19

Friday, September 22, 1989

Friday morning, I bypassed the office and drove to Horton Ravine. I’d called Margaret Seay the night before and our phone conversation had been brief. To my relief, talking to the mother of the dead girl was easier than I’d thought possible. I’d introduced myself and then asked if we might meet so I could talk to her about something that had come up related to her daughter’s death.

“Related in what way?”

“This is about a videotape.”

She was momentarily silent and then said, “I’m free at eight tomorrow morning if that’s not too early for you.”

“That will be fine,” I said, after which I confirmed the address and rang off.

•   •   •

Margaret Seay still lived in the house she’d shared with her then-husband, Paul, ten years before. The residence fit my notion of the Midwest: a two-story frame house, painted a cheerful yellow with white shutters and white trim. The roof was metal with a standing seam construction that must have provided a lovely sound during a rain, on the off chance we’re ever treated to inclement weather again. There was a wide porch along the front, with a white wooden swing, white wicker furniture, and red geraniums in wooden planters painted white.

I parked in the driveway and made my way up the walk. I rang the bell and waited. The door was answered by a woman in her early fifties. She held the door open without a word and I stepped into the foyer, saying, “Thanks for seeing me. I appreciate it.”

“It’s been a while since anyone asked about Sloan,” she said. “This is my stepson Joey.”

The young man she introduced looked like he might be in high school, in jeans, running shoes, and a letter jacket. His hair was damp and earnestly combed, with a few strands breaking free at the crown. His ears protruded and his forehead was creased with a look of worry that seemed odd for someone as young as he was. This was Sloan’s stepbrother, now engaged to the infamous Iris Lehmann.

I held out my hand. “Nice meeting you,” I said. “I’m Kinsey Millhone. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Margaret said, “Not at all. This is fine. He stops by most mornings on his way to work.” She put a hand against his cheek. “Why don’t we chat later?”

“I’ll call. Good meeting you, too,” he said with a small wave to me as he let himself out.

“What sort of work does he do?”

“He’s a project manager for his dad, whose company is Merriweather Homes. He’s due on the job site at eight thirty, which gives us time to have coffee before.”

I followed her into the living room. The floor plan was one I’d seen dozens of times. Living room to the right, dining room to the left, and a stairway that went up from the entrance hall to the second floor above. I pictured a kitchen off the dining room, and beyond that, a combination laundry room and mudroom leading from the kitchen to the back porch, which probably extended along the width of the house. A study or sunroom, corresponding to the size of the dining room, would adjoin the living room. The symmetry was pleasing. The walls were painted a soft white and the furniture was a tasteful mix of traditional and antique, with jewel-toned floral upholstery fabrics on the couch and solid-colored coordinating fabrics—teal and amethyst—on the sofa pillows and occasional chairs. The whole of it was immaculate.

Margaret Seay was probably my height, five foot six, built along sturdier lines than I. She wore her black hair short in a pixie cut that might have seemed inappropriate for a woman her age if it hadn’t so perfectly suited her. She wore glasses with dark frames and a slight tint to the lenses. She had dark eyes and a clear complexion, with little or no makeup and no jewelry. She wore a blue silk knee-length dress with a darker blue silk jacket. Her low-heeled navy shoes had probably been selected with comfort in mind. She seemed solemn and attentive, someone not given to smiles or animation.

“Please sit down,” she said. She took a seat in a small chair with a padded seat and an oval upholstered back done in a ruby velvet. She kept her feet flat on the floor and put her hands in her lap, one cupped loosely in the other as though she were posing for a formal portrait.

I sat in a matching chair. Only then did I notice the dog lying nearby. This had to be Sloan’s dog, Butch. I’d never seen a Pyrenees Mountain dog, but this guy was big, with a white coat, a plumed tail, and coarse hair that formed a shaggy ruff at his neck. His snout was gray and the hair around his eyes had turned milky white with age. He roused himself and stood politely, then approached in a halting gait that suggested arthritic pain. He crossed the distance between us and placed his chin on my knee. My guess was that his sight might be failing, limited to light and dark. I felt the tears well up unbidden. I let him sniff my fingertips, though I wondered if his olfactory sense had faded as well. I rubbed his silky ears and smiled, watching as he closed his eyes. “This is Butch?”

