Dead Right by Brenda Novak Page B

leaned forward once again, to see her face more clearly. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œHe didn’t kill my father, either.”
    â€œAnd you know that because he has a foolproof alibi?”
    â€œI know him. ” The loyalty and conviction in her voice sounded resolute. But the fact that she hadn’t volunteered any solid proof concerned Hunter. Obviously, there was some question here.
    Hunter rubbed his chin while he considered her reaction. “Where was he the night it happened?”
    â€œOut with friends. But then he came home.”
    â€œAnd from that point he’s only got his mother and sisters to vouch for him?”
    â€œMore or less.”
    Hunter’s discomfort increased. Was she really sure about Clay—or just blind to the possibility? “What about your stepmother’s first husband?”
    â€œWhat about him?”
    â€œHe never called or came to visit? Never paid child support? Never sent a Christmas card?”
    â€œGrowing up, we never heard from him. Didn’t even know where he was. But he showed up last summer. Turns out he’s been living in Alaska all these years. He flies fishermen to remote lakes and streams, that sort of thing.”
    Hunter tucked that piece of information away to examine later. A boy abandoned by his father could easily harbor a deep resentment of adult males. “Tell me a little more about Irene.”
    â€œAfter my father met her, they got married and she brought her children to live with us. Clay and I were thirteen. Grace was ten; Molly was eight.”
    â€œDid you get along with your stepsiblings?”
    â€œVery well.”
    â€œYou never fought?” He didn’t bother hiding his skepticism.
    â€œWe had the usual squabbles. But to be honest, those years were some of the best of my life. In the summer, after we finished our work, Clay would give us rides on the tractor. Sometimes Grace and I would dress up in Irene’s old clothes and pretend we were getting married. Molly would beg us to put makeup on her, and we’d weave dandelion wreaths to wear in our hair.”
    He found the images her words created oddly appealing, like something out of a book. “What about your stepmother?”
    Her turn signal clicked as Madeline passed the car in front of them. “Mom would make lemonade and bake cookies and we’d go out on the porch to read the Bible. I can still hear the creak of her rocking chair, the insects buzzing, feel the heat of late afternoon…”
    â€œSo your stepmother was as religious as your father.”
    The hesitation in her manner told him she wasn’t as sure of her next answer. “No…he was the one who insisted on daily Bible study. But she made a party out of it. She knew how to make the most mundane tasks fun.”
    Hunter sensed Madeline’s desire to steer his interest away from the Montgomerys. But if she wanted him to solve this disappearance—this probable murder—he had to investigate all possibilities and eliminate them one by one. “Did your father and your stepmother ever fight?”
    Her teeth sank into her bottom lip and, for some reason, Hunter thought of the condom a client had recently handed him as a promotional piece for his strip joint. He’d shoved it in his wallet, but he had no plans to use it, at least in Mississippi. Fortunately, he wouldn’t be tempted—not by Madeline Barker, anyway. She had a boyfriend.
    â€œThey had occasional disagreements,” she was saying. “But they didn’t get violent. My father never raised his voice. And my Mom— Irene, ” she clarified, “wasn’t the type to fight. If Dad asked her to join the church choir, she joined the choir. If he asked her to host a funeral luncheon, she hosted a luncheon. She wanted nothing more than to be a good wife, to please him.”
    â€œShe wanted nothing more than that? You don’t think she was too servile?