A Little Death in Dixie, page 16
It was a good lesson to remember if he felt tempted to tell her about his relationship with Sophia.
She laid her fork down. “How can I help you find my sister?”
He wanted to say, See your jerk brother-in-law for who he really is, because, chances are, he killed her. But Billy understood how hard that conclusion would be for her.
“You’ve already done a lot. What we need is a break.”
Caesar whined from under the table.
Mercy looked down at him. “What’s the matter, boy?” The dog gagged and threw up, splattering Mercy’s tennis shoes. She jumped up. “Oh, geez, it must be the antibiotic.”
The kitchen door swung open. Gloria walked in wearing too much makeup, her hair over sprayed, carrying a tumbler of diluted orange juice. Her nails gleamed cherry red against the glass. Billy caught the scent of alcohol. He knew a screwdriver when he smelled one.
“Heavens, Mercedes, where are your manners? You’re entertaining this gentleman in the kitchen with that nasty dog!”
“Entertaining?” Mercy echoed. “We’re talking about Sophia . . . you know, the investigation.”
Her mother marched over and clamped her hand on Billy’s arm. “Come with me, Detective. Mercy, clean up that mess and knock that flour off your shirt. You look ridiculous.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Monday, 1:20 p.m.
Billy left the kitchen with Gloria’s hand clamped on his arm and Mercy’s hurt expression stamped in his brain. He hated hearing her mother talk down to Mercy like that, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He had the person closest to Sophia alone. He wondered if he could get Gloria to admit, even to herself, what was really going on in this house. She leaned on his arm and blinked her puffy eyelids at him.
“That girl will never have Sophia’s polish,” she said in a voice husky with alcohol. “It’s a shame. Mercy took after her father’s side—common, not fine-boned like Sophia and me. And that face. A woman doesn’t have a chance with a face like hers.” Gloria peered at him. “Did you hear what I said? A woman doesn’t have a chance.” She gripped his arm. “You have to find Sophia.”
Gloria was drunk and should be put to bed before she hurt herself. He’d done the same for his mother when he would find her asleep on the sofa, an empty bottle on the floor beside her.
He squeezed Gloria’s hand and steered her toward a hallway. “Does this lead to Sophia’s bedroom?”
She nodded, made a little two-step. “She loves to dance, you know, Sophia does.”
Photos of Sophia lined the hallway. They passed one from a newspaper society page—Sophia in a black gown, shoulders bare, and the hollows of her collarbones exposed, descending the steps of the Memphis Brooks Museum of Art. She had glanced away and the photographer caught her in profile. A copy of the same photo had lain in Billy’s desk drawer for five years. Last year he realized he was hanging onto a painful memory and threw it away.
Gloria stopped at a snapshot of Sophia as a child on stage, wearing a tiara and a satin banner across her chest that read “Little Miss Channel Five.” The child’s head tilted coyly, her hand waving.
Gloria stood with her head tilted the same as her daughter’s in the picture. “Sophia won her first time out. Mercedes never even made the finals.”
He heard the worst message a parent can give a child—you’ll never be good enough. So this was how Mercy had grown up. He focused on the photograph. Losing his temper wasn’t an option.
“Sophia looks like a happy little girl,” he said.
“Never a cloudy day when Sophia was growing up. The problem started later, after the tragedy.”
“I’m aware she lost her son.”
“She’s a fragile soul. Breaks my heart. They say that animals sense an earthquake coming. I’ve noticed there’s been a tension, like a vibration, around this house for weeks. Sophia disappeared, and now the tension is gone. It’s like the calm after the tremors have stopped.”
“So she was tense, jumpy?”
“No, the vibration didn’t come from Sophia.” Gloria frowned. “I can’t explain it.”
They reached Sophia’s bedroom. The heavy drapes were closed so only lamplight washed the rose-colored walls and gold-leaf bed. The thick carpet and tapestry bedcover gave the room a sequestered feeling. Nothing appeared to be out of place, down to the vacuum strokes in the carpet.