“Yes.”

“What a sweet guy. How old is he?”

“Thirteen, which is old for a big dog like him, but he’s in good health. He’s a sweet-natured fellow and I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“I’m not a dog person myself, but he’s a dear.”

This was apparently sufficient small talk for her purposes.

She said, “You came to ask about the tape Sloan was rumored to have had in her possession when she died.”

“How much do you know about it?”

“Just that it was thought to be the motivation for the shooting. I should tell you, however, that when the police searched her room, there was no sign of it. Why is it so important after all these years?”

“You know Fritz is out of prison.”

“I read about that in the paper. I hope you’re not going to tell me he’s a good friend.”

“Not at all,” I said.

“Then what’s this have to do with me?”

I was quiet for a moment, trying to figure out how much I was at liberty to tell her. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t discuss a job without my client’s express permission, but I don’t see how I can ask you to trust me if I don’t trust you.”

“Fair enough. I do know how to keep matters to myself.”

“I hope so because I’m counting on your discretion. Fritz McCabe’s parents hired me because someone threatened to send a copy of that video to the district attorney’s office if the McCabes don’t hand over twenty-five thousand dollars. Again, this is confidential. I’m telling you because I hope you can help.”

“I don’t see how,” she said, perplexed.

“I talked to Poppy Earl and she told me you decided to open Sloan’s room a couple of weeks ago and dispose of her effects. The time frame coincides with Fritz McCabe’s release.”

“You think the two are connected?”

“It’s a possibility worth pursuing. I think his release generated the blackmail scheme. What I don’t know is whether someone’s been holding the tape all these years or whether the tape came to light when Sloan’s room was emptied.”

“I can assure you the police turned her room upside down at the time and found nothing. I locked the door the minute they were gone. Have you watched the tape?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me why it would be so damaging if it were sent to the authorities?”

“Essentially, what was recorded was a sexual assault on a minor. This was a case of aggravated rape and it’s possible the participants would be held accountable even at this late date. I was told it was meant to be a joke, a pornographic spoof, but the scenes that would support that claim have been excised.”

“I take it Fritz McCabe is one of the accomplices.”

“That’s correct,” I said. “I know Poppy helped clear Sloan’s room. I’m wondering if anyone else was involved?”

“Sloan’s two stepbrothers, Justin—and Joey, whom you just met. Joey was the one who talked me into it. He’s Paul’s older boy. He said keeping her room intact would never bring her back. Others have told me the same thing, but the finality of it didn’t sink in until I heard it from him. He adored her and if he was letting go, I knew I should do the same. I couldn’t handle the job myself, so I asked some of her friends to pitch in. Four of them agreed.”

“What did you do with her belongings?”

“I asked those same friends if they’d like to choose something of hers as a keepsake. Three chose an item. After that, Joey and his fiancée had a yard sale that netted them a couple of hundred dollars. Anything that didn’t sell, we donated to the Goodwill.”

“Do you remember who took you up on your offer of a keepsake?”

“Poppy Earl was one.”

“Really. She didn’t mention it.”

“She and Sloan were very close for years. She was upset when she saw the room again. I’m sure it brought back memories.”

“May I ask about the other three?”

“Of course. Patti Gibson, Steve Ringer, and Roland Berg. It was a very emotional experience for them.”

“What about you? How have you fared over the years? I don’t have children, so I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through.”

“It’s kind of you to say so. Paul and I divorced a year after my daughter died. He said he couldn’t go on living with me. Some thought he was callous, but I couldn’t fault him. I was impossible in those days. I drank heavily throughout Sloan’s adolescence. Once she was gone, I realized what that must have cost her, but I had no way to atone. I couldn’t even ask her to forgive me. I stopped drinking the day of the funeral, which took every ounce of strength I possessed. Beyond that, I had nothing left to give. My two stepsons moved in with us that first year, and when Paul left, they elected to go with him, of course. When Sloan died, they were thirteen and fifteen and their presence only caused me pain.”

