“Tell me about the tape. What was that about?”
“Essentially a practical joke. It was a lark, you know? We were laughing our asses off. Given the extortionist’s demands, I guess you could say it backfired, which is too bad for Fritz.”
“Fritz says you did the editing. What happened to the outtakes?”
“No idea. I’ve always thought Austin took them when he left.”
“Someone told me your father left you very well-off.”
“Extremely well-off. Embarrassingly rich.”
“I’m wondering why the extortionist didn’t come after you with a similar demand.”
“There’d be no point. I never appeared on camera, so if the poor fool came after me, he’d find out I’m untouchable.”
“How did Sloan know about the tape if she wasn’t in it?”
“I told her.”
“You did.”
“Sure. I suggested she steal it and use it as leverage.”
I said, “Really.” I was having trouble folding his revelations into the mix. He seemed both unsparing of himself and completely matter-of-fact, which left me wondering about his motivation. I couldn’t tell if he was operating out of guilt, rationalization, or some other sentiment.
“She didn’t like the idea, but I talked her into it,” he said.
“How do you deal with that in retrospect?”
“You’re asking if I’m ashamed of the part I played? Of course, but it’s something I have to live with. I wish it had turned out differently, but it didn’t.”
I waited, giving him no prompt. I decided I might learn more if I let him decide where to go next. He was quiet for a moment.
“Here’s something I never told anyone. After Sloan died, I asked if I could have her dog. He’s an absolutely incredible animal and I’d have taken comfort in caring for him, but her mother turned me down. I guess we’re all still looking for ways to hang on to Sloan. Poppy’s writing about the murder. Troy’s atoning with good deeds.”
“What good deeds?”
“When he got out of prison, he raised the money to establish a scholarship in her name.”
“A worthy cause.”
“Typical of Troy. Hiding his light under a bushel,” Bayard said, “which is actually a corruption of the biblical quote. ‘Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house.’ These days we’re admonished to be modest about our accomplishments, which spoils all the fun.”
“Impressive that you can recite that,” I said.
“Humility annoys me. I keep the quote handy in case someone pulls that horseshit around me.”
“What about Iris? How has she managed to hang on?”
“Easy. She’s engaged to Joey Seay.”
“Sloan’s stepbrother?”
“Oh my, yes. Am I the first to mention it?”
“She said she was getting married. She didn’t tell me who.”
Bayard regarded me with a sparkle in his eye and it was clear he was having a high old time at her expense. “I wonder what kind of game she’s playing,” he said. “If you think about it, she’s responsible for everything that went down back then. Because she stole the test, Troy and Poppy cheated. Because they cheated, someone turned them in. Because Austin blamed Sloan for it, she was shunned and ended up using the tape to threaten him. Because Austin retaliated, she died. Cause and effect; like the fruit of the poisonous tree.”
“Put it like that and Sloan’s mother couldn’t be happy about having Iris in the family.”
“You’d have to ask her. Maybe she hasn’t put it together in quite the same way. I guess we all see what we want to see.”
“But how did they connect? Iris and Joey. It seems so convoluted.”
“Not at all. They met at Santa Teresa High School, which is where Iris was sent when she was kicked out of Climp. After Sloan’s death, the two boys decided to move in with their dad. Joey was in the same graduating class she was. His brother, Justin, was two years behind.”
Bayard’s eyes shifted to the door, where Ellis stood.
“Phone for you,” he said.
Bayard pushed his chair back and got up. “Sorry. You’re welcome to stay if you like.”
“This is fine. I appreciate your time. I may pick this conversation up again once I’ve had a chance to digest the information.”
“Anytime.”
Ellis accompanied me to the front door and I returned to my car.
I opened the door on the driver’s side and slid under the wheel. I sat for a few minutes jotting down notes on my index cards. When I glanced back at the house, I saw Maisie standing at a window, her blue eyes fixed on mine. I held the look, perplexed, and she finally broke off eye contact. What was that about? I tucked the index cards in my bag, turned the key in the ignition, and put the car in reverse. When I checked the window again, she was gone.
17
I spent the bulk of Thursday afternoon canvassing motels in Winterset and Cottonwood. Canvassing, like surveillance, is an unrelenting bore. So often, the results bear no relationship to the energy you expend. I’ve sat for hours in a parked car, hoping to catch sight of my subject to no avail. On other occasions, I pick up the trail almost by accident. Patience is the key. There’s no point in getting surly about the chore, because it comes with the turf. In this case, it was such a relief to get away from Bayard and Maisie, I couldn’t complain. It says something about the state of relationships these days when hunting for a stone-cold killer is more restful than being witness to a romance.
Winterset is located five miles south of Santa Teresa and covers approximately 1.5 square miles, rising to an elevation of one hundred and twenty feet above sea level. The population, at the last census, showed fewer than twelve hundred souls. The Cape Cod–style bungalows perched along the hillside, which now sell for more than a million bucks apiece, were once summer homes for white middle-class migrants coming up from Los Angeles.