I Scream, You Scream Read online

  She sank to the ottoman with an ease that belied her age, her bony knees never breaking contact with each other, the skirt of her simple black sheath un-marred by a single wrinkle. She rested her pocketbook on her lap, opened the metal clasp with slightly palsied fingers, and began rooting around for something inside.

  I took the opportunity to study her face. Honey wore her thinning hair, the color of pale apricots, teased high at the crown and layered tight at the sides. The cut emphasized her prominent cheekbones. Age had honed and hardened Honey rather than softening her. Deep wrinkles lined her skin, yet it wasn’t loose but stretched taut on her skull, as though the blazing Texas sun were slowly mummifying her.

  The only signs of human frailty were the faint tremor in her hands and the red-rimmed puffiness of her eyes.

  She pulled a cellophane-wrapped piece of hard candy from her purse and extended it toward me.

  “At the risk of sounding like a little old lady, would you care for a butterscotch?”

  I took the offering with a mumbled thanks but didn’t bother to unwrap it.

  “How have you been, Tallulah Jones?”

  “Fine, thank you, Miz Jillson. And you?”

  She laughed, the sound of wind in autumn leaves. “My heavens, aren’t we a couple of prim Southern belles. Here we are at a funeral, which the police have raided, about to be tagged and released like undersized bass, and we’re making polite chitchat.”

  I returned her smile. “My Grandma Peachy said you should always ignore unpleasantness in the hopes it will go away.”

  Her smile tightened a fraction. “I don’t imagine this trouble is going to go anywhere for quite some time,” she whispered.

  “No, probably not.” I sat for a moment, watching Dub Jillson, the mayor, bending solicitously over Linda Brinkman. His face wore an expression of bland, official concern, but Linda looked as though she was about to bolt. I felt bad for her. Grieving parents shouldn’t have to make small talk with officious strangers.

  When I glanced back at Honey, she, too, was watching her husband chat up Linda Brinkman. Her smile disappeared. I wondered briefly whether Dub had a wandering eye. Linda Brinkman wasn’t man candy like her daughter, but as I knew only too well, cheaters weren’t always particularly discriminating.

  I felt a pang of sympathy for Honey Jillson.

  “Did you know Brittanie well?” I asked her, hoping to distract her from watching her husband with another woman.

  She startled momentarily at the sound of my voice.

  “What? Oh, no.” She paused to unwrap a second piece of butterscotch. “She was a Zeta, of course. And she spent a summer as an intern in Dub’s office. Came to the house for dinner once.” Her voice faltered. “I guess I won’t ever get the chance to know her better.”

  We sat in silence a moment, while Honey stared into the middle distance and her butterscotch clicked softly against her teeth. Eventually, she brought her attention back to me. “Why do you ask?”

  I shrugged. “More of that polite chitchat.”

  The wry smile lightened her face, but it didn’t touch her eyes. “Of course.”

  For a full minute, she studied me with unnerving intensity. “Tallulah Jones, why have we never lunched together?”

  Because I’m about a dozen rungs down from you on the social ladder, I thought.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Let’s remedy that,” Honey replied. “Next week. I know it is short notice, but are you free on Monday?” I nodded. “Wonderful. Let’s say noon at the Prickly Pear.”

  I nodded again, just as Bree sauntered up. “Hey, Tally. Miz Jillson. I explained to that officer over there”—she jerked her head in the direction of the blushing sentry at the powder-room door—“about how we have children to tend, and he’s agreed to take down our particulars so we can skedaddle.”

  “I don’t know if Alice and Kyle really count as ‘children,’ ” I said, even as I stood up. “But I’ll take what I can get. Miz Jillson?”

  She made a shooing motion with her hand. “Call me Honey, and I’ll see you on Monday. Now, scoot.”

  In two shakes, Bree and I were hustling down the sidewalk toward Bree’s beat-up VW Rabbit.

  “Tallulah Jones, did you just make a play date with the mayor’s wife?” Bree asked.

