Eyeshot (13 page)

She covered her face with her hands. Sonora waited.

Hardin wiped her eyes with a napkin, blew her nose. “
Sorry.
” She looked up, eyes bright. “Where's your little girl?”

“She and Detective Delarosa went to Wal-Mart to pick up … a cooler.”

Hardin did not seem to find any particular significance in the need for a cooler. Sonora did not explain.

“You have any other kids, Detective?”

“My son is fourteen. Heather is seven.”

“Where is he?” Hardin asked.

It was a sore point. “I don't know. No one answers where he swore up and down he would be.” Sonora brought out her recorder. A tape was inside, ready to go.

Hardin gave her a wary look.

“I take it that you and your sister were close?” In this instance, a rhetorical question, but Sonora always made a point of starting with the easy stuff. She could listen to Liza Hardin talk about Julia for thirty seconds, and know they were close.

She wondered what it was like to have a sister.

Liza Hardin nodded.

“How was her marriage?”

“I
knew
you were going to ask me that. It was fine, I guess.”

“How fine could it be? We both know she was having an affair. You never met this guy?”

Liza Hardin's eyes went narrow for a moment. She leaned back against the turquoise pad of the booth. “No, I didn't want to. I like Butch, and I felt funny about it. I told her if this guy lasted more than six months, I'd meet him then.”

“How'd Julia take that?”

“Told me to go fuck myself.”

“Had she done anything like this before?”

Hardin looked at Sonora, reached for her coffee cup. Put it back down. “No.”

Sonora raised one eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I know, I hesitated. Far as I know this was Julia's first walk on the wild side. She didn't know how these things work. But I do. I've done it before.”

“Okay. Julia know about that?”

“Some of them. I didn't tell her at first. I thought she'd, you know, be all shocked and disapproving. But I fell in love and got upset and called her once.”

“What'd she do?”

Hardin shook her head. “It was the first one I told her about, and she
laughed.
Then I was the one who was shocked. She said she had no idea I'd been having all the fun, wanted to know all about it. That's what got me wondering if her marriage was all it was cracked up to be. She even asked me … never mind
what
she asked me, but let's just say it was pointed.”

Hardin refilled her coffee from the brown plastic pot, ripped open a blue packet of Equal. “Believe me, we weren't raised like this.”

“How long did your sister have a private post office box?”

Hardin frowned. “You know about that? She got it about two, three months ago. Right after she met this guy.”

“She open it just for him?”

Hardin shrugged. “Let's say he was the catalyst. But I'm the one who talked her into it. Went with her, paid the first six months rent on the thing. See, I didn't know if her marriage was in trouble. My experience is people say, no, we're fine, fine, oops, guess what, we're getting divorced. That's the way it was for me, some of my friends. The reasons may take years but the actual divorce seems to hit all of a sudden. A post office box is a good thing to have.”

Sonora nodded.

“She had a safe deposit box at a bank, too, and a checking account in her name only, different bank from the one she and Butch used. One hundred dollars in the bank account, three hundred in the box. We put it in together. For emergencies. I've been divorced before. I know how this stuff works.” She dipped her spoon in and out of the coffee cup, scattering brown drops of liquid on the imitation wood-grain table.

“Sounds like serious trouble,” Sonora said.

Hardin's look was intent, as if she had tales to tell. “It's a good idea to be prepared. Remember, I've been there, seen friends go through it. Seen how the person you said forever with, had children with, turns into a weird nasty stranger. I can't decide whether divorce just turns people mean, or if you're just seeing them the way they really are for the first time.”

“What was going on with them? Julia and Butch? From a sister's eye view.”

Hardin set the spoon down. “I think, in all honesty, her marriage was no better or worse than any other. They've been running the diner for four years—putting in unbelievable hours. And they started their family about the same time. Two little girls—beautiful as they are—and the diner. They've actually been doing pretty well with it the last couple of years, but it's an impossible load.”

“Butch do his fair share?”

