Dead Giveaway (16 page)

"She didn't deal with you personally?"

"Not unless the reverend wasn't around."

"Did that happen very often?"

"No."

"What type of interaction did you have when he wasn't there?"

Fowler shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coveralls. "I told you, we didn't talk much."

Interviewing a man like Fowler wasn't easy. She hadn't gotten anything out of him that wasn't already well documented. But Allie kept at it. "You said you spoke to her when her husband wasn't around."

"She'd listen to what I told her so she could tell it to him."

"And Clay?"

"He was only a kid."

"What about now?"

"I don't do any work for him. Clay fixes his own cars."

"So you have no dealings with him at all?"

"Not unless we meet on the street."

"How does he treat you then?"

Fowler stared at her. "Like he treats anyone else, I s'pose."

"What about Grace and Madeline? Do you ever see them?"

"I've passed them in town--Grace more than Madeline since she moved back. She brought her Esplanade in for an oil change a few weeks ago."

He said it as if she was just another customer. If there was
any
kind of bond between the 72

Brenda Novak

Montgomerys and Jed Fowler, Allie couldn't sense it. And yet he'd confessed when he thought Barker's remains had been discovered at the farm....

"According to what I've been told, nine months ago you tried to take responsibility for the murder of Reverend Barker. Is that true?"

No response.

"Can you tell me why you did that, Mr. Fowler?"

"I knew they were going to try and pin it on Mrs. Montgomery."

He admitted it? But he didn't even call her Irene.... "So you were trying to protect her?"

"I didn't want to see her go to jail."

"You'd rather go to jail yourself? That's a pretty big sacrifice for a lady you don't know all that well."

"She's been through enough." He stated it matter-offactly.

Allie let her breath seep out. "Is it because you're in love with Irene Montgomery, Mr.

Fowler? Is that why you confessed?"

"No."

"You're not in love with her?"

The telephone rang in the house. Fowler glanced back at it. "I've got to go. Someone might need a tow."

"Go ahead and answer it. I'll wait here."

He didn't have time to argue. Ducking inside, he left the door standing open as he headed down a hallway--presumably to the kitchen.

Allie took advantage of his absence to study the neat living room. From the look of the place, he'd kept the furnishings Mama Fowler had owned when she was alive. The crocheted doilies covering the arms of the sofa and the side tables had an old woman's touch. Even the television seemed ancient. An old Magnavox with rabbit ears on top, it sat next to a crystal candy dish that wasn't empty, as Allie might have expected, knowing that Jed never entertained, and a photograph of--

Who was that? Allie poked her head into the room. She might not have found the photograph so curious, except that there wasn't another sentimental object in sight--just a few landscapes hanging on the wall and a knitted afghan folded neatly on a footstool.

Fowler's voice filtered to her from somewhere else in the house. He was talking about a truck in a ditch and seemed fairly engrossed, so she slipped inside.

The scent that greeted her reminded her of a funeral home. This room didn't seem to be used much, and yet she spotted Fowler's work boots perfectly positioned beneath an antique oak hall tree.

He lived like a ghost, moving around without disturbing a thing. She thought his mother had died about fourteen years ago and yet the place felt as if Mrs. Fowler might walk in at any second.

Ignoring the creepy chill that skittered down her spine, she picked up the photograph. It was an old black-and-white snapshot. Was it Mama Fowler? Another relative? Allie might've supposed so, except that someone had been torn out of the picture. She could see a man's arm next to the jagged edge.

On closer examination, she realized it wasn't a snapshot at all. It was part of a program for some event. At the bottom it read, "Join Reverend Barker and his--" The rest of the words were missing, along with the man in the picture. But what she'd read jostled Allie's memory enough that she suddenly recognized the woman. It was Eliza Barker, the reverend's first wife.

