Page 70 of Tell Me (Savannah 3)

“Not me, and I caught my share of hell for it. So I want nothing more to do with them. And as for getting involved with Niall, there was just no way. I wouldn’t have done anything that would keep me close to June. The only reason I see her at all is out of some warped sense of family duty.”

“But Cain’s different?” Nikki had asked.

“My brother’s a piece of work. Spent his life wanting to please Mom and Dad, then having to deal with Calvin and that whole male, ‘I’m the boss’ thing. Calvin thought he could come in and take Dad’s place. Fat chance.”

“Your father died in a boating accident.”

“Yeah.” A snort of disdain. “That’s the irony of it. He died trying to save June. The summer before she hooked up with Calvin and got pregnant with Emma-Kate . . . oh, God, you’ve got me talking about it, and I don’t want to think about my whacked-out family ever again. Impossible, I know, with all the crap that’s coming down right now, but I don’t have anything more to say. Good-bye.”

Nikki hadn’t had much better luck with Mary-Beth Emmerson Galloway, the girl Elton had dated forever. On the same day that she’d connected with Leah, she’d called Mary-Beth, who had answered, then grown almost silent when she’d realized she was talking to Nikki. “I don’t want to talk about Elton,” she said coldly, as if Nikki were a stranger she’d never met before. “That part of my life is over and has been for a long time. I’ve been married to Rupert for thirteen years, and that’s that.”

Rupert Galloway had been one of Elton’s friends, and the way Nikki remembered it, Mary-Beth hadn’t wasted any time grieving for the boy she’d once been certain she was going to marry. Nevertheless, Nikki had plunged on, “I’m trying to tell Amity O’Henry’s story.”

“Why?” Mary-Beth’s voice had all the warmth of an arctic night. “Oh, for your writing? Fine. Go ahead,” she said disdainfully, “but leave my name out of it. I didn’t know Amity, and I didn’t want to know her.” She hung up with finality, and when Nikki tried to call back, there was no answer.

Frustrating, that’s what it was. And it didn’t help that so far all the information she’d found on Uncle Alex’s computer hadn’t given her any more insight into Blondell’s guilt or innocence.

Now Nikki was seated at her desk, about to call it a day, her stomach a little sour from too much coffee. She dialed Holt Beauregard one more time and was shocked when he actually answered.

“Ms. Gillette,” he said before she could introduce herself. He didn’t sound happy. “I got your messages and see that you’ve called six times in about as many days. What is it you think I can do for you?”

“I want to talk to you about Amity O’Henry,” she said without any prelude. After spending the past forty-eight hours reading testimony, watching pieces of the original trial on her laptop, and chasing down leads that proved futile, she wasn’t going to waste any time on subtleties. “I know that you were seeing her before she died.”

“Oh, Jesus.” He hesitated, and Nikki waited, holding her breath. “How did you find out?” he demanded.

Well, at least he wasn’t denying it. That was a start. “I was a good friend of hers.” Nikki saw no reason to tell him that she’d learned the information from a woman who’d been five at the time.

“She told you?”

“Some of it.” This is where it got tricky; she didn’t want to outright lie. “I was hoping you would fill in the blanks.”

“Have you told your boyfriend or fiancé or whatever the hell Detective Reed is to you?”

“Of course not. I’m doing a series of articles for the Sentinel on—”

“I know what you’re doing,” he cut in angrily. “I can’t tell you anything that would be of interest.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Does your brother know that you were seeing Amity?”

“Deacon? Hell no! I don’t know what happened to Amity, and I don’t see that I could be of any help whatsoever.”

“Your father was the arresting officer,” she reminded him.

“You can’t make something out of that. Oh, for the love of—”

She knew what he was thinking. That she’d print half-truths about him or tell the police or both. Though she had no intention of doing any such thing, she let him run with the idea; perhaps his own fears would spur him into an interview.

“Look, Mr. Beauregard, I’m just looking for the truth.”

“No, Ms. Gillette,” he said tautly. “You’re looking for a story.” He let out a long sigh, and she could envision him shoving his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Fine. Let’s meet.”

“When and where?”

“Nowhere too public. How about Salty’s, tomorrow night, around seven? You know where it is?”

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