Mama. I just don’t think I’m strong enough for this.”

  I knelt by her and took her in my arms. She tucked her head under my neck. With her face still pressed against my shoulder, she performed a typical Sisterism and changed the subject from one unpleasant to her to one unpleasant to me. “I asked Steven Teague to come talk with you after his session with Mark. I think it would be useful for our whole family to have some counseling.”

  “Well.” I didn’t know what to say. “I guess my first question for our family session is how’d you get that black eye, Sister.”

  She jerked back from me. “I told you. I ran into a tree.”

  “Sister.” I said it softly and I saw her lip tremble. “Don’t lie to me. If you’d hit a tree, the bark would have left abrasions or cuts. Now, who hit you?”

  “No one.”

  “Why on earth are you protecting him? Or her?” A thought dawned. “Was it Trey? Did he hit you, and you don’t want anyone to know because it might make you even more of a suspect?” I could see the scenario unfold: Sister and Trey arguing at his house, he grabs and belts her (he could still do that from his wheelchair), she runs, tearing her pants on that stray nail on the stairs.

  “Trey didn’t hit me. No one hit me.”

  “I don’t believe you, Arlene.”

  “I don’t care what you believe, Jordan.” It was serious business if we’d stooped to Christian names. Her voice was as icy as a frosted pane of glass in the dead of winter. “Now, will you come to family counseling?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” I turned away from her. She got up and went back inside. After a moment I followed her.

  “What’s your prognosis on my nephew?” I asked Steven. We’d offered him some lunch and he and I’d taken it out on the porch to talk in privacy. I stuck a tender piece of pot roast in my mouth and watched Mark showing Scott his favorite pecan tree to climb. I couldn’t hear what the boys said to each other in their hushed tones. Maybe Scott was telling Mark what-all Mama had written about Mark in those six empty years.

  “He’s a smart kid. But he’s been through hell,” Steven said, buttering a roll and balancing the plate on his lap. “Mark would like to pretend that his father never died in front of him. That it just didn’t happen.”

  The meat was tasteless in my mouth. “Can you help him, Steven?”

  He paused, chewing. He took a long sip of iced tea before answering. “Yes, with time. Your sister’s done a great job of raising him, but he has a lot of unresolved issues with his father’s leaving him.” He patted at his mouth with a napkin. “Your sister suggested that your whole family attend some of the sessions. I think it might be productive. I understand you were once very close to Trey—”

  “I was. Once. We were no longer friends when he came back.” I put my plate aside; my appetite had deserted me.

  “Yes, so Arlene said. My plan is to have several individual sessions with Mark; we need to get him a certain stage past the trauma of his father’s death before we tackle the other—”

  He didn’t get to finish. Junebug came out onto the porch, exhausted and a little peeved.

  “Hello, Jordy. Well, Mr. Teague, you certainly turn up in the most unusual places.” His voice sounded tired and he sat heavily in one of the porch chairs.

  “Excuse me, Chief?”

  “I finished reading the case file on Clevey you had to turn over,” Junebug said, “and I’ve got a number of questions to ask you. Do you mind coming down to the station with me?”

  Steven pointed at his heaping plate. “May I have my lunch first, Chief?”

  “Lunch. What a concept,” Junebug muttered, eyeing the meat, gravy, and vegetables.

  I’m not so dense I don’t know a plea for an invite. “Junebug, we’ve got plenty. Why don’t you and Steven have a bite and y’all can talk here if you like? Go on and get a plate.” I stood. “I’ll leave y’all alone and I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”

  “Thanks, Jordy. Would you mind fixing me a plate?” Junebug asked. “Your sister’s wearin’ war paint instead of makeup, as far as I’m concerned. She didn’t look too happy to see me.”

  “Give her time. She’ll cool off.” I went back inside, where I found Eula Mae, Sister, and Candace all speaking in hushed tones in the kitchen. I silently took a plate from the cabinet and began ladling food onto it.

  “Second helpings for you?” Sister asked archly.

  “No, for your boyfriend. I invited him to lunch. He and Steven need to have a little privacy out on the porch to talk about Clevey’s case.”

  “Some boyfriend he is, supposing I could’ve killed Trey.”

  “He had to take himself off the case because he believes you’re innocent. Don’t you see that? He couldn’t be impartial in his investigation.”

  Sister made a noise that indicated logical arguments were not welcome. I didn’t respond. Nabbing a glass of iced tea, I took Junebug his food. He thanked me and dove heartily in.

  “Y’all help yourselves if you want more.” I left them alone on the porch.

  Solitude sounded good to me. I avoided any further skirmishes with the female contingent and went up to my room. I lay down on my bed and tried to nap, but the image of Trey, collapsing, dying, staring into his son’s face with the final glimmer of life, kept me awake. And the air felt dense in my lungs, the room having been shut so tightly during all the recent rain.

  I went to my bedroom window, which faced out onto the backyard. Scott and Mark had either gone ’round to the front or gone inside. I tugged the window open, hoping for a
little fresh air.

  “—and I resent this, Chief Moncrief.” Steven’s voice was tight with anger. ’I’ve given you my case file. You’ve read it. I really don’t want to be grilled about my therapy with Clevey.”

  “I read it, but I don’t understand half of your mumbo jumbo. And you don’t have a choice, Mr. Teague. You’re not a psychiatrist. You’re not under the same legal obligation to confidentiality. Your lawyer’s already advised you to cooperate fully with me; I suggest you heed his advice.” Junebug’s voice, fainter than Steven’s, floated up to me past the back-porch roof. I saw a bluish puff of smoke from Steven’s pipe drift up from the porch steps.

  Shut the window, I told myself, but I didn’t. Curiosity won out over good manners. So much for my Southern-gentleman merit badge. I leaned down slightly from the window.

  Junebug muttered something I couldn’t catch. Another miniature cloud of pipe smoke wafted from the porch as Steven didn’t answer.

  Junebug spoke again: “He was murdered. He was my friend. I’d like to think that if he’d had a problem, he would come to his friends. I know you want to find who killed him, Steven. Please don’t help this killer get away.”

  There was a long, thoughtful silence, then Steven’s unaccented, polished voice: “I’ve never discussed a patient’s therapy before. Never.”

  “You’ve never had a patient murdered, I assume.”

  “No, I haven’t,” Steven answered. There was another pause and then he spoke, his voice sounding resigned and not a little bitter: “Have you ever read Steinbeck, Chief Moncrief? East of Eden, in particular?”

  “No, but I saw the movie—with James Dean, right? About the perfect son and the bad son.”

  “Clevey was both. He wanted to be good, someone liked and respected. He envied you, he envied Davis, his other friends that he saw as successful. But he enjoyed … being bad, for lack of a better term. He thought there was a certain glamour in breaking the rules. But he was driven to make up for bad actions by doing good. He was like a moral pendulum, swinging from anger and bitterness to piety and kindliness, back and forth. It made him a very unhappy man.”