Close to the Broken Hearted (25 page)

Leah nodded.

“And she's had troubles in the past thirty minutes?”

Another nod.

“So you know it's not me doin' it, now?”

“Looks like on the surface that would be the case.”

Eli rubbed his chin. “How 'bout we just say I accept your apology and move on? I came here tryin' to repair broken bridges, not blow 'em all to hell and high water.”

Leah kept staring at the phone. If it weren't Eli, then she had no suspects.

“And I trust,” Eli said, “that your little threat 'bout Sylvie disputin' the land deal was just a ruse?”

When Leah didn't react, Eli continued: “Yeah, I didn't think she had any argument for it. I just didn't want things held up.” With a laugh, he shook his head. “You certainly put Leland in a panic, though. Think 'bout it, Detective. I'm tryin' to build a
school.
Why would I be harassin' and, hell,
murderin'
folk to do somethin' that, in the eyes of the Lord, will be such a blessing to this community? It don't make no sense.”

He pushed his chair in, getting ready to leave. He laughed and shook his head again. Leah met the preacher man's eyes. The corners of his mouth creased into a small smile as he held out his hand. “Can we at least
try
to exist in the same town without tearin' each other's throats out?”

“I—I guess we can try,” Leah stammered and actually, to her own surprise, shook his hand.

“I'd appreciate that.”

One thing she could say about Eli Brown. Whatever charisma he had had as a preacher all them years ago still lurked underneath his scruffy demeanor. She had no doubt he'd be successful at raising the money he needed to build his school. That charm was all just hidden away a bit beneath years of being worn through from spending so much time in the state prison system. Being on the inside can change a man. Leah knew that. She'd seen it happen on many occasions. Usually, the changes weren't good. They manifested at the worst times, and in the worst ways.

She wondered what sorts of things she'd see manifesting from Eli Brown.

“I've gotta go get supper on,” he said, heading through her kitchen for the living room. “And I suspect you've gotta go pay Miss Sylvie a visit. Thank you for your time, Detective.”

 

Ever since we heard my mother hollering, me and Dewey had stopped playing with our swords and had come as close as we dared to the picture window at the front of the house and tried to listen to what was going on inside.

“You
still
think she trusts him?” I asked.

“I have to admit,” Dewey said, “that's a lot of yellin'. I reckon you might be right.”

“Of course I'm right. I'm a good judge of character.”

The yelling calmed down and then we heard the telephone. My mother was quiet while she talked on the phone, so we couldn't hear any of her conversation through the front window. We were also at least a room away on account of we couldn't see anyone in the living room, which meant my mother and Preacher Eli had probably gone into the kitchen.

I pointed this fact out to Dewey.

“She sure must've been yellin' awfully loud, then.”

I smiled. “See? Told you.”

A little bit later we did see my mother and Preacher Eli come around the corner into the living room and we quickly ducked down and crab-walked back to our places in the front yard where we'd been sword fighting. Assuming our positions, we went back to battling, although our attention was really on the front porch where the door was being opened. My mother said good-bye to Preacher Eli.

“I'll get to the bottom of this,” she told him.

“I reckon you will,” Preacher Eli said. “And I hope you do, soon. Have a fine evenin', Miss Teal.” He caught himself. “Sorry. I mean
Detective Teal
.”

“You too, Mr. Brown.”

Once again, Preacher Eli gave us the slightest of acknowledgments as he trudged past and got into his car. Me and Dewey had stopped fighting completely as he backed out and headed down the street toward Hunter Road, probably bound for his little shotgun shack sitting up in Blackberry Springs like a command post.

Back at the door my mother had slipped on her shoes and was coming outside, too. “So, I s'pose I was right after all,” I said, pushing my chest out slightly.

“ 'Bout what?” she asked.

“Preacher Eli. I told you he is not to be trusted. He already done and killed once. You can't trust killers. I bet you feel a bit silly now for getting so mad about me and Dewey having our stakeout.”

My mother came down the steps staring at me. Something flashed across her face. “That man ain't up to nothin'.”

“What do you mean?” I felt my own face begin to get warm. I was tired of having to explain the same things over and over when I was always right and everyone else seemed to always be wrong.

“Eli Brown's innocent.”

I wondered if my face was getting red. It was definitely growing hot. “But—” I stammered. “We heard you yellin'.”

“You should mind your business,” she said, pointing at me.

