The Evidence Room: A Mystery (26 page)

James peered at the photograph that accompanied the article. There were all the local politicos, Royce Beaumont, and there was Gentry, front and center in a cowboy hat and a silk shirt unbuttoned almost to the navel. James skimmed the article. The Casino Night had been a rousing success, and at the end of the evening, the award had been presented. It was as airtight an alibi as you could get. Gentry could not have done this.

But he must have known who did.

The personnel file on Davis Gentry was relatively slender; pay stubs, copies of the autopsy reports he’d done. James paged through them. Davis was the one who had insisted on a seal for the medical examiner’s office. The office didn’t have enough prestige for him, that was for sure. James read each report. They were woefully brief and incomplete, just like Raylene Atchison’s had been. There was no indication that her case had been special. It hadn’t set off alarm bells when he’d insisted on doing her autopsy; James had been relieved, scared of what the sight of Raylene on the autopsy table would have done to him. Now he wished he could have been with her on her last day on earth. He would have put aside his feelings and made sure to annotate every detail, anything and everything that would catch her killer.

James opened the locked drawer, where he’d tucked Malachi’s printouts and Wade’s samples into a Java Jive reusable lunch bag. That was the puzzle of it all; how had Wade’s path crossed with Gentry’s? Gentry had lived up the bayou in some decaying wreck of a plantation house that he was rebuilding into a modern monstrosity, digging up a grove of magnolia trees to put in a swimming pool. Those from down the bayou—including James—were of no use to him, and he made no secret of it. So what did he want with Wade Atchison, a small-time criminal?

Unless it wasn’t Wade he was after.

Raylene. He recalled the image of her approaching him on the skiff out on the bayou that day; something startling and unearthly in her beauty, something childlike in her manner that told him she was not aware of this beauty, a quality that only deepened her loveliness. James had seen it. Wade Atchison had seen it. It was not a stretch to think that Gentry had seen it too.

Town gossip. It wasn’t something he had ever been plugged into, but lucky for James, he knew someone who was.

“Ruby, can you come in here for a moment please?”

“Sure, Doc.”

He glanced up at the clock. Four forty—she would have already begun her preparations to end the day, an elaborate process that started with shutting down her computer and ended with the application of makeup.

She opened the door and leaned in, the scent of her perfume overwhelming the antiseptic smell of his suite. She smelled of vanilla, of warm baking smells and safe, sweet things.

“I have a question that you might be able to help me with. It involves some—well, some unsavory matters.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“I want to know about a rumor that may have been around town a number of years ago—1989, to be specific.”

Ruby frowned.

“Of course,” James continued, “you would have been young then.”

“Very young.”

“Very young,” he echoed. “But you know, I know how social you are, and I thought you might—oh, forget it.”

“No,” she said. “Who is it about?”

“Davis Gentry,” James said. “I want to know if you ever heard any rumors about him being a philanderer.”

“A what?”

“A cheater. A louse.” He did not understand why she was smiling.

“Well, I did hear a few things. My friend Adrian did some construction work for his wife on their house. Ashley, Ashford, some rich white-girl name. He said she was like Hitler in a bra.”

“So he might have been—um, stepping out on her?”

“I can’t say I’ve heard that. But I did hear it about her.”

“The wife?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” she said. “Out there in her lonely house on the bayou. She keeps to herself. Nobody in town’s seen her in years. I heard she had workers out there all the time, doing construction jobs and all other kinds of nonsense. You ask me, she was scouting the local talent.”

“I see. Well, um, thanks, Ruby.” He averted his eyes, sure that this conversation violated some sort of employer-employee code of ethics. “I appreciate the information.”

“Anytime, Doc,” she said.

She palmed the light switch on her way out and called to him over her shoulder. “Don’t be sitting here in the dark for too long,” she scolded. “You’re gonna hurt your eyes, you know.”

It was the little things like this that made James grateful for Ruby.

“Be safe out there. See you tomorrow.”

Alone in the office, he watched the sun slip beneath the surface of the bayou, Ruby’s words echoing in his ears.

