Revenant. Carolyn Haines
The Biloxi detective wore a black suit that was indistinguishable from his other black suits. Or, perhaps he had only one. It fit him well, the pants creased and sharp. His shirt was crisply ironed, his shoes polished. He was a detail man; it stood to reason he was good at his job. “I gather this isn’t a social visit,” I said, trying to disguise the fact that I was flustered. I didn’t know Avery well, but I knew him well enough to know he wasn’t in the habit of paying social visits to reporters. “How’d you get in?”
“Brandon opened the door with his master key.” He didn’t bother hiding his amusement at the heat that jumped into my face.
“He’s such a jerk.”
“Yeah, this business—” he waved a hand around my office “—seems replete with ’em.”
“Why are you here?” I didn’t want a fight.
“Mitch sent me. For some reason he wants you to be part of the investigation. He gave me some hogwash about how we needed the newspaper with us on this case.”
“He’s right,” I said. “You have five bodies, four of them girls killed in 1981. The fifth is unidentified. And now you have a current body.” I paused for effect. “Without any real leads. I’d say the newspaper could be a very powerful ally.”
Avery didn’t like being pressed into a corner, and it showed in his expression. “Mitch is the boss. If he wants you in on this, you’re in.” He stared into my eyes. “I’m just a little curious. Mitch has never felt the need to buddy up with the press before. Maybe he wants a date.”
“Would you like some coffee?” I decided to ignore his misplaced antagonism. “I have some questions about the investigation.”
He thought about it. “Sure. Black.”
I went to the coffee kitty, put in a five-dollar bill and poured two cups of strong black coffee. When I got back to the office, Avery took his, and I closed the door.
Once I was settled at my desk, I opened my notebook and flipped through the pages. “I searched through the back issues of the paper. That’s where I got the names of the missing girls. But there wasn’t a fifth girl. At least not one that I found.”
“There’s not a missing-person report on the fifth victim, either.”
That would save me some long hours of eye-straining work. Avery didn’t want me in this investigation, but he was going to do what Mitch said. “Thanks for telling me that.”
He shrugged. “Aside from the headline, your story Sunday was good. Accurate. Not blown out of proportion. Well written.”
“Thanks.” I was surprised. Avery had paid me a compliment. “So what do you have on the fifth body?”
He frowned. “We’re checking missing-person reports from around the Southeast.” He hesitated and his discomfort was clear. “Have you talked with Pamela Sparks’s family?”
“I was going to do that today, and then follow up with an interview of the families of the other dead girls.”
He nodded. “We sent a couple of officers over to the Sparkses’, but the parents got upset. I went by there myself, but they won’t talk to the police. Mitch said this was your forte—that you could get anyone to talk to you.”
I leaned forward onto my desk. “Why won’t the family talk to you?”
“Pamela’s dad did a stretch in Parchman for a burglary he says he didn’t do. He doesn’t trust the police for any reason. He says he’s going to find Pamela’s murderer himself.”
If Highway 90 is considered the Gulf Coast main drag, then d’Iberville is the backstreet. The homes fronting the beaches are lovely. Except for the blight of condo and fast-food development, there’s no squalor or poverty. That can be found in d’Iberville.
Of course there are lovely neighborhoods in the Back Bay area, so called because of the way the Bay of Biloxi cuts west, creating an elongated inner waterway. It’s a perfect natural harbor for the fishing vessels that were once the lifeblood of the coast.
Pamela Sparks’s neighborhood was not one of the lovely ones. The land was low and had the smell of poor drainage, a nightmare for mothers during the summer when mosquitoes could savage an unprotected child in thirty seconds or less. Especially worrisome now with West Nile virus.
The address was a double-wide trailer in a park of some thirty other manufactured homes, as it was now politically correct to call them. Pamela had lived here with her parents, her four-year-old daughter and two younger siblings. I pulled in the drive and got out. The trailer and yard were neatly maintained. Latticework had been put up around the trailer, and there was a nice porch with steps and a railing surrounded by shrubs and well-tended flower beds. Yellow-and-white daffodils held center stage in the bed, but red tulips were budding.
A curtain at the door fluttered, and I knew I’d been spotted. When I knocked, the door was answered immediately. “We aren’t talkin’ to anyone,” a woman with red, swollen eyes spoke through a small crack.
I introduced myself. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, the words like dialogue off a cop show. Keep it impersonal, I warned myself. I didn’t want her to see my pain. She carried enough.
Mary Sparks came out on the porch, pulling the door shut behind her. “My husband can’t talk.” Her own eyes filled and the tears spilled down her cheeks. “He can’t stop crying. Pamela was his baby girl. The boys are younger, but Pamela was his girl.”
“Where was Pamela going Friday night?” If I didn’t get into the questions fast, Mrs. Sparks would fall apart. So might I.
“She said she had an errand. I figured she was going to buy some things for the party. Her friends were coming over Saturday to plan a shower for her. She was getting married in two weeks.” She leaned against the porch rail, her back sagging and her head bowing. “This is too hard.”
I wanted to comfort her, but I didn’t touch her. It would have been wrong, somehow. False. I was there to get information, not act as a friend. “Her fiancé was…?”
“Joe Welford. He works up at M&N Motors. He’s a mechanic.” She shook her head. “He was over here Saturday, and I thought I’d have to bury my Bob and Joe both.”
The muscles in my jaw tightened involuntarily. To get the story, I had to keep pushing. “Could you tell me the names of Pamela’s friends?”
I wrote them all down, including addresses and phone numbers. Mary Sparks was a mother who knew the details of her daughter’s life.
“Did Pamela have a bridal dress and veil?”
“No. She was gonna wear a regular dress. She said she’d rather save the money for a down payment on a house. When she was twelve, we lived in a normal house. That’s when Bob got arrested for that burglary he didn’t do. He went to jail, and we lost the house. Pamela wanted a real house so much.”
“And the veil?” I prompted.
“No veil. I don’t know where the one came from when she was—” She turned away and leaned against the trailer. “I can’t talk anymore.”
The trailer door cracked open and a young girl with blond hair and blue eyes came outside. She took Mary’s limp hand and hid behind her leg.
“Memaw, when’s Mama comin’ back?” she asked.
My eyes burned and I had to fight to stabilize my voice. “Hello,” I said to the child. “Who are you?”
“Megan.” She didn’t smile. There was a shadow in her blue eyes. “Where’s Mama?”
“Go tell your uncle Timmy to get a video for you,” Mary said. “I’ll be inside in a minute.”
“And Mama?” she