That did it. Now I got really upset. I was tired of minding my business. I was tired of not being taken seriously. “I'm so sick of you not listenin' to me!” I snapped, my voice rising in volume and speed. “Preacher Eli is guilty!”

“Abe! Calm down right now!”

But I didn't calm down, and Dewey's face grew ashen and his eyes looked like saucers as he watched. They filled up with fear.

“Preacher Eli is the one who's been upsetting Miss Sylvie! You just refuse to listen on account of it's me tellin' you! If it were anyone else, you'd listen! You never listen to me!” My voice had grown to hollering. Tears stung the back of my eyes. “You didn't listen to me 'bout my aunt Addison and you ain't listenin' to me 'bout this!”

“Abe!” my mother yelled back. “Drop your tone, right now!”

“I will not! I'm so sick of bein' ignored! So sick of mindin' my own business! So sick of—” My face felt like it was on fire. As I screamed, I waved my sword in the air. With a frustrated wail, I held it out horizontally in front of me and lifted my knee. With one hard yank, I brought it down and with a loud
crack!
I split it in two, practically breaking it right at the hilt.

Dewey hadn't moved. His expression hadn't changed.

I felt a tear run down the cheek of my burning face.

“Dewey,” my mother said calmly, “go home.”

“Yes, ma'am.” His voice trembled.

“Abe, go to your room. I have to go see Miss Sylvie. You'll stay in your room until I get back home, understood?”

Not another word was spoken as Dewey picked up his bike and rode off down Cottonwood Lane beneath that red-streaked sky, and I slowly stumbled up the front steps of my house, crying. Cotton floated in the air behind me as I went inside, kicked off my shoes, and went to my room.

Collapsing on my bed, I let the tears run from my eyes, over the bridge of my nose, and on to my pillow, unsure of what had come over me.

O
n the ride over to Sylvie's, Leah forgot all about Abe's outburst, and began to unwind all the theories that had been building up in her head. She had done exactly what Ethan Montgomery warned her not to: She'd let her imagination run amok. Preacher Eli wasn't guilty of harassing Sylvie Carson. Why would the man get out on parole and then risk that freedom just to barnstorm the sister of the boy he'd accidentally killed? When she thought of it now, it so obviously made no sense; she chided herself for falling so easily into believing it. She had
wanted
to believe it.

Then there were the “mysterious” deaths of Sylvie's parents, which weren't so mysterious at all. Sylvie's mother's death had been a mystery for a few weeks when it happened all them years ago. Then Leah and those experts from Mobile had pieced together a perfectly fine working plot and followed a few leads that brought them straight to a suspect. One of Eli Brown's parishioners had gone out on his own and done the deed, thinking he was working in the name of God. Eli Brown tended to attract the extremists, and nobody was as extreme as James Richard Cobbler. Even on his way to the chair (known as Yellow Mama in these parts), the man still held that he'd done nothing wrong. He'd been working in the name of the Lord. Well, that was a Lord Leah was happy not to call her own, thank you very much.

Despite how torn up he'd been about losing his wife, even Tom Carson had seemed satisfied with how justice had prevailed once the actual sentence was carried out. The case had been solved, damn it. Shame on Leah for dredging up old memories that were in no need of dredging up.

And Tom Carson's case had never been anything but a suicide. Leah had no idea what made her suddenly decide to turn it into something else. The man had been so depressed he'd spent his life savings on a therapist. He'd even waited until Sylvie wasn't home to kill himself and made sure she wouldn't be the one who found his body; that responsibility fell to a farmhand.

No, so far, all Leah's theories had been mirages. In some ways, she was worse than Sylvie. She'd been jumping at shadows.

She was thinking about all this as she pulled into Sylvie's drive to discover, just as Sylvie had said she would, both cellar doors wide open around the back of the house. And just as Sylvie said, there wasn't any wind, or at least not enough to make that a credible excuse. Besides, last time she was here, Leah felt the way that clasp had tightened. There wasn't any way those doors were blowing open unless Alvin was hit by a twister.

So that meant someone really was coming into Miss Sylvie's backyard. This was hardly any surprise given that the last time Leah was called out someone had obviously been inside her actual house. Leah still found it disquieting how they'd somehow left the place completely locked up behind them. The strange part was the complete lack of any evidence of potential danger. Well, she supposed that mucking around with Sylvie's shotgun showed some disturbing signs—but whoever it was had
dis
armed it. They had made the place safer, not more hazardous.

