eight

To make a peach pie, you need two crusts—homemade or store-bought. It helps pass the time if you hum. Aunt Bluette used to sing “Down to the River to Pray.” Brush the lattice top with melted butter and sprinkle with sugar. Bake in a 350-degree oven for 45 minutes. Serve with ice cream and a praline pecan garnish.

I’d made this pie ever since I could reach the stove. Some cooks thought it was too sweet and syrupy; others claimed it was bland. Like my aunt always said, “One person’s sugar-rapture is another person’s sugar hell.”

Coop showed up just as I took the pie from the oven. While the dogs leaped around him, he braced his arms in the kitchen doorway. His hair curled around his neck like chocolate shavings. “Something smells delicious,” he said.

I smiled. He’d been through an ordeal, but he could still appreciate home cooking. Why was I so hesitant about marrying him?

Red glanced up from the newspaper. “You get my tire fixed?”

“Had to get a new one,” Coop said. Light streamed through the window and hit the hard line of his jaw. He bent down to pat the dogs.

Red lowered the paper. “Those tires are brand-new.”

“When I was looking for Emerson, I must’ve run over a nail.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Red’s top eyelids flattened, giving him an owlish look. Coop glanced up, and I could have sworn that something passed between them, something they didn’t want me to know.

They didn’t notice when I walked out the back door. The storm had left behind a crisp, green varnish that smelled of pine needles. Birds flitted in and out of trees. A plane droned across the sky.

“Aunt Bluette?” I whispered. “Tell me what to do. I don’t know what it takes to raise a child.”

But neither did Lester. He hadn’t wanted Emerson to know about the DNA test; I’d honored his wishes, but she’d still run away. Now, in just a few hours, he would take her home, and I’d promised I wouldn’t warn her. Even a hardened adult couldn’t take that much deception in a single day. How could Emerson stand it?

Tell her the truth.

I walked toward the quilt and the faint sound of a Black Eyed Peas song drifted up. She lifted her sunglasses. “Move, Teeny. You’re blocking my rays.”

I squatted beside her and plucked out her earbuds. “I’m sorry I pulled your hair.”

“I’m sorry you interrupted my music.”

“I need to tell you something, but you’ve got to promise you won’t run away.”

She sat up. “Okay. Maybe. It depends.”

“Your father is picking you up tonight.”

Her chin jutted out. “But I’m already with my father.”

“I’m referring to your legal daddy.”

“‘There can be only one,’” she said. “That’s from Highlander. It’s a neat movie. You ever watch it?”

“Many times.”

“You’re pretty cool for a skeezer.”

I shrugged. “Nah, I’m just a film buff.”

“Well, Miss Buffy, when is Mr. Asshole coming to pick me up?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“Dammit.” She slapped the quilt. “I knew this was coming. Coop’s a lawyer. Can’t he do something?”

“Lester has legal rights.”

“Legal schmegal.” She gave the quilt a karate chop. “What about my rights? For all intensive purposes, a child should have rights.”

My brain was stuck on intensive purposes, one of my favorite malapropisms. I chewed the edge of my mouth, holding back a smile. “Not until you’re eighteen. Then you’ll make your own decisions. Good ones and bad ones. But at least they’ll be yours. In the meantime, you can’t keep running away.”

“But the Philpots piss me off.”

“Each time you run away, you’re hurting yourself.”

Her eyes wobbled. “How?”

“I don’t mean to scare you, but a thousand things could happen. You could fall and bump your head. And you should never, ever hitch a ride with a stranger.”

“I know that. But I was so mad.”

“Hey, I understand. Lester made me mad, too. But you can’t let your anger be bigger than your common sense.”

“I don’t want to go home with him. I like it here. Can’t you talk to Mr. Philpot?”

“I can try.” But I knew he wouldn’t listen. Just this morning he’d accused me of turning the orchard into a love shack. He wouldn’t want his daughter exposed to a bizarre ménage à peach.

“I bet you won’t try hard,” she said. “Because you don’t like me.”

“Wrong.”

“Huh, you think I’m a brat.”

“You work hard at it.” I pressed my finger against her belly. “Inside, you’re Marshmallow Fluff.”

She giggled, then reached for my hand. “I shouldn’t have called you a bitch.”

I forced myself to give her a stern look. “Just don’t do it again.”

“Why? ’Cause you’ll get mad?”

