"She called us," I said, biting off any color commentary. Tolliver had always advised me not to answer any extra when I talked to the police.
"What did she want?" asked the sheriff, with an air of elaborate patience.
"Us to come visit her." I read the expression on Branscom's face correctly. "She wanted to know who'd hired me, and why."
"Sybil hadn't told her you all were coming?" Branscom himself seemed surprised, and he was Sybil Teague's brother.
"Evidently not."
"Was she angry about that?"
We looked at each other for a long second. "Not that she said," I answered.
"What else did you talk about?"
I spoke very carefully. "She told us she'd had a bad life for a while, but that she'd been sober for thirty-two months. She talked about her daughters. She was proud of both of them."
"Did she ask you about their deaths?"
"Sure. She wanted to know how I knew, if I were sure how they were killed. She said she would tell their fathers."
Harvey Branscom had been lifting his mug to his mouth as I spoke. Now the mug was lowered back to the desk. "Say what?" he asked.
"She said she would tell the girls' fathers what I'd said."
"The fathers of the girls. Both of them. Plural."
I nodded.
"She never would tell anyone who Teenie's dad was. I always thought she just didn't know. And Sally's dad Jay left years ago, after she put the restraining order on him. Did Helen mention any names?"
"No." I was in the clear on that one.
"What else did she talk about?" the sheriff asked. "Be sure you tell me everything."
"She wanted to know how I do what I do, if I thought my gift had come from God or the devil. She wanted to be convinced I knew what I was talking about."
"What did you tell her?" He seemed genuinely interested to know.
"I didn't tell her anything. She made up the answer she wanted to hear, all on her own." My voice might have been a little dry.
"What time did you leave her house?"
I'd thought about that, of course. "We left about nine thirty," I said. "We went by the bank on the way out of town. We got to Ashdown and checked into the motel about two, two thirty."
He wrote that down, and the name of the motel. I handed him the receipt that I'd tucked in my purse. He copied it and made some more entries in his notebook.
"What time did she die?" I asked.
He looked up at me. "Sometime before noon," he said. "Hollis went over there on his lunch hour to talk to her about Teenie's funeral. He'd spoken to her for the first time in a year or two, when he went over to tell her what you'd told him about Sally. Which, by the way, I don't believe. I think you're just trying to mine for gold here, and I'm telling you, Hollis ain't a rich man."
I was puzzled. "He gave me money, but I left it in his truck. He didn't tell you that?" Maybe Hollis just hadn't wanted to tell his superior I'd asked for it in the first place—though why, I don't know. Sheriff Branscom didn't think much of me, and it wouldn't have surprised him at all that I'd wanted to be paid (for something I do for my living!). It would have confirmed his poor opinion. Yes, I expect even poor people who want my services to pay me. So does everyone else.
"No," the sheriff said, easing back into his creaking chair. He rubbed a hand over his stubbled jowls. "No, he didn't mention that. Maybe he was embarrassed at giving money to someone like you in the first place."
Sometimes you just can't win. Sheriff Branscom would never join my fan club. It's lucky I'm used to meeting people like that, or I might slip and get my feelings hurt.
"Where's Tolliver?" I asked, my tolerance all used up.
"He'll be in here directly," the sheriff said. "I guess Hollis ain't finished up his questions yet."
I fidgeted. "I really need to go to the motel and lie down," I said. "I really need Tolliver to take me there."
"You've got some car keys," the sheriff observed. "Hollis'll bring him over when they're done."
"No," I said. "I need my brother."
"Don't you raise your voice to me, young woman. He'll be through in a minute." But there was the faintest look of alarm on the round soft face.
"Now," I said. "I need him now." I let my eyes go wide so the white showed all around the irises. My hands wrung together, over and over.
"I'll check," said the sheriff, and he could hardly get up from behind his desk fast enough.
Most places, I would've gotten thrown in the cage or taken to the hospital, but I had gauged this man correctly. Within four minutes, Tolliver came in, moving quickly. Because Hollis was watching, he knelt at my feet and took both my hands. "I'm here, honey," he said. "Don't be scared."
I let tears flow down my cheeks. "I need to go, Tolliver," I said softly. "Please take me to the motel." I threw my arms around his neck. I loved hugging Tolliver, who was bony and hard and warm. I loved to listen to the air going in and out of his lungs, the swoosh of his heart.
He raised me up out of the chair and walked me to the front door, one arm wrapped around my shoulders. The few people in the outer office eyed us curiously as we made our way to the door.
When we were safely back in the car and on our way, Tolliver said, "Thanks."
"Was it going bad for you?" I asked, taking my hands from my face and straightening in my seat. "The sheriff thinks I made up everything I said, but the motel receipt was pretty conclusive."
"Hollis Boxleitner has a thing for you," Tolliver said. "He can't decide if he wants to go to bed with you or slap you around, and he's full of anger like a volcano's full of lava."
"Because of his wife getting killed."
"Yep. He believes in you, but that makes him mad, too."
"He's gonna burn himself up," I said.
"Yes," Tolliver agreed.
"Did he tell you anything about Helen Hopkins' murder?"
"He said he found her. He said she'd been hit on the head."
"With something there, something already in the house?"
"Candlestick."
I remembered the glass candlesticks flanking the Bible on the coffee table.
"Was she standing when she was hit?"
"No," he said, "I think she was sitting on the couch."
"So the killer was standing in front of her."
Tolliver thought about it. "That makes sense," he said. "But the deputy didn't say one way or another."
"Being suspected of a murder isn't going to help business," I said.
"No, we need to get out of here as soon as possible." He parked in front of the motel and went in to get our rooms.
I really did want to lie down by the time we were in our rooms, and I was glad when Tolliver came through the connecting door and turned on my television. I propped up on the pillows while he slouched in the chair, and we watched the Game Show Network. He beat me at Jeopardy! I beat him at Wheel of Fortune. Of course, I would rather have won at Jeopardy!, but Tolliver had always been better at remembering facts than I was.
Our parents were brilliant people, once upon a time; before they became alcoholic, drug-addicted disbarred attorneys. And before they'd decided their clients' criminal lifestyles were more appealing and adventuresome than their own. My mother and Tolliver's dad found each other on their way down the drain, having shed their original spouses. My sister Cameron and I had gone from living in a four-bedroom suburban home in east Memphis to a rental house with a hole in the bathroom floor in Texarkana, Arkansas. This hadn't happened all at once; we'd experienced many degrees of degradation. Tolliver had fallen from a lower height, but he and his brother had descended with his father, too. He'd been our companion in that hole in Texarkana. That's where we'd been when the lightning struck.