  “Apparently so,” I answered as I slid into the passenger seat, resting my feet gingerly on a drift of empty soda bottles. “What do you think the cops were looking for?”

  Bree craned her body up so she could see her face in the rearview mirror. She opened her mouth and dabbed at the corners with her fingertip. “I asked that sweet boy in there,” she said as she settled back in her seat. “But either my feminine wiles are fading or he was just muscle, because he said he had no idea what they were looking for.”

  “Hmm.”

  She cast a sideways glance in my direction as she fired up the Rabbit. “I know who might be able to tell us.” She plucked her phone from the cup holder, unhooked it from the charger dangling from the cigarette lighter, and thrust it toward me. “Finn Harper.”

  chapter 7

  The Saturday afternoon crowd at the Bar None cackled and hollered, caught up in the throes of a mating ritual fueled by pitchers of beer, hip-shaking country music, and a bank of big-screen televisions broadcasting college football. I found a corner table, away from the throng watching Southern Methodist trounce UTEP up and down the football field and plastered my “I’m not interested” expression on my face to dissuade any beer-goggling cowboys from moseying my way.

  A sly-eyed waitress in tight jeans and a tighter T-shirt slapped a laminated menu on my table, then cocked a hip and waited for my drink order.

  I handed the menu back without even glancing at it. The Bar None serves the best fried pickles in Lantana County. I ordered a basket, with ranch dressing, and a longneck. Not exactly classy, but I didn’t see much point in pretending around Finn. Between the ignominy of my luau performance, the bitterness of our high school breakup, and my general all-round middle-aged frumpiness, I couldn’t imagine him making a pass.

  I’d just taken my first pull from my beer and popped a fried pickle chip in my mouth when Finn slouched in. Even in a crisp white oxford shirt, he looked as though he’d just rolled out of bed, all rumpled hair and sleepy eyes. I nearly choked on my pickle.

  Without a word, he slid into the chair opposite mine, plucked a pickle from my basket, and waggled my beer at the waitress to let her know he wanted one of his own.

  “So,” he said, turning his attention to me, “you were there when the shit hit the fan.”

  “You could say that.” I grimaced. “I thought Wayne was going to stroke out when Cal handed him that warrant in front of God and everyone.”

  Finn studied me through narrowed eyes. “A bit of rough justice?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Aw, come on, Tally. It must have felt just a little good to see Wayne brought down a peg.”

  That took me aback. I thought it over as the waitress returned with another beer for Finn. She set the bottle on a paper coaster, ran her finger up the glass in a teasing caress, then, with a slow wink, licked the condensation from her fingertip.

  I watched her sashay away, dumbfounded.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “Would you believe ‘Southern hospitality’?”

  “No.”

  He laughed. “Lighten up, Tally.” Immediately, I felt like his prissy maiden aunt, and I forced a smile. “So watching Wayne brought low didn’t give you a tiny thrill?”

  “Actually, no,” I said. “I was so busy being ticked off at him for—” I stopped, suddenly remembering that I was talking to a reporter and that Wayne’s request for an alibi for the night Brittanie died might end up a front-page headline. “Well, no. I don’t take any pleasure in Wayne’s public humiliation.”

  He didn’t respond, but his lips twisted in amusement.

  “So do you know what they were looking f
or?” I asked.

  His expression sobered. He crooked his finger around the neck of his beer and shrugged. “I’m not exactly in the loop, but I made some calls.” He tipped the beer back, and I watched the supple movement of his throat as he swallowed.

  “The medical examiner’s office finished the toxicology and microscopic tissue analyses yesterday. They determined that she died of acute ethylene glycol poisoning.”

  “Acute what?”

  “Ethylene glycol poisoning. Antifreeze.”

  I don’t know why, but ever since Karla Faye told me about Brittanie huffing and puffing at the Lady Shapers, I had convinced myself that she exercised herself to death. Maybe I resented the fact that she spent so much time at the gym while I spent so much time sampling my own ice cream. Or maybe I just glommed on to the one thing I knew about her so I could quiet the troubling uncertainty of her death. Whatever the reason, that explanation had taken root, and I had trouble believing anything else.