He pinned Raylene’s X-rays to the light board. Someone had strangled her, an act that was both horrifyingly violent and extremely personal. They had watched the life leave her body. He had never considered the possibility that it could have been a woman.

Your other contributor is female
.

Malachi had found another sample; what if it was Ash Gentry’s? Wade Atchison had nothing to offer Gentry, but he had something to offer Ash.

James removed one of the photographs of Wade from the file. He was grinning from the passenger seat of a pickup truck, one muscled arm draped out of the window. Even James knew he was the type of man that women found attractive. And Ash had an eye for the local talent, as Ruby had described it. Was it too much of a stretch to think that Ash had noticed Wade or stepped out with him? Maybe Raylene had found out about the two of them, had followed Wade and Ash out to the bayou that night, where they’d snuck out while her husband was away. Gentry would have helped her cover the murder after the fact; he would have had plenty of time after the casino night was over.

James reached for the phone and called the evidence room.

“We’re one step ahead of you,” Josh said, after James had explained his theory. “Aurora’s visiting Ash Gentry, see what she can find out.”

“Alone?”

“She can handle herself, Doc.”

Josh was right. Aurora was a grown woman, not the child that he had cared for all those years ago. He had known nothing about children then and knew even less about women now. But that didn’t mean that you packed someone off into a car and sent them driving straight into danger either, did it?

“I know you’re right,” he said finally.

James turned back to the window. The Gentry place was miles from here, where the bayou stretched into two arms of a coffee-colored river, its bleak beauty stripped bare at the foot of green hillsides dotted with collapsing sugar plantations, where people peered at the water around heavy curtains. This was where Ash Gentry had shut herself away from Cooper’s Bayou and the past. What would she say when Aurora Atchison appeared on her doorstep? Captain Rush’s words echoed in James’s memory.
Leave this one alone.
It was a warning, and they had all ignored it. Someone was going to pay the price for stirring up the past.

He prayed it would not be Aurora.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Soon
.

Someone had used a finger to carve the words in the dew that spread across the back windshield of Aurora’s rental car. She’d stood there in the driveway, momentarily rendered immobile by the precise, clean letters and their ominous meaning. A week ago she probably would have wilted right there in front of the house, sat underneath the peeling limbs of the crape myrtle in the front yard and wished for home.

But not today.

She remembered Josh’s face, the curve of his split lip as he smiled up at her, pointing at the picture of Niney Crumpler. He was right; they were on the right track. They were getting closer to the truth. Aurora felt her senses sharpening, the way they did when the trauma calls came in at work and she had to shed every anxiety, any distraction that might interfere with the work at hand. She had a job to do. She was going to see Ash Gentry. They’d talked about the different ruses she could use; she could give a fake name, pretend to have just moved to town. In the end, Aurora had told Josh and Samba she was going to be honest, lay her cards on the table for Ash Gentry, pray that the woman would tell her what she knew. It was the only way to find the truth. And she wanted the truth.

She twisted the key in the ignition, and her cell phone lit up. Ruby.

“Aurora. I’m glad I caught you. You all set?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“And Doc wanted me to remind you again to be careful.”

“Yeah, thanks, Ruby.” Aurora pulled onto the tangle of back roads that would eventually lead her to the interstate. “Tell him I’m fine.”

“You know what you’re gonna take from her?”

Aurora hadn’t thought this far ahead. “Tissues? Something from the trash in the restroom?”

Ruby humphed, a disapproving noise. “Toothbrush or hairbrush would be the best.” How did she know this stuff? Had she done this before?

“Got it.” Have you heard anything from Josh, Ruby?” She tried to sound casual. He hadn’t been picking up his cell. She imagined him melting into the shadows in some dark alley somewhere, asking questions about Liana, heedless with grief about Jesse.

“Nada,” Ruby answered. “I’m sure he’s fine. You just be careful and you let us know when you’re on your way back.”

“I will,” Aurora said, and ended the call.

