Page 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

We followed Mamie to a white plantation-style house reproportioned to fit a newer subdivision northeast of town.

The still-falling snow remained what I considered polite — not affecting the roads, but applying a seasonal coating on grassy surfaces as well as tasteful red bow-trimmed evergreen wreaths in each window of the house.

The large wreath on the front door and roping that framed the door and its sidelights missed that white frosting because they were under a portico formed by a central second-story balcony, all set between large white columns.

Robbie Dorrio answered the melodious doorbell.

If I hadn’t known who to expect, I might not have recognized him as the kid we’d met in our previous encounter.

The brown, shiny hair still flopped over his forehead with boyish charm, but his face had lost most of its younger softness and his lankiness was filling out with adult strength. Most startling, though, was the bleakness of his eyes.

That last change might have happened very recently, because Mamie gave a whisper of a cry and put her arms around him.

His arms reciprocated and he murmured, “Mamie.”

Before this distraction disappeared, I nudged Clara inside with a hand to her back. I passed her, Robbie, and Mamie, establishing my territory inside the house.

A life lesson from my great-aunt. If you’re already inside, it’s harder for people to keep you out.

Some great-aunts teach you to crochet or knit. Kit prepped me for other crafts.

Clara discreetly closed the door, securing our entry.

The foyer was large enough to accommodate all of us, plus an opening to an office on the right that was so neat it was impossible to believe any human ever officed in it, a living room to the left partially screened by a substantial opening that was then filled with fretwork, and a short hallway straight ahead, providing glimpses toward a kitchen, dining area, family room flow.

“You shouldn’t have come.” Robbie’s mutter to Mamie matched his eyes.

“I had to know how you are. I want to be with you.”

He didn’t address that. “Who are they?”

“You remember,” Mamie told him. “They figured it out when that yoga teacher was killed. And they told me to tell Gramps about you and promised it would be okay and it was.”

“Oh, yeah.” A flicker of warmth in his expression died. “You should go.”

That included Mamie. In fact, you could say it centered on her because he’d yet to do more than glance at Clara and me. All his attention was for Mamie.

But the uncertainty she’d exhibited at the flower shop was gone. “You need me. I’m staying. And they can help.”

“We can try—”

Finally looking away from Mamie, Robbie drowned out my caution. “Help with what?”

“Your father’s death. His murder—”

“No. They’re wrong. He was sick. He died. That’s all there is to it. And—”

“Sheriff’s department doesn’t agree,” I said.

He wasn’t listening.

He looked over my shoulder. When I turned, I saw a woman coming toward me from the back of the house.

She was the kind of woman who looked better now, in her early forties, than she had as a younger woman. And she wouldn’t have been bad then.

Now, she wore her hair — blonde with enough dark showing underneath to say it wasn’t natural and she didn’t care who knew it — smooth from a side part and curving slightly at the bottom as it hit her collarbone.

A navy-blue sweater vee’d just below that, with a short necklace inside the V and a longer one below it.

That brought a lot of focus to her bustline without being so crass as to show cleavage.

Sweater and necklaces layered over a longer t-shirt and tan moto skinnies restrained to chunky zipper detail at the hip pockets.

I’d had enough style consultations during the years operating as the public face of Abandon All to recognize how well her outfit was put together and the quality of the components.

These days I might wear something like this — complete with the necklaces, suitable earrings, and a pop-of-color orange bracelet — for lunch at the country club. If I ever went to lunch at the country club. She apparently wore it around the house.

Had the woman no torn jeans and oversized flannel shirts?

“Robbie?” Her voice was calm, but questioning. When he reoriented his position to her, revealing his girlfriend, she added, “Mamie?”

“Dova, this is Clara and Sheila,” the girl said. “They know all about murder and crime and stuff. They’re going to help.”

All about was quite the exaggeration. Now, however, was not a propitious time to mention that.

Besides, I was busy taking in Dova Dorrio.

At that first glance, she had the bland attractiveness of a certain kind of political wife, often seen half a step behind the husband and stoic through news conferences about the man’s infidelities.

(Have you ever noticed the wife is seldom called on to be a prop when the man is admitting or denying other misdeeds?)