  Finn raised a hand, showing four fingers. “With a kid or a dog, antifreeze poisoning might be accidental—apparently it tastes sweet, so children and animals will get into it without realizing it’s dangerous. But with an adult, an accident is unlikely.” He folded one finger down. “And it’s sure not natural.” Another finger down.

  He waggled the two remaining fingers. “That leaves suicide or murder.”

  “Murder?” I should have been prepared for that. After all, whispers of murder had rustled through Dalliance from the day Brittanie died, but I had attributed them to the overactive imaginations of gossips and busybodies. In my heart of hearts, I never thought it might be true. First the cops at the funeral, now an actual name to put to the poison . . . and suddenly those rumors seemed all too plausible.

  I felt a little light-headed as Karla Faye’s words echoed in my mind: Some say Wayne. Some say you.

  “Tally, are you okay?” Finn leaned across the table and picked up my hand in his own. He gently chafed my wrist with his thumb. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

  I rustled up a smile and pulled my hand from his grasp. “I’m fine. It’s just shocking.”

  I paused to eat another pickle chip, chewing contemplatively.

  “Murder,” I said, dropping my voice to the same superstitious whisper folks use to talk about cancer and teen pregnancy. “I just can’t believe that. Stuff like that doesn’t happen in little towns like Dalliance.”

  He tilted his head, unconvinced. “From what I’ve seen of the world, ‘stuff like that’”—he sketched quotes in the air with his fingers—“happens just as much in little towns as it does in big cities.”

  I snorted. “How many years did you live in Minneapolis? You can’t tell me y’all had less crime than we have in Dalliance.”

  He nodded, conceding the point. “There may be more crime in big cities, but most of it is impersonal. Some guy steals your stereo or your wallet. Maybe someone gets caught in the cross fire of a gang shooting. Ugly, but oddly businesslike. The sort of smoldering anger or greed or lust that leads a person to slip another person some poison? That’s just as likely to happen in the crucible of a small town. Maybe even more likely.”

  “Still, you said it might have been suicide, right?”

  Just then, SMU scored another touchdown and the Bar None erupted in cheers. A couple of red-and-blue-clad fans teetered to their feet and raised their arms above their heads, setting off a spontaneous wave that swept from one end of the bar to the other and back again.

  Finn slugged back the last of his beer and fished his wallet out of his pocket. “Come on,” he said as he tossed a few bills on the table, “let’s get out of here.”

  He took my hand and helped me stand on unsteady legs. This time, I needed the warm pressure of his grip to anchor me, so I didn’t pull away. Instead, I let him lead me from the smoky dusk of the bar into the golden dappled light of the afternoon sun filtered through a canopy of pecan trees.

  As we strolled along the sidewalk, he picked up the thread of our conversation.

  “Mike Carberry has way more seniority at the News-Letter than I do—not to mention better connections in the police department—so my editor assigned the story to him. I’m getting my information secondhand, from Mike. But from what he said, it sounds like suicide is still technically on the table.”

  “Technically?”

  “Meaning the ME didn’t officially rule it out, but the cops don’t think it’s likely. They’re treating her death as a homicide, and they have a pretty neat theory of how it happened.”

  “They think Wayne did it?”

  Finn shook his head, then shrugged.

  “But they searched his house,” I insisted. “They had a warrant. That means they had reason to think they’d find something incriminating, right?”

  I watched some internal struggle play out on Finn’s expressive features. I suspected he knew something and he just couldn’t decide whether to tell me.

  We had crossed the street and were standing in front of the courthouse, kitty-corner across the square from Remember the A-la-mode. I watched as a couple paused outside my shop, studied the menu posted on the window, then kept on walking.

  Finn pulled me to a park bench set on the grassy lawn surrounding the courthouse, a private spot nestled between two mature crepe myrtles. He sat down, but he didn’t relax, his long body folded into uncomfortable angles on the hard iron bench.

