Leaving Time Read online

  “The medical examiner would have figured out right away during the autopsy if it was a homicide rather than a suicide.”

  “Really? Because I was under the impression that law enforcement doesn’t always make the most legitimate rulings when it comes to cause of death.”

  Virgil ignores my jab. “What if Gideon was planning to run away with Alice and Thomas found out about it?”

  “You had Thomas signed into the psychiatric ward before Alice disappeared from the hospital.”

  “But he very well could have been fighting with her earlier that night, so that she ran into the enclosures. Maybe Nevvie Ruehl was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She tried to stop Thomas, and instead, he stopped her. Meanwhile Alice ran, knocked her head into a branch, and passed out a mile away from them. Gideon met her at the hospital and they worked out a plan—one that took her far away from her angry husband. We know that Gideon accompanied the elephants to their new home. Maybe Alice slipped away and met him there.”

  I fold my arms, impressed. “That’s brilliant.”

  “Unless,” Virgil muses, “it went down another way. Say Gideon told Grace he wanted a divorce so he could run off with Alice. Grace, devastated, committed suicide. The guilt over Grace’s death made Alice rethink their plan—but Gideon wasn’t willing to let her desert him. Not alive, anyway.”

  I think about that for a moment. Gideon could have come to the hospital and convinced Alice that her baby was in trouble—or told her any lie that would have made her leave abruptly with him. I’m not stupid—I watch Law & Order. So many murders happen because the victim trusts the guy who comes to the door, or asks for help, or offers a ride. “Then how did Nevvie die?”

  “Gideon killed her, too.”

  “Why would he kill his own mother-in-law?” I ask.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Virgil says. “Isn’t that every guy’s fantasy? If Nevvie heard that Gideon and Alice were sleeping together, she probably was the one who started the fight.”

  “Or maybe she never touched Gideon. Maybe she went after Alice in the enclosure. And Alice ran away to save herself, and passed out.” I glance at him. “Which is what Jenna has been saying all along.”

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Virgil says and scowls.

  “You should call her. She might remember something about Gideon and her mother.”

  “We don’t need Jenna’s help. We just have to get to Nashville …”

  “She doesn’t deserve to be left behind.”

  For a moment Virgil looks like he’s going to argue. Then he reaches for his phone and stares down at it. “Do you have her number?”

  I called her once, but it was from home, not my cell. I don’t have her number with me. Unlike Virgil, however, I know where to look for it.

  We drive to my apartment. He glances with longing at the bar that we have to walk past to access the staircase. “How do you resist?” he murmurs. “It’s like living above a Chinese restaurant.”

  Virgil stands in the doorway as I rummage through the stack of mail on my dining room table to find the ledger that I make my clients sign. Jenna, of course, was the most recent acquisition. “You can come in, you know,” I say.

  It takes me another moment to locate the phone, which is hiding underneath a kitchen towel on the counter. I pick it up and punch Jenna’s number in, but the phone doesn’t seem to have a dial tone.

  Virgil is looking at the photograph on my mantel—me sandwiched between George and Barbara Bush. “Nice of you to go slumming with the likes of Jenna and me,” he says.

  “I was a different person back then,” I reply. “Besides, celebrity isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. You can’t see it in the photo, but the president’s hand is on my ass.”

  “Could’ve been worse,” Virgil murmurs. “Could’ve been Barbara’s.”

  I try Jenna’s number again, but nothing happens. “Weird. There’s something wrong with my line,” I tell Virgil, who pulls his cell phone from his pocket.

  “Let me try,” he suggests.

  “Forget it. I can’t get cell service here unless I’m wearing tinfoil on my head and hanging from the fire escape. The joys of country living.”

  “We could use the phone at the bar,” Virgil offers.

  “The hell with that,” I say, imagining myself trying to pry him away from a whiskey. “You used to be a beat cop before you were a detective, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  I stuff the ledger into my purse. “Then you can direct us to Greenleaf Street.”

  The neighborhood where Jenna lives is like a hundred other neighborhoods: lawns trimmed neatly in patchwork squares, houses dressed in red and black shutters, dogs yapping behind invisible fences. Little kids ride their bikes up and down the sidewalk as I pull the car to the curb.

  Virgil glances at Jenna’s front yard. “You can tell a lot about a person from their house,” he muses.

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, you know. A flag often means they’re conservative. If they drive a Prius, they’re going to be more liberal. Half the time it’s bullshit, but it’s an interesting science.”

  “Sounds a lot like a cold reading. And I’m pretty sure it’s about as accurate.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth—I guess I didn’t expect Jenna to grow up so … white bread. If you know what I mean.”

  I do. The cul-de-sac, the meticulous houses, the recycling bins stacked at the curb, the 2.4 children in each yard—it feels so Stepford. There’s something unsettled about Jenna, something ragged at the edges, that does not belong here.

  “What’s her grandmother’s name?” I ask Virgil.

  “How the fuck would I know?” he says. “But it doesn’t matter; she works during the day.”

  “Then you should stay here,” I suggest to Virgil.

  “Why?”

  “Because I have less of a chance of Jenna slamming the door in my face if you’re not with me,” I say.

  Virgil may be a pain in the butt, but he isn’t stupid. He slouches in the passenger seat. “Whatever.”

  So I walk solo up the cobblestone pathway to the front door. It’s mauve, and there’s a little wooden heart nailed to the front of it, painted with the words WELCOME FRIENDS. I ring the doorbell, and a moment later it swings open by itself.

  At least that’s what I think, until I realize that there’s a tiny kid standing in front of me, sucking his thumb. He’s maybe three, and I am not all that good with small humans. They make me think of rodents, chewing your good leather shoes and leaving crumbs and droppings behind. I’m so stunned by the thought that Jenna has a sibling—one that was apparently born after she moved in with her grandmother—that I can’t even find the words to say hello.

  The kid’s thumb comes out of his mouth, like the plug from a dike, and not surprisingly, the waterworks start.

  Immediately a young woman comes running and scoops him into her arms. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t hear the doorbell. Can I help you?”

  She is screaming this, of course, because the kid is wailing even louder. And she’s already glaring at me, as if I actually did physical harm to her kid. Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out who this woman is and what she is doing in Jenna’s home.

  I offer my prettiest television smile. “I guess I came at a bad time,” I say. Loudly. “I’m looking for Jenna?”

  “Jenna?”

  “Metcalf?” I say.

  The woman jostles her kid on her hip. “I think you have the wrong address.”

  She starts to close the door, but I wedge my foot inside it, digging in my purse for that ledger. It opens easily to the back page, where Jenna has written, in her loopy teenager handwriting, 145 Greenleaf Street, Boone.

  “One forty-five Greenleaf Street?” I ask.

  “You’ve got the right place,” she answers, “but there’s no one here by that name.”

  She shuts the door in my face, and I stare down at the ledger in my hand. Stunned,