“Now there was a woman had come to town just a couple of years before,” he said. “Town like this, everybody knows everybody else, but nobody was real sure where this woman come from, nor why she chose to come to Jasper. Sheila Weimer, her name was. And she brought her son with her, young boy maybe eleven, twelve years old. Boy went by the name of J.R. Sheila took a job clerking at Weatherbee’s hardware store. J.R. enrolled at the middle school, in the seventh grade.”
Bensen paused for a moment before he continued. “That woman kept herself to herself. Kind of held herself back, like she was better ’n what you might think. Couple of the town busybodies, they tried to get her to talk. She’d just give ’em this frosty smile and change the subject. Folks got the idea, and everybody just settled back to normal for a year or so. Nobody much felt like gettin’ to know Sheila Weimer after a while.” He paused and frowned. “Well,” he said, “like I was saying, two or three years go by, the Weimers are part of the scenery, nobody gives ’em a thought. And then . . .”
He was silent again, perhaps gathering his thoughts. Then he pursed his lips, looking directly at Delgado. “You got to understand I spent some time on this. It bothered me. Thing like that—it was real ugly, all around, and I—” He frowned. “Gettin’ ahead of myself. Telling it like a Yankee.” He shook his head. “Anyway. Mother works in town, boy having some problems at school. Can’t seem to fit in, make friends, nothing.” He shrugged. “Maybe not his fault. Boy’s very first day of school ever, teacher calls the roll. And instead of sayin’ ‘J.R. Weimer,’ she calls out ‘Junior Weener.’” He snorted. “Not the kind of thing middle school boys are gonna let go of. Right away, J.R. was ‘Tiny Dick’ or ‘Little Cock.’ They rode him hard, and especially a boy named Bobby Reed. He was on J.R. all the time, ‘Tiny Dick, Tiny Dick.’ He was bigger, not all that bright? But big and strong—plus his family had some money. And that made him one of those boys had what you might call followers—other boys that hung out with him and did what he did. And they all pushed real hard at J.R., and at first it seems like he didn’t much push back. So I got to figure it built up inside him . . .”
Bensen was silent for a few moments. Delgado didn’t prod him, just waited. “Well,” Bensen said at last, “when that boy J.R. finally pushed back, it was one hell of a push. And what most folks believe is, he pushed Bobby Reed into the old quarry.” He shook his head. “Me, I’m not 100 percent sure. I think it might maybe have been an accident. Or he did push Bobby but didn’t mean for him to fall in like that. The kids that was there that day, they were of two minds about it. At first.” He snorted. “’Course, a day or two later, they all swore up and down J.R. pushed Bobby in on purpose ’cause that’s what folks wanted to believe.
“Anyways, that’s a hundred-some feet down onto nothing but rocks. Coroner says Bobby died right away. Folks really want to believe that because it was near seven hours before anybody got down there to fetch Bobby’s body back up.” He tilted his head toward the diner’s door. “That was his brother Clayton walked out a minute ago?”
Delgado nodded.
“Well,” Bensen went on, “by the time I went round to talk to J.R., him and his mother had up and gone. Lock, stock, and minivan.” He sighed. “Kid was fourteen years old. I wasn’t about to cuff him and toss him in jail. But I sure did want to talk to him ’bout what happened.”
Bensen sighed and closed his eyes. He looked like he’d run out of steam and might just decide to take a nap. But when he opened his eyes again, they were full of energy. “I did all the things you’d expect. Put it out on the wire, names and plate number and descriptions. Nothing came back, not ever. After a while I just had to figure they’d changed their names. ’Cause they sure didn’t have the means to run for Argentina or someplace like that.” His face got even more serious and thoughtful. “And I got to admit that bothered me more. How did a kid and a lady like that manage it? I mean, ’less there was a criminal history I couldn’t find. I checked back, and I still couldn’t find it, and I had to figure one of ’em just had a natural talent for felony.”
Bensen raised one eyebrow. Delgado nodded. The old cop picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. He made a face and put the cup down. “I just can’t like cold coffee,” he said, pushing the cup away from him. “Guess I talked too long.”
“No, sir,” Delgado said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
/> “Sure I have,” Bensen said. “Always a big help to let an old man ramble on, isn’t it?”
“Do you know where they lived before?” Delgado asked. “Before they came to Jasper?”
Bensen made a wide-eyed face. “Now how ’m I gonna know that? Poor dumb ole country cop like me? Why, shucks, I ain’t never heard of no database or nothin’.” He snorted. “’Course I know. Like I said, this bothered me. I went over this thing every way I could think. I even checked with your folks at the Bureau, hopin’ that maybe just once they wouldn’t fall over their own damn feet and land on mine.” He made a disgusted face. Delgado kept silent. He was well aware that most local cops don’t like the Bureau. Besides, Delgado had the same opinion about most of his fellow agents.