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Allie held the picture closer, trying to see through the image to the writing on the other side. It was an invitation to a church Christmas party. From the date, it was probably the last party Eliza had ever attended. Barker's wife committed suicide three years before he married Irene. Allie remembered her as a gentle, soft-spoken woman who worked tirelessly to serve the members of her husband's church, but her suicide hadn't come as much of a surprise. Everyone knew Eliza suffered from depression. She'd even tried to start a support group for others who suffered as she did.

Finding her picture in such a prominent location in Jed's house, however, sparked Allie's curiosity. Had Eliza known Jed as more than just a parishioner? Allie didn't think so. If they'd had a relationship--a close friendship or even an affair--surely he'd have a real photograph of her and not simply a torn-off portion of a Christmas program.

Had he been obsessed with her?

The complete silence suddenly shattered Allie's preoccupation. Feeling the weight of Jed's stare at her back, she turned to find him standing at the entrance to the room.

She set the picture on the dusty coffee table, then wiped her hands on her skirt. "Does someone need roadside assistance?"

His face was flushed--with anger or embarrassment, she couldn't really tell. "Yes," he said.

"I've got to go."

"No problem." She moved to the door, but looked back when he called her name.

"Don't come here again unless you've got a subpoena," he said.

Allie was frightened of Fowler. And she was uncomfortable in his neat but musty-smelling house. She was going to get in her cruiser and investigate some of the reverend's friends and neighbors who would be more forthcoming. But she had one last question. "Would you like to tell me why you have that program?"

"I received one just like everyone else who went to church that day," he said.

"I see," Allie responded. But she was willing to bet he was the only one who'd torn Barker out of the picture and framed it.

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Brenda Novak

9

C
lay's muscles shook as he pushed himself to bench-press more weight than ever before.

Some days, in order to achieve any peace at all, he had to drive himself until he could scarcely think. Which was why he had a complete weight room in the basement of his house.

Today was one of those days. After his confrontation with Chief McCormick and the discussion that followed with Reverend Portenski, he was searching for the oblivion of absolute exhaustion.

Three hundred and fifty pounds hung suspended by his own power in the air above him.

His body begged him to stop. But he wouldn't. He could still picture Allie in that pretty top at church, the flirtatious smile she'd given him when he said he wasn't as cheap as she might think--and the glower on her father's face as Chief McCormick demanded Clay leave her alone.

Maybe getting close to Allie would enable him to control--to a degree, anyway--what Allie learned about Barker and how she interpreted it. At least he'd know where she was in her investigation. He could see the value in that, for him. But he couldn't offer
her
anything. Unless she was just looking for a good time. Clay knew women enjoyed what he could give them in bed.

Problem was, Allie McCormick wasn't like Beth Ann or the others who pursued him so relentlessly. Clay wasn't convinced he could get her to sleep with him even if he tried. She'd always been one of those straight-arrow types.
I've only been with my ex....

One...two...three...Sucking air in between his teeth, he began to lower the barbell carefully to his chest. It wasn't wise to lift so much weight when he was alone. Maxing out, as he was doing now, was supposed to be done in the presence of a partner who could help in an emergency. But Clay didn't care about the risks involved. He preferred to lift alone, the way he did almost everything.

Briefly, the barbell touched his chest. Then he gritted his teeth and commanded his arms to lift it again. One...t-w-o...t-h-r-e-e, he groaned. For a moment, he didn't think he could do it. But he refused to give up before he was ready.

Push, dammit. Push!
he ordered himself.

His whole body trembled with the strain. The weight began to rise, but it was only through sheer will that he finally lifted the barbell until he could fully extend his arms.

As he gasped for breath, Clay wanted to believe he'd done enough. He wasn't sure how much more he could take. But it was early. And he still wanted to see Allie, regardless of whether or not it'd be good for either one of them.

Another rep. He needed to keep lifting.

He managed two more, and then the phone rang.

Maneuvering the barbell into the holder over his head, Clay sat up and grabbed a towel to wipe the perspiration from his face. Allie had said she'd call him. He'd asked her to dinner.

