The Silence of Murder (12 page)

I don’t know where he comes up with this stuff, but I’ll take it. Over half of victims are killed by their spouses? I wonder if Raymond knows this.

“Okay,” Chase says. “But could Mrs. Johnson even get to the barn? Or swing a bat?”

“Why not? Maybe she’s faking it. You don’t know. Has anybody even looked into her?” I know I sound defensive. But I want them to believe somebody else did it. I want Chase to believe it.

T.J. keeps clicking his pen and staring at the notebook. The
click, click, click
is the only sound in the room.

Then Chase sits up and leans in so he can see my suspect list. “You know … and this is pretty random … I’ve always thought there was something wrong about that woman.”

“You did?” I can’t believe it. “You do? Tell me. Us.”

“I don’t know exactly. I’ve only seen her a few times when Coach had us over to his house.”

“He had you over to his house?” T.J. interrupts.

“Just a couple of times. Me and Austin and Greg and some others.”

“Figures,” T.J. mutters.

“Go on,” I urge, wishing T.J. would quit interrupting.

“I can’t explain it,” Chase continues. “She was friendly enough and said the right things. But there was just something about her I didn’t like.”

“Jeremy too!” I slap my knee, then tug my skirt down. I’m not used to wearing skirts, and I sure haven’t been thinking about this one. “Jer’s a great judge of character. He’s always stayed away from Coach’s wife, and he wouldn’t tell me why.”

“That fits,” Chase says.

“What? What fits?” I ask.

He tilts his head at me. “That’s right.… You weren’t in the courtroom for her testimony, were you?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t think she testified. I thought they said she couldn’t make it to court.”

“That’s what I thought too,” T.J. agrees.

“She didn’t. Not in person,” Chase explains. “But Keller was allowed to read her testimony into the record.”

“Is that fair?” I ask. “Keller gets to read whatever Caroline wants to say, and Raymond doesn’t even get a chance to make her take it back?”

“Jeremy’s lawyer asked her questions too,” Chase says. “Only not very many.”

“Wouldn’t he have the right to subpoena her to appear in court?” T.J. asks. “I’ll bet Raymond could make her testify.”

“Well, he might not want to put her on the stand,” Chase says.

“Why?” I demand. “What did she say?” This is the first I’ve heard about any of this.

“Mostly, it was how great her husband was. She gave an account of the day of the murder, how Coach left the house early, and how my dad’s deputy went to the house to give her the news.”

I can tell he’s leaving out things. “What did she say about Jeremy?”

Chase bites his bottom lip, then comes out with it. “It was pretty bad, Hope.”

“Tell me.”

“She said she was afraid of him. I guess Jeremy went to the house a couple of times with Coach. I don’t know what happened, but she told Coach not to let him in the house again. She made your brother sound dangerous.”

“Dangerous? Jeremy?” I can’t stay sitting down, so I pace Jeremy’s floor. “Jeremy’s right about her. I don’t trust that
woman.” I keep thinking about what I saw that day in the ballpark when she went off on Coach.

I start to tell them more about that argument, but the phone rings. I quit pacing and stare out to the living room, where the phone is ringing and ringing.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” T.J. asks.

Ring! Ring! Ring!
It sounds angry.

“Want me to get it?” T.J. makes a move toward the phone.

“Wait!” I cry over the scream of the phone. “It could be Rita.” The last thing I need is Rita making a scene because I have two guys over when she’s not here.

I walk to the phone, but I can’t pick it up. I’m too afraid.

Footsteps come behind me. I think it’s T.J. until I see Chase reach down and pick up the receiver. The silence is like a slap, scarier somehow than the ringing. Chase holds the receiver to my ear and leans in. When I don’t say anything, he does: “This is the Long residence.”

I recognize the quiet that floats on the other end of the line. I know the breathing.

“Is anybody there?” Chase shouts into the phone.

There’s no answer. Of course.

“Listen to me, whoever this is. Stop calling here! I’m telling the sheriff, and we’ll be listening and tracing your number. Do you understand me?” His voice is getting louder and louder. “You better! This ends right now. Do you hear me? Answer me!” When nobody does, Chase lets loose a string of cusswords that would make even Rita blush. Then he slams down the phone and stares at it, like it could jump back up and knock us both down.

“Way to go, Chase!” T.J. shouts, clapping. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Chase looks at me as if he forgot T.J. and I were here. “Hope, I’m sorry. I guess I lost it.”

