“Yeah.” Morrisette couldn’t help but stare at the thick wooden mantel upon which rested framed photos. In the place of honor, just under an antique rifle and a picture of Jesus mounted on the chimney face, was a framed, oversize portrait of Flint and Flora, their two sons flanking the happy couple. The boys, appearing uncomfortable in creased shirts and narrow ties, had probably been in high school at the time. Flint hadn’t yet begun to flesh out; his jaw was still strong, his eyes intense, his mustache thick and dark. Flora too had been twenty or thirty pounds slimmer as she smiled, hands folded, into the camera.
“What is it you want to know?” she asked. As in the photo, she sat with her hands folded in her lap.
“I wondered if you had any of Detective Beauregard’s personal records, his notebook, tapes, that sort of thing, that he might have kept while investigating the Amity O’Henry homicide,” Morrisette told her.
Behind her glasses, Flora’s eyes narrowed a bit. “Why?”
“Because the department could use anything you have that might be helpful in keeping Ms. O’Henry in prison.”
“I wish I could help you. I really do.” Her lips tightened, and almost as if she didn’t realize what she was doing, she picked up her knitting needles, which were entangled in a pink yarn. “I can’t imagine that she’ll be set free. Flint worked very hard to see that she would spend the rest of her life in prison for what she did to those poor children.” Though she attempted to appear calm, Flora was obviously agitated, a little twitch visible just above the bow of her glasses, her needles moving fluidly as she unconsciously added row after row of stitching to what appeared to be the beginning of an infant’s sweater.
Click. Click. Click.
“My husband worked tirelessly on the case against Blondell O’Henry.”
“I understand. But the primary witness has recanted.”
“Ridiculous!”
Click. Click. Click.
“You met your husband in high school?” Morrisette tried, hoping she would open up some.
The needles stopped for a second. “Actually sixth grade, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“Did he know Blondell Rochette?”
“No!” she said vehemently. “She was much younger, so he didn’t know her when we were in school. He met her during that investigation, of course.”
Again the needles began moving rhythmically.
“She had older brothers, I think. It’s not impossible to think he’d met her.”
Her lips pulled into a knot, and she dropped her knitting into her lap. “Detective Morrisette, what are you getting at?”
“Nothing specific. I’d just like to know how personal this case was to him.”
“Very personal.” She was angry now, her needles silent, her knuckles bent and showing white. “He was a father, and he found it incomprehensible and cruel and evil that a mother would do such a brutal act. Garland Brownell, the DA at the time, didn’t press for the death penalty. They used Old Sparky, back then, y’know, and Blondell, she would have fried, but no
one wanted that. Personally, I think it would have been the best thing, saved the state a ton of money keeping her locked away.” She looked up, her eyebrows vaulting over the rims of her glasses as she kept right on knitting. “Considering all this business now, this testimony changing, having the switch thrown would have saved everyone a whole lot of trouble!”
Man, Flora was really worked up, her color high. “Did you know her?” Morrisette asked.
“No, and I didn’t have to.” She kept on furiously knitting. “That woman is evil. Pure evil.” Taking a deep breath, she stopped and sketched a hasty sign of the cross over her ample bosom. “Since you’re here, I’ll tell you what I think. Blondell O’Henry should never be allowed out of prison. Never! Find a way to keep her in there, Detective. Make sure what my husband worked so hard for remains as it is. Lock her up and throw away the damned key!”
Nikki picked up her car without incident and was relieved to find both sets of keys inside. She signed for everything, swore what was listed was, indeed hers. If Reed saw the inventory, he might wonder about a second key ring listed along with her gloves, keys, half-used box of Tic Tacs, registration, insurance forms, and umbrella, and, she supposed, she would have to come clean and admit to her crime. However, she doubted he would ask and felt only a smidgen of guilt that she hadn’t confided in him. Of course, she really couldn’t, as it would make him an accessory to her “crime,” so she figured that in this case what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Her CR-V was drivable, if dented, so she figured she’d deal with the insurance later. Right now, she had too much to do to worry about the damage. All she needed was a set of wheels that would get her where she wanted to go.
First up, Steve Manning, who would start his shift within the hour, which was perfect.
Except that as she drove her Honda into the hotel’s underground lot, her cell phone rang, and she saw that it was her mother. No doubt there was another wedding emergency looming, but Nikki thought she could handle it later and didn’t pick up. She was already running late as it was, so she parked in the first space she saw, marked HOTEL GUESTS, then took the elevator to the main lobby. With marble floors, glass walls, and twenty-foot ceilings, the hotel was sleek and modern, in stark contrast to most of the older buildings in this part of town which oozed with the charm of the Old South. She made her way past the registration counter and concierge desk to a doorway marked SECURITY and stepped inside.
Two men were talking, both in the navy-blue uniforms of the staff. They looked up, and the taller man, a heavy-set African-American with a broad face and silvery hair, asked, “Can I help you?”
“I think she’s here to see me,” Steve Manning said. Time hadn’t changed much for Steve; he was still slim, tanned, his hair longer than the fashion, though he’d traded in his jeans and T-shirts for the company uniform.
“Hi, Steve.”