I leaned back. “Damn.”
“Who’s Rennie Clifton?” Peggy asked.
It was no point in telling her to forget it; I’d rather have Peggy Godkin on my side than snooping on her own and plastering a story across the front page. I told her about the long-ago hurricane and the girl who died. Peggy propped her face in her hands.
“I remember that now. Hurricane Althea. Clevey wrote the twentieth-anniversary special report we did last August.”
“Weren’t you writing for the Mirror when Althea hit?”
“Yes.” She frowned. “Unfortunately that was the week I took a vacation and visited my college roommate in Dallas. Biggest story to hit Mirabeau in years and I missed it.”
“Did you ever hear anything unusual regarding the hurricane? Or Rennie Clifton’s death?”
She closed her eyes in concentration, her reporter’s mind flipping through the enormous Rolodex of facts that resided in her brain. “No, sorry. Nearly everyone was busy picking up the pieces, thanking God they were alive.”
“Rennie wasn’t,” I said. “Clevey had developed a new interest in the case. I thought maybe he was writing a story about her.”
She shook her head. “He wrote the retrospective on Hurricane Althea. And he wrote a brief piece on the Clifton girl.”
“I wonder why he got interested again in that case.”
Peggy shrugged. “Newsfolk love to write about themselves. Maybe he wanted to revisit the great trauma of his childhood.”
“Speaking of trauma, did you know that he was seeing a psychotherapist? A man named Steven Teague.”
“Lord, no, I didn’t know he was getting counseling.” She tapped her nail against her lip, a meditative gesture I’d seen her use while covering library board meetings. “Steven Teague. I know that name.”
I frowned. “He just moved here recently. Very urbane, polished-looking fellow. He said-” I stopped for a moment, feeling I was breaking a rule by discussing what I’d overheard. If it got back to Junebug or Steven, I’d be in serious trouble. But Clevey was dead and his murderer walked free. “Steven says that Clevey was troubled. That he’d done serious wrong and was trying to find ways to rectify it.”
“What kind of wrong?”
“He won’t elaborate. But he does say that Clevey was determined to do better for himself.”
“Clevey’s work didn’t reflect that,” Peggy said. “God’s gonna slap me for speaking ill of the dead.” She sighed. “Clevey must’ve been performing his good deeds elsewhere. You said this therapist is named Steven Teague?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, he probably took out an ad and that’s how I know his name. I wonder if he’d give me a group therapy rate for my family. Now for my questions, like you agreed. Are you sticking your nose into police business again?”
“Yes. And it’s my own business now. It has been since Trey died in front of me and Mark.”
Peggy leaned back. “You know, Jordan, some people criticize private citizens who take it on themselves to investigate crimes. I’m one of them. I only answered your questions because you’re an old friend of Clevey’s.”
“Most private citizens don’t have three friends shot in as many days.” I kept my voice low. “I don’t care if people in Mirabeau think I’m a magnet for trouble. I didn’t ask to find a body in the library last spring or nearly get blown up last summer. But I will no longer stand idly by while my friends are picked off like targets in a shooting gallery.”
“No, I don’t suppose you would. Maybe that’s why I like you, you sorry fool.” Peggy finished her coffee and patted my hand. “I better see if I can get one of Junebug’s doctors to talk to me, then head on over to the police station. And see if I can just say a hello to Barbara.” She gathered her satchel close to her. “Terrible business, isn’t it, Jordan?”
Peggy accompanied me back to the waiting room, which was only a little less crowded than before. Davis had left; Ed sat with Mark and with Steven Teague. Sister wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
“Hello, Jordan,” Steven Teague said in his refined tone. He was well groomed and dapper in gray corduroys and a charcoal tweed jacket. “Your sister’s in with Chief Moncrief, so I offered to stay with Mark.”
“I don’t need nobody staying with me,” Mark announced crossly. He looked exhausted and I wondered what kind of gruesome toll the past couple of days was exacting.
I introduced Peggy to Steven, hoping she wouldn’t start a grilling session of her own. She simply said she was glad to make his acquaintance and shook his hand.
Franklin Bedloe came out of the men’s room down the hall and, excusing herself, Peggy headed toward him.
I turned back to my nephew. “Mark, let me take you home. There’s no point in you waiting here. You’re dead on your feet. We’ll call you as soon as we know anything.”
“No, Uncle Jordy,” he said with firmness, not petulance. “I want to stay. If I’m tired, I’ll take a nap. I’m not leaving till we hear about Junebug.”
I sat, too weary to argue with him. Steven Teague, however, was another story.
“How’d you know we were down here, Steven?” I asked.
He smiled tightly. “Your sister called me. She was concerned about how your family would handle this latest difficulty. I offered to come down and see if I could be of assistance.” He glanced at Mark, whose lips were pressed together in tension. “Mark doesn’t want to chat right now, though.”
“I appreciate your concern for Mark.”
“Mark’s been through a horrible ordeal.” Steven ruffled his patient’s hair.
Mark stood suddenly. “I want a doughnut. Or a muffin. Uncle Jordy, will you come down to the cafeteria with me?”
I lumbered to my feet, my body crying out for sleep. Time alone with Mark sounded good. For some reason, the tailored sureness of Steven Teague irritated the hell out of me. Especially since he’d refused to answer all of Junebug’s questions-and now Junebug might be the killer’s latest victim.
Mark ambled along beside me, quietly, until we got to the cafeteria. I offered to buy him breakfast; he got a glass of orange juice and an enormous muffin, studded with blueberries. He kept glancing toward the cafeteria entrance as he ate.
I watched him munch down the muffin and drain the glass of orange juice. “You’re handling all this well, Mark.”
“Yeah?” he asked. “I guess. I’m worried about Mom.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did she love Dad or not?”
I’d expected a discussion about Junebug. Trey was still tender territory. “That’s a hard question.” I rubbed my chin. “It’s probably safe to say that she loved him-the him that she married-but she didn’t love what he did. She didn’t love the man that left her and left you.”
He was silent, and emboldened by exhaustion, I went on: “Your father was a very good man in many ways. He was my closest friend growing up. But he left you, and your mother, and the rest of us, without a word or a reason. That’s cowardly, Mark, and I never understood it because I didn’t think your father was a coward.”
He looked up at me with ink-dark eyes, bloodshot with fatigue. For the first time in a long while I looked at Mark’s face. He stood on the verge of manhood now, the peachy sheen of whiskers starting along the jawline, his Adam’s apple becoming more prominent in his thin throat, his voice vaulting through fee gymnastics of change, and the first light in his eyes that perhaps he knew a vast and frightening world lay waiting.
He tore off a chunk of muffin and rolled it into a doughy ball between his fingers. “I think I know who killed Dad,” he said.
I found my voice after a brief search. “Excuse me? Who?”
“Well, Scott told me he overheard something his mama and her uncle Dwight were saying. She’d been talking about how she hadn’t wanted to come back to live in Mirabeau.”
“Well, I would think not, what with all of Trey’s family here and-”
“Listen again, Uncle Jordy. She said come back to Mirabeau. She’d been here before.”
“Her uncle’s from here, Mark,” I explained patiently. “I’m sure she visited here before.”