“I reckon I can still wash a few dishes,” Esme grumbled. “I’m not ready for the old folks’ home just yet, despite what some people around here seem to think.”
“I don’t think that at all,” Sarah said. “I just want to help.”
“If I need help I’ll ask for it,” Esme informed her.
Sarah threw her hands up. “Okay, you win. I give up. Will you at least come and sit with me a minute, so we can talk?”
Esme reluctantly came back over and pulled out a chair. Even though she’d worked in this kitchen for four decades, she was still hesitant to sit at the table with Sarah.
It was times like this that Sarah could feel a distance between them. She loved Esme more than anyone in the world, and she knew the older woman would lay down her life for her. But there was a wall between them, one that Esme chose to keep firmly in place. And as much as Sarah hated it, she knew that divider would always be there.
“What is it?” Esme demanded with no small amount of suspicion. “You ain’t got yourself in some kind of trouble, have you? Is that why Curtis was here?”
“What? No,” Sarah said. “He just brought me home from the hospital. I’m not in any trouble.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Way past time you stopped all that nonsense. You oughta be settled down having babies by now. First thing you know, you done wait too late.”
“I think I have a few good years left in me. Besides, I’m not the motherly type.”
“That’s true,” Esme said bluntly.
“Maybe I’m more like my father than I want to admit,” Sarah said. “I’d hardly call him the paternal type.”
“Lord have mercy, girl, what a thing to say about your own daddy.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
Esme said nothing.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Sarah said. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”
Esme shook her head with mournful reproach. “Mr. James on his deathbed, and here you are talking about him like that.”
“You mean even now we still have to worry about his feelings?”
She heaved a weary sigh. “Let it go, child.”
“I can’t let it go. If anyone knows what went on around here, it was you,” Sarah said. “You know why he hates me, don’t you?”
“I’ve done told you I don’t know how many times before. He don’t hate you. He’s just got a way about him.”
“It’s more than that. He blames me for Rachel’s death.”
“Blames you? Why would he do a thing like that?”
“He’s never said anything to you about it?”
“He says a lot of things these days, but you can’t pay attention to half of it. The medicine they got him on makes him talk out of his head. You can’t take it to heart.”
Sarah leaned across table. “He thinks I killed her, Esme.”
Her eyes widened. “No, he don’t.”
“That’s what he said. He said Mama thought so, too. That’s why she washed the blood off me that night. That’s why she stopped taking me to see a therapist. She was too afraid of what she might find out. And now I’m thinking...maybe that’s why she died. Maybe that’s why her heart gave out. Because of me.”
“Your mama may have died of a broken heart, but it didn’t have anything to do with you, Sarah June.”
“Mama had a broken heart?”
Esme hesitated. “One of her babies was murdered. ’Course she had a broken heart.”
“Do you think I killed her, Esme?”
Esme reached across the table and grabbed Sarah’s hand, clutching it in both of hers. “Now you listen to me. You didn’t have nothing to do with your sister’s death. I don’t know who killed that poor child, but it wasn’t you.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because nobody in the world knows you better than me. You didn’t do it. It’s not in you. I want you to put that notion clean out of your head, and I never want to hear another word about it.”
“Esme, did you know about Curtis and Rachel?”
Her eyes flashed again with unexpected fire. “We don’t need to be talking about that, neither.”
“Why not?”
“Child, please.”
“Did my father cause problems for Curtis?”
“If there was trouble, it was Curtis’s own making. That boy knew better than to do what he did.”
“What did he do besides love my sister?”
“She wasn’t his to love.”
“She wasn’t a possession. She had a mind of her own. And I know she loved Curtis, too. I could tell by the way they looked at each other. What did Dad do to break them up?”
“I don’t know,” she said stubbornly.
“Esme...”
The dark eyes begged Sarah to drop the subject, but it was too late. She couldn’t let it rest now.
“Did my father hurt Rachel?”
“Hurt her? He loved that child.”
Sarah clung to her hand. “You know what I mean.”
Esme’s lips pursed. “What I know is this. You need to stop wallowing around in the past. No good ever comes of it.”
“I can’t stop. I have to know if he hurt her. It would... It changes everything, don’t you see?”
Esme just went right on shaking her head.
“Did you ever see anything that made you suspicious?”
“No, child. It weren’t my job to be suspicious.”
* * *
Sarah walked out to the back porch and watched until Esme got all the way to the cottage. Then she turned and went back inside, that terrible question still churning inside her, making her sick and shaky. Making her wish she’d never come back here.
Maybe Esme was right. Maybe no good could come from digging up the past. Rachel was dead, her father was dying. How could the truth help any of them now? Especially when that truth might be harder to live with than the questions. When that truth might include Sarah’s unwitting complicity.
Her bedroom had been next to Rachel’s. If something had gone on behind that common wall, how could she not have known? How could she not have told?
Weighted down by the condemning silence of the house, Sarah wandered upstairs to try and find something to occupy her mind. Turning on the bedside lamp, she picked up the glass case that still rested on her nightstand. It was empty now. She’d taken her grandmother’s little yellow bird to the funeral and placed it in her sister’s casket. In her cold hands.
All these years, she’d thought of Rachel as the perfect daughter, the favored sister, someone she could never live up to. But Rachel had been more than that. She’d had hopes and dreams just like everyone else. And she’d had secrets, too. Terrible secrets.
Sarah wished she’d somehow found a way to bridge the distance between them before it was too late. Because now, she and Rachel were never going to be anything more than what they’d been before the murder...strangers living in the same house.
Maybe that was why she’d put the bird in Rachel’s hands. Because she hadn’t known how to give her sister the love and comfort that she must have so desperately needed.