All around her the landscape was changing, the bayou receding, dun-colored housing developments appearing in its place.
Soon
. It was amazing how one word could be so ominous. The shuttered gas stations, the rusting water towers, the cars on cinder blocks in front yards—all of these ordinary things suddenly seemed threatening.

She almost missed the turnoff.
AMARANTH.
The name was written in fading script across two scalloped metal gates pressed together like palms. A green pickup truck with a Confederate flag front license plate, the truck bed laden with paint cans and machinery, was parked where the road met the gravel.

Aurora put the rental car in park and was still searching for an intercom button when the gates began to fold open. The ancient limbs of the oak trees that lined the driveway reached across her path and drew their leaves across the roof of the car. At the end of the long driveway, the house came into view, a stark brick structure half hidden by the Spanish moss that hung from surrounding trees, its windows unencumbered by shutters so that they appeared to Aurora like unblinking eyes. A lone figure stood in the half-open doorway, watching Aurora’s approach.

She pulled the car half onto the grass and stepped outside. There was no trace of the swampy air from Cooper’s Bayou, just a delicate breeze.

“Good afternoon,” said the woman on the steps. She descended slowly. “Welcome to Amaranth.”

This had to be Esma, the housekeeper Aurora had spoken with on the phone.
I’m new in town, and I think she might remember my family. Aurora Atchison.
Her name had meant something to Ash; Esma had come back to the phone quickly, something urgent in her voice.
Miss Ash would like you to come to the house this afternoon, if possible.

“Thank you so much for having me.” Aurora held out the bottle of white wine she’d purchased the previous evening at the supermarket, even though they didn’t have much to choose from. Nana had taught her never to show up anywhere empty-handed.

“How nice. I’ll just put it in the refrigerator to chill. Please follow me.”

Esma led her into a large living room. The interior of the house was dark, and all of the heavy brocade curtains had been pulled across the windows. Garlands of flowers that spilled from disembodied hands were scored into the walls surrounding the fireplace. Aurora bent down to read what looked like handwriting scribbled on the door frame.

“Isn’t it marvelous?”

Ash Gentry’s voice startled her. Like the house, she seemed to be sheathed in half darkness. She crossed the room in a few strides and stood at Aurora’s side, pointing to the markings on the wall. Even in velvet flats, she towered over Aurora.

“Heights of the children who lived in the house,” she explained, drawing a pink varnished nail down the edge of the door frame. “How could I paint over it? All that family history. There’s a difference between renovating and restoring, you know. I never let my workmen forget it. It’s important to me that things stay the same.” In the light from the nearby antique lamp, Aurora could make out the years.
Kitty, age 5, 1906. James Edward, age 8, 1910
.

“Your family?”

“Yes,” Ash said. “I used to spend summer vacations here. My great-great-great-granddaddy built this place for his bride. Restoring it to its original glory has become my life’s work. I mean, it’s not like I do anything useful otherwise.” She laughed. “Aurora Atchison.” There was something clenched in her face when she spoke Aurora’s name. “I must admit, when Esma told me you were calling, I was caught very much by surprise. Please, come sit down.”

Aurora perched on the edge of a raspberry-colored chaise. All of the furniture looked antique, as though it might crumble under your fingertips. Across from her, Ash sat on a high-backed mahogany chair.

“You remembered me.”

“Oh, yes. Nobody could ever forget what happened to you. It’s all anyone talked about for years! A body in the bayou, a murderer running free, an abandoned child. It shook everyone up.” She leaned forward and pressed her hand into Aurora’s. “I think it’s wonderful that you came back. But tell me, why did you?”

Aurora stared at the woman’s pale hand in her own. “My grandfather passed away. I came to settle his estate.”

Ash appeared pleased by this answer. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m sure being back here must be difficult.”

Aurora hesitated. There was no easy way to ask the questions she needed answers to, but she had to try.

“Miss Ash,” she began, “since I arrived here, I discovered some things about my mother’s murder. I think the story that I’ve heard all my life has been untrue.”

To Aurora’s surprise, Ash nodded. “I think you’re right,” she said. “It never made sense to me either.”