Junebug stood, glass aloft. “Here’s to Clevey Shivers and Trey Slocum, boys. May they rest in peace and meet us in heaven.”
The others stood, and for one brief moment I thought of not joining in. But it was for Clevey, too, and I felt heartsick that I seemed to be forgetting about him. I saw his easy smile, his laugh, the noticeable gap between his front teeth that would have kept him looking boyish at forty. I stood and clinked my glass against my friends’, the ringing of crystal brief and discordant. We sipped at varying speeds: Davis quaffing his in a gulp, his eyes averted, Junebug sipping slowly, Ed and I barely tasting ours. Davis was a little drunk and wasn’t done toasting.
“Clevey, our friend and a fine reporter,” he said. “He’ll dig up all the secrets, even if it sends him to hell.”
“Damn old Clevey,” Ed said, his pug face puckering up in a frown. “I always thought he was gonna be the meanest old fart in the nursing home.”
“He would’ve been the ugliest,” Davis muttered.
“I feel bad for Trey,” Ed said suddenly. “He’d just gotten to see us all again.” Silence fell and we sat in its shadow.
No one spoke for several minutes. I gazed into the amber shallows of my glass for a while and then looked up. Junebug, like me, was hypnotized by the eddies of liquor around ice; Davis, slumped in his chair, examined the ceiling for points of interest; Ed stared at his feet.
This is how men grieve, I thought. We feel this terrible, heavy sadness, but we pretend it’s not there. We don’t look into each other’s face for fear we’ll see another man’s tears, or worse, he will see ours. We talk about the things that mattered least in the lost life, and when words fail us, we down our drinks and turn glazed eyes to the carpet. Our laments are silent. I sipped at my whiskey.
“You know what kind of guns killed ’em?” Davis asked, his tone distant and solemn.
Junebug looked up from his drink. “Both shot with thirty-eights, but we haven’t determined yet if it was the same gun. Trey had a thirty-eight registered to him, and it’s missing.” No one spoke.
“Did Trey say anything before he died, Jordan?” Davis wanted to know.
“Jordan can’t talk about that,” Junebug interjected.
I shrugged. “I don’t see what difference it could possibly make. He told Mark he loved him. He didn’t say anything else. He just looked at me. Then he died.” I put my glass to my mouth but didn’t sip.
“Damn it, Jordan, you were told not to say anything about the case!” Junebug slammed his glass down on the table.
I’m already hiding evidence. Surely that’s worse than running off at the mouth. I didn’t share my ruminations with the group. “Why are you having a fit? You took yourself off Trey’s case.”
“That true, Junebug?” Ed asked, the ice rattling in his glass.
“I’d really prefer not to discuss it, Ed,” Junebug said. “Especially with the media.”
Ed coughed. “Hey, I just sell airtime for the station. I don’t fill it with news reports. You’d have to talk to Mr. Boss Man Foradory here about getting on the airwaves.”
Davis shrugged. “Let it go, Ed. Let’s change the subject.” His voice sounded weary.
Anger kept Ed going. “Hell, no. Our friends are dead, and now you’re not investigatin’? What the hell is that?”
I leaned forward. “Ed. Junebug had to take himself off the investigation of Trey’s murder because my sister is a suspect.” There, I said it.
Ed raised his chin slightly, looking at me with his dark eyes. A half smile played along his face, and he eased back in his chair. “You’re kidding, right? Junebug surely can’t believe Arlene shot anyone.”
“Why not?” Davis ventured. “Sorry to say it, y’all, but Arlene looked like she was in a killing mood last night.”
“Mood and action are two different things, Davis,” I retorted. “The idea of my sister murdering anyone is ridiculous.”
“Regardless”-Junebug kept his voice measuredly calm-“I felt it best to turn over Trey’s case to Franklin Bedloe. He’ll be the lead officer.”
Ed shook his head. “I bet ol’ Arlene really appreciates that vote of confidence, Junebug. You won’t be getting any more free coffee down at the Sit-a-Spell.”
“You’re not funny,” Junebug said in a low gravelly voice. He glared at me for having ventured into topics he didn’t want to discuss.
“Don’t get mad at Ed for pointing out the obvious,” I snapped. “You said a minute ago we had to talk. So let’s talk.” I felt a warm flush of frustration redden my face. “Whether or not my sister is an automatic suspect in Trey’s death, you think that the same person’s responsible for shooting Trey and Clevey. Why don’t you share your reasoning with everyone?”
Junebug stood, went to the bar, and refilled his drink. “I don’t want what’s discussed here leaving this room. Is that understood? I’m speaking as an officer of the law, not as your friend. Y’all hear me?” Silent assent greeted this statement, and he sat down again. He then told the others about the peculiar evidence: the newspaper clippings about Rennie Clifton and the 2 DOWN written in blood on Trey’s wall.
My lifelong friends traded uneasy glances. Finally Ed said, “I don’t understand. If Clevey knew something about that girl’s death, why hadn’t he told? I mean, he was a newspaper reporter. He would have written about it.”
Davis wet his lips. “Maybe he didn’t have enough evidence. You can’t just write an article without having all the facts. Papers get sued for inaccurate reporting. Clevey might have discovered something about Rennie Clifton’s death but not had enough to go to press with.”
“But enough to get killed over,” I pointed out.
“What could Trey have known? What connection would he have?” Davis asked.
“Well, he was with all of us when that storm hit…” Ed murmured. “All of us…”
“Did y’all know Clevey was in therapy?” I asked suddenly. The looks on Davis and Ed’s faces said no.
“What for?” Davis asked, helping himself to another dollop of whiskey.
“I don’t know. Do y’all have any idea what his problem was?”
Ed scratched his chin. “Aside from his mean streak?”
Junebug frowned. “That’s not treatable, Ed.”
Davis swished whiskey in his mouth. “Clevey seemed perfectly healthy. But I don’t think he would have confided a personal problem to me.”
I abandoned that tack. “Okay, then, back to the newspaper. Let’s say Clevey was working on a story about Rennie Clifton and it got him killed. Why would anyone then kill Trey? He hadn’t been in town in years. As far as we know, he and Clevey hadn’t been in touch for years. What would Trey know that Clevey knew?”
“We don’t know for certain that Clevey and Trey hadn’t been in contact. Trey’d already been here a day before Clevey died, right?” Davis said slowly. “They could have met. Maybe the two of them did know something. Maybe that’s why Trey came back to town after all these years.”
“He came home to recuperate,” I said tonelessly.
“So he said.” Davis shrugged.
“We better hope that it’s something only the two of them knew,” Ed added. “Because what if… the killer thinks that the rest of us know it, too?”
“If any of you boys know something you ain’t telling,” Junebug said softly, “now would be a real good time to spill the beans.”
No one answered.
I sipped again at my whiskey, letting the smoky taste fill my mouth. “I got a question. Why would Clevey even start digging into the past?”
“He wrote that article last summer. The twenty-year anniversary of Hurricane Althea,” Ed said slowly. “Remember, it came out last August. Maybe in writing that, he found out something about Rennie Clifton’s death. And now he’s dead.”
No one spoke for a long moment.
“Maybe we should all get out of town,” Ed blurted. “I mean, if someone’s knocking off our circle of friends, I say we all take our money, get the hell out of Dodge, and go party in Vegas or something.”
Davis snorted. “I’m not about to be chased away on a whim, Ed, and leave my radio station, my law practice, and my family. Get real. You got a business to worry about, too.”