Faces Of Evil: Traceless Part 27

"Did anyone else know Heather would be in your room that night?"

"No." She thought about it another moment just to be sure. "No one."

"Did Heather have any problems with anyone in or outside school that you were aware of?"

"Everybody loved Heather. She was the most popular girl in school. Even..." Emily swallowed back the lump of emotion. "Even Violet seemed to adore her. She just wanted the things Heather had."

"But you said Violet seemed to worship Keith," Clint countered with a truth that couldn't be denied.

Emily sifted her memory banks, forced herself to replay images she had banished years ago.

"Keith never paid any real attention to Violet," she recalled after a bit. The memory came with a price. Keith had been the cutest guy in school, next to Clint. He'd been witty, charming, the all-around good guy and beloved athlete. The boy voted president of the cla.s.s by his peers. Now he was dead. Murdered. Emily shuddered, still had difficulty accepting that he was gone. So young, and with a family.

"Wait," Clint said, drawing her attention from the painful thoughts. "We may be looking at this necklace thing with too narrow a focus. "You said it was something the senior cheerleaders received. What about the year before? There may be other people we should be considering."

"It was a new tradition. The years before us the seniors had received charm bracelets. Justine said we were special."

"Then, what do we have?"

Nothing. Even the necklace seemed so insignificant in and of itself. "We have nothing." Emily couldn't accept that, but neither was she willing to label Violet a murderer. "Violet might have lost the necklace. It's not impossible." Motive, means, opportunity. G.o.d, how did she overlook that? "I want to talk to her."

Clint stood, looked skeptical. "That could be a problem."

Violet's husband was dead. Violet despised Emily for faltering in her stand against Clint.

Emily lifted her chin in defiance of her own misgivings. "I'll just have to deal with it."

125 Carriage Avenue 2:30 p.m.

Emily wished she had called first. She'd watched cars come and go from Violet's drive for ten minutes. Most carried ca.s.seroles or a plant. Emily stood on the porch empty-handed. What could she possibly bring that Violet hadn't already received?

Emily asked G.o.d to forgive her for coming here like this with a hidden agenda. This couldn't be right. But people were dead, including Violet's husband.

Emily couldn't allow sentiment to stop her.

She pressed the doorbell and Violet's mother came to the, door, her eyes red and puffy.

"h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Manning."

The older woman managed a smile. "Em, it's so good of you to stop by." She opened the door wider, glanced briefly at Emily's empty hands. "Please come in."

Emily felt exactly like a traitor crossing the threshold into this home of sorrow and grief.

Mrs. Manning forced a dry sound that might have been an attempt at a laugh. "Thank G.o.d you didn't bring another ca.s.serole."

The smile that bent Emily's lips this time felt more natural. "I was feeling a little guilty that I hadn't."

The older woman pressed a hand to her chest. "Please, you're one of Violet's oldest and dearest friends. You don't need to bring anything except yourself."

She used to be one of Violet's friends. "How is she?"

The question was stupid but expected.

Mrs. Manning sighed, the effort a momentous task for her pet.i.te body. "As well as can be expected." She wrung her hands as if uncertain what to do with them since there was no ca.s.serole or plant to accept. "The children are with my husband at the park. We felt they needed a break from... all this."

Plants and flowers were everywhere. Emily imagined that the counters in the kitchen were loaded with ca.s.seroles that wouldn't fit into the fridge. Cookies and cakes and breads. Enough to feed an army. It was the Southern way.

"Is there anything I can do?" Another expected question.

Mrs. Manning patted Emily's arm. "Thank you, Em, but I think I have things under control for now. Why don't you come say h.e.l.lo to Violet? I know how excited she was to see you the other day at lunch. You'll be a ray of sunshine on this dark day."

Evidently Mrs. Manning hadn't heard about Emily's recent exploits or had decided not to hold them against her. Either way, Emily was glad for the reprieve.

She followed Violet's mother through the grand home until they reached the double doors that likely led to the master suite. Mrs. Manning rapped softly on the door. "Violet, you have company, dear."

The door opened almost immediately and Violet appeared looking her usual regal self.

"Em!" She rushed to hug Emily. "Thank you for coming." She glanced at her mother. "Would you prepare tea, Mother? Tea would be so nice."

"Certainly, dear."

"Please, don't go to any trouble," Emily offered.

"Tea will do us good." Violet tugged Emily into her room. "You're just in time, Em."

Men's suits, clearly designer and expensive, lay across the bed, four in all. Two shirts for each were draped over the jackets along with three or four ties.

"I'm just having an awful time deciding which suit he should wear." Violet turned to Emily. "Everyone will be there, you know. It's imperative that the suit is perfect. Keith wouldn't want it any other way."

They both knew it was Violet who wouldn't want it any other way. Emily watched as her friend tried different ties against the various shirts. Unlike her mother, Violet's eyes weren't red or swollen. Her black sheath looked exquisite. Her hair and makeup were... perfect. She chatted on and on about what an enormous task making this final selection was for her.

If Emily only looked at the surface, at this seemingly cold woman who was more worried about her dead husband's burial clothes than the fact that he was dead, she could almost imagine Violet climbing in through that bedroom window and killing the compet.i.tion. Could almost see her pushing Keith over that ledge... for whatever reason he'd failed to meet her expectations.

But this was Violet. She'd always been this way. A perfectionist. Obsessed with appearances... with meeting her goals.

"I think the navy suit would be best," Emily offered, her voice too high, too shaky. "With that crisp white shirt and the tie that has that touch of red in it. Very cla.s.sy."

Violet inclined her head and surveyed the selections one last time. "I think you're right." She gathered the navy suit, white shirt, and specified tie and draped them across a wing chair. "Thank you," she said to Emily. "I was leaning in that direction."