“This isn’t about me. When you call people names, it doesn’t hurt them, it hurts you.”

She grimaced. “How?”

“Words have power. They can make you feel good inside or they can have a bite. And when you call someone a bitch, in a weird sort of way, you become a bitch. What you say about others is how you secretly feel about yourself.”

She pretended to gag. “That’s the suckiest thing you’ve ever said. If I called a squid a butthole, it would still be squid. And I wouldn’t turn into a butthole.”

“You’d be one on the inside.” I rubbed my forehead. I was going about this all wrong. She’d seemed liked a mini-adult, but now I realized she was still a child. And I was trying to make her grapple with mature concepts. I took a breath and started over.

“People are a lot more complicated than squid. We feel love, hate, jealousy. Some are honest. Others can’t tell the truth to save their lives. Mostly, people are a mixture of good and bad. Some are sweet. Some are tart.”

“Like a smoothie?”

“Right. But it’s not your job to judge the smoothie.”

“How am I supposed to know the difference between good and bad if I can’t judge?”

“You watch and learn, just like you study animals. Then you put it all together and decide what kind of girl you want to be. Kind people teach you to be caring and thoughtful. Gossips teach you to hold your tongue. Selfish people teach you how to be generous.”

I didn’t know where these words were coming from, but they felt true. I wasn’t just talking to Emerson, I was talking to myself.

She sighed. “I don’t know what a bitch is, but I felt bad after I called you one. I might not show it, but I’m easily hurt.”

“We all are, honey.”

“Even the Philpots?”

“Yep.”

“Mr. Philpot isn’t coming over for a while. I’ve got time to soak up some rays.” She tugged my hand. “Why don’t you lay out with me? Not to be rude, but you could use a little tan.”

*   *   *

Lester’s silver Mercedes pulled into the driveway at eight-thirty. He got out, his brown suit waffling around his long legs, and frowned at the house. Den of iniquity, his eyes said.

I led him into Aunt Bluette’s cozy parlor with the rag rug, pictures of dead Templetons, and the old walnut hi-fi, where vinyl records rose up in black columns. He sat on the sofa, twisting his hands together, casting suspicious glances in my direction.

“Where are your boyfriends?” he asked.

“In the backyard, fighting a duel.”

My answer seemed to disappoint him. He undid the top button on his collar, and light brown hairs sprang out around his Adam’s apple. “It’s so hot outside,” he said. “My throat’s parched. Could I trouble you for a glass of iced tea?”

On my way to the kitchen, I passed by the stairs. Emerson had been in the bathroom for twenty minutes. What if she’d planned to escape? She could climb out the window and shimmy down the trellis. My stomach twisted. I ran up the stairs and knocked on the door.

“You okay?” I called.

“Can’t a girl primp in peace?” she yelled.

I ran back down to the kitchen and fixed the tea. Lester hadn’t asked for pie, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I cut a slice anyway, and set it on a china plate.

Even assholes needed comfort food.

I resisted the urge to garnish the dessert with a passion flower, which is slightly poisonous but only if you eat the roots or seeds. It can also be used to rid the body of worms.

The fork rattled on the plate as I walked back to the parlor. The room was quiet as a burial chamber, except for the walnut clock on the mantel. Each decisive tick said, Time’s up, a reminder that my short stint at mommyhood had ended.

I set Lester’s tea and pie on the table. He lifted the glass, ice tinkling, and drank; his throat clicked in rhythm with the clock. T-Bone lumbered into the room; Sir was right behind him.

Lester lowered the glass. “Yick. Will they bite?”

“Not unless you do,” I said.

Red and Coop walked into the room and sat in the green velvet chairs across from Lester. The three men glared at one another. No introductions. No greetings. I positioned myself by the pocket doors and kept an eye on the stairwell. The bathroom door was still closed.

“I just left Eikenberry’s Funeral Home,” Lester said, looking pleased with himself. “I picked a mahogany casket with a waterproof liner. The viewing is Tuesday. Six to nine. I’m having a tasteful graveside service on Wednesday.”

“What would be untasteful?” Red pressed his fingertips together.

“Who are you?” Lester blinked.

Red badged him. Lester held up his hand and showed his teeth, like Béla Lugosi shying away from a crucifix. Then he lowered his arm. “How do I know if that badge is real? You could’ve bought it anywhere.”

“It’s real,” Coop said. “He works for me.”