This time it really seemed as though someone was trying to make Sylvie look like (or think that) she was going crazier than everyone thought she was. Because, if she really did only go inside for a half hour, this whole incident was set up to make it look like she was paranoid and delusional. And, possibly, to make people think she was doing these incidents to herself (which, of course,
had
crossed Leah's mind).

Like before, Leah got down on her hands and knees, and this time she forced back her fears and went partially into the crawl space with her flashlight. The dirt ground was uneven, but there was nothing and nobody down there. Just a bunch of dirt. Again she saw marks in the dirt, but she couldn't tell if they were any different than they had been before. Just like last time, Leah felt a little ashamed for not searching the crawl space properly, but she couldn't bring herself to go in any farther. As it was, her pulse was up. Besides, there didn't appear to be anything down here but probably some spiders stuck in this tight, dark space.

“Well, we've definitely found the source of your fruit-fly problem,” Leah said to Sylvie. “They're all comin' from down here in your crawl space.” There were flies everywhere beneath the house.

“Why would there be fruit flies in my crawl space if there ain't no fruit down there?” Sylvie asked. She'd calmed down considerably since Leah had arrived. Leah got the feeling both of them were getting a little too used to this same routine.

Sylvie's question was one Leah couldn't answer. “I don't know, but there ain't no fruit that I can see. Not even a dead possum or anythin' like that. Could be a stray banana peel or somethin' tucked away in one of the corners, maybe.”

Just like every other time she showed up at Sylvie's, Leah pulled out her pad and took down an official statement from Sylvie. And just like every other time, Sylvie added in her own editorial comment, this time using Preacher Eli's name in place of “the suspect” or “whoever did it.”

“I wasn't gone for not even thirty minutes,” Sylvie said. “And Preacher Eli came and opened these doors. God only knows what else the man did.”

Leah didn't bother trying to explain that Eli Brown had been with her. Instead, she calmly said, “You don't know for sure
who
is responsible for this, Sylvie. Just remember that. Everyone is innocent until proven guilty.”

“I know it's Preacher Eli.
You
might not, but I do.” Sylvie was holding the baby, who was sucking on a soother.

Leah let out a breath. “I'm leavin' that out of the statement.”

With a shrug, Sylvie said, “Suit yourself.”

After she'd taken the report, Leah stood back and examined the doors one more time, wondering who really did it.

The baby started getting fussy and Sylvie said, “I have to go inside and give her the rest of her bottle. I spent all night pumpin' it, so she's gonna drink it. Is that okay? Or do you still need me?”

“No, go ahead. I'm just going to have a look around.”

As Sylvie walked back inside, Leah started thinking about all of the different times she'd been called out to Sylvie's lately. First it was for the flowerpots. That one she wrote off as paranoia. Even if it turned out to be someone messing with Sylvie, it was so benign, it wasn't worth putting on the list. But then there were the big ones: the single cellar door being opened; the shotgun being unloaded, and the shells being lined up on the table; the dead cat on the porch; and now both cellar doors being opened.

She squatted back down and swept the cellar again with her flashlight.
Was
there something down here she wasn't seeing? And if there was, why would someone draw attention to it by leaving the doors open, unless they
wanted
it found? That made no sense. What
did
make sense was using the doors to make Sylvie
think
she was going nuts.

But who would want to do that?

Part of Leah was disappointed Eli Brown was no longer on the suspect list. He'd fit so well, in so many different ways. Maybe it could still be him. She had called Leland's dad in Alabaster from her car phone on the way over and he had been able to put Leland on the line, so Eli's story about his grandson going home checked out. Could there be a
third
partner?

What about the shotgun? How had they gotten into the house and back out again without any evidence of breaking and entering? There was no way in Leah's mind that she could see Sylvie accidentally leaving a door or a window unlocked, or not noticing if a door was not locked when she got back home. The girl was far too paranoid.

It had to be someone good at picking dead bolts. But in a town of fewer than two thousand people, how many potential suspects do you actually
have?
Again, that's why Eli Brown had been such a great suspect. It was a skill he could've picked up in prison during the past seventeen years.

Unless . . .

Unless it was someone who didn't have to use a door or a window.

Leah stepped back and took in the back of the house. How else could somebody get in?

There were ducts, but they were much too small to crawl in through. There was no fireplace and, besides, was she seriously considering someone coming down the chimney?

No, it had to be a door or a window.

And then it came to her.

And when it did, she had no idea why it had taken this long before she thought of it.

What if the person who broke in had used the door but didn't need to know how to pick locks?

