Eventually, she managed the button that released the catch and gazed into the top drawer. She knew it wouldn’t be locked. Clay and her mother had thrown away the key the night they buried the reverend—right after they’d destroyed the pictures.
Grace knew there’d been a lot more than the ones they’d found. The photos were Barker’s way of reliving his fun. But he must’ve destroyed the rest for fear of being caught with them, because even the police, when they went through his things, hadn’t discovered any. They’d bagged several items as evidence—a terse note from Irene threatening to leave Barker if he didn’t start treating her better; a picture Grace had drawn of a man who looked suspiciously like Barker hanging from a tree; a bank statement that showed Irene had bounced several checks on her account while Barker had plenty of money in his; and the life insurance policy that named Irene beneficiary of a $10,000 policy she never even tried to collect. Except for the insurance policy and bank statements, they were things Irene and Clay had missed in their hurry to get rid of the body, clean up the blood and drive the reverend’s car into the rock quarry.
The evidence gathered by the police had been enough to raise suspicions but, fortunately, not enough to make a case.
Now, the small wooden box in which Barker had kept the pictures held only the silver dollars he’d collected, a tie clasp in the shape of a cross and a driving award he’d received as a young man. Grace’s hand shook as she poked through the contents, marveling that, except for Madeline, the sum total of the reverend’s existence had come down to twenty bucks in silver dollars, a few worthless trinkets and an intense hatred from the only people who really knew him.
“Fraud!” she cried and threw the box against the wall. It left a dent before splintering on the floor.
Clay looked up at her sudden outburst. But he didn’t stop her when she ripped out every file, overturned the reverend’s neatly arranged desk, smashed the pictures he’d hung on the wall, destroyed the small air-conditioning unit that used to rattle and hum over her head while she was pinned to the floor, and threw his radio at the window.
After cracking one of the panes it squawked on the floor, like a wounded chicken, as the fight drained out of her. Then she stood, panting, in the middle of the room.
“You had enough?” Clay asked, his voice low, his eyes watchful.
She stared down at the nicks and gouges on her hands. “He used to play Big Band music to cover any noise I might make. He was such a cautious man. So mindful of appearances.”
“He got his due, Grace.”
“No, he didn’t,” she whispered. “I can only hope you’re right about hell.”
Moving closer, Clay took hold of her shoulders. “Don’t let him ruin the rest of your life. Please.”
That was the idea. Whether or not she’d succeed remained to be seen.
Nodding, she straightened and took a deep breath. She’d go to her garden. She’d rake and hoe and weed until the pain receded.
But then she saw the room through her stepsister’s eyes and realized what she’d done. “What are we going to say happened here?” she asked.
Clay pushed her gently into a chair. “That someone broke in searching for clues and trashed the place.”
“Will Madeline believe it?”
He wiped the blood oozing from a cut on her hand. “The way this town feels toward us? I’m sure she will.”
Dropping her head, Grace covered her face. “Poor Maddy. He was her father. I shouldn’t have done it. Maybe, if not for me, the reverend would’ve been a different man.”
“That’s not true. Don’t even think it,” Clay said.
But the reverend had certainly told her that, time and time again. At thirty-one, her mind rejected it. Her heart, however, was more easily convinced.
When she didn’t answer him, Clay tilted her chin so that she had to meet his eyes. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You had every right.”
She held his hand to her cheek. Clay tried to carry the burden for all of them. But even his shoulders weren’t broad enough for what the reverend had set in motion.
That night, Kennedy went to the pool hall as usual. He wasn’t particularly interested in playing this week. But there was no better place to catch up on town gossip, and he wanted to know who stood with him and who had, at the Vincellis’ urging, defected to the Nibley camp.
Joe, Buzz, Tim and a friend he hadn’t seen for a while, Russ Welton, were there by the time Kennedy arrived. They hollered a greeting as soon as he walked through the door and called him over to their favorite corner. Kennedy had spoken to Joe on the telephone a couple of times since he’d seen the Nibley flyer. Joe claimed he was staying out of the fight, but Kennedy suspected something or someone was fueling the rift between the Archers and Elaine, Marcus and Roger Vincelli. The news that Kennedy had taken Grace camping might’ve made them angry. It might’ve made them phone him and ask what the hell he thought he was doing. But they’d taken immediate action, without so much as contacting him.
Joe had to be the instigator. Maybe he was pretending to be an innocent bystander because he didn’t want Kennedy to tell his parents about the gambling debts. Kennedy wasn’t sure of his motivation. But he became even more convinced that Joe wasn’t acting like himself when Kennedy beat him at pool and he didn’t complain. Casual acceptance of defeat wasn’t his style.
“You were on tonight,” Joe praised, taking a swig of his beer.
Kennedy put his cue stick in the rack and shrugged. He didn’t really care whether he beat Joe or not, so he saw no point in provoking him. “I got lucky this week.”
“In more ways than one?” Joe asked with a grin.
Kennedy felt the other men’s attention settle on him. “What do you mean by that?”
“You’re still seeing Grace, aren’t you?”
“We’re friends,” he replied.
“She’s turned out to be a real beauty,” Buzz said, obviously trying to keep the peace.
Joe toyed with the eight ball. “Only friends?”
Kennedy picked up his own beer. “Why are you asking? You preparing a report for your family?”
The eight ball clacked against several other balls as Joe sent it rolling across the table. “I already told you. I’m staying out of the problems between you and my folks. But I will say that you can’t blame them for being unhappy that you’d choose Grace over us. Our families have been friends for a long time. The Vincellis have always supported the Archers.”