But by getting to know her, he could lose as much as he stood to gain. Why bother?

Without Barker's remains, she couldn't prove there'd even been a murder, whether Lucas was telling tales or not.

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At least Clay hoped that was true. Since that night nineteen years ago, he could never be completely sure.

With a tired curse, he let the caller go to voice-mail and headed for the shower.

Allie hung up when Clay's voice, in the form of a recorded message, came over the line.

She had several people still to interview and planned to go down her list. But Clay had had plenty of time to get home and she didn't want him to think her earlier lack of response and rapid departure meant she'd decided not to go out with him. Sure, she hoped to keep the peace with her parents, especially now that she was living with them and depending on them to watch Whitney while she worked. They'd always been close. But she had her limits. She wasn't going to allow them to tell her who she could and couldn't see.

To prove it, she'd go out with Clay in spite of her father. What was one dinner? They needed to talk. They'd been together a couple of times but had never thoroughly discussed the details of the night Reverend Barker went missing. In light of the photograph she'd just discovered at Fowler's, Allie had some questions Clay might not have entertained before. Also, Lucas denied that he'd spoken with his family during the two previous decades, but Allie knew from what he'd inadvertently revealed that he'd talked to
someone
during that time. She was hoping to get Clay to explain a bit more of how, when and why Lucas might have been in touch.

In any case, having dinner with Madeline's stepbrother should prove interesting. Dealing with him usually was.

Pushing the End button on her cell phone, she decided to try again later and slowed to turn into the property across from Clay's farm. Bonnie Ray Simpson lived in the ramshackle old home set back a quarter of a mile from the road. Her aging husband, the victim of a recent stroke, and the wayward teenage granddaughter she was struggling to raise lived with her. According to the files and Allie's memory, Bonnie Ray had claimed she saw Barker come home on the night in question.

Allie wanted to see how definite Clay's neighbor was about that sighting. But as she looked over at the farm, wondering where Clay might have gone, she spotted the back end of his truck parked slightly behind the house. Had he missed her call because he was outside in the barn or somewhere else on the property?

Turning around, she pulled into Clay's driveway instead of Bonnie's and parked next to his truck. He hadn't answered the phone, so she didn't bother approaching the front door. She walked to the chicken coop in back, calling his name as she scanned the fields and the area between the outbuildings.

No one responded and nothing moved except the chickens pecking at the ground and the leaves on the trees, stirred by a gentle wind.

She crossed to the barn. Clay spent a lot of time restoring antique cars. She was betting she'd find him tearing apart one engine or another. But the barn doors were bolted shut and secured by a heavy padlock.

To the right, she recognized the small room that had been Barker's office. She'd accompanied her father there once to hand in her brother's permission slip for a youth campout.

That was a long time ago, but she had a vivid recollection of the middle-aged, soft-looking Barker sitting behind his wooden desk, wearing a pair of reading glasses she'd never seen on him before.

Tossing a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure she wasn't being watched, she hurried closer to the window. Sunlight reflected off the glass, making it difficult to see. But when she raised a hand to shade her eyes, she found herself peering into a room that had been stripped of absolutely everything--even the carpet and the dark paneling that had once covered the walls.

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Brenda Novak

Obviously, Clay didn't plan on Barker's coming back. Allie could understand, now that Barker had been gone for so many years. But she wondered why Clay hadn't turned the space into his own office. Or used it for some other purpose. Maybe he was in the process of doing so, she thought. But--she squinted to see more clearly--it appeared that someone had stabbed at the bare Sheetrock with a knife or some other sharp object.

Automatically, she began searching for the instrument that might have caused the damage, but the deep rumble of an engine distracted her. She looked between the buildings, toward the sound, just in time to see a tow truck heading toward town.

Was it Jed Fowler? Had he followed her here?

Hurrying toward the road to catch another glimpse of the truck, she charged around the corner of the house as fast as she could in high heels.