I lift my right hand to stop her. “You’re right, no question. The bridge and the interstate alone mean hundreds of millions. Even the ancillary stuff . . .” I look up into her bright eyes. “They killed Buck, Nadine. You know? They murdered him.”
“Who’s ‘they,’ Marshall?”
I sigh heavily. “Quinn Ferris thinks the Poker Club did it.”
“The venerable Bienville Poker Club,” Nadine whispers. She raises her hands and makes a mock show of reverence. “The descendants of the hallowed founders. I’d say Quinn’s instincts are dead-on, as usual.”
“I’m about to see most of them at the groundbreaking ceremony. I may try to talk to a few.”
The front bell rings again. Nadine looks over to see a familiar customer, an older lady, who walks to the mystery section. Turning back to me, she whispers, “What does Jet say about all this?”
“I haven’t spoken to Jet.”
She looks surprised. “Why not?”
“She’s out of town today, taking a deposition in that suit over rigged construction bids. She probably hasn’t even heard Buck’s dead.”
Nadine slowly shakes her head. “That’s going to hit her hard. But she’s going to have some ideas about who did it. She knows more about the Poker Club than we ever will.”
“Because she married into it,” I say in a sour voice. I look at my watch, then gulp the rest of my coffee. “I need to get moving if I’m going to make it.”
“You want a go cup?”
“No, thanks.” I start to stand, but Nadine reaches out and catches my right forearm, holding me in my seat.
“One second.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I see something in your eyes. Something I haven’t seen before. Not even when you talked about your divorce. Or . . . your son.”
A cold blade slices through my heart. “I’m okay.”
“Come on. This is me. When you came in, you said the river got to you this morning. Did it make you think about Adam? The day he drowned?”
God, this woman knows me. After a few seconds, I nod. “It’s like Buck’s death pulled a cork on something, and the past came rushing out. It feels like water rising over my head.”
She nods slowly. “Should you talk to somebody?”
“I’m talking to you.”
“A professional.”
“Come on. I haven’t talked to a shrink since I was fifteen.”
“Maybe you didn’t need to. Do you want to come back here after lunch?”
“No, I’m fine.” I move to get up again, but something holds me in my place. “I think how I feel has as much to do with my dad as Adam.”
“That was the start of your problems, right? Him blaming you for Adam’s death.”
“Yeah. And it was my fault, as much as something can be your fault when you’re fourteen. The thing is, after Dad stopped hunting for Adam’s body, he finally apologized. This was like four months after the memorial service. I’m pretty sure my mother made him do it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he didn’t mean it. Dad wasn’t sorry he’d blamed me. He’s blamed me every day since. That was the central fact of my life for three years. He never said it out loud again. But he never truly made eye contact with me after that day. Not unless I caught him staring at me when he thought I was preoccupied. And when I did catch him, I could read his mind like a neon sign blinking on his forehead.”
“Don’t say it, Marshall.”
“Why are you here? That’s what the sign said. Why are you here when he’s gone? Where’s the justice in that?”
“That’s your guilt talking,” Nadine insists. “You’re flagellating yourself. Your father’s a good man. He just couldn’t—”
“Sure, sure,” I say angrily. “A hero to millions. The Conscience of Mississippi, right? But to me? He was a living rebuke. Never mind that the tower climb could have killed Adam just as easily.”
Nadine takes my hands in hers. “Don’t you get it? This is why you’re back here. You didn’t come only because your mother needed you, or even because he’s sick. You came because you have to settle this between you. You have to forgive each other before he goes.”
I appreciate Nadine’s efforts, but very gently I remove my hands from hers. “That’s not going to happen. I’ve been alone with him several times now, hard as that is, and he hasn’t said one word about it. He just sits there and yells at the television. The news, of course.”
“He’ll get there,” she says with absolute assurance. “He probably carries unimaginable guilt for doing that to you. He had to blame somebody. He could have blamed God, but he didn’t believe in God. You were handier.”
For five seconds I allow myself to recall the black hole of my life from the end of ninth through tenth grade. The black hole that Buck Ferris pulled me out of. I sigh heavily, then stand. “Thanks for the coffee. Also the floor show with Dr. Bortles. I’ll update you tomorrow morning.”
She walks me to the door. “Hey, have you heard the rumor about the party tonight? On the roof of the Aurora?”
“The celebration of the mill deal? What about it?”
“They say Jerry Lee Lewis is going to be there. He’s supposed to play a set, like he used to in the old days.”
“No way. Isn’t he like eighty-five or something?”
“Eighty-two.” Nadine has gotten that glint in her eye. “But the Killer still brings it.”
“They said Trump was coming to the groundbreaking ceremony, too, but all we get is the secretary of commerce.”
“I’ve got faith in Jerry Lee.”
“That’d be something to see, all right. But I’m not invited.”
Nadine looks genuinely surprised. “But the Mathesons are co-hosting. Surely Jet or Paul—”
“I’m persona non grata since writing that piece about Buck’s discovery.”
Nadine stops at the door and turns to me with her mischievous smile. “Well, I’m invited. Why don’t you be my plus-one?”
I start to decline, but this is Nadine. And the party would be a damn good opportunity to study a lot of people who are profiting off the paper mill deal. “Can I get back to you in a bit?”
She shrugs. “Open invitation.”
“I’m a little confused,” I say, unable to resist needling her. “I heard you were gay.”
She laughs out loud. “Come to the party with me, and we’ll kill that rumor for good. People will have us engaged by morning.”
As I open the door, her smile fades, and she follows me outside.
“Take a hard look at the Poker Club at the groundbreaking,” she says. “They’re bastards to a man. They’ve ruled this town for a hundred and fifty-three years, and not one of them would lose a minute’s sleep over killing Buck.”
“I actually hope that’s not true.”
She points at a display of mysteries and thrillers in her front window. “Despite my trade, the truth is there’s not much mystery to real-life murders. Cui bono, honey. That’s the only question that matters. I’d bet my store that one of those Poker Club assholes killed Buck. But don’t kid yourself about what it would mean to take them on. They’d kill you, too. Wouldn’t hesitate. Keep that in mind during your editorial meetings.”