Kathleen O'Brien - Quiet as the Grave

She wondered if that haunted him now, knowing that, every time he walked down to the lake, he had passed within feet of Justine’s dead body.

If Suzie had ever needed proof that there was no such thing as ghosts, this would be it. Surely Justine’s ghost would have called out to her father as he tromped by, supervising the divers who dragged Tuxedo Lake.

“I need you to help me,” Mayor Millner said with more force than Suzie had seen yet. “I want justice for my daughter.”

Something invisible skittered down Suzie’s spine on tiny cold feet. What was he talking about? Did he think she had done something to Justine? Exactly how crazy had grief left this guy?

“Justice?”

“Yes. I want that bastard Mike Frome arrested, but the police say they don’t have enough evidence.”

Suzie frowned. “Mike? You think Mike killed Justine?”

“I don’t think he did. I know he did. And I’m going to make him pay for it, if it’s the last thing I do. I need you to help me.”

“Mayor Millner, I don’t think—”

“He did it, damn it. He never loved her. He just used her, and then, when he got caught, he had to marry her. He never gave a damn about her except as a plaything.”

The tears she’d seen in his eyes a minute ago had been replaced by a fanatical gleam. She had a cowardly urge to just turn and get the heck out of here, but she forced herself to remain calm. Maybe she could make him see reason.

Mike hadn’t loved Justine when he married her, that much was definitely true. Suzie had been with Mike the night he found out Gavin was his son, and that he would have to marry Justine. A sheltered Firefly Glen teenager, Mike Frome had been faced with the first problem so big his rich, loving family couldn’t fix it, and it had damn near broken his heart. He’d sat on the floor of her kitchen and cried like a child.

She had thought back on that night often, and wished she had been more sympathetic. But her own heart had been a little cracked, and at the time she hadn’t been very good at tenderness or compassion.

Still…Mike Frome, a cold-blooded murderer? Not until penguins ice-skated in hell.

“But why would he kill her? Even if he didn’t love her, they were already divorced.”

“That’s what the police said. But that doesn’t matter. He killed her. She had a new lover, did you know that? She was going to spend a month with him in Europe. Mike couldn’t stand that, so he killed her.”

“But…” She tried again to be logical. “If he hadn’t ever loved her, why would a new lover bother him?”

Millner shook his head roughly. “It’s not like that for a man. It’s not about love. It’s about…territory. Men get crazy when other men try to take away what belongs to them.”

Okaaaay…so logic was out. This guy had crawled out of the Dark Ages. He thought women were chattel, and he assumed all other men agreed.

“Well, assuming for a moment that you’re right, that he did kill her, how could I help you? I haven’t seen him in ten years.”

Millner’s eyes began to glow again, sensing hope. “But you saw her. You saw Justine, back when you painted Gavin’s picture. She told me about that. You must have heard something. Seen something. Maybe you heard them fighting.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Not even on the phone?”

“No.”

“What about bruises? Was there ever any sign that he’d hit her, or pushed her around?”

Suzie scowled. “No,” she said firmly. “Mayor Millner, I’m sorry, but—”

He frowned, but he didn’t look defeated. “I thought for sure—well, no matter. You can always say you saw things.”

Good grief. She was through being gentle and logical.

“Are you out of your mind? You want me to lie?”

Millner didn’t seem to understand why she was so upset. “Not lie. You know what he was like. He toyed with you, too, didn’t he? Everyone says he broke your heart. Surely you’d like to see him pay for all the people he’s hurt.”

“Actually, you’re wrong on so many counts I can’t cover them all. I would not like to see him go to jail for a murder he didn’t commit. For God’s sake, Mayor. Would you pin a murder rap on an innocent man?”

His face was turning red. “An innocent man? You think Mike Frome is an innocent man? He didn’t love her. He used her. He broke her heart.”

“But that’s very different from—”

He looked at her through wet, bulging eyes. She wanted to look away, but the intensity of the gaze was mesmerizing.

“Did you know he left her alone that day, that last day? He pushed her out of his car and left her alone in the dark, all alone on the side of the road. If he didn’t kill her with his bare hands, at the very least he delivered her, helpless, to the man who did.”

Suzie stared at him. He was so red he was almost purple. She wondered if he had heart trouble. She thought of that trembling arm, and she wondered how long he had to live.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I can’t help you.”

He began to cry openly. They were harsh tears, torn out of him. Tears of frustrated fury, not simple grief. It was a horrible sound.

“You could help me,” he said raggedly. “You just won’t. And I know why. You still hate Justine. You hate my poor baby girl because she has everything you wish you had. You’re willing to let a man get away with murder because you won’t let go of your petty high school jealousies.”

She couldn’t even find the heart to refute it. How could she tell this man that high school jealousies died as soon as you hit the real world and discovered how big and rich and exciting it was—and that it definitely did have a place for you, after all?