“Grief’s a tricky proposition,” I said. “When my Aunt Gin died of cancer, I was relieved. She was a difficult woman and raised me according to her own strange views of femininity. The relief didn’t last long and what arrived in its place was pain, but at least I knew her death was coming. Violent death is something else altogether. I don’t know how you make your peace with it.”

“I will never make my peace with it. Sloan was my only child and she’s dead. I say that because it’s the central fact of my life. She’s been dead for ten years and she’ll be dead for the rest of time. She died when she was seventeen and that’s all the life she gets. In the paper, Fritz claims he’s paid his debt to society, but he hasn’t paid his debt to me. He calls what he did a ‘mistake’ that he’s now putting behind him so he can move on with his life. A neat dodge on his part, but he’s not off the hook. Why should he enjoy happiness when mine was taken away?”

I knew she didn’t expect a response, but I was chilled nonetheless.

She continued in a tone of voice that was deceptively mild given the content. “I’ve given this a great deal of thought and what I’ve realized is that revenge doesn’t have to be an eye for an eye. Retaliation can take any number of forms. It doesn’t need to be crude or obvious. The point is, the pain should be equivalent; not tit for tat but something comparable.”

“I’m not quite following.”

“It’s simple. When Fritz killed Sloan, he robbed me of what I loved most in the world. You’d think in order to even the score, I’d have to kill the person he loves most, but there are other ways to ruin someone’s life. I think about what I’d do to him if I could. I want my pound of flesh.”

“Even after ten years?”

“The passage of time isn’t relevant. What I care about is right now, finding a way to make him suffer as I do. Not the same loss, but one that would carry an equal weight. I plan how I’d cover my tracks, what I’d say if the police showed up at my door.”

I said, “You’d find that tougher than you think. Guilt makes your hands shake. It makes the blood drain out of your head. Suddenly, you’re not as cool and composed as you thought you’d be. I’ve been on both sides of the law and you don’t want to go down that road.”

“So I’ve been told. My friends keep urging me to forgive, but that’s ridiculous. Sloan’s gone and she’s never coming back, so if I weave my bloody little fantasies, what difference does it make?”

“None, as long as you don’t act them out,” I said.

Even as the words came out of my mouth, I could see the application here. She was not an entirely unlikely candidate for devising an extortion scheme. Not an eye for an eye, but misery for misery.

“My dear, acting out is not the point because then the game would end. If I gave up the hope of reprisal, I’d forfeit the anger, which is better than pain.”

“Let me ask you this. If you’d found the tape, what would you have done?”

“I’d have walked it straight to the district attorney’s office.”

“You wouldn’t have considered trading your silence for twenty-five thousand dollars?”

“I already have all the money I need. What I don’t have is satisfaction. That, apparently, will have to wait.”

“Until what?”

“Until the final piece falls into place, whatever that may be. In the meantime, I find ways to keep busy. I call newspaper editors. I talk to journalists. I send out copies of the articles about the crime.”

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but why would you do that? There’s no mystery about ‘whodunit.’”

“I’ll admit, as time passes it’s becoming harder to generate interest in the story. Sometimes I go back and read the transcript of the trial, just to remind myself what went on. It’s old news, but what other choice do I have? I’ll keep pushing as long as Austin Brown’s still out there. If I can keep the story alive, there’s a chance someone will spot him and turn him in. At any rate, you didn’t come here to listen to my sad song. Is there anything else I can help you with? I’m afraid I have nothing to say about where the tape has been.”

I could feel myself shaking my head. “I think the point is that whoever had the tape saw Fritz’s release from prison as a way of making him sweat,” I said. “I would like to have Joey and Justin’s contact information.”

“I hope you don’t think either one of them is behind the threat to the McCabes.”

“Not at all. I’m just hoping one or the other has something useful to contribute. I’d also like to talk to Patti, Steve Ringer, and Roland if you’ll put me in touch with them.”

“Of course.”

I gave her my business card, and in exchange, she gave me the requisite names, addresses, and phone numbers. Having just added five players to the list, I couldn’t claim I was narrowing the field, but the focus was getting sharper.