Chapter Eight #2
My server returns and sets a plate down in front of me. I look down at it. No way I can eat all that. The meat pie is the size of a man’s shoe, and the salad could easily be shared by twelve people.
“And here’s your dressin’,” she says, placing a beige bowl filled to the brim next to me.
“Wow,” I say.
“Right?” she says. “Enjoy.”
After she walks off, I type up questions on my phone: Why would Heather Hadwick run from Poison Wood?
That answer feels obvious. We all wanted to run away, and several tried but didn’t make it far.
The girls who ran away were always brought back.
They were usually found shivering in the woods by the sheriff.
That’s why we all believed Heather had died.
No one ever found her. Then there was the blood found in Johnny Adair’s cottage.
I write another question: Did Heather see something she shouldn’t have or do something she shouldn’t have?
I follow it with: Did Heather know Johnny Adair went to prison for killing her?
If she knew and she let him stay in prison, whatever secret Heather held was greater than a man’s freedom.
I cut my meat pie open with my fork, and it releases a plume of steam. Even though the smell makes my mouth water, I’ve lost my appetite. I pick at my salad instead.
My server stops by and says, “Can I get you anything else, hon?”
I look down at my notes. “Do you know Tandy Higginbottom?”
She smiles. “Everybody ’round here knows Ms. Tandy.”
Oh, small towns. No guarded looks. No questioning expressions. Just honesty.
“I’d love to meet her and talk to the historical society here.”
“You mean the hysterical society.” She laughs and winks at me. “Don’t tell Ms. Tandy I called it that.”
“Never,” I say. “Do they meet regularly?”
“Second Thursday of every month.” She nods toward the front door. “Just down this street.”
I glance at the door. That means Tandy and the other members will be meeting tomorrow. Maybe I will start to believe in coincidences.
The server leans down and whispers, “They’ll probably be talking about the murders tomorrow.”
My body stiffens. “Murders?”
Her blue eyes crinkle, and she starts to laugh.
“The crepe myrtle murders on Front Street.” She laughs so hard she starts coughing.
“Apparently Dean’s Lawn Care cut all their branches off, and now Ms. Tandy is fit to be tied.
Yelling to anyone who’ll listen how those poor trees were murdered.
” Her laugh trails off, and she wipes her eyes.
“Sorry.” She clears her throat. “That was probably in poor taste given what those ladies have been through. You know. With the school thing and all.”
“Yeah,” I say. “The school thing.”
She tucks her hair behind her large ears.
I say. “What time do those meetings take place?”
She refills my water. “Three p.m. You’ll love Ms. Tandy. She’s just a doll.”
“I’m sure I will,” I say and make a mental note to be back in this town by this time tomorrow.
When she’s gone, I thank my instinct for telling me to get off the interstate and come here. Erin may be on the ground in Florida now, but I’m on the ground here. And even though it’s overstepping, I’m going to find out what I can while I can.
I will figure out a way to convince Dom to let me stay on this story and somehow keep my closeness to it from shattering my career.
As I push my salad away, I sense someone watching me. I look around the room and spot a guy a few tables over. It takes a second, but then it registers. The eyes register. Golden Retriever from the Riverbend airport.
He scoots back from his table and walks toward me. He stops at my table and smiles. “Are you stalking me?”
I smile back; then I snap my fingers and point to him. “Luggage thief.”
His smile widens. “Red bow,” he says to me with an accent that sounds like East Texas. He’s a Southern boy. He’s dressed in a modest dark suit minus the tie. I want to say lawyer, but that doesn’t seem to quite fit.
His cell rings in his hand, and he glances at it. “Duty calls. Maybe I’ll see you again, Red Bow.” He swipes his phone open and walks to the front. I watch him hand his ticket to a woman standing behind an antique cash register that could be the original one from this place.
He pays and glances at me; then he walks out.
“Want me to box this up for ya?” the server says, stopping at my table.
I shake my head. “Just the check.”