Envy Justine? How could she tell him that she wouldn’t live in this expensive marble mausoleum for anything on earth? That she would rather paint than get a manicure, that she’d rather read a book than go to a party? That she’d rather have a child when she was old enough, when she was ready. That she’d rather have no husband than one who hated her?

Or the most unspeakable truth of all. That she’d rather be alive than dead.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. She meant it. “I’m sorry you’re so unhappy. I hope you’ll come to terms with that before you destroy an innocent man.”

He didn’t answer. He sank onto the Louis XIV chair beside the piano and put his face in his hands. The morning sunlight found a few black strands remaining in his silver hair, but it was like the echo of something sad. You knew it was already dying away even as you listened.

She let herself out the front door, her heart heavy.

When she heard footsteps, at first she thought it might be the gardener, and she took a deep breath, ready to breathe fire if he dared to get smarmy.

But, as she rounded the pillar to the portico, she saw a woman walking toward her. About forty, maybe. Pretty in a completely unglamorous way, but a nice face.

“Hi,” the woman said. “Is Mr. Millner in there?”

“He’s in there, but he seems a little distraught at the moment.”

“Oh.” The woman looked toward the house, looking concerned. “He asked me to come see him at noon, but I can’t. I wondered if he could maybe make it earlier.”

Suzie hesitated. She should leave, but…

“Do you know why he wants to see you?”

The woman shook her head. “Not exactly.” She held out her hand. “I’m Judy Stott. My husband and I live next door. I got the impression Mr. Millner wanted…well, that he was wondering if we might have…seen anything. You know, the night his daughter disappeared.”

Suzie’s jaw felt tight. “Did you?”

Judy Stott looked a little wary. After all, she didn’t know who Suzie was, and she probably wondered how much she should say.

“Never mind,” Suzie said. She beeped open the door to her Honda, and said a prayer that it would start. She couldn’t wait to get out of this place.

“Just promise me you won’t lie for him.”

Judy Stott smiled uncertainly. “Lie for him? I can’t imagine he’d ask me to.”

Suzie climbed in her car. She rolled down the window and poked out her head.

“Still. Promise me,” she said. “He’s not right in the head. Two wrongs don’t make a right, you know. And they damn sure won’t bring Justine back.”

Judy Stott backed away, clearly uncomfortable.

Hell, Suzie thought. She was acting as crazy as Millner. Besides, nothing was going to stop him. Even if this Judy Stott person had enough character to tell him no, he’d just move on to the next person.

What about that trashy gardener? He looked as if he’d tell a few lies for the right number of zeroes.

She turned the key to her car, which started up with a nice thrum, as if it understood that they were now on a mission.

She knew exactly where she had to go next.

MIKE AND GAVIN were playing paintball in the big empty Tuxedo Lake lot that he’d bought four years ago, intending someday to build a house. With one thing and another, someday had never come. He and Gavin were still living in the boathouse.

But the wooded lot made a great paintball field.

Today was the first time in two weeks that Gavin had expressed any interest in playing paintball—or anything else, either. When Justine’s body had been found, Gavin had simply shut down. He must have known Justine was dead. God knows Mike had talked to him about it often enough.

But “knowing” it and knowing it were two different things.

So when Gavin had suggested they play a little paintball, no matter how odd the choice sounded, Mike had said yes with enthusiasm. Maybe they could both work off some of this pain and anger.

Mike stood sideways behind a fifty-year-old hemlock and tried to peek around the trunk without getting nailed by a yellow paintball. Gavin’s aim was lethal. He’d hit Mike in the kneecap ten minutes ago, and those suckers hurt.

His mask didn’t fit quite right, and he considered taking it off, but he darn sure didn’t want a paintball in the eye. He could never be a bank robber. He didn’t like being all bundled up. He liked the sun on his skin and the wind in his face.

Maybe he’d ask Gavin if he wanted to move to Malibu and they’d become a couple of beach bums. As soon as the police would let him move anywhere, that is. Murder suspects weren’t allowed much mobility, as he’d learned over the past two years.

“I see you!”

He heard Gavin’s footsteps running toward him. He lunged out from behind the hemlock and, dropping to a squat to provide a smaller target, he pointed his gun in the direction of the sounds.

But the body he pointed at didn’t belong to his son. It belonged to Mrs. Cready, his ninety-year-old neighbor who had put her house up for sale the day they found Justine’s body. She told everyone who’d listen that she had no intention of living next door to a murderer.

Mike had considered warning her that comments like that wouldn’t exactly help her find a buyer, but then he thought, to hell with it. She’d treated him like a leper ever since Justine disappeared. If she liked the adrenaline rush of believing the guy next door was a murderer, who was he to spoil her fun?

She must be loving this, standing here at gunpoint. She let out a shrill “eeek” and threw her hands into the air, a move she learned on television, no doubt.

He lifted his mask and propped it on his forehead.

“Hello, Mrs. Cready,” he said. “You can put your hands down. I’m not worried that you might go for your six-guns.”

She frowned. “You’re the one with the gun. I don’t have any guns.”