Chapter Eleven

Driving back to the station after meeting with Bonnie Warner, windows down, so the summer breeze swept over him, Parrott thought about what he’d learned from the interview. Factually speaking, not much. Bonnie had filled him in on her father, who had divorced her mother and moved to California, and her ex-husband, who had divorced her and done the same. But he was no closer to learning who the victim in the barn was or why a meth lab had been there.

But sometimes the absence of information is information, and he was beginning to get a picture of the why. Whitman’s barn was isolated, uninhabited except occasionally, a believable setting for a meth lab. The fact that neither Claire nor her granddaughter showed overwhelming angst over the anonymous young man’s death or the destruction of property on the grounds of Sweetgrass said something, too. Either the family’s wealth and privilege enveloped the women with dispassion, or they were acting. Were they protecting someone or something?

If an explosion and fire revealed a dead body in the garage of someone in Parrott’s family, everybody would be hooting and hollering at one another, trying to figure out every last detail of who, what, when, where, why, and how.

Bonnie’s comment about her grandmother’s being in control was certainly apt. Maybe Bonnie didn’t realize it, but she was a lot like her grandmother. Claire had most likely bucked her family to marry Abramson. Whatever the circumstances of Bonnie’s relationship with her son’s father had been, possibly Bonnie’s parents hadn’t approved. And now, she was hooked up with a music engineer whose availability was practically nil.

Despite Bonnie’s nervous tic of kicking her leg, she had a certain reserve about her. She was more in control than she might think. There was plenty of room for digging, and Parrott could be a strong shovel when he needed to.

As he steered off the highway into West Brandywine, Parrott’s cell phone rang. His mother. He picked up on Bluetooth. “Hey, Mama. How’re you doing?” His mother rarely called during the workday.

“Good morning, Ollie. I hate to bother you while you’re working. Is this a bad time?” Her voice had that little snip that told Parrott she was on some kind of mission.

“Not at all. I’m on my way to the station, taking in the smell of sweet grass and the sound of my mama’s sweet voice.” Parrott checked the time, mostly out of habit. Chief Schrik hadn’t ever put him on a time clock, but he also never took advantage of his freedom to come and go as needed. “What’s up?”

“I’m just gonna say this straight out. Does Tonya have a problem with Herman?”

Whatever he was expecting, he wasn’t expecting this, the very subject he and Tonya had spoken about. “Why do you ask, Ma?” Was his mother clairvoyant? He couldn’t imagine Tonya’s sharing those concerns directly with her mother-in-law.

“I just hung up from talking to her. When I first called, your wife was all nice and friendly-like. But then I invited the two of you to have dinner with Herman and me this weekend, and she got that—I don’t know—evasive tone of voice. Told me she’d have to ask you and get back to me. I’m not imagining this. Every time I mention Herman, she goes cold on me, and I’m plumb perplexed. What seems to be her problem?”

Caught between protecting his mother and protecting his wife, Parrott punted. “I don’t think you need to worry about Tonya, Ma. It’s natural to have a period of adjustment when a new person comes on the scene with a tight little family like ours. If Herman makes you happy, we’re happy for you. Maybe we just need to spend more quality time together, get to know Herman better.”

“That’s exactly what I was trying to do, inviting you to have dinner with us. But, no. Tonya had to get all tentative with me, like spending an evening with Herman and me was pure torture.”

“I’m sure that’s wrong, Ma. I’ll talk to Tonya when I get home. Maybe you caught her at a bad time or something. When do you want us over for dinner? Pretty sure we’ll be there, and we’ll bring dessert.”

Apparently mollified, Cora Parrott let out a long sigh and a sniff. “All right, son. Saturday night at seven. No need to bring dessert. Herman is making his special Kentucky bourbon butter cake. It’s to die for.”

“Sounds delicious. I didn’t know Herman could bake.”

“Hmmph, there are a lot of things you don’t know about Herman. He’s really a fine gentleman, and I’m flattered that he enjoys my company.”

Despite having told Tonya to cut his mother some slack with this new relationship, Parrott shook his head. He’d been the man of the Parrott household for a long time. Hearing his mother fawning over Herman caused a twinge of emotion he wasn’t proud of.

“You’ve always been a good judge of character, so I don’t doubt Herman is worthy of your time, but I’ll say one thing as your only son who loves you. There’s no man, Herman included, who’s any better than you. So don’t go ’round being flattered by his attentions. He’s the one who’s lucky to be hanging with you.”

“Thank you, son. You always know the right thing to say. You’re exactly like your daddy in that way. I’ll see you on Saturday, and see if you can sweet-talk a smile onto Tonya’s face, too.”

Parrott shrugged as he disconnected and pulled into the station’s parking lot. Fulfilling his mother’s request might be a problem.