“No. She’d offer. He’d ask if she really needed to sleep with me again, and she’d take him by the hand and off they’d go.”
When he said nothing, she felt a need to fill the silence.
“Anyway, she loved Stillwater and the people here. She wouldn’t have wanted to leave. She went out all the time, visiting friends, neighbors, fellow church members.”
He released her hand and leaned back, stretching out his legs. “Who, specifically?”
Her hand felt cold without his warmth. “My mother had a lot of empathy for the sick or lonely. Bonnie Ray’s husband had just had a stroke. We’d go over and spell Bonnie so she could get out for a bit, or we’d bring some groceries. And Jedidiah Fowler’s mother was getting old and losing her memory. My mother would take some bottled peaches and visit regularly, so Jed wouldn’t worry about his mother while he had to work.”
“Who’s Jedidiah Fowler?”
“He’s the one I mentioned to you before, the older man who was working on the tractor in the barn the night my father went missing.”
“Tell me about him.”
“There’s not a lot to tell. He’s an old bachelor who owns a small house near the elementary school. His mother used to live with him until she passed away a few years ago. He owns the car-repair shop and the only tow truck in Stillwater.” She left out that she’d broken into that repair shop eighteen months ago, searching for evidence—evidence she hadn’t found.
“What does he have to say about that night?”
“That he never saw or heard a thing.”
“Can he corroborate Clay’s alibi?”
“He can say when Clay left and when he came back. That’s all.”
“And he didn’t see your father.”
“Not that night.”
“Did your father and this Jedidiah have any argument or problem with each other?”
“No. And no one, not Clay, Irene, Molly or Grace, heard any kind of argument or scuffle.”
Hunter shifted the boxes around. “Maybe I’ll drop by later today, talk to Mr. Fowler.”
“Good luck,” she muttered.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“He doesn’t say much. I’m a journalist and even I can’t get anything out of him. For a long time, I was absolutely convinced he was the one who’d murdered my father.”
“Because…”
“He’s so different. And while there was no fallingout that I know of, he doesn’t make it much of a secret that he never liked my father. Even now.”
“Has he ever said why?”
“Just that this town didn’t need a preacher like him. I think he found my father’s brand of religion too puritanical. That’s all I can guess.”
Hunter went back to thumbing through her mother’s journals. “Any other suspects I should know about? What about that other guy? The one in prison on drug-related charges?”
“Mike Metzger. He was manufacturing meth in his basement. But I hear he’s about to get out on parole.”
Hunter set the journals aside. “When did he go to prison?”
“Five years ago.”
“And what’s his connection to your father?”
“He and his family attended our church. A week before my father went missing, he caught Mike smoking pot in the bathroom and turned him in. Mike was only a stupid teenager at the time, but he got into a lot of trouble and made a few threats.”
“Is he the type to act on those threats?”
“Hard to say. I’m sure he’s more dangerous now than he was then. He’s older, for one. And prison hasn’t improved him. I’ve written to him a few times over the past year, begging, cajoling, threatening, trying to find out if he had anything to do with my father’s disappearance.”
“Did you ever get a response?”
“Not until a few weeks ago. Then he wrote me back, but he said something that was a little disconcerting.”
“What?”
“The letter was only one line.”
When she didn’t volunteer the information, he waited.
“‘I wish I’d killed you both,’” she muttered.
There was a weighty silence. “All because of the incident in the church bathroom?”
She gave him a tired smile. “Not entirely. I’m the one who kept badgering the police to keep an eye on him. I thought he might confess to killing my father.”
“And?”
“They kept an eye on him, all right. They caught him cooking meth and sent him to prison.”
“He blames you for that?”
“Basically. Forget that he’s the one who was dealing drugs in the first place.”
“Does he have an alibi for the night your father went missing?”
“He claims he was in his room, and his parents back him up.”
“Are they credible?”
“Most people don’t think much of Mike, but his parents are well-liked.”
“Where in their house was his room? Do you know?”
“On the second story. But he could get out if he wanted.”
“I’ll make a note of that.”
She felt slightly better. Hunter was so much more open to her suggestions, so much more interested in examining every aspect of the case than any of the police officers she’d dealt with. His attitude made her doubly aware of how difficult it had been to overcome Stillwater’s prejudice against the Montgomerys. Maybe Hunter was expensive, but he seemed worth it. Surely, he’d find what the others had missed.
“Did anyone think to offer him leniency in return for information on your father’s case?” he asked.
“I begged Chief McCormick, the previous police chief, to see what he could do. They approached Mike with an offer, but he basically told them to go to hell.”
“And this guy’s about to be released?”
“Any day.”
“Will he be coming back here?”
“I doubt he has anywhere else to go.”
Hunter made a clicking sound with his tongue. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
“Don’t expect him to be cooperative.” She’d finally recovered enough to smile. “He certainly won’t let you read his journal.”
He tapped the puffy plastic cover. “There’s nothing in here that’ll shock me, is there?”
“Save it for bedtime,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m sure it will put you right to sleep.”