A tremor coursed through Sarah as she walked over to the window and stared out at the gathering twilight. She’d always been afraid of the dark, although there was a time when she would never have admitted it to anyone. Not even to herself. Back then, she’d looked for ways to prove just how fearless she was. Like going to the Duncan farmhouse alone.
But in this well-lit room, the darkness was already closing in on her. Sarah had always felt alone here. Alone and isolated from the rest of the world.
How must Rachel have felt?
Why her and not me? Sarah wondered.
What would drive a man to do that to his own child?
Make him unnaturally love one daughter while shunning the other? Shun her as if she weren’t his own.
The thought stopped Sarah completely. She tried to shove the suspicion away. Told herself she was grasping at straws. But the notion wouldn’t be dismissed, because it explained too much.
It explained everything.
Chapter 23
“Looks like somebody’s finally claimed our Jane Doe,” Danny said as he hung up the phone on Monday morning. He and Sean sat across from each other in a cubicle that was just large enough to accommodate two desks shoved against each other and an overflowing file cabinet.
Danny reared back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his neck. “Her name’s Amber Gleason. She worked as a cocktail waitress at a dive on Airline Drive called the Neon Lounge. One of the other girls saw the article in the paper and called in. She said Amber hasn’t been in since a week ago Saturday night.”
Sean looked up from the report he was typing on the computer. “And they’re just now missing her?”
“Hey, this is New Orleans, the Big Easy, remember? Eccentric behavior is the norm not the exception. A waitress blows off work for a few days, nobody’s going to get all cranked off about it. And anyway, this girl says Amber had a pretty bad sauce problem. They just figured she’d tied one on and was holed up somewhere drying out.”
“We’ll need to get over there and talk to the people on her shift. Maybe somebody saw something.” Sean hit the save button on the computer and picked up his coffee. “Is this girl willing to go down to the morgue and ID the body?”
“She’s on her way. I’m heading over there to meet her. You want to ride along?”
“To the morgue? Thanks, I’ll pass.”
“Thought you might.”
“Besides, I have an appointment with a shrink.”
“Well, it’s about damn time,” Danny said as he grabbed his jacket. “Why don’t you run my little theory by him while you’re there? You know, the one about your issues.”
“Yeah, Danny, I’ll be sure and do that.”
A few minutes later, Sean headed out for the Garden District. The address he’d been given was on Chestnut Street. The house was a two-story brick home with a wide veranda, ornate grillwork, and a narrow walkway that led back to a walled garden draped with wisteria vines. It was the kind of place the Garden District was famous for—lush lawns, shimmering swimming pools and hidden courtyards all wrapped up in the unmistakable air of Southern gentility.
Michael Garrett had told Sean when they spoke earlier to come through the garden and up the back stairs where he would be waiting in his office.
Sean let himself through the gate and glanced around, feeling vaguely resentful. At the top of the stairs, he knocked on the door, and when he didn’t get an answer, he walked on in. He found himself in a small sitting area with leather chairs and important-looking artwork on the walls, none of which he recognized.
“Hello?”
“Come on in, Detective,” the voice called from the next room.
Sean opened the door and stepped inside. A man stood at the window staring down into the garden. When he turned, the light streaming in behind him created a halo effect that vanished the moment he walked toward Sean.
“Detective Kelton? I’m Michael Garrett,” he said, extending his hand.
He didn’t look at all the way Sean had pictured him. His image of a middle-aged therapist in a cardigan and loafers was forced to give way to the reality of a sleekly dressed man in a dark suit, blue shirt and silk tie, all of which looked expensive. And when they shook hands, Sean noticed a gold watch.
“Thanks for making time to see me,” he said.
“No problem.” Garrett waved Sean toward a chair, then went around to sit behind his desk. “I’m happy to help you out in any way I can, but as I told you on the phone, I’m not sure how much I can tell you from looking at crime-scene photos. I’m not a forensic psychologist, and I assume the police department has their own consultants for such matters.”
“We’re on a pretty tight budget these days,” Sean said as he sat down across from Garrett. “But that’s not the only reason I’m here.”
Garrett watched him impassively.
“I’m worried about Sarah.”
“I can’t discuss Sarah with you.”
“I’m sure she’s told you plenty about me,” Sean said dryly. “Whatever she’s said, it’s probably true.”
The therapist’s implacable demeanor made Sean uncomfortable. He didn’t feel in charge in this environment and he didn’t like it.
“The thing is, I still care about Sarah. I’ll do anything I can to protect her.”
One brow lifted slightly. “Have you told her how you feel?”
“Yes, but I don’t think she’s in the right frame of mind to hear it right now.”
Garrett sat perfectly still. His posture was remarkable, Sean thought. “You were recently married, weren’t you, Detective?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps that’s why Sarah feels a little reticent about discussing your feelings for her.”
The guy’s expression never changed, and yet Sean felt as if he’d been sucker punched. “You know about Sarah’s past, right? The murdered sister?”
“As I said—”
“Yeah, yeah. You can’t discuss her with me. Then just listen, okay? I’m beginning to have a bad feeling that Sarah’s past may be connected to the cases I told you about earlier.”
“Go on.”
Sean scrubbed a hand across his mouth, hardly knowing where to start. “When Sarah and I first got together, I looked into her sister’s murder. I was arrogant enough to think I could find something the local cops had missed.”
“Did you?”
Sean hesitated. “I found a lot of things that disturbed me about that case, not the least of which was the satanic symbolism left at the crime scene. Because of those symbols, the police focused their attention on only one suspect, and they spent weeks trying to break his alibi. It occurred to me, as I studied the case, that if the killer’s intent was to use that symbolism to misdirect the investigation, it worked like a charm.”