“He said he couldn’t make out the woman because she was turned toward the man beside her, but her back was pressed against the window and he saw her shiny red coat.”
Scotty twirled his straw between his fingers. It was clear plastic and coated with dull red tomato juice. “That little detail would have made us take him more seriously. Wonder why he left it out when we talked with him?”
“Did he?”
“This is the first time I’ve heard it.”
“What about when you reworked the case?”
“We didn’t get a chance. We’d just started when he dropped dead.”
I’d been living with Aunt Zell and Uncle Ash in Dobbs by then and had forgotten-if I’d even noticed-that the two things occurred simultaneously. After all, Howard Grimes wasn’t someone important to me, and the SBI had kept their heads down so low when they returned to Cotton Grove seven years ago that I’d barely been aware they were there before they were gone again, leaving some uneasy talk that soon faded. Still, for Howard to have died so abruptly?
I stared at Scotty and he gave an ironic grin. “Yeah, but we had him autopsied and it really was his heart. His doctor said he’d had a bad one for years. Just our luck it picked that week to give out on him. Wish I’d heard about the red raincoat, though. We might have leaned on him a little harder the first go-round instead of thinking he was just the town busybody.”
“He was that, too,” I said and nodded to the waitress who’d come over to refill my coffee cup.
She glanced inquiringly at Scotty’s empty glass, but he shook his head. “I’ll have a cup of brewed decaf if you’ve got it.”
As she snaked her way back through the TGIF crowd gathered noisily around the bar for happy hour, he said, “Except for Janie’s parents, nobody had much of an alibi. You know that?”
“Yes. Gayle brought over a box of newspaper clippings yesterday and I spent last night going over them.”
The beagle look was still there. “Law school makes a difference, doesn’t it?”
It did. I’d found myself studying bland and equivocal statements with a jaundiced eye, wishing whoever’d reported the stories for the county papers had been less solicitous of family feelings and had asked harder questions. The News and Observer and the now defunct Raleigh Times had both covered Janie’s death once she’d been found; but even though her murder had made a brief sensation, they’d merely rehashed what was already known.
Janie and Gayle had vanished on a Wednesday. By Thursday morning, when her car reappeared, some five hundred people were out actively looking for them: rescue squads, a local unit of the National Guard, town and county police, state troopers, and at least four aircraft, including the traffic helicopter from one of the Raleigh TV stations.
“That’s when we got into it,” said Scotty. He thanked the waitress as she set coffee before him, then briefly encapsulated their investigation.
“We coordinated the search but there were a lot of loose cannons rolling through Cotton Grove that week. Later, when we tried to chart everyone’s movements from Wednesday noon through Friday midnight, it was like documenting an anthill.”
“And Friday night was when she was actually killed,” I murmured, taking a deep swallow of coffee.
“Friday night was when she actually died,” he corrected, shaking out the pink paper packet of artificial sweetener.
“We didn’t publicize it, but after the autopsy report came back that she’d been dead considerably less than twenty-four hours by the time we found her, we took a closer look. No marks on her hands or wrists, yet the baby hadn’t been fed or changed.”
He waited for me to make the connections.
“She hadn’t fought or been tied up, so why hadn’t she taken care of Gayle?”
He nodded. “Page Hudson was still ME back then. He put it in medical terms, but what it boiled down to was that she’d sustained a really bad head wound-probably on Wednesday- that left her unconscious till someone put a bullet in her brain sometime late Friday. There was no need to tie her hands. She would never have moved again on her own. The bullet just speeded things up.”
The bottom abruptly fell out of my stomach. “Somebody put her out of her misery? Like putting down a horse or an old dog when they get tired of watching it suffer?”
“ ’Bout what it amounts to,” he agreed, crumpling up the empty packets of sweetener. He stirred his coffee and drank up as I tried to fit the new facts over my old concepts.
We had all heard about Janie’s head wound as soon as she was found, but I guess its seriousness hadn’t registered. The sensationalism of how she was shot overshadowed a mundane blow on the head. Fanned by one irresponsible newspaper sidebar-“Cosa Nostra in Colleton County?”-the hottest topic was that Janie had been shot behind the right ear “execution style,” as if someone had taken out a contract on her life.
“I always assumed she was briefly knocked unconscious and then lived two fall days scared out of her mind before she was finally killed.”
“She wasn’t molested,” Scotty reminded me.
“Her head wound-did Dr. Hudson say what caused it?”
“Nope. The bullet track kinda messed things up too much to say if she took a bad fall or was hit.”
I sat silently as he described in more detail than the papers had carried exactly how Janie had been found. I’d heard most of it, but hearing Scotty’s version gave me a different perspective.
After three days with bloodhounds and aerial reconnaissance that produced no results, a call had gone out for everyone to please check any abandoned buildings on their property.
Ridley’s Mill fell in that category. It was only three miles from the edge of Cotton Grove as the crow flies, but more like six miles because of the way Old Forty-Eight followed the twists and bends of Possum Creek. Once a small and inefficient gristmill, it had fallen into disrepair back around the thirties when the main millstone broke and electricity proved more reliable than the broad sluggish creek. There were no more Ridleys either, for that matter, and the property had changed hands several times.
Twenty years ago, a Raleigh banker bought it, thinking it might be remodeled into a rustic weekend fishing lodge. He died before he could draw up any plans, and his widow has sat on the estate ever since.
The land’s posted, but nobody’s ever let a few No Trespassing signs keep them from where they want to go, and the mill’s always been used by fishermen, hunters, and teenage kids skipping school. The rutted overgrown lane leading in through the woods from Old Forty-Eight is probably still a lovers’ lane. It was back then.
When it became generally known that Janie and Gayle were missing, said Scotty, someone living nearby had driven his pickup through the lane on Thursday afternoon. The man and his older brother had checked the millhouse from top to bottom. Both were on record that the place was empty, nothing out of the ordinary.
Scotty paused. “Your brothers, I believe?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Will and Seth. Possum Creek borders our land, too, and all of us have fished from the top of the millhouse at one time or another.”
No point adding that while Will might lie about anything that crossed his mind, Seth never would.
“Will’s wife’s the one who had a blue sedan, too?”
“My brothers checked Ridley’s Mill simply because they knew it was there and they thought somebody ought to take a look,” I said and heard a defensive tone in my own voice.
“Of course,” he said neutrally. “So you know all about how two black hands were clearing underbrush for Michael Vickery on the opposite bank upstream and heard the baby crying?”
“Where the Pot Shot is now,” I nodded. “Michael had gone to get drinks or pick up a load of bricks or something and they forded the creek and found Janie and Gayle in the mill loft. Janie still wearing the jeans and- Wait a minute. What happened to her raincoat?”
Scotty sat back in the booth while music and people and blue cigarette haze swirled around us, then leaned across the table so that I was the only one who could possibly hear his words above the noise. “I’m trusting Terry on you, but it doesn’t leave this table,” he warned.
“Okay,” I promised.
“No raincoat. The family was too torn up to notice and the news media never picked up on it either-probably because it’d turned off so hot and sunny by then nobody thought about coats. We made sure it really was missing and then we shut up about it because I thought we stood a good chance of finding it if we ever developed a strong