Lester smirked. “Is he working tonight? Or enjoying Teeny’s opulent hospitality?”

“I’m on duty 24 / 7.” Red paused. “How’d you get your wife’s body released so soon?”

Lester ran his finger around the rim of his glass. “One of my friends called the Sweeney coroner. Then everything moved faster.”

“You must have important friends,” Red said.

“A few.” Lester smiled. “Not to brag, but I’ve been to the governor’s mansion several times. I’ve attended fund-raisers with Ted Turner and Newt Gingrich and Jimmy Carter.”

“Did one of them call the coroner?” Red asked.

“You can drop the sarcastic tone.” Lester’s eyes widened until they resembled two fried eggs. “I’m just trying to explain how I dealt with the coroner.”

“I’m surprised that Sweeney has a corner,” Coop said. “It’s a podunk town. Six traffic lights. Three detectives. A volunteer staff fingerprints the jaywalkers.”

“Sorry that my wife didn’t ask your opinion about the best place to be murdered.” Lester’s hand hovered in front of his mouth, as if to call back the words. A red flush crept up his steep forehead.

Murdered? I gripped the pocket door until my knuckles turned white.

Coop leaned back in his chair, his foot scraping against the floor. “Did you say murdered?”

Sweat beaded on Lester’s forehead. “The Sweeney police are calling her death a suicide. I can’t help what the coroner thinks.”

“What does he think?” Red asked.

“Ask him yourself. I know that Barb killed herself. She left a suicide note, an empty bottle of merlot, and an empty bottle of pills. She liked antidepressants, stimulants, downers. She thought she was exempt from adverse drug reactions. There’s no telling what the toxicology screen will show. That’s what started this whole ‘she might have-been-murdered’ mess.”

Coop’s knee jogged up and down. “Sorry, you’ve lost me.”

“I phoned the coroner this morning to see if he’d done a tox screen. The answer was no. He’d already finished the autopsy and he was satisfied that Barb had hung herself. I could tell that he didn’t care about her drug problem. He was on his way out the door. Going to Pinehurst, North Carolina, to play golf.”

Lester talked fast, his eyes shifting back and forth.

“I threatened to call the governor,” he continued. “The coroner checked her again, and that’s when he found the thing in her head. But he was just getting even with me for messing up his trip.”

Coop’s knee went still. “What thing in her head?”

“A subdural hematoma. That’s a blood clot inside the skull. A slow leak. Like she’d been struck in the back of the head and a vein bled slowly. Or she could’ve fallen. It wasn’t a serious injury. It wouldn’t have been fatal. Even the coroner said so.”

“Did the police notice that your wife had a head wound?” Red asked. “They should have seen it at the crime scene.”

“Haven’t you heard a word I said? The injury was inside her brain. No scalp laceration No blood. Just a hematoma inside her skull. How this adds up to murder is beyond me.” Lester spoke in a flat and emotionless voice, but a pulse throbbed in his neck. “If she’d had a broken hyoid bone, then I could understand the coroner’s paranoia. But she just had a head injury.”

Red gripped the sides of the chair, his fingers sinking into the plush velvet. “I’m confused. If the coroner suspected homicide, why did he release the body?”

“Nobody has said the word homicide, okay? The coroner just said her death looked suspicious.”

“But he still let you take her body out of the morgue?” Red asked.

“There is no morgue. He works out of a room in Sweeney Hospital. I showed up this afternoon with the funeral home people. The coroner was gone. Nobody was there. So the guys from Eikenberry put Barb in the hearse. I didn’t know anything was wrong until an hour ago. My cell phone rang. It was the coroner. He wanted me to return Barb’s body. He wanted an expert to examine her. I told him to stick a golf club up his rear end, that it was too late. Barb had already been embalmed.”

Red slumped in his chair. “Sheesh.”

“It’s not my fault that Sweeny doesn’t have a proper place to do autopsies,” Lester said. “If the coroner had wanted to keep Barb, then he should have locked that room. Or maybe he should have hired an assistant. But no, Dr. Bigshot was more worried about missing his connecting flight in Charlotte. Apparently he was at a travel agency when I showed up at the morgue. Then he went to dinner. He wasn’t worried about Barb. He was stuffing himself with steak and baked potatoes, or whatever people eat in Sweeney.”

“Have the police been notified?” Coop asked.