Because, what if the person breaking in
already had a key?

Now the question was: How many people might have keys to Sylvie Carson's house?

Leah walked in the back door where Sylvie was breast-feeding the baby. “Sylvie?” she asked. “Who has keys to your house?”

“Nobody,” Sylvie answered. “I just changed the locks.”

“I mean before that.”

“Nobody.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Why would I give out any keys?”

“What about Orwin?”

There was a long silence while Sylvie considered this. “Actually, I don't know what happened to his key. I doubt he still has it.”

Leah had her pad out again and was back to taking notes. “Can I ask you some questions about your relationship? With Orwin?”

Sylvie shrugged, rubbing the back of the baby's neck. “Sure.”

“How would you describe it?”

“It was fine. I mean it wasn't perfect, but whose is, right? We had our good days and our bad days.”

“Describe a bad day.”

“He'd come home from work in a mood or it would be a day when he couldn't find work.”

“And . . . ?”

“And he'd usually get drunk and loud. You know.”

“Pretend I don't.”

“Well, he'd call me names and stuff.”

“So he'd get verbally abusive?” Leah asked.

“I guess. Not sure if I'd call it abusive.”

“Did he ever get physical with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he ever
hit
you?”

Sylvie looked away.

“I'll take that as a yes.”

Sylvie looked back at Leah. “Not very often. And it was usually on account of me doin' somethin' dumb.”

“And I'll ignore that completely.” Leah jotted down a few more notes on her pad. “Do you know where Orwin is now?”

Sylvie shook her head.

“No idea at all?”

“None.”

“Do you know anyone who
might
know? Close friends? Relatives?”

Sylvie looked at the ceiling while she moved the baby higher onto her shoulder so she could burp her. “Well, Orwin does have this aunt he was close to. She lives somewhere in . . . oh, I can't remember.”

“He's close to her?”

“Yeah.”

“How close?”

“Well, we were short money once and needed rent and he called her and she drove all the way down to lend it to us. She lives, like, four hundred miles away. Somewhere in Arkansas, I think.”

“Wow, that's a long way to come to lend someone money. Do you remember her name?”

“His aunt . . . um . . . Jolayne. That's it. Jolayne.”

“Did you pay the money back?”

Sylvie finished burping the baby and put her back into cradle position. “What?”

“The money Jolayne lent you. Did you ever pay it back?”

“Yeah. About three weeks later. Orwin drove it back to her.”

“You didn't go?”

“No, I stayed here.”

“How come?”

Sylvie shrugged. “I dunno. He just told me I didn't have to come and that he'd be fine goin' alone.”

Leah put her pad back in her pocket. “Okay, thanks.”

“Why are you askin' 'bout Orwin? You gonna try and find him?”

“I might.”

“Think you can?”

“Shouldn't be too hard,” Leah said. “After all, he still has your car, doesn't he?”

 

On her way home, Leah's thoughts wandered away from Orwin Thomas and Sylvie Carson and back to her son probably still lying in his bed back home. Leah wasn't mad about his outburst, but she was concerned. She was pretty sure she knew what had driven him to it, and, the truth was, she was going through a similar emotional conflict herself.

It was this whole new family popping up in their lives that was digging up memories of Billy. For Leah, those memories came mixed with anger, guilt, and blame.

He'd been gone ten years, but it'd only been very recently she'd realized she still hadn't gotten over his death. When he died, she took down all his pictures and put them away along with anything else that reminded her of him. Just thinking about him was too painful to bear, so she hid those thoughts away as best she could.

One of the best hiding spots turned out to be behind a big heap of blame. She blamed him for leaving her alone. Blamed him for dying. And that made her angry.

In the first couple years, she had gone to grief counseling, so she knew the drill: five steps of grieving and you have to go through it before you're out of it. Only she couldn't stand to get through the first step. So she stopped the cycle before it even had a chance to start.

It turns out there's a funny thing about grief. It won't be stopped. The cycle will keep going all by itself if you try to keep it bottled up too long.

And the part she hadn't realized was that by hiding Billy's death away from herself, she had taken a daddy away from her children. Especially from Abe. She saw that now, and it was that realization that allowed her to come to terms with needing to resolve Billy's death in her own mind.

Funny, but the therapist said first comes denial, then anger, then bargaining, then depression, and finally acceptance. Somehow that therapist had missed the one thing Leah needed to work out the most. And, in her mind, that was forgiveness. She needed to forgive her husband for dying on her.