Goats drink a lot of water, even in colder weather, I thought as I waited for their trough to fill. Hopefully, this will be my third and last day to care for the five Nubians.
Kyla had left Friday afternoon and traveled to Atlanta to pick up a former co-worker before they headed to the Smoky Mountains. She promised to return by late afternoon.
The goats hadn’t been the only ones I’d babysat. Lillian had dropped by at sunset Saturday and insisted she stay. I could hardly decline after hearing her latest recording. She was correct in concluding our lives were in danger, but I disagreed that she was the only one responsible for getting us into this mess. In fact, the initial idea of staking out Ted King’s cabin had been my own. I felt both guilt and an impending sense of foreboding.
I turned off the faucet and heard my new roommate yell something from the front porch. I looked her way. She was standing with a cup of coffee and her back to the open storm door. She wore a thin pink housecoat and the same toboggan from Friday night. Our short co-habitation felt odd, maybe even wrong, for several reasons. I almost regretted the respect she’d shown for my Friday night hesitancy. But respect and thoughtful restraint are two different things. Although there had been no actual kissing, holding, or lovemaking, an intersecting theme flooded my mind that pointed in the same direction.
“What?” She’d said something about a phone call. I was halfway to the front porch when she repeated her earlier statement. “The DA lady wants to talk to you.” Dang, she’s early. It was barely daylight.
I walked to the carport, kicked off Dad’s muddy work boots, slipped on my house shoes, and headed inside.
Governor Williams had recently appointed Marshall County District Attorney Pam Garrison to fill the spot vacated by the death of former DA Charles Abbott. A good thing, according to Micaden, was Pam had only recently returned to her hometown of Albertville after a forty-year career in Atlanta, the last half spent as a Fulton County prosecutor. It was unlikely local politics had entangled her. I grabbed my iPhone from the kitchen table and realized if it weren’t for Micaden, I wouldn’t be receiving this call.
“Good morning, sorry to keep you waiting.” Pam and Micaden had worked for the same Atlanta law firm after they graduated from Emory University’s School of Law in 1977. Of course, this didn’t mean she would convey favors, but hopefully it meant she’d follow the law.
“No problem.” It sounded like classical music playing in the background. “Lee, if you will, get me all of Rachel’s diaries.” DA Pam’s request didn’t surprise me. I’d contemplated the same yesterday afternoon when I handed her the diary I’d discovered inside a Hunt House wall.
The last thirty-six hours had been a whirlwind. After the shock of listening to Lillian’s last Lodge recording, I’d called Micaden. It hadn’t taken ten minutes, including my recap of everything relevant to Ray and Buddy as arsonists, for my lawyer to slip into his grand master mode. He’d contacted Connor in Gatlinburg, who contacted Mark Hale in the Sheriff’s Department. Then Mark contacted Avery Proctor, the District Attorney’s chief investigator, who’d obviously communicated with DA Pam. Finally, she closed the loop back to her old friend Micaden.
At noon yesterday, all of us had met in the DA’s conference room (Connor via video) for Pam and Avery to listen to all recordings, review the Hunt House lawsuit documents, and inspect the seventy-five still shots from Ted’s cabin Lillian had traveled to the Gadsden Walmart for development and printing. Pam’s assistant district attorney, Greg Vincent, had also joined the meeting.
Three and a half hours later, the DA concluded the evidence justified the issuance of arrest warrants. After a brief break and before our meeting disbanded, Micaden had requested permission to address one of Marshall County’s oldest cold cases: the disappearance and presumed death of Kyle Bennett. Maybe Micaden had read my mind during the three plus hour meeting. I had kept thinking we needed to use full disclosure with the woman who had been so open-minded and gracious.
I’d often heard shocks or surprises come in triplet. DA Pam’s response to Micaden’s request had baffled him and me. It seems ever since she’d arrived, cold cases had become a popular topic, including one that occurred only a few weeks before Kyle disappeared. Eerily, the two had similar characteristics. Sharon Teague, an Albertville High School rising senior and cheerleader, had gone missing during late summer or early fall of 1969, around the time Pam Garrison herself began her freshman year at the same school.
After Micaden provided a summary (including Rachel’s diaries) of why he, Connor, and I believed Ray Archer had committed the crime of kidnapping and murdering Kyle, DA Pam had responded rather cold and disinterested. But she had asked me to read the diary I’d found behind the wall inside the Hunt House.
As Lillian attempted breakfast in a foreign kitchen, I finally responded to Pam’s question. “It’s not that I don’t want you to read them (in part, it was), but I’ve been reluctant to have them shipped, afraid they’d get lost in the mail.”
“I understand your hesitation and cannot grasp what’s it’s like to lose your spouse in such a tragic way. However, from strictly a legal viewpoint, I cannot properly consider the diaries value until I read every page.” What DA Pam was saying without putting it into words was Rachel’s diaries (assuming the court ruled them admissible) could do more harm than good. It wouldn’t be the first time a sharp defense attorney turned a prosecutor’s star witness or smoking gun document into a pile of smoldering ashes.
