Davis shrugged. “Let it go, Ed. Let’s change the subject.” His voice sounded weary.
Anger kept Ed going. “Hell, no. Our friends are dead, and now you’re not investigatin’? What the hell is that?”
I leaned forward. “Ed. Junebug had to take himself off the investigation of Trey’s murder because my sister is a suspect.” There, I said it.
Ed raised his chin slightly, looking at me with his dark eyes. A half smile played along his face, and he eased back in his chair. “You’re kidding, right? Junebug surely can’t believe Arlene shot anyone.”
“Why not?” Davis ventured. “Sorry to say it, y’all, but Arlene looked like she was in a killing mood last night.”
“Mood and action are two different things, Davis,” I retorted. “The idea of my sister murdering anyone is ridiculous.”
“Regardless”-Junebug kept his voice measuredly calm-“I felt it best to turn over Trey’s case to Franklin Bedloe. He’ll be the lead officer.”
Ed shook his head. “I bet ol’ Arlene really appreciates that vote of confidence, Junebug. You won’t be getting any more free coffee down at the Sit-a-Spell.”
“You’re not funny,” Junebug said in a low gravelly voice. He glared at me for having ventured into topics he didn’t want to discuss.
“Don’t get mad at Ed for pointing out the obvious,” I snapped. “You said a minute ago we had to talk. So let’s talk.” I felt a warm flush of frustration redden my face. “Whether or not my sister is an automatic suspect in Trey’s death, you think that the same person’s responsible for shooting Trey and Clevey. Why don’t you share your reasoning with everyone?”
Junebug stood, went to the bar, and refilled his drink. “I don’t want what’s discussed here leaving this room. Is that understood? I’m speaking as an officer of the law, not as your friend. Y’all hear me?” Silent assent greeted this statement, and he sat down again. He then told the others about the peculiar evidence: the newspaper clippings about Rennie Clifton and the 2 DOWN written in blood on Trey’s wall.
My lifelong friends traded uneasy glances. Finally Ed said, “I don’t understand. If Clevey knew something about that girl’s death, why hadn’t he told? I mean, he was a newspaper reporter. He would have written about it.”
Davis wet his lips. “Maybe he didn’t have enough evidence. You can’t just write an article without having all the facts. Papers get sued for inaccurate reporting. Clevey might have discovered something about Rennie Clifton’s death but not had enough to go to press with.”
“But enough to get killed over,” I pointed out.
“What could Trey have known? What connection would he have?” Davis asked.
“Well, he was with all of us when that storm hit…” Ed murmured. “All of us…”
“Did y’all know Clevey was in therapy?” I asked suddenly. The looks on Davis and Ed’s faces said no.
“What for?” Davis asked, helping himself to another dollop of whiskey.
“I don’t know. Do y’all have any idea what his problem was?”
Ed scratched his chin. “Aside from his mean streak?”
Junebug frowned. “That’s not treatable, Ed.”
Davis swished whiskey in his mouth. “Clevey seemed perfectly healthy. But I don’t think he would have confided a personal problem to me.”
I abandoned that tack. “Okay, then, back to the newspaper. Let’s say Clevey was working on a story about Rennie Clifton and it got him killed. Why would anyone then kill Trey? He hadn’t been in town in years. As far as we know, he and Clevey hadn’t been in touch for years. What would Trey know that Clevey knew?”
“We don’t know for certain that Clevey and Trey hadn’t been in contact. Trey’d already been here a day before Clevey died, right?” Davis said slowly. “They could have met. Maybe the two of them did know something. Maybe that’s why Trey came back to town after all these years.”
“He came home to recuperate,” I said tonelessly.
“So he said.” Davis shrugged.
“We better hope that it’s something only the two of them knew,” Ed added. “Because what if… the killer thinks that the rest of us know it, too?”
“If any of you boys know something you ain’t telling,” Junebug said softly, “now would be a real good time to spill the beans.”
No one answered.
I sipped again at my whiskey, letting the smoky taste fill my mouth. “I got a question. Why would Clevey even start digging into the past?”
“He wrote that article last summer. The twenty-year anniversary of Hurricane Althea,” Ed said slowly. “Remember, it came out last August. Maybe in writing that, he found out something about Rennie Clifton’s death. And now he’s dead.”
No one spoke for a long moment.
“Maybe we should all get out of town,” Ed blurted. “I mean, if someone’s knocking off our circle of friends, I say we all take our money, get the hell out of Dodge, and go party in Vegas or something.”
Davis snorted. “I’m not about to be chased away on a whim, Ed, and leave my radio station, my law practice, and my family. Get real. You got a business to worry about, too.”
“I don’t think it’s worth dying over!” Ed squeaked.
Davis laughed. “I agree, Ed, I wouldn’t die over Wanda. And I don’t expect you’ll have your ridiculous Elvis emporium much longer. So if you want to vamoose like a scared rabbit, go ahead.”
“The Institute of Elvisology is not ridiculous! Celebrity collectibles are a growth industry!”
“Ed, shut up!” I snapped. I pressed fingers against my aching temples. I wasn’t in the mood to discuss the comparative economic gains of peddling Elvis trinkets. “Look, none of us knows anything that Clevey or Trey knew, right? We’d admit it, right?” Nods of assent went around the room. “So we’re not in any danger, right?”
“Unless the killer thinks we know,” Davis said. “Then it doesn’t matter what the truth is.” God, sometimes I don’t like lawyers.
Sister was curled in a fetal position on her bed when I got home. Her quiet “come in” was barely above a whisper. I sat on the corner of her bed, afraid to touch her, nearly afraid to speak.
“I just got back from Junebug’s,” I said. “He sure is worried about you.”
The clouds didn’t let much moonlight through her window, but there was enough where I could see fresh tears on her face. “Junebug. God, he thinks I did it. He thinks I killed Trey in cold blood.”
“Of course he doesn’t. He has to take himself off any case where he’s got a personal connection.”
“Crap! He’s got personal connections with half the town. He did it so he won’t be the one to arrest me when they finally issue the wairant. He doesn’t want to put the handcuffs on the woman he claims to love.”
“Where were you today, Sister?”
“I told you, I told him. I needed quiet time, so I went for a long drive, out on the roads between here and La Grange and Bavary. I went down to Mears Creek. You know that’s where Trey proposed to me, don’t you? That was… our place.”
“Who gave you the black eye, then?”
“I told you! I stumbled against a tree.” She shifted her face into the pillow, and I knew this phase of the conversation was over.
“I want Mark to see Steven Teague,” I started, but she didn’t let me finish.
“Who?”
“He’s a therapist. A counselor. I think Mark needs help dealing with what he saw.”
“Jordy, I know you have good intentions. But I’d made it clear I didn’t want Mark to be around his father. You had no business interfering.”
“I’m sorry.” I felt miserable. “I’m sorry he saw what he did. I know you’re pissed at me, but, at least, he got to know that his father loved him.”
Sister gave a shuddering sob. I couldn’t tell if it was anger or despair that racked her body.
“Sister-”
“I’m sorry I hit him. I’m sorry he didn’t get to see Mark as Mark really is. Why? Why did he have to leave us?” she cried.
