Oh, Jesus, I hated this.
“Tell me what people were doing when Meredith Osborn was killed. I don’t know if that has anything to do with Jack’s job, Chandler, and that’s the truth. I was in that house, just a few feet away from her, and if there’s anything I know it’s how to fight.” I hadn’t known how that bothered me until I said it. “I didn’t have a chance to lift a finger to help her. Just tell me about that evening.”
He could do that without violating any laws, I figured.
“What people were doing. What happened to Meredith.” Chandler appeared to be thinking, his eyes focused on the saltshaker with its grains of rice showing yellower than the stark white of the salt.
I didn’t know I’d been holding my breath until Chandler began talking. He folded his small hands in front of him, and his face took on a faintly stern, stiff set that I realized must be his professional demeanor.
“Mrs. Osborn died, as far as I could tell by a visual exam, from multiple stab wounds to the chest,” he began. “She’d been hit in the face, maybe to knock her on the ground so the stabbing would be easier. The attack took place in the backyard. It would have required only a minute or two. She wasn’t able to move more than a yard after she was stabbed. Her wounds were very severe. Plus, the temperature was below freezing, and she didn’t have a coat on.”
“But she did move that one yard.”
“Yes.”
“Toward Varena’s little house.”
“Yes.”
I could feel my mouth compress in a hard line and my eyes narrow, in what my friend Marshall had once called my “fist face.”
“What kind of knife?”
“Some kind of single-blade kitchen knife, looked like, but we have to wait on the autopsy to be sure. We haven’t found any kind of knife.”
“Did you go in the Osborns’ house?”
“Sure. We had to see if the killer was in there, and the back door was unlocked.”
“So someone had made a noise, or called Meredith out of the house…?”
He shrugged. “Something like that, we figure. She wasn’t scared. She would have stayed in the house and locked the back door if she’d been scared. She could have called us. The phone was working, I checked. Instead, she went outside.”
Unspoken between us lay the inescapable conclusion that Meredith had seen someone she knew and trusted in the yard.
“When does Emory say he left the house?”
“About seven. He had the two little girls. He wanted to give his wife some time to herself, he said. She’d had a hard time with the baby’s birth, wasn’t getting her strength back, and so on.”
I raised my brows.
“Yes, the waitress confirms that Emory got to the restaurant about five after. It took about forty-five minutes for Emory and Eve to eat, and then the baby woke up and Emory gave her a bottle, burped her, the whole nine yards. So they left the restaurant maybe fifteen minutes after eight. Emory had some things to pick up at the Kmart, so he took the girls with him in there, and they got some vitamins and other junk… that brings us up to around eight-fifty, nine o’clock, somewhere in there.”
“Then he comes home.”
“Then he comes home,” Chandler agreed. “He was mighty tore up. Turned white as a sheet.”
“You had already searched the house?”
“Yes, had to. Didn’t find any evidence anyone but the family had been in it. Nothing suspicious in any way. No forced entry, no threatening messages in the answering machine, no sign of a struggle… a big zero.”
“Chandler…” I hesitated. But I could think of no other way to find out. “Did you search his car?”
Chandler shifted in his seat. “No. Do you think we should have?”
“Did you ask Eve if her dad had stopped back by the house for anything?”
“I did my best to ask her that. I had to be real careful how I put it, didn’t want the girl to think we figured her dad had done it. She’s just eight!” Chandler looked at me angrily, as if that were my doing.
“What did she say?” I asked, keeping my voice very quiet and level.
“She said they went to the restaurant. Period. Then to Kmart. Period.”
I nodded, looked away. “Where was Jess O’Shea?” I asked.
I could feel the heat of Chandler’s glare even though I was looking over at the chipped Formica counter.
“Dave asked Emory what church he went to, and when he said Presbyterian, we called Jess,” Chandler said slowly. “Lou said he was over in his office counseling a member of the congregation.”
“Did you call over there?”
“Yes.”
“Get an answer?”
“Yes. But he said he couldn’t come right that second.”
I wondered if Jess had actually come over to the Osborns’ house that night. I couldn’t remember if the scene between him and Emory the next day had given me a sense of an original encounter or a continuation of a dialogue begun the night before. I had been so embarrassed that I had tried to block out their conversation.
“Did he give a reason?”
“I just assumed he had to finish talking to whoever was there.”
The upshot was, Jess had been away from home and the police had not asked him to account for his time. There was no reason why they should, from their point of view.
Varena had told me Dill was going to spend the evening at home with Anna. I didn’t think Dill was the kind of father who’d leave Anna in the house by herself, but he could have worked it out somehow, I guessed. I wondered if I could think of a way to ask questions that wouldn’t make red flags go up in Varena’s mind.
“Lily, if someone’s safety is at stake, or if you have any idea at all who killed that poor woman, you are legally obliged to tell me. Morally, too.”
I looked into Chandler’s round brown eyes. I’d known this man my whole life, been friends with him, off and on, that long. When I’d come home to Bartley after my spectacular victimization and subsequent media bath, Chandler had been a constant visitor. He’d been between marriages, and we had gone out to eat together, ridden around together, spent time together so I could get away from my family and their love that was just choking me.
During that time, seven years ago, we had also shared a horribly embarrassing evening in the big pickup Chandler had been driving then. But I was sure we both did our best not to remember that.
“I don’t know the identity of anyone who is in danger,” I said carefully. “I don’t know who killed Meredith.” That was absolutely true.
“You should tell me everything you know,” Chandler said, his voice so low and intent it was as scary as a snake’s rattle.
My hands, resting on the worn gray and pink Formica of the table’s surface, clenched into hard fists. My heels dug into the wooden base of the booth, giving me launching power. A startled look crossed Chandler’s face, and he leaned away from me.
“What’s in your mind?” he asked sharply, and he brushed his empty plate to one side without taking his eyes off me, clearing his own deck for action.
For once, I was anxious to explain myself. But I couldn’t. I took a couple of deep breaths, made myself relax.
“You love this man,” he said.
I started to shake my head side to side: no. But I said, “Yes.”
“This is the one.”
I nodded, a jerky little up-and-down movement.
“And he doesn’t… he can handle… what happened to you?”
“He doesn’t mind the scars,” I said, my voice as light and smooth as the changing scenery of a dream.
Chandler turned red. His eyes left mine, focused on the pattern of the Formica.
“It’s OK,” I told him, just above a whisper.
“Does he… does he know how lucky he is?” Chandler asked, not able to think of any other way of asking me if
