I saw empty soft drink cans and some cups from the kitchen downstairs. I smelled urine and an overly ripe banana, but what tore at my heart was the soft, hopeless crying that came from the small form curled up on a rough pallet in the corner with a teddy bear beside him.
“Oh, Cal!”
I rushed over, set my flashlight on the floor, and knelt down to gather him up in my arms. He seemed groggy and only half-alert, but he began to wail louder as he recognized me and put his arms around my neck. “Miss Deborah! Is Daddy with you? I want my daddy! Please?”
“He’s coming, sweetheart,” I promised, stroking his small head and making automatic soothing noises.
I no sooner registered the smell of gardenias than he stiffened and tried to jerk back. I heard him cry, “No!”
then someone dropped a piano on my head.
C H A P T E R
30
Sunday evening, 23 January
Dwight knocked on the door and the black man who opened it was just under six feet, with short curly hair that was more salt than pepper. If he and his wife had been working for Mrs. Shay at the time of Eustace Shay’s death, then Lunsford had to be at least sixty, yet his erect frame showed no signs of coming frailty. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt that was open at the neck, no tie, and black dress pants; and he had answered the door in his stocking feet. Ordinary Sunday night comfort.
“Mr. Lunsford? Dix Lunsford?”
“Yes?”
The wary caution in the man’s face was familiar to Dwight. He knew he had cop stamped all over him.
There was nothing he could do about his looks. All the same, at times like this, he could wish that strangers did not see flashing blue lights the moment they met him.
“I’m Dwight Bryant.”
“Yes?”
“Jonna’s ex-husband.”
Nothing in his expression changed. “Yes?”
“May I come in and ask you a few questions about Jonna and Pam?”
That did get a reaction. “
A querulous voice from inside said, “If you’d let the poor man in, Dix, maybe he’d tell you.”
Lunsford stepped back and gestured for Dwight to enter.
The house was warm and cozy after the biting wind outside. Two recliners faced a flat-screen television set.
Golfers walked across perfect greens under golden sunshine. A sturdily built woman, Mrs. Lunsford had her coarse gray hair pulled back in a neat bun. She wore gold-rimmed glasses and a wine red pantsuit; and as Dwight entered the room, she brought her recliner to its upright position and muted the sound on the television.
“You find your boy yet?”
“No, ma’am. That’s why I’m here. I was hoping y’all could help me. Mrs. Prentice—you know her?”
Mrs. Lunsford nodded.
“She says you two have known Jonna and Pam since they were babies.”
Again the affirmative nod.
“We think Pam’s the one that took Cal Friday afternoon.”
She shot an inquiring look at her husband, who shook his head. “Every time I’ve seen her, she was by herself.”
“But you’ve seen her?” asked Dwight. “Where?
When?”
“At the Morrow House. She showed up Monday while I was working.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” said his wife.
“ ’Cause you always take Jonna’s part and Jonna didn’t want her there, but where was she gonna go? Her husband didn’t want her, Miss Laura didn’t want her, Jonna didn’t want her. It was coming on for cold weather and that big house all empty upstairs? What did it hurt?”
“Is that what you and Jonna fought about on Monday?” Dwight asked.
A mulish look came into the older man’s face, one that must have been familiar to his wife, for she said sharply,
“Dixon Lunsford, Jonna’s laying dead in her coffin, her little boy’s missing, and his daddy’s a policeman. You don’t tell him where Pam is, he’s gonna think you got something to do with it.”
