Drunk driving is the most obvious reason for an accident like this. The question of her alcohol consumption will eventually be answered when the autopsy comes back, but I know she couldn’t have had more than two glasses.
“Did Mr. Bernard put up a fight about not being able to drive home?” he asks.
Mrs. Bernard clutches her chest at his question. Ryan, realizing how upset she is, motions for us to move into the hallway.
“No. Not at all. He willingly and gladly got into the passenger seat,” Ryan finally says when we’ve cleared the room.
The deputy nods. He’s writing more than what we’re saying, but the way the pad is angled I can’t see his notes.
“How were things between Mr. Bernard and Miss Marino last night? Any arguing? Fighting?”
“No, not at all,” I answer.
“Anything happen that could have caused Miss Marino to be distracted? Upset?” The officer looks at Ryan, shrugging as he adds, “Any talk of old girlfriends? I know how reminiscing with old friends can be. Did she have to sit and listen to Mr. Bernard’s glory days and maybe didn’t like what she was hearing?”
“No, it wasn’t anything like that,” Ryan says, his words tinged with anger. “Neither of us would have wanted Lucca or Evie to be uncomfortable.”
The officer holds a hand up. “Okay, I get it, but I have to ask. Just trying to figure out what was going on inside of her head while she was behind the wheel last night.”
I know what was going through her head. I not only outed her, I all but threatened that Mr. Smith would turn on her as quickly as he turned on me. And Ryan had just told James he was done with him after he asked Ryan for money. Neither of them was in a good place.
“What time did they leave your home?” he asks.
“A little before eleven,” I say.
We answer every question, laying out the evening, starting with the dinner invitation made yesterday morning in Home Depot all the way through our day, until we saw their taillights disappear down our quiet street. Deputy Bullock only looks up when Ryan stumbles over an answer, but mostly his haziness on the details comes from the fact that he matched James drink for drink, and I’m sure the evening is a bit blurry for him.
“When was the last time you’d been in contact with Mr. Bernard before he came back to town?”
Ryan stares off into the distance, seemingly lost in thought. He finally answers. “Maybe a year ago. He needed money. I sent it to him.” He keeps his answer to the bare minimum, and he doesn’t mention James’s most recent request for financial help.
The deputy looks at me. “And when was the last time you’ve interacted with Mr. Bernard before his return home?”
I shake my head. “I just met him for the first time a week ago.”
Ryan adds before I can stop him, “Evie moved here from Brookwood, Alabama, a few months ago. She didn’t know James.”
Oh fuck. I watch as he scribbles down that last helpful tidbit from Ryan, hoping the background put in place for Evelyn Porter holds up.
Finally, the deputy pockets his notebook and pen. “We’ll be in contact if we have any further questions.”
I nod, but Ryan stops him before he walks away. “Have you notified Lucca’s family yet?” His arm, which is still anchored around my waist, pulls me closer. “I thought they may want to talk with us since we were the last ones to see her.”
“We’ve called the local police in Eden and are waiting for them to get back to us. They are trying to track down any relatives of hers now.”
There are no relatives of Lucca Marino in Eden, North Carolina, but he will find that out soon enough.
“Well, if they have any questions or just want to talk, will you please forward my number to them?” Ryan asks.
Deputy Bullock nods. “Of course.”
We help the Bernards back into the main living room after the police depart. Even though there is a line of people wanting to offer their condolences, Mrs. Bernard latches on to Ryan again. He sits down beside her on the couch while she speaks to each person who steps forward. It seems we’re stuck here for the foreseeable future. I opt to help out in the kitchen, where most of the church ladies have migrated. No one gossips more than God-fearing, casserole-toting women, so I settle near the coffee pot, offering to refill any mug that comes my way, and hope to hear something interesting until I see an opening to snoop the room James and the woman were staying in.
There are three women in the kitchen with me. Francie seems to be the cook of the group and has taken the wild assortment of food that was brought in and divided it into portions that will go in the fridge for the Bernards to eat later. The other half is being put out buffet style on the dining-room table for visitors to enjoy. Toni is what Mama called a “latherer.” She does a good job of looking busy without actually getting anything done. And Jane is the list master. There’s a list of people to call. A list of things to buy. A list of dishes that have been dropped off. A list of people who have dropped by. And a list of people who will write notes to thank anyone who brought a dish or dropped by.
Death requires a lot of organization.
Francie disappears into the small laundry room off the kitchen for a few minutes then reappears with a large basket of folded clothes. “I’m going to run these to James’s room,” she says.
It’s clear the weight of the basket is more than she can manage, so I grab this opportunity.
“Please, let me help. I can handle this if you point me in the right direction,” I say, my hands already on the basket.
Francie seems relieved. “Honey, that’s sweet of you. These were James’s and Lucca’s things. I didn’t want Rose to have to fool with them just yet. His room is the second door on the right,” she says, pointing to a hall off the kitchen.
I bolt out of the kitchen and down the hall. It’s startling to see this room as they left it last night, thinking they would be back. After dropping the basket of clothes on the unmade bed, I spend time going through the papers on the small desk, but there’s nothing of any significance there.
Two open suitcases sit side by side on the floor next to the bed, with clothes spilling out. Toiletries and makeup litter the bathroom countertop. I dig through the woman’s bag first, only finding clothes and shoes. I’m surprised they never unpacked, making use of the empty closet and chest, given how long they’ve been here. I run my fingers around the inside edge of her suitcase, stopping when I pass over a rough, raised area. I dig into the lining and find the Velcro closure then see the familiar brown color of a 4x6 manila envelope as soon as I pry it open.
The same type of manila envelope my instructions come in.
I pull it out and open it, my heart pounding when I see the single sheet of paper still inside.
Subject: Evie Porter Since initial contact has been made, prepare to engage subject again. If the opportunity to enter subject’s residence presents itself, use it to search her belongings. Concentrate on her personal space and possessions. Report anything that she deemed important enough to hide, regardless of what it is. When in doubt, document it and send it to me. Proceed with extreme caution when dealing with her things and leave no trace behind.
I study the outside of the envelope and see the address of a shipping store and the mailbox number 2870. He’s desperate if he sent her to look through my stuff. He knows I wouldn’t ever keep anything of value at Ryan’s.
Tucking the instructions back into the envelope, I fold it then stuff it in the back pocket of my jeans.
“Everything okay in here?” Francie asks from the open doorway, startling me.
I glance at her over my shoulder while grabbing a stack of clothes I had removed from the bag. “I thought I’d save Mrs. Bernard the trouble of repacking Lucca’s clothes since I’m sure she’ll need to send her stuff back to her family. I didn’t want her to have to do it.”