He knew Sophia to be a perpetual mess in motion, never picking up anything she put down. “Is this the master bedroom?”
“T. Wayne snores. She moved out of the master temporarily. She needs her rest.”
No books, no personal items on the dresser except a photograph of her son, Casey, splashing in the pool. “Mind if I look around?”
“If you think it will help.” Gloria sat on the edge of the bed to finish her drink.
He opened drawers and found Sophia’s sweaters, her lingerie. His fingers brushed the cool mounds of silk. Everything in the drawers appeared to have been placed there by a perfectionist. “Any of her clothes missing?”
“Only what she wore Friday.”
A jewelry box held costume pieces and a charm bracelet. In a corner of the room, he saw bolts of fabrics standing on end. “She must have picked up a new project.”
“More charity work. I told her not to wear herself out, but she wouldn’t listen.”
He pointed to the walk-in closet. “I’d like to take a look.”
“Just don’t disturb anything.”
In the closet, surrounded by her wardrobe, Sophia’s scent pressed in on him. All he had to do was close his eyes and she’d be in his arms again, her face close to his, her lips on his. From the day they’d first met, she’d possessed him. But he couldn’t fall apart because he got a whiff of perfume.
“It’s as if she’s with us,” Gloria whispered, stepping in beside him.
He flipped on the light and began opening shoeboxes and shopping bags of clothes, finding most still had the tags attached.
While he searched, Gloria’s hand traced the row of garments, and she pulled out the black dress Sophia had worn in the photo—the dress that had fed his fantasies after she’d left. Black sequins shimmered over the skirt. Gloria gathered it to her face and breathed in. “She’s a living dream in this one.” She sobbed. “I can’t take this, I need a drink.”
The woman’s grief touched his. He guided her out of the closet. “We need to focus. Let’s begin with this room. It’s very neat for a person with a drinking problem.”
“She keeps her room this way,” Gloria said stiffly.
“I don’t believe that.”
She looked guilty. “I vacuumed, picked up a few things.” She inched toward the corner of the bed.
He noticed the mattress sat askew on the box spring. “You’ve searched under the mattress and straightened your daughter’s room. Hiding evidence won’t help her, Mrs. Snow.”
Gloria pulled a prescription bottle of a heavy-duty tranquilizer from her pocket. “I found this. T. Wayne keeps the rest of her meds locked up. I don’t know where she got it.”
“Is this all you found?”
“Gardenias pressed under the mattress, and a swizzle stick from Commander’s Palace in New Orleans. I didn’t know she took a trip to New Orleans. And I didn’t know gardenias had a special meaning for her. White roses do. I’ve searched for a diary. I believe she was keeping one, but I haven’t found it.”
He was surprised. He hadn’t known about the New Orleans trip or the possibility of a diary. Both could be important.
“This isn’t like the other times when she’s gone off to drink,” she said. “There’s a pattern before she slips. She sleeps all day, gets angry over nothing. She seemed all right after she came back from rehab in Colorado. But then she got that warning in the Chinese fortune cookie. Do you people have a psychic on staff?”
“No, but we’ll look into that if we need to.” His next question wouldn’t be so easy. “Was she seeing another man?”
“I wondered when you’d get to that. Believe me, I’d know if Sophia were running around.” She hugged herself, avoiding his gaze. “I really need that drink.”
He was losing her. “We’ll get you a drink in a minute. Has her husband been depressed?”
She cut her eyes away from him. “T. Wayne will be home soon. You can talk to him.”
“You know what goes on in this house. You need to tell me.”
“There’s one thing I’m sure about.” She went to the dresser, opened the jewelry box and held up a bracelet. “I gave her this gold Mercedes charm for her sixteenth birthday. It’s a bond between us. She’d never leave it on purpose.”
“I understand that you’re devoted to your daughter.” He didn’t say “daughters,” and she didn’t correct him. “But what about Sophia’s husband? How do you feel about him?”
“T. Wayne has been good to both of us.”
She fumbled the bracelet between her fingers and looked down, avoiding confrontation. If he pushed too hard, she’d shut down.