On my way to the register, I stop at the table full of nurses and make eye contact with the only one who has gray hair.
“Sorry to bother y’all,” I say, with emphasis on the y’all. “But can you tell me what hospital around here has bright-blue scrubs for the nurses?”
The ladies look at one another, and the one with silver hair smiles, her Southern manners front and center. “Gosh, I don’t think any hospitals have that color. Not to my knowledge anyway. Y’all know?” she says to the others.
One with a blunt brunette bob says, “I think that’s what they wear over at Dr. Montrose’s office.”
“The orthodontist?” another says. “No. I think it’s the home health nurses.”
“Or maybe it’s the color over at Memorial now,” the silver-haired lady says. “Or at least it should be. They make their nurses wear this awful gray color and—”
“Thank you,” I say before I get too roped into this conversation. Looks like I may need more than the color of her scrubs to figure out who that woman at the school was.
Outside, I watch the airport guy walk away with his phone to his ear. We both flew in on the same flight. We both wound up in this small town, close to a place that could be the story of the year in this area.
I wonder if he’s a reporter, but if he is, it’s for a small publication.
I don’t recognize him at all. And small publications don’t usually fly reporters in.
He could be new, but I’d really recognize him then.
I make a point to know all the new hotshots coming on the scene.
Always pays to know your competition. And this guy does not look like a hotshot.
No expensive suit. No hair color. No Botox.
He turns right up ahead and is gone.
I walk to the old truck and hop in. I want to get back to Riverbend and check on my father.
I swallow. Talk to my father. I glance at the box next to me in the truck and, before I pull away, open my Facebook app.
I find Katrina and Summer. I’ve checked their profiles before, many times over the years. As I’m sure they’ve checked mine.
I laugh every time I read Kat’s job description: pharmaceutical rep. Kat was Poison Wood’s not-so-secret weed dealer, but her best customers were the St. Matthew’s boys. Boys who paid a premium without batting their fluffy eyelashes.
Within five seconds, I’ve discovered her cell phone number in her contact information. Social media has become my go-to for getting cell numbers. Most people don’t even realize it’s part of their profile.
I key it into my phone and quickly look up Summer’s profile as well.
Hers contains far fewer selfies than Kat’s.
It contains far fewer posts period. Summer’s profile doesn’t go back as far as Katrina’s.
Having a mother being in politics probably kept that in check.
She also lives in Baton Rouge, and owns a nonprofit for wayward teenage girls.
Oh, the irony with these two. Unlike Kat’s profile, Summer’s number is not listed.
So I type out a text to Katrina:
This is Rita. We need to meet. I know you are in Riverbend.
I add:
I’ll be in Natchitoches tomorrow. Maybe we can meet there.
Her response is instant. How did you get my number?
I ignore her question and search my map app for a place to meet. Not Lasyone’s again. Someplace a little less known. I find a small Mexican restaurant and send the address.
I’ll see you at 11:30. Bring Summer.
Kat doesn’t respond. I watch gray bubbles start and stop a few times, but no text comes through.
I add:
It’s about Heather.
This time she replies.
We’ll be there.
I drive back to the interstate and head for Riverbend, my thoughts buzzing around the fact Heather did not die out in those woods.
I’m trying to make sense of it. Trying to reconcile the emotions I’ve carried with me over the years about that night, when I believed one of my classmates was murdered.
Heather never quite fit in with us. She never quite fit in with any group.
She was from California originally but had been sent to live with her aunt and uncle in Louisiana when her parents died.
None of us ever considered what it must have been like for her to be sent to that school in the middle of a swampy forest so soon after the loss of her parents.
At least I’d had a few years to adjust to losing my mom.
Heather was thrown into the mix after cliques had formed.
She didn’t stand a chance with Katrina and Summer.
But she and I had formed a secret friendship.
Two girls who lost their mothers, watching as the others complained about theirs.
I shift the truck into drive, pull away from the curb, and an hour later I take the exit to the hospital where my dad is recovering.
It’s time for us to talk.