“About what? A bump on the head? The coroner’s mistake? The embalming?” Lester spread his arms. “I don’t know what they know. But I’m not a dumbass. I’ve talked to my personal attorney.”

“And?”

“He said, ‘The hay is in the barn.’ That’s Bonaventure-speak for it’s too late to call in a forensic pathologist. You should know this, Mr. O’Malley. After Barb’s body left the morgue, it was contaminated with all kinds of DNA. The funeral home driver. The embalmer. The lady who fixes dead people’s hair and makeup. If an expert came to the funeral home right this minute, it wouldn’t matter. The embalming procedure destroyed evidence. If the expert found something—a stray hair or fiber—the evidence would probably be dismissed by a judge.”

“You seem to know a lot about forensics,” Red said.

Lester gave him a chilling stare. “I’m just repeating what my attorney said.”

“You need to let the state ME decide what he wants to do,” Coop said.

“Mr. O’Malley, my wife was capable of anything. She was a bipolar drug addict.”

“That doesn’t mean she wasn’t murdered,” Coop said.

“She wasn’t. I’m tired of discussing this.” Lester glanced at his watch. “What’s keeping that child? Teeny, go fetch her. I need to get home. My friends will be bringing cakes and casseroles. I need to be there. I shouldn’t make people wait.”

Red sat up straight. “Mr. Philpot, why did your wife wait a decade to question her daughter’s paternity?”

“She was just being Barbish.” Lester twisted his wedding ring, gold with tiny diamond chips. “She didn’t do anything unless it benefited her in some way. She didn’t care who she hurt. The day she broke the news, I was sitting at the breakfast table, eating grits. And she said, ‘Lester, pass the salt. And Emerson isn’t your daughter.’”

“That musta been a shock,” Red said.

“A big one.”

“Bet you wanted to throttle her.”

Lester blinked. “What are you insinuating?”

“Nothing,” Red said. “But I’m sure the police will want to know where you were the night Barb disappeared.”

“I was in Bonaventure. Mama and Norris can vouch for me. They’ve been living with me ever since Barb moved out.” Lester smirked. “Anymore questions, Serpico?”

“You sure don’t act like a man who’s just lost his wife,” Red said.

“I may not seem grieved, but I am. I was a good husband and father. You can’t imagine the effort I put into Emerson. After she was born, Barb had post-partum depression. She tried to kill herself—twice. She was too unstable to care for an infant. I got up at the butt-crack of dawn to feed the baby and change her diapers. She was a difficult child. I endured her tantrums. The trash talk. The endless button pushing. What thanks did I get? Double ought zero. Zilch. Nothing.”

Red flashed a sympathetic, good-cop stare. “If I were you, I’d be pissed.”

“I was. And I still am.” Lester grabbed his fork and dug into the pie. Tiny crumbs drifted between his stretched-out knees.

“Sounds like Barb made you do the grunt work,” Red said.

Lester nodded vigorously. “She did.”

“You had a right to take a piece of ass on the side.”

Lester lowered his fork. “How did you know about that?”

Red waved off the question. “Maybe Kendall wanted more. Or you wanted more from Kendall. But she wouldn’t put out, would she? Not while you were married.”

“I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to say that I had a motive to hurt my wife. It’s a darn lie. It’s worse than a lie. It’s slander. Because I wasn’t having a real affair. Lester Philpot’s penis hasn’t been inside Miss McCormack.”

“Has Lester’s penis been anywhere else?” Red asked.

“Why, how dare you.”

“Hey, you brought up your penis. I didn’t.”

“You’re a crude little man.” Lester threw down his fork and it skittered across the coffee table.

“Where was Kendall Saturday night?” Red asked.

“In my house. Ask Mama. She didn’t want Kendall there.”

Coop shook his head. “I called you a dozen times the night Barb went missing, but you didn’t answer. Not until Sunday morning.”

“Mama turned off the ringers. She likes her beauty sleep. I didn’t know that Emerson had been abandoned on Sullivan’s Island. Or I would have driven up there and rescued her.”

“So you knew that Barb was staying at Sullivan’s Island?” Red’s gaze was unflinching.

“I’m not answering any more questions.” Lester folded his arms.

“Just one more.” Red smiled. “Why did you send Emerson to a boarding school?”

“To protect her.”

“From what?” Red asked.

“Barb.” Lester scrubbed his hand over his hair until it stood up like frayed wires. “She tried to kill Emerson.”