“You have to choose,” he said. “I know you want to support your son-in-law, but you can’t protect him at the price of your daughter’s life.”
Her gaze shifted, her loyalties swaying. “Last year Sophia drank too much at a party his boss gave for clients. She insulted an important guest. Shortly after that, T. Wayne’s boss passed him over for a promotion. He blamed Sophia. They had a terrible fight. After that he started spending a lot of time out of town. Down in Texas. Austin.”
“We found vodka bottles in the Acura’s tire well. Did you know she was drinking again?”
“It doesn’t take much for her to start. T. Wayne sold her Mercedes while she was away at rehab. It’s a collector’s car, very valuable. I thought she’d never stop crying.”
“She was crazy about that car,” Billy said.
“T. bought the Acura. She hates it. She’s been driving his BMW. For some reason he took the BMW to the airport, so she had to drive the Acura for the last few days.”
Her face took on a dreamy quality, and she wandered over to the bed, fluffed pillows and smoothed the bedcover. “But then T. Wayne sent roses with the sweetest card the day he left the country. He booked a two-week cruise in the Greek Islands for their twenty-fifth anniversary.” She traced her finger over the headboard. “I thought this was the perfect marriage. It hasn’t turned out that way.”
“Has your son-in-law abused your daughter?”
Her dreamy look melted. “I’ve wondered. She’s had so many accidents. Sophia’s not clumsy and hasn’t fallen once since I’ve moved in. T. seems restless, like his mind is somewhere else. Sometimes I get up for a late snack, and he’ll be on the phone in his study.” She gave him a sly glance. “He keeps his knife collection in there. I don’t like weapons of any kind, not since the accident with Casey.”
This was the most honest she’d been since they had left the kitchen, and the best excuse he’d heard to get into Dupree’s study. With Gloria along, he wouldn’t need a court order to look around.
“He’s a collector?” he said.
“It was guns before. Now it’s knives and swords.”
“I’m a collector myself. Can I take a look?”
Mercy was nowhere to be seen as Billy followed her mother through the house. He wondered if Mercy unconsciously sensed Gloria would spill more information if left alone with him, a man. Women like Gloria tended to operate that way: ignoring or even competing with their daughters for any man’s attention. Gloria picked up a stack of mail from the entry table and led him upstairs to Dupree’s classic English study. A carved desk sat in front of a display cabinet. Billy walked over and flipped on the interior light. The case held bowie knives, stilettos, even a broadsword.
“This stuff is ancient,” he said, stooping down. “That dagger must be fifteenth century.”
“T. spends hours looking things up on the computer before he buys them.”
Billy stood and noticed the stack of bills on the desk. Wanting a closer look, he said, “I should check in with my office. Is this phone all right?” Before she could answer, he sat, picked up the receiver, and pretended to dial, scanning the stack of papers at the same time: a travel itinerary, an envelope from SilverSpring Mortgage Co., and a bank statement from National Trust.
“Agent Jones, did you reach Mr. Chan?” He said into the dead receiver. While Gloria shuffled through the mail, he rifled the stacks in front of him, then took a blank sheet of paper from Dupree’s printer and laid it next to the itinerary. “Hang on, let me get that down.” Still pretending to listen, he copied the travel information, bank account numbers and the mortgage information.
Gloria waved an envelope with a cruise ship logo in the left hand corner.
“Thanks,” he said and hung up.
“Cruise tickets,” she beamed and tore open the envelope. As she read the single sheet of paper, her expression changed. She held up the letter with the word “Cancelled” stamped across the bottom and frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“May I see it?”
A credit card slip fell out of the envelope. Billy read the letter and inspected the slip. “He cancelled the cruise two weeks ago. Got his full deposit refunded. Four thousand dollars.”
“That bastard.” Gloria took the letter back. “He cancelled the trip behind her back, the same way he got rid of her Mercedes.”
Chapter Thirty
Monday, 1:35 p.m.
