“Aren’t you the one who always said you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead?” Nikki asked. She’d given her mother the news about Mavis, and Charlene hadn’t seemed surprised. And now this disparagement.
“I always told you to tell the truth,” Charlene countered, “andMavis was nothing but a headache for her mother. Oh, Blanche would never admit it, but that’s the way it was.”
So much for needing to console Charlene. “If you say so.” Nikki’s gaze moved to the swans; one had peeled away from its mate and was chasing after an intruding mallard. The swan’s neck was extended, his wings stretching wide, as he gave off a hissing growl. The duck quickly took flight.
“Tundra swans,” Charlene said. “Very territorial and, like Mavis Crawford, beautiful but hostile.” She sipped from her cup. “Unlike her, though, tundras mate for life.” And then setting her cup on a small, glass-topped table, she added, “You probably don’t need to know this. Few people do. But Mavis and your father”—her fingers fluttered a little—“they … they were involved a long time ago.”
Nikki gave her mother a long stare. “What?”
“I don’t mean to shock you, but it’s the truth.”
“But—”
“It was a long time ago,” Charlene cut her off. “Water under the bridge, you know.”
“I … didn’t know,” Nikki admitted, a bit stunned. In a town the size of Savannah, with Ronald Gillette having been active in local politics, there had been bits and pieces of rumors surrounding him all of Nikki’s life. But she’d never heard Mavis Greenlee’s name attached to him.
“Oh, neither of them thought I knew about their little affair, but I did.” She pinned a cold smile on her lips. “So, no, I’m not overly grieving about her, though it is sad for Blanche. It’s never easy to bury a child. I know about that.” Sorrow stole over her features as it always did when something said or done touched on her remembrance of Nikki’s brother, Andrew, gone so many years. His death had been a tragedy, a combination of cocaine, booze, and a faulty deck from which he’d tumbled to his death years before. “Nonetheless,” Charlene continued, “I call them as I see them, and Mavis was not a kind soul, no matter how many charity events she put on through the church. She may have fooled Reverend Stark and all of the rest of the women’s aid society, but she didn’t fool me.”
With that, she picked up her delicate cup again and took a sip. “Not once.”
Chapter 14
Her mother’s bitter attitude about Mavis Greenlee, following as it did Lily’s sharp assessment of the woman’s character, dogged Nikki as she drove through the city, where graceful live oaks offered shade and trolleys filled with tourists slowed traffic.
For years, Nikki had suspected that her father hadn’t been faithful; she remembered women who had been impressed with his wealth, or his bearing, or the fact that he’d been a successful lawyer turned judge. But she hadn’t known how much truth there was to the rumors or if they’d been all just idle gossip. As a journalist doing research on old cases, she’d come across her father’s name often in the archives, and the Gillettes had graced the society pages more than a few times, but she’d never given in to the urge to dig deeper into her father’s life or her parents’ marriage. She’d known that there was strife, and that there were times when he hadn’t come home when expected. And that, when he did finally return, it was always with a quick excuse and a kiss for his wife, a blasé act like nothing was wrong, despite Charlene’s icy demeanor, which often lasted for days.
She slowed for a stoplight and watched as a young mother pushing a stroller, a second child in tow, crossed the street, then eased onto the gas again once the light had changed.
She hadn’t realized her mother had known of his affairs and even been able to name at least one of his lovers. It had been many years ago, but obviously Charlene Gillette wasn’t one to forgive and forget; her ability to hold on to a grudge was legendary. There was no water running under the bridge as far as Charlene was concerned. No, sir. The dark river of her grievances ran too deep and was far too wide to span.
Nikki took her foot off the gas as she drove past the turn into Huber’s farm, noticing a torn strip of yellow crime-scene tape fastened to the old gate now flapping in the breeze. She didn’t need to visit the Huber’s acres again, but had decided to interview some of the neighbors, especially the ones she knew had not gotten along with Billy Huber. She’d made phone calls, but they’d been ignored, and besides, she wanted to talk to the people who had lived next to the dead man and look them in their eyes. There was so much more you could gain from a face-to-face interview, where emotions were less likely to be successfully masked.
She started with Duke Wheelan, the neighbor who had been in a property dispute about Huber’s poaching on his land.
As she pulled into a short drive flanked by crepe myrtle, she saw a tall man repairing a chain-link fence with some kind of stretching tool. The fence separated a yard where chickens chortled and scratched on the dry earth, a henhouse visible, while other outbuildings were scattered around a large, gravel parking area. One large live oak offered a bit of shade near the house, its thick branches stretching over the wide porch.
At the sound of her Subaru’s approach, the man glanced over his shoulder, abandoning his task to watch her park near what appeared to be a garage.
He shaded his eyes as she climbed out of the Outback and approached him. “Mr. Wheelan? Duke?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Nikki Gillette.” She stretched out her hand. “I’m a reporter. Freelance, but I write for theSentinel.”
“That so?” he asked, as he removed a leather glove. He clasped her palm in strong fingers and met her gaze with his own steely stare.She guessed him to be somewhere around fifty, flecks of gray in his thinning brown hair, his face weathered from years of working in the sun.
“I’d like to ask you some questions about your neighbor, Billy Huber.”
He closed his eyes for a second and gave a little shake of his head. “Look, Ms. … Gillette, was it?”
“Yes.”
“I told the police everything I know, which isn’t much. I didn’t hear anything or see anything.” He motioned to the farmhouse, where a slim woman with a single, long blond braid and wire-rimmed glasses had walked onto the covered porch. She held the screen door open, allowing a tired-looking hound to hobble through. “Frannie,” he called, “would you come on over here for a minute?”
With a perturbed expression, she took off the apron she’d been wearing and tossed it over the rail of the porch, then walked resolutely along a stone path, the old dog following slowly.
“This is Nikki Gillette, she’s a—”