“Kind of,” I agree.

“It’s just … I hate cowards,” Chase explains, staring at the phone again. “But I should have let you handle it.”

“I wasn’t exactly handling it,” I admit.

“If you’re okay, I should go,” he says. I nod. He pats his pocket, probably making sure he doesn’t leave his wallet again.

“I can stay if you want,” T.J. says.

“I’ll be okay.” I wouldn’t mind having T.J. stick around. But I don’t want him to have to walk home. “Besides, who would call back after a phone … uh, conversation … like that one, right?”

“Yeah. Okay.” T.J. squeezes my arm. “I’ll take off, then. Dad’s got to be home by now, wondering where I am.” He glances at Chase. “He’s probably called
your
dad to get the posse out looking for me.” He laughs at his own joke.

“That’s all we both need,” Chase says, moving toward the door.

I follow them outside. Chase stops on the step. T.J.’s already halfway to the car. “Thanks, T.J.!” I call after him. Softer, I say, “You too, Chase.” I feel like I need to say more. He’s gotten dragged into my mess all day long. But I stare up into those green eyes, and I can’t say anything.

“Jeremy’s lucky to have a sister like you,” he says.

As he walks off, I think that out of all the things he could
have said, this is the best. It’s the only thing I’ve ever cared about—being a good sister to Jer.

I watch them drive away under a sliver of moon. They’re still in sight when my cell phone rings. Only a handful of people have my cell number, so I answer it.

“It’s me.” The voice belongs to T.J., but the number doesn’t. “I’m on Chase’s cell. Mine’s dead. I just wanted to make sure we’re on for driving lessons after church tomorrow.” T.J. is determined to help me get my driver’s license. He’s been giving me lessons Sunday afternoons for about a month. I’ve been doing it because it helps keep my mind off Jeremy, even if it only lasts an hour.

“I don’t know, T.J. Driving doesn’t seem that important anymore.”

“But I want to run some ideas by you. Like surveillance on Mrs. Johnson. A couple of other things too. We can talk about the case.”

I can’t say no. I’m too grateful that he’s taking Jeremy’s case seriously. It makes me feel like it’s not
all
up to me. “Okay. I’m not going to church, though. Can you come by for me?”

“I’ll be around about noon, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks again, T.J. See you tomorrow.” Chase’s car is still in view when I sign off. What did people do before cells?

I turn to go back inside. And that’s when I see it. An old white pickup truck, headlights off, creeps from the shadows and inches up the street. I step back as it passes my house and keeps going. At the corner, it turns right, just like Chase did. Then it speeds off, disappearing into the darkness … just like Chase.

While I shower
and get ready for bed, I try to explain away that old white pickup. The driver might have forgotten to turn on the lights. It definitely went the same direction Chase did, but there are only two choices at that corner—straight or a right turn. It might have been going anywhere.

I know I’m being paranoid because of the crank calls, but I can’t shake the idea that somebody was following Chase and T.J.

What if they didn’t make it home? I grab my cell and hit T.J.’s number. The call goes directly to voice mail, and I remember he said his phone was dead. So I return the call from T.J. on Chase’s phone. It goes straight to voice mail too.

This isn’t good. What if the pickup ran them off the road?
Think. Think!
Maybe Chase is home already, and he’s turned off his ringer because he doesn’t want to wake his dad. That makes sense. I could text him. As fast as I can, I type: R U OK? Not much of a message, but I send it and wait. My stomach’s cramping as I hold my cell in both hands and stare at it.

Finally, I hear the double beep. Fine. U?

I let out a big sigh. Now I feel stupid. He probably thinks I’m flirting with him … and that I’m really bad at it. I text: Good.

I have got to stop seeing bad guys everywhere.

By the time I climb into bed, I’m tired enough for sleep to come, but it doesn’t. Twice I think I hear somebody inside the house. I call out to Rita, but nobody answers, except the old house creaking, the refrigerator roaring, and the branches scratching my bedroom window.

After double-checking the front and back doors, I get back in bed and burrow under the sheets. I close my eyes, but I can’t stop imagining things. I picture someone sneaking in through Jeremy’s window, and I can’t remember if I locked that window. But I don’t want to go check. Outside, there’s a faint rattle of an engine creeping by, but not passing, the house. It could be the white pickup. I know it’s ridiculous to think like this, but I can’t help it.