“I wasn’t really expecting much, just doing some due diligence?” Bensen said. He waggled his eyebrows. “And what do you know? I got a hit. Nothin’ at all on the kid or his mom—but it seems J.R.’s daddy had a record. Bunch of financial stuff—check kiting, fraud, you know. And he died just before they arrested him for a Ponzi scheme.”
Delgado felt his mouth go dry. This was it—the final piece. And he was certain it would lead to the big house on the hill. “Where?” he said. “Where did that happen?”
Bensen knew he had Delgado hooked and enjoyed it. He let it play out a little longer. “Well, I got a copy of the death certificate. It was dated just a few weeks before Sheila and J.R. showed up here, in Jasper.” He smiled, drawing it out. “The old man passed away of a heart attack in the hospital. Not too terrible far from here. In Davidson County, Tennessee.” He smiled for the first time, the smile of a man who realized he had just made somebody’s day. “That’s Nashville, son,” he said.
CHAPTER
22
The wedding had been very simple, of course. Katrina wore a basic, off-the-rack Hugo Boss business suit—all she could get on short notice. There were no crowds, no family members, not even any music. It was not at all like Katrina’s first wedding, the one to Michael. That had been in St. John the Divine Episcopal, where Eberhardts always got married. The pews had been packed with family members, business associates, paparazzi. This time, it was town hall, and nobody was there except the two of them, Jacob Brilstein, and a clerk. It was so very different that it was hard to think of it as a wedding. Katrina hoped that was a sign that this marriage would be different, too, in spite of being somewhat impromptu.
As the clerk intoned the civil ceremony in a flat voice, Brilstein stood beside them beaming as if it were his own wedding. And somehow, magically, at the proper moment, he pulled a ring from his pocket. Randall put it on Katrina’s finger with trembling hands, and a moment later it was over and they came together for the official kiss—which turned into a much longer and more passionate kiss that lasted until the clerk cleared his throat ostentatiously and said in a very loud voice, “Okay, folks, you’re married now. Take it home, please.”
As a wedding present, Brilstein had booked them a suite at the St. Regis. Katrina managed to hide her disappointment. In the first place, she didn’t really care for the St. Regis. More importantly, she found that she was aching with a need to go back to her own house—impossible, of course. It was not her home right now; it was a crime scene, and they would not be allowed in until the police had finished examining every inch of it.
That turned out to be more than a week later, which seemed like a long time, and Katrina was quite sure the police were deliberately slow to punish her for being rich and for apparently dodging a murder conviction. Brilstein had managed to delay the trial for at least six months, and they were both free for now. Unfortunately, the first week of freedom meant freedom at the St. Regis, and Katrina could not be happy. And when they were finally allowed to move back in to her house, it looked like a gang of wild teenagers had savaged the place. The police had been very thorough in examining every inch of every room, and just as negligent in putting it back the way they’d found it. Katrina spent her first three days at home supervising a cleaning crew.
But when the house was finally restored to its former state of half-refurbished glory, Katrina was surprised to find how easily the two of them settled into married life. With Michael, the best Katrina had ever achieved was a kind of disappointed comfort. With Randall, there was routine elation. Every day began and ended happily, together. They fit together like two pieces of the same puzzle, as if they had been together forever.
Slowly, very slowly, something approaching Normal Life returned. But for Katrina, it was a far better Normal than she’d ever had. When she came home from errands, or a meeting of some charity that still wanted her on their board, she had something to come home to—some-one. And so even though there was an eventual trial for murder hanging over her head, Katrina was happy.
Randall seemed just as content. Initially, he’d been a bit stuffy about living at her house amid the abundant trappings of ridiculous wealth. Little luxuries that Katrina took for granted seemed to make him very uncomfortable. But he had slowly relaxed into his new life of luxury. He still insisted on doing his work as a designer and art consultant, and he would not take any of Katrina’s money. He wouldn’t even drive one of the luxury cars that sat in the huge garage unless they were going somewhere together. On the other hand, he soon lost his shyness about using the pool, the sauna, and the home gym.
And surprisingly, wonderfully, the enormous, perfectly furnished kitchen.
Katrina had never really been interested in cooking. She’d taken a course in classic cooking when she first married Michael. But he never came home for dinner, and she quickly lost interest in making coq au vin for one. So for most of her marriage—her first marriage—she’d gotten by on eating out, getting takeout, or making a quick egg sandwich.
With Randall in charge of the kitchen, every evening was a different charming surprise. He seemed to delight in amazing her, and she never knew if she was sitting down to a meal of pad thai, pulled pork, or tournedos du boeuf. Katrina enjoyed the surprise, and the meals, immensely.
More than that, there was a comforting domesticity to being married to Randall that she’d never experienced with Michael. Katrina got a quiet happiness from the everyday things Randall did: trimming his beard, shaving his head, polishing his shoes, stupid little things that everybody did—but she was watching Randall, her husband, do them, and that made all the difference. At last, at long last, marriage had turned into something that met the expectations she’d had for it. It made her feel complete.
Marriage—to Randall—made Katrina happy.