Hardin grimaced. “What man does? And anyway, the diner is his big dream. Jules was fine with it, but she was getting restless. She felt like she'd spent four years busting her ass, getting the diner off the ground, making babies like a hill woman, and she was wanting just a little time to herself. To get centered, is how she put it. Butch didn't get that, and the more she tried to pull away, the harder he kicked. If he'd have let her breathe a little, they probably would have been okay. That's why that affair of hers was going nowhere.”

Sonora raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Hardin laid her palms down on top of the table. “Because the guy needed a keeper. His wife and kids died in a car accident a few years ago, and he grabbed my sister like a lifeline. He was … demanding, and difficult. She used to joke that now she had four kids on her hands, the girls, Butch, and … this guy. The last time we talked, she said she thought she'd made a mistake. That she was feeling … I don't know, claustrophobic and out of breath when she was near him. I think she was trying to figure out how to get rid of him without hurting his feelings.” Liza Hardin rolled her eyes. “Ain't no way, of course. And then this big exciting plan to meet in Cincinnati gets made, and she goes up on wings of love, and finds after a few days this guy is driving her nuts.

“
Then
she sees that guy's picture in the paper, and she's off on that like you would not believe. It's been a lot of years since it happened. I was surprised by how upset she was over it.”

“She say who this alleged killer was?”

“Some DA—got his picture in the paper, trying some old jock for running down a girl from Xavier.”

“She give you a name?”

She frowned, pursed her lips. “She mentioned it. I'd know it if I heard it.”

“Helphenstine? Reynolds? Caplan?”

“Yeah, that was it.”

“Which?” Sonora glanced at the tape. Made sure it was running.

“Caplan.”

Sonora kept her expression matter-of-fact. “How sure was she?”

Hardin waved a hand. “We talked about that, you know? 'Cause it's been eight years. And she only saw him maybe a few seconds. It's been eight years, and people change. Plus he was crying, when she saw him.”

“Crying?”

Hardin nodded. “Isn't that weird? I can't remember exactly what she said, but I think he was holding some poor girl under water, she's gagging and thrashing around. And the whole time he's holding her under, tears are running down his face.”

“Sweat,” Sonora said.

“Jules said crying. It weirded her out.” Hardin folded her arms and leaned back into the booth. “Julia told me she was going to go to this guy's office and meet him. Maybe on some pretense. She didn't think he would remember what she looked like. I told her not to confront him. If it is him, she tips her hand. If it's not, she looks like three kinds of idiot, right?”

“Why didn't she go to the police?”

“Well, you know, Detective, the whole thing is pretty thin. She sees a picture in the paper of a guy she thinks committed a murder nobody believed happened eight years ago. She wanted to check things out a little. Look at it on her own. And forgive me for being blunt. I don't know what it's like with you guys, as in police officers. But your average citizen's usual contact with prosecutors isn't likely to be pleasant. Ever been a witness to a crime? Better to be a criminal. Jules saw a car accident once, and foolishly tried to be a good citizen. Never a good idea.”

“I wish I could say I didn't agree with you.” Sonora glanced at the recorder. What the hell, Hardin was right. “About this murder your sister thinks she saw. What was your gut feel on it?”

“I don't know. I admit, when Jules called me, I thought it might be some kind of an escape thing. Play detective. Beats going home to a man who's driving you nutso, or dumping a lover who's doing the same. But now, after what happened to her, it kind of makes you wonder.”

“You have a key to the post office box?” Sonora asked.

Hardin nodded.

“Where is it?”

“On my key ring.”

“I meant the box.”

“In Knoxville. Couldn't have one here and the whole town not know about it.”

“How far a drive?”

“About thirty-five, forty minutes.”

“Is your name on the paperwork?”

“Had to be. Otherwise they'd send the bill and stuff to her house, and Butch would have found out.”

“Good. My partner should be here—”

“Hell, no, I'll take you right now. I want to see what's in the box.”