For the first time in ages, I actually wish Rita would come home.

The second I wake up, I have the feeling someone is watching me. I stumble out of bed. My window faces west, but I can tell the sun is up.

I yawn, stretch, and check the clock. It’s late, and I’ve already missed Chase running by. I wish he wouldn’t run the same time on weekends that he does weekdays.

Thinking about Chase changes my mood. It shouldn’t, not with Jeremy still in jail. But as I gaze out the window at
the deserted shack across the street, images of Chase from last night flash through my mind: Chase on the edge of the couch, legs outstretched; Chase in my kitchen, spreading grape jelly and laughing about something; Chase in the middle of Jeremy’s room, staring wide-eyed at Jer’s jar collection. But his expression isn’t just gawking. There’s awe on his face. He’s truly amazed.

I walk over to my closet and open the door. The wood is splintered, the latch never worked, and the closet isn’t deep enough for most hangers. Jeans, khakis, and shorts are folded on the top shelf, along with other junk. A few shirts and T-shirts hang on kid hangers. I haven’t been shopping since before Jeremy was arrested. If he were here, we’d be going to church, and I’d wear either the khaki pants or a long, funky, crocheted black skirt that’s not at all churchy.

But I’m not going. I’ve only gone to church once since Jeremy was arrested. It felt like everyone was staring at me, even if they weren’t. I do miss it, though, especially the songs. Jeremy says God sings everywhere, but it’s easier to hear in church.

I settle on denim capris I’ve only worn once and a sleeveless white shirt with big buttons and just a tiny spot that I didn’t see until I got it home from Goodwill.

About five in the morning, I heard Rita come in. You’d have had to be dead not to hear her. She was Happy-Singing-Drunk Rita. She pounded on my bedroom door until I got up to unhook her necklace for her. She was Rita in White—white feather collar rimming a white cardigan, the tiny buttons straining to hold her in. Rita the Chatterer: “Hope,
Hope, Hope,” she said, taking my face in her hands. “You’re a pretty girl. Did you know that? Don’t ever let anybody say you’re not, hear?
My
girl. My own little girl.”

I’m hoping she sleeps until noon. I grab my bag and ease out of my room.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Rita’s standing in the middle of the hallway. Her slip is on inside out, and her bleached hair looks like something made a nest out of it. When she eyes me up and down, her mascara-clumped lashes make tiny window shades for her bloodshot eyes. “Is it Sunday?”

I nod, hoping she’ll think I’m off to church.

Rita groans, turns her back on me, and staggers to her bedroom.

Just when I think I’ll make a clean getaway, she glances over her shoulder. “Hey. What was that old truck doing last night?”

My blood stops running through my veins and turns to ice. “What truck, Rita?”

“A white pickup parked across the street. Somebody around here buy that old thing? I don’t want carbon monoxide polluting our air.” She coughs, like it’s the truck and not the thousands of cigarettes she’s smoked. “Some pervert was sitting in there too, watching me come home.”

“Who?” I demand. “What did he look like?”

Rita frowns. “How should I know? I’m the one who asked you, remember?”

It had to be the same truck I saw follow Chase’s car.

“What’s the matter with you?” Rita scratches her belly, and her slip makes a
zip, zip
sound.

“Rita, I saw that truck”—I almost say “following Chase and T.J.”—“last night, in front of our house.”

“Probably just some loser with no life watching people who have lives.” She yawns.

“And somebody kept calling here and then hanging up.”

Rita lets out a dry laugh. “Let me get this straight. You think somebody’s out to get us, right? That it? Somebody who murdered Coach and is so scared Detective Hopeless will uncover the truth that they’re … what? Parking across the street? Calling and hanging up?”

When she says it like that, it does sound pretty dumb.

She yawns again, so big that her face is nothing but an open mouth. Then she shuffles back to her bedroom.

I grab a cup of instant coffee and go outside to wait for T.J. I don’t want to think about the pickup or the phone calls. It’s August hot, and there’s no shade on the front step. I squint across the street at the empty lot, where they tore down a condemned house, leaving rubble and trash. Shards of glass catch the morning light and toss it into the air in glittering patterns of delicate color. It makes me think of Jeremy and the way he finds beauty everywhere—twigs floating in mud puddles, snowflake mountains on windowsills, crow’s-feet wrinkles at the eyes of old men, pudgy toes on babies, and dandelions, frail and feathered and ready to be blown bald.