DA Pam and I ended our conversation with me reluctantly promising to deliver Rachel’s remaining journals. Right now, the prospects of Ray being brought to justice for Kyle’s death seemed remote. Especially since we didn’t have a murder weapon, and it appeared Rachel’s writings might be the key to Ray’s exoneration.
I would call Sophia and ask her to package and mail my late wife’s long hidden scribblings.
***
I poured two glasses of grape juice while Lillian redialed Kyla’s new toaster. The first attempt had produced four slices of charcoal. “I like mine burnt,” I joked. At least the bacon smelled good.
Lillian offered a slight smile and her customary eyeroll as she removed two plates from the oven. “I hope you like southwestern omelets.” I kept quiet and figured the pink-clad cook had her own unique cooking style.
“I do.” I carried the juice to the table and sat. Lillian followed with egg and pepper aromas wafting from the still-opened oven.
We ate in silence, interrupted only by the ding of the toaster. Lillian’s meal impressed me, including the sauteed onions and peppers inside the omelet, and the brown sugar sprinkled on the bacon. But I avoided the bread, not burnt this time but overly brown.
“How well do you know Jane?” I asked as the two of us washed the dirty dishes.
“I’ve known her all my life, but you knew that.”
“Describe her, not her physically, but her character, her personality.” Before I asked my questions, I wanted to learn Lillian’s thoughts.
“To be blunt, I’ve never really liked her, even though she probably doesn’t know that. Truth be known, I’d bet Rachel felt the same.” I was listening carefully, but my mind was also straying. It felt weird being here with Lillian. It was almost like we were playing house. I wondered what life would have been like if we’d married or at least gotten engaged before Ray had swooped in, or Rachel and I connected at the University of Virginia. “Plus, she’s a manipulator of sorts. You know she loves chess.”
“The game of chess?”
“Yes.”
“That’s surprising, the manipulator thing.” I found an empty coffee can under the sink and drained the skillet grease, while Lillian wiped the table. “Question, and it may sound silly, but do you think Jane has a thing for Ray?”
Without hesitation, “oh gosh yeah. Now you’ve got me curious. Why do you ask that?”
“Kent seemed to think Jane might protect Ray. Plus, the last recording. I’ve been contemplating the differences between what Jane told me and what Ray said Jane told him.”
“I think I understand. But explain yourself.” I couldn’t help but notice Lillian’s cleavage as she leaned down to return the coffee can under the sink. Again, the never-to-fade, long-ago image of the naked goddess in Kyla’s bedroom flooded my mind. In a weird way, it was refreshing to know I hadn’t lost my libido, but I had to maintain focus. For Kyle and Rachel’s sake.
“You heard Ray’s recap of his and Jane’s conversation on Saturday afternoon’s recording: that Ray had dropped Kyle off first, and that Rachel’s abortion was before she returned to China. Notice, these two things all favor Ray. I mean, if he was being accused of doing something bad, like murder. What Ray’s recap didn’t include were two other things.” I rinsed the skillet and reached for the drying towel. Lillian and I bumped shoulders.
“What two things?”
“Jane made a couple of remarks during our phone conversation. The first one seemed out of place.”
“What was that?” Lillian closed the oven and drained the dishwater.
“She said that when they dropped Kyle off at the end of his driveway, she and Rachel made fun of Jackie Fraiser’s car. They called it the ‘blue moon.’”
“That seems odd, given your question. Why would that be relevant?”
“Here’s my theory. Jane and Ray talked after he had breakfast with Kent. Remember, I told you what Kent said.”
“I do. He thinks he caught Ray in a lie.”
“It’s like Jane wanted to emphasize that Jackie was home much earlier than normal. Therefore, Ray was telling the truth in his conversation with Kent.”
“Let me see if I understand. Ray’s witness statement says he and Rachel dropped Kyle off around 9:00 p.m., but Kent thinks it was much later because he, Ray, admitted Jackie’s car was already home. So, if Jackie had come home from the Spinning Mill much earlier than usual, there wouldn’t be a conflict in Ray’s statements.”
“Right. Again, Jane protected Ray, but she didn’t tell Ray that she mentioned Jackie’s car to me.”
“It’s a little confusing but I see your point.” Lillian edged toward me as I wiped down the sink. The woman always smelled of Lavender and she hadn’t yet taken her morning shower. “So, what was the second thing?”
“To me it’s wholly irrelevant.”
“No way. You remember the rule: you bring up a subject you don’t get to avoid explanation.”
She was correct. This practice among Kyla, Lillian, and me was a tradition even in high school. “When I told Jane about finding the diaries, she blamed Rachel for her own journaling addiction.”
“That sounds like Jane. In Bible study, she often mentions her diaries. She’s a firm believer in confessing her sins in writing.”
I laughed out loud, but then remembered during the last year or so of Rachel’s life, it obsessed her. What she believed wrong, what she called disobedience, was amazing. It could be as innocuous as eating a 150-calorie glazed cookie. Amazing, and sad.
The Pencil-Driven Life 