“Mercy Pie!” T. Wayne called out as he strode into the kitchen, a broad-shouldered, handsome man in his mid-fifties who, for years, had convinced Mercy everything in life was going to be okay.
“T.!” She threw her arms around his neck, suppressing her surprise that he looked so much older than he had the last time she’d seen him, two years ago. And he had a new scar, a white line running across his forehead. She hugged him again. Now that he was home, responsibility for managing her mother could shift to him.
“God, I’m glad you’re here,” he said, his voice cracking with exhaustion. “Tell me Sophia is home, sleeping it off.”
Mercy shook her head. “She went shopping Friday night and disappeared.”
He blew out his breath. She caught a whiff of scotch.
“I caught the first plane out. I’ve spoken with Buck a couple of times. I know they found Sophia’s car in a parking lot, and later some guy turned in her purse. Do the cops know anything else?”
“You can talk with Detective Able when he finishes interviewing Momma. I’ll get you some pie and coffee.”
T. Wayne swallowed as if he had a throat full of sandpaper. “There’s a detective in this house alone with your mother?”
“Well, yes.”
He slammed his fist on the counter. “Damn it, Buck warned me the cops would put the screws to me as soon as I landed.” He scowled at her. “What’s wrong with you? I thought you were smarter than to let a detective get hold of your mother.”
“Don’t be ridiculous; I can’t control who he talks to.” T. Wayne’s words felt like a slap.
“You don’t get it. He’ll pump your mother for something he can use against me.”
“It’s his job to ask questions. He was questioning me up until a few minutes ago.”
“You? What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. There’s nothing to tell.”
T. Wayne stomped into the entry. Mercy followed, her mind churning with excuses for his angry attitude. He was worried about Sophia, certainly. He’d raced across continents to get back to Memphis, fighting with airlines and crossing time zones to get home. On top of that, the judge’s warning must have really shaken him.
“I’m sorry, Mercy, but I don’t like being blind-sided in my own house.” He stopped, listening. “You hear that? You hear that? They’re upstairs in my office,” he said as he raced up the steps.
She ran after him, praying Able wasn’t in T. Wayne’s study. At the landing T. Wayne paused and rotated his shoulders as if adjusting his attitude. As they neared the study, Mercy heard her mother’s voice through the half-closed door.
“That bastard,” Gloria said. “He cancelled the trip behind her back, the same way he got rid of her Mercedes.”
T. Wayne pushed through the door. Mercy followed and saw Detective Able, sitting behind the desk, writing on a sheet of paper. He looked up as T. Wayne came in. Able’s features became a neutral mask as he folded the paper, slipped it into his jacket and stood.
“I’m Detective Able. I’m investigating your wife’s disappearance.”
T. Wayne extended his hand but stood far enough away to make Able come from behind the desk to shake it. Able came around and gripped T. Wayne’s hand. Both men gave a small, tug-of-war pull before dropping the handshake.
T. Wayne nodded toward his desk. “Is that what you were doing? Looking for my wife?”
Able shrugged. “I can take a closer look, if you want.”
“You need a warrant to go through a man’s desk,” T. Wayne said, his voice rising.
“Hold on. I wasn’t searching your desk. And aren’t we working the same side here?”
Mercy’s throat tightened when she saw predatory amusement lighting Able’s eyes. This wasn’t going well.
Gloria pushed between them. “T., I told the detective he could use your phone, but let’s forget about that and talk about this.” She shook a piece of paper in his face. “You cancelled Sophia’s anniversary cruise. I want to know why.”
T. Wayne snatched the paper out of her hand. “You opened an envelope addressed to me?”
“I don’t need a court order to look at a letter in this house. I thought these were the tickets. I told the detective you were taking Sophia on a fancy cruise. You lied. You cancelled the cruise.”
He scanned the letter. “For God’s sakes, this says I’ve cancelled the Pisces. But I’ve booked another ship, the Pacific Dawn. What the hell’s wrong with that?”
Gloria’s eyes went wide. “Oh, sweetie, I saw the word ‘cancelled’ and went crazy.”
