Thirty-Six

“Oh, hello, Peyton,” Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall said when Peyton knocked on the door of suite 418 at the Hampton Inn in Reeds.

Sherry wore a navy-blue pant suit and open-toed heels. Her nails were bright pink, a contrast to her purple academic glasses. She looked ready to lecture at Harvard or meet an exec for drinks at the Ritz Carlton.

“I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch,” Peyton said.

“That’s a kind offer, but right now I’m in the middle of an important meeting.” Sherry motioned over her shoulder.

Peyton assumed the meeting was taking place in the suite’s back room.

“It really is a kind offer, though, Peyton.”

The formal note in Sherry’s voice hadn’t been there when they met for breakfast, or the second time they had coffee. Now Sherry sounded like the alpha female she’d attempted to be during the discovery session between attorney Len Landmark and DA Stephanie DuBois.

However it had taken Stephanie all of five minutes to crush Sherry, and even today—despite the confidence her tone and outfit suggested—Sherry’s eyes belied her outward appearance: they were bloodshot and their pinpoint focus hinted at desperation.

It made Peyton wonder just how much anyone really changed. Sherry—for all her academic accolades and accomplishments, and despite the image she worked so hard to cultivate and project—was still the same person who allowed her father to choose her friends.

“Are you appearing in court today?” Peyton asked.

The door was open four inches, the safety chain still attached.

“Can’t a woman dress like a professional? Looking nice makes me feel good, Peyton. So I try to look nice often.”

“What else makes you feel good?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m curious,” Peyton said. “You dress nice to feel good. What else do you do?”

Sherry looked at her. Unconsciously, her palm came away from the door, and she wiped it on her pant leg. “I don’t follow you,” she said.

“Does being accepted make you feel good?”

“You’re making me uncomfortable, Peyton. What are you doing here?”

“May I come in?”

“I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to be here. A meeting is taking place now, and I need to be part of it.”

“You can’t break for lunch?”

“I don’t think that would be appropriate either.”

Whatever was being discussed in the back room led to raised voices. Peyton could hear bits and pieces of an argument. One voice, in particular, was familiar.

“Steve St. Louis is in there. Is he representing your brother and you now?”

Sherry didn’t reply.

“Well, if you’re meeting about your brother’s case, I need to ask you some things about that, too.”

“I’d rather keep our relationship personal, not professional.”

“You don’t get to choose, Sherry. And, after all, you called me, sobbing, at seven a.m. last week.”

“I have Steve now.”

“I’m out, he’s in. It’s that simple?”

“What do you mean?” Sherry said.

“Forget it. Where’s Chip?”

Sherry took her purple glasses off and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“He left you, didn’t he?”

Sherry nodded, looking at the floor.

“Because of Kvido Bezdek?”

“You won’t understand. No one will. I’m not even sure I do.”

“You’re not sure?”

Sherry didn’t speak.

“You’d better be sure, Sherry. You have two kids.”

“Don’t patronize me, Peyton.”

“Where’s Kvido now?”

“Not here.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“He went out for cigarettes,” Sherry said.

“Two people are dead. One was a wonderful man, a grandfather. I have questions to ask you. Cooperating is the best thing you can do right now.”

“I’ll have to ask Steve first.”

“Steve’s never defended a murder case, Sherry. You haven’t lived in Maine for a long time, so I’ll explain something to you: Conspiracy to Commit Murder is a class-A felony, punishable by ten to thirty years in state prison. If you want Steve with us, I’m fine with that, but whether he’s with us or not, cooperation is your best bet.”

“Sherry,” Steve St. Louis called.

Sherry’s eyes fell to the floor. “I need to go, Peyton.”

“You’re going to need to talk to me, Sherry.”

“I don’t need help.”

“I think Nancy Lawrence would disagree.”

“I didn’t pay her to be my brother’s alibi.”

“Sherry, don’t insult me by lying. The last time you pulled this, we were thirteen. You ran me out of your life.”

Steve St. Louis was calling, “Sherry, where are you? We really need to talk.”

“Even back then you always reached out. Called me, sat beside me in study hall …”

“That was a long time ago, Sherry. And this isn’t a middle-school issue. Two people are dead. You can talk to me willingly, or I can have the state police bring you in. I’m giving you five seconds to think about it. Then I’m walking away once and for all.”

“It’s so risky,” Sherry whispered, more to herself than to Peyton.

“St. Louis can be present, Sherry.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about,” Sherry said.

Peyton looked at her.

Sherry didn’t speak.

“Goodbye, Sherry.” Peyton turned and walked away.