gone?
And the corollary question, the one that I stupidly should have known was the key: what the hell was Rennie Clifton doing in those woods during a storm? Why would she be out there?
Why would anyone be out in those woods?
Perhaps looking for a bunch of stupid boys sitting out nature’s fury in a rackety tree house. Knowing that their leader was your drunken friend’s son. That was one good reason. And if a cleaning girl who maybe learned your secret was out there, too-
Thomasina Clifton’s wry, scratchy voice came to my ear: She always liked having a man she couldn’t have…
And Nola, telling me about Trey and Hart’s conversation, where Trey had asked, Does anyone else know? and Hart answering, Only Steven Teague.
I felt ill. Voices sounded in my head, not giving me concrete evidence, but trying to pull together the tangled threads of now and then. I felt a tightening in my throat, as though the connecting strings of Rennie and Clevey and Trey and Hart and Steven were strangling me.
The door to Hart’s house opened, and in the sudden brightness, I saw Steven Teague step out. He and Hart talked briefly, then Steven stepped away and jaunted toward his Volvo. There was no parting kiss on the porch. Of course not-this was Mirabeau.
I leaned against the tree, shielding myself from the light. Steven’s car purred into life and he turned, the headlights sweeping the broad tree I’d hidden behind, and then tore off down the road. I stayed put, peering around the trunk only to see the hesitation of lights as Steven got out, un-looped the gate, drove through, halted again, and shut and secured the hasp. Then his Volvo turned and tore off toward town, its lights flickering as it passed through copses of trees.
Hart went back inside. Back inside his safe, warm home, while near this creek Trey lay dead. But Hart had a clear-cut alibi for Trey’s death. I shuddered in the evening chill.
I stood, anger and confusion coursing through me. I needed to head back to town, get Franklin Bedloe, tell my suspicions to Junebug. But I didn’t have a shred of proof. And I didn’t have transport home.
And I wanted to deal with Hart Quadlander on my own terms.
I hiked back up from the trees, only glancing once toward the cross that marked Trey’s body. I carefully cleaned my boots, scraping the mud off on a heavy, gnarled root that looked like a demon’s finger. I felt a huge, hot anger in me, but my movements were calm and measured.
Before I knew it, I was pressing the doorbell. It felt warm beneath my fingertips and I froze a smile into place.
Hart looked surprised to see me, but his face broke into a grin. “Hey, Jordy. How are you?”
I made myself sound hearty and slightly annoyed. “Well, Hart, fair to middling. But I’ve gotten a flat tire down near your gate. Could I borrow your phone?”
“Hey, sure, c’mon in,” he said, and opened the door wide.
“I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner,” I said.
“Nah, not quite yet. I was gonna throw a steak on the grill in a few minutes, though. I was just gonna have a drink and turn on the TV. You want a drink?”
I’d followed him into the nicely furnished, expansive den. Preternaturally my eyes absorbed each detail: hard wood floors, polished to shine. A stone fireplace, with a blaze roaring merrily away. A comfortable couch, its upholstery decorated with Indian totems, and a matching armchair, a James Michener novel facedown on the ottoman. A glass-front bureau, with rifles lined up in it like sticks. A secretary of glossy wood, an empty ice bucket, cans of soda, and a bottle of bourbon. And a bookcase, topped with photos of Hart’s parents shyly smiling, Louis standing soberly by a prize stallion, and Trey as a boy, cowboy hat jaunty on his head, grinning with mock innocence.
“Jordy? You want a drink?” Hart offered again.
I glanced at the secretary he’d converted to a dry bar. Nothing cold there-he’d have to go to the kitchen.
“I’d like a beer, please.”
“Sure. Coming right up.” He sauntered off to the kitchen, keeping up a running chatter about town and country that I ignored. The key in the bureau was old, but it rotated easily. You don’t live out in the country and make your firearms hard to grab. I yanked out the first rifle and cracked it open to check it was loaded. It was. Thank you, God.
I was about to have a shocking talk with someone who’d been guarding secrets for decades; I needed something more persuasive than my winsome smile.
When Hart came back into the den, laughing and talking about some idiotic story about Nola Kinnard going shopping, I had the rifle firmly and steadily aimed at his chest.
He jerked, as though I’d already shot him.
“Don’t move!” I ordered. He froze. The bottle of beer slipped nervelessly from his fingers and shattered on the wooden floor.
“Jordy. Good God. Look what you made me do! Is this a joke?” Hart’s eyes were wide with shock.
“No, it’s not.” I shook my head slowly. “Put your hands up and don’t make any sudden moves. Move away from the door. Sit over here on the couch.”
“Jordy-”
“I know how to use this, Hart. Remember-you taught me. My own daddy didn’t cotton to hunting, but Trey did, and you took us out. When Trey and I were fourteen, you taught me how to shoot.” My voice dripped with bitterness; it didn’t sound like me talking, but some stranger who’d stepped into my skin.
“Okay, okay.” He moved slowly toward the couch, keeping his hands still, and sat down. “Now, what’s got you so upset?”
“Just your recent activities, Hart. Oh, and some ancient pastimes, too. like killing poor Rennie Clifton.”
He took a long, steadying breath. “I don’t know what you mean.”
I aimed the gun at his crotch. He tensed. “Yeah, you do. You killed her. You killed Clevey. You killed Trey. You shot Junebug.”
“No. No.” Fright made his breathing hard.
“Don’t you lie to me, Hart. Don’t you go pretending all these years that you’re an upstanding Southern gentleman when you’re a goddamned liar and murderer.” I stared at him along the sight. “I didn’t just now get here, Trey. I saw you and Steven Teague exchanging endearments.”
He shivered, his dark eyes open pools of shock. “Listen, Jordy, I don’t know what you think you saw-”
I moved the rifle and fired. A vase five feet to his left shattered into powder, the bullet’s percussive scream deafening in the room. I’ll give Hart credit, though-he didn’t scream. His eyes were tightly shut, but he opened them slowly. I pumped the rifle.
Silence hung between us for long seconds.
“I don’t care about your sexual orientation, Hart. Truly I don’t. But I have a theory about what might have happened in this house twenty years ago. I’m going to share it with you. You’re going to listen.
“You were a happy family here. You and this man named Louis you hired, and his son, Trey. Three decent fellows. Except Louis had a bit of a drinking problem. He wasn’t a fellow to take much responsibility for his actions. And when a pretty girl caught his eye when she came here with her mother to do some work, he decided to have her.”
Hart didn’t move a muscle.
“So Louis and Rennie had a little affair. She got pregnant. You found out. That put a crimp in your plans, because you and Louis were already lovers.”
“Jordy-”
“Hear me out, Hart. Oh, you don’t have a choice about that, I forgot.” I smiled tightly. “It’s just a guess, but I’m trying to think why you might have reason to kill Rennie Clifton. Let’s say you and Louis were lovers. Your devotion to his memory has always been unusually strong. And he was a rough-and-tumble man who’d take pleasure in something and not feel much guilt over it. Or maybe he did-and that fueled his drinking. And it might explain why you’d keep a drunk like Louis on your payroll for so long. But Louis liked women, too. After all, he’d produced Trey. And so he took another lover, maybe in an effort to prove something to himself. He picked Rennie.