"Would you like me to help you put the others away?"

"Oh yes. You know how I like everything in its place."

Emily did know that. Together they put the fine suits away in the ma.s.sive walk-in closet that was as big as Emily's entire bedroom back at her apartment in Birmingham. Violet chattered with hardly a pause for breath about all the things she and Keith used to do. Her voice remained calm and stoic.

Emily couldn't seem to find an appropriate opening to bring up the necklace. She felt exactly like a traitor.

"I called Troy and left a message that I'd like very much for him to speak at Keith's eulogy, but he hasn't returned my call." Violet said this with much confusion and disappointment. Folks, especially friends, didn't usually ignore calls from Violet Manning-Turner.

"I'm sure he will," Emily offered. Troy would be torn up pretty badly himself. He would need time to come to terms with his friend's death before he spoke with Violet.

Violet stroked the sleeve of one of the suits she'd put away."I'll miss him." She turned to meet Emily's eyes. "I'm not sure it's. .h.i.t me just yet."

Emily managed a trembling smile. "I know." And she did.

Violet's face brightened abruptly. "I'm glad you came, Em. I felt bad about the harsh words between us. This thing with Austin has been painful for us all." Then she hugged one arm around Emily's shoulders. "Let's go see if that tea is ready."

"Vi, I was wonderinga""

"Oh." Violet hesitated abruptly. "I almost forgot to tell you. I found that silly necklace." She left Emily standing in the middle of the room to go over to the ornate jewelry chest sitting atop her dresser. "I was looking for cuff links and there it was." She held up the gold necklace with its familiar charms. "I was sure it was lost."

Somehow Emily kept her smile in place until they'd had the lovely tea Violet's mother had prepared. Not the usual iced tea southerners preferred, but hot tea with sugar and lemon. Emily listened like a good friend should and then hugged Violet and offered again to help in any way needed.

Finally, when Emily could scarcely contain the mounting pressure a moment longer, she said her good-byes and left.

Clint waited for her just down the block.

She climbed into the truck and closed the door. Before he could ask, she told him, "She has her necklace. I saw it."

Clint pulled away from the curb. "How is that possible? Could she have had a duplicate made?"

"Why?" Emily looked at him. "It wasn't introduced as evidence in court. As far as we know, it wasn't really investigated at all. Probably presumed to be mine or Heather's. There was no reason for her or anyone else, even the police obviously, to think it might be relevant."

The necklace was a dead end. Where did they go from here?

"Then someone else who knew Heather had to have a necklace like that."

"No," Emily argued. "Only the..." She hesitated. No, that was ridiculous.

"What?" he demanded, as he slowed for the turn onto Main Street.

"Justine." Emily turned to him. "She had one."

The discordant wail of a police cruiser's siren jerked Emily's attention to the street behind them. Blue lights throbbed.

Clint checked the dash, then slowed to a stop. "I wasn't speeding. What the h.e.l.l does Ray want now?"

"It's not Ray," she said after studying the man behind the wheel of the car easing up behind them at the curb.

Mike Caruthers stepped out of the official vehicle and strode to the driver's side of Clint's truck.

"Caruthers," Clint acknowledged.

"Step out of the vehicle, Austin."

Fear crowded into Emily's throat. She leaned past Clint and asked, "What's going on, Deputy Caruthers?"

He ignored her and motioned for Clint to get out.

Clint climbed out of the truck, his hands already raised in compliance with the unmistakable tension the deputy exuded.

"You'll be riding to City Hall with me for questioning. Your parole officer is waiting there."

Emily wrenched her door open and rushed around the hood. "Why are you taking him to City Hall? Where's Ray?"

Time seemed to stand still as she waited for Caruthers's response. Surely they hadn't found some evidence they thought could connect Clint to Keith's murder. She'd already told Ray that Clint had been with her.

"Are you arresting me?" Clint demanded to know.

Deputy Caruthers's head swiveled in Clint's direction. "You have the right to remain silenta""

"Don't even bother." Clint backed up a step. "I'm not going any d.a.m.ned where until you tell me what the h.e.l.l is going on?"

It wasn't until then that Emily noticed the pale, blank look on the deputy's face. She hadn't really hung around Mike Caruthers that much back in school, but anyone could see that something was very, very wrong. Terror gripped her... the kind that accompanied the threat of the unknown.

He reached for the handcuffs on his utility belt. "I'm taking you in for questioning related to the murder of..."

Emily held her breath.

"...Ray Hale."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.

410 Oak Avenue 3:45 p.m.

Troy was scared. He slung the empty can across the kitchen and reached inside the fridge for another. The milk he shoved aside was expired. He slammed the fridge door, shook the magnets holding his little girl's artwork. His gut clenched. G.o.dd.a.m.n it all to h.e.l.l. He looked around at the empty kitchen. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink. The whole f.u.c.king place was a wreck.

Patricia had left him.

He popped the top on the beer and guzzled it down in one long, sucking swallow. He exhaled a belch and tossed the can in the corner with the last one. One can at a time just wasn't doing the job. He dived back into the fridge and grabbed a fresh six-pack and stalked off to the living room. He flopped into his recliner and popped the top on another.

The pain started to swell again and he tried his best to wash it away with more beer.

Keith was dead. And it was his fault.

"f.u.c.k." He gulped down the rest of the beer and slung the can away. This time instead of reaching for another beer he picked up the .38 Smith & Wesson lying on the table next to his chair. He stared at its inviting black barrel. He should just blow his d.a.m.n brains out and be done with it. His life was over. He'd lost his sister. He'd lost his wife and kids.

He'd lost his best friend.

The man responsible for all of it was walking around free. Happy-f.u.c.king-go-lucky like nothing had ever happened. Clint Austin had come back to this town and torn it apart.

Someone had to make him pay.