22

The post office branch where Julia Winchell had her secret post office box was in a small strip mall on Kingston Parkway, Knoxville's main thoroughfare. They passed through an endless string of offices, malls, movies, restaurants, Blockbuster Videos, liquor stores.

Liza Hardin braked for the parking lot speed bump a split second before she hit it. She drove a dingy white Toyota Corolla with navy interior. The air conditioner worked, barely, flooding the cab with an odor reminiscent of dirty gym socks. The car squeaked, shocks on overload, and Sonora decided that if her son drove this badly when he turned sixteen he would not get his license.

“Forgive the smell,” Hardin was saying. “I don't know
why
it does that. It's either the smell or no air-conditioning.” She glanced sideways at Sonora. “You got a preference?”

Southerners, Sonora thought. So gracious.

There were plenty of parking spaces. Liza Hardin stopped the car just before it hit the curb. Her front tires grazed concrete. She turned off the engine, pulled the emergency brake into place, and looked at Sonora.

“The afternoon Jules and I came here was her first real day off—no kids, no restaurant—in months. If that tells you anything.”

Welcome to real life, Sonora thought, wondering what Hardin did for a living. She got out of the car.

Hardin walked ahead into the post office—small glass doors partitioned the outer lobby from the service counters that were locked up tight. Hardin bypassed the first inlet of boxes, leading Sonora into the middle alcove.

“Thirteen seventy-five,” Hardin muttered. She considered and rejected the various keys on her ring. “Ah. Here, this. It looks good.”

She inserted the key into the lock while Sonora said a small prayer.

It was one of the smaller boxes, letter-size and long. The key turned and the door swung open with a squeak. Sonora moved sideways, edging Hardin aside as politely as possible.

Inside she saw a brown envelope, rolled to fit, along with three standard-size letters and a box of Cocoa Puffs, advertisement size. Hardin held a hand out expectantly.

Sonora handed her the cereal.

“What about the mail?”

“I've got it.”

Wariness dropped like a blanket between them.

“I have a form and a receipt you need to sign, when we get to Clinton. Paperwork's in my car.” Sonora glanced at Hardin. No clue to what she was thinking. “It will be better if these get opened up in the lab, with the crime scene guys. Get what evidence we can from them.”

Hardin folded her arms. “Feel free to make me that speech about how you're going to catch my sister's killer. That was always my favorite scene on
Crime Story.
”

23

Sonora tucked her daughter into the backseat of the Blazer, folding her jacket into a pillow, using a worn but clean beach towel that had been left behind on the last lake trip as a makeshift blanket. She used the middle seat belt because it was adjustable, and Heather could lie down. She snugged it up till it looked comfortable, wondering how safe it would be.

“When's Sam coming?” Heather asked. Her eyes were closed.

“Just in a minute.” Sonora heard the door of the sheriff's office scrape the concrete stoop. The men's voices and footsteps had the quick measured pace that meant they were carrying something either awkward or heavy or both.

The back hatch of the Blazer opened. The air outside was cooler now, but not by much. They'd turn the air conditioner up high when they hit the road, and Heather would need the beach towel to keep the chill off while she slept.

Sonora hoped she would sleep.

“Move it back this way.” The sheriff's voice, instructing Sam, who slid an oversized metal cooler into the back of the car.

Heather's eyes opened to slits.

Sonora patted her head. “Go on to sleep, kidlet. We got a long drive ahead.”

Heather nodded slightly, and turned on her side. Sonora listened for heavy, regular breathing. Little seven-year-old girls did not need to know that the cooler in the back section of the Blazer held a severed head, two hands, and two feet.

She shut the car door gently, and went to the back of the Blazer. Sam latched the back hatch gently. The cooler, heavily packed with ice, did not move.

Sonora shook Sheriff Sizemore's hand, signed his clipboard of papers.

“I'm sure you people are the ones ought to have this stuff. You got the facilities. And like you say, you got reason to believe she was killed up in Cincinnati, which makes it your baby.”