  I sat next to him, holding my breath and willing him to spill the beans.

  Finally, he sighed. “Tally, this has to be between us, okay?” I nodded. “You can’t even tell Bree.” I shook my head. “Promise?” I nodded again.

  Still, he hesitated. I struggled to keep my expression impassive, when I wanted to take him by the throat and shake it out of him.

  “Like I said, Mike has carefully cultivated sources inside the Dalliance PD. They trust him not to disseminate information that might jeopardize an ongoing investigation, and I can’t afford to tick off my colleagues by talking out of school. And,” he added with a hard smile, “I don’t want to be accused of tampering with a witness in a murder investigation my very first month back in town.”

  “Tampering with a witness? What are you talking about? I didn’t witness anything!”

  “I would like to believe you.”

  What he didn’t say, but what I heard loud and clear, was that he had a tough time believing me. It had been more than eighteen years since I had broken Finn Harper’s heart, but I had broken it bad. Maybe he could hold my hand or tuck my hair behind my ears, the casual gestures echoing the intimacy we once shared. But the foundation of trust between us had crumbled to dust eighteen years earlier in the Tasty-Swirl parking lot.

  “Here’s what I know,” he said. And I accepted those words like the peace offering they were.

  “Apparently, after Brittanie died, Wayne made a statement to the police. At that point, it was just a formality. There was no reason to suspect foul play.

  “Wayne said that after the Weed and Seed luau, he took Brittanie home. She didn’t feel well, and she threw up. He got her a bottle of this sports drink she liked, something called Vigor. He put the bottle in a can koozie, set it on the night table, tucked Brittanie in bed, and then crashed in the guest room next door. Slept like a baby all night long.”

  He stopped talking and stared at me hard, as if he expected some sort of reaction from me. I didn’t get it.

  “So?”

  He nodded once, and a little of the tension drained from his posture.

  “So there’s a big hole in Wayne’s story. See, the morning Brittanie died, the cops on the scene noted an empty bottle of Mountain Mist-flavored Vigor on the floor and dents in the drywall behind the bed that corresponded to the knobs on the head-board. One of the officers apparently made an off-color comment about Wayne needing to stay hydrated after bed-shaking sex.”

  Revulsion rippled through me, and I sucked in a hissing breath between my teeth.

  Finn nodded.
“Classy, huh? Anyway, they also noted that both bedside lamps were on the floor, their glass bases shattered. At the time, they chalked up the broken lamps to the paramedics’ efforts to revive Brittanie, because the paramedics had arrived on the scene first. But the ME’s report noted incipient bruising on Brittanie’s arms and legs and lacerations to her tongue and the insides of her cheeks. Given the development of the bruises, the ME suspects she had at least one massive seizure six to eight hours before she actually died.”

  I shook my head in frustration. I didn’t want to hear about Brittanie’s suffering in the hours before she died, and I didn’t understand why Finn felt compelled to tell me all that. “How does that contradict Wayne’s story?”

  “When the ME determined Brittanie had seized, Cal asked the paramedics about the lamps. They said the lamps were already broken when they got to the bedroom. That suggests that Brittanie seized so hard she knocked the lamps over. She probably shook the bed hard enough to put the dents in the drywall, too. But Wayne had told the police he slept the night away just on the other side of that wall.”

  Now the picture was becoming horribly clear.

  “This morning, before the funeral,” Finn continued, “Cal talked to Wayne again. He laid out the facts from the perspective of the cops. According to Wayne’s own story, he gave Brittanie a bottle of antifreeze green sports drink, which she polished off. Then, apparently, Wayne ignored the sound of Brittanie’s violent seizures. He said he looked in on her early Saturday morning, but again, he apparently ignored the broken lamps and left her for a few more hours, only calling the paramedics after it was too late to revive her.”

  I started shaking, my hands and arms vibrating unsteadily and my breath coming in irregular hitches. The picture Finn painted with his words was almost impossible to process.