But her mouth had a firm set, with puppet lines starting from her nose toward her mouth and from her mouth toward her chin.

They’re called that because they resemble the hinge lines of old-fashioned puppets.

But the term has always struck me as odd, because I associate them with people who are anything but puppets.

Mamie hadn’t finished extolling our skills.

“Clara helped me before — Clara and Sheila. When the woman was murdered right by the flower shop. They figured it all out when nobody else could.” She looked up at Robbie. “And helped with other things.”

I interpreted that to mean the young couple confided in Dova about the earlier murder investigation, but not about how they’d kept their relationship a secret and sneaked around to see each other without the grownups knowing for a while.

Priorities, you know.

“And now,” Mamie continued, “they can help figure out things about your father.”

Robbie scoffed. “I had no father.” I barely had time to wonder if that sentiment stemmed from Derrick killing Jaylynn, before Robbie added with suppressed vehemence, “He didn’t want to see me.”

“That’s not fair, Robbie.” Dova was firm without scolding. “You know he wanted to spare you trips to the prison and all that entailed—”

“You went. You could do it. So could I.” He bit it off as he jerked his head away to stare at a far corner of the office. “It doesn’t matter. He’s dead. And that ends it.”

“Not when it’s murder,” I said.

“They’ll realize their mistake soon.” Dova’s smooth words deflected my blunt use of murder before Robbie reacted. “And then it will be ended, for good.”

I could see why Dova being upset at the hospice facility this morning rattled Mamie. It was hard to imagine this woman not being in control of herself.

“Doesn’t matter, anyway. The sheriff’s department doesn’t care,” Robbie said.

“The sheriff’s department does care,” I said.

He gave me that look teenagers are so good at that said I was either unaware of the true ways of the world that he, from his superior knowledge and experience, did recognize or lying. Or both.

In fairness, he did have superior knowledge and experience in being the son of a convicted murderer. Also in being the biological son of a murder victim.

In case I didn’t get the gist of that look, he said, “Yeah, right. They’re not going to risk opening the door to anybody looking into how badly they screwed up the investigation into that other murder.”

A distant way to refer to his mother’s death, I thought fleetingly, but was more focused on the rest of his statement. Because here I had superior knowledge. Especially about Teague O’Donnell and how he viewed his job.

“They will investigate thoroughly—”

“The death of a convicted murderer?” Dova questioned. “Robbie’s right. Even with the ones who jumped to the conclusion that Derrick killed Jaylynn now long gone, they’ll look out for their own, cover their tracks so the department doesn’t have to take responsibility.”

“Convicted murderer or not—”

Clara jumped in atop my words. “The thing is, the sheriff’s department has access to official reports and forensics and all that.

We need every bit of insight from you and others — but especially you two because you’re the closest to the situation.

And starting with Jaylynn’s death gives us the most inclusive view, Robbie. ”

“I was a baby,” he grumbled.

Dova lifted one shoulder and gave a slight shake of her head.

I saw a possible route to try to dig for information, but Clara had none-too-subtly told me to shut up.

I wasn’t miffed — she was right that arguing about the pure-heartedness of the sheriff’s department wasn’t productive in gaining information from Robbie or Dova.

Recognizing that logic didn’t mean I was ready to relinquish defense of Teague’s professionalism.

“Still, you had some connection with your father—” Clara had spotted the same possible route I had. “—perhaps heard his insights...”

“As a little kid,” he said dismissively. “Later, he didn’t want me there.”

“He wanted to spare you,” Dova corrected gently. She added to Clara and me, “Derrick worried about Robbie visiting the prison when he reached the age of taking in the reality around him. That’s the sort of father he was, thinking of his son first.”

Not if the sheriff’s department, prosecutors, and jury were right. Based on their findings, he’d put his desires — presumably for Dova — far enough above his son’s interests that he not only killed the boy’s mother, but did it in his presence, and left him there.

“As for the sheriff’s department,” Dova said, almost as if she’d caught the drift of my thoughts — I better check my poker face, “They didn’t look past the ends of their noses. There was another obvious suspect. Derrick always thought...”

She paused long enough for me to wonder if she’d decided against telling us what he’d always thought, then added slowly, “You know Jaylynn was cheating on Derrick.”