The Drifter(48)

“I don’t know if Father Tom can help any of us make sense of this, why this happened, why Ginny, why five college kids had to die in this way. I don’t know if I’ll ever understand. But my hope, for Ginny’s sake, is that justice is served, and served quickly. I know that I won’t find any peace until they catch that . . . the person who did this to my friend. But I hope Ginny does. I hope she’s at peace now. At least that’s what they say happens. I . . . I really don’t know. I don’t think any of us do.”

With that, the priest put his hand lightly on Caroline’s tan shoulder and she walked slowly back to her seat.

GINNY GREW UP in Winter Park, but her father was born and raised in Ocala, in the house where Nana Jean still lived. Her family had settled there back in the late nineteenth century, and the Harrington family plot at the Evergreen Cemetery was large and overgrown with vines. Ginny would be buried near her grandfather. Betsy knew Nana Jean never suspected that her lovely Virginia, the youngest of her five grandchildren would get there first.

There was a plaque at the front of the cemetery that identified it as a historic place, stating that Civil War veterans and former slaves were buried there. That may explain why the land was divided into two parts by a road, segregated even in death. There were low, crumbling walls, some of the state’s only real ruins. Betsy wished that everyone she’d ever met who denied that Florida was part of “the South,” the proper South of mint juleps and formal stationery, could see that place. The moss-draped trees, the decaying headstones, the constant buzzing chorus of insects that played in the background all felt as Southern as it gets. And the dark thunderheads rolling in (the Harringtons planned the service and burial for the morning, no doubt, because of the likelihood of afternoon rain, but Florida weather wasn’t a system that was easily beaten), cast a heavy, damp pall on the day that made Betsy feel the presence of the past, all of those souls surrounding her, intensely.

“This place is freaking me out,” whispered Gavin into Betsy’s ear. They were standing on the periphery of the crowd, hanging back so far that Betsy could convince herself they were watching the service on a screen, like it was happening to someone else.

There was a small tent over the freshly excavated earth, and a circle of grieving friends and family that extended about twenty feet in every direction around it. Betsy and Gavin couldn’t hear a word of the service until one of Ginny’s cousins, a bartender and occasional busker in Tallahassee who Nana Jean referred to as an “aspiring musician,” took out a guitar and played “Life Without You” by Stevie Ray Vaughan, who had also died on August 27th, the same day as Ginny. Betsy felt weirdly angry that more people in the world would remember that day in honor of him and not the most important person in her world. As the heavy raindrops started to fall, umbrellas shot up one by one, slowly at first, and then in a flurry, like popping corn. Some were tasteful, somber, and black, like you see in the movie-version of funerals, and others were Florida-style, large and garish, awning striped, emblazoned with the crests of country clubs across the state, and pulled from golf bags when the sky loomed ominous and dark.

The smell of rain was intense in the cemetery. The drops fell to the already damp earth, which was dense with decaying plants. Betsy hardly noticed she was wet until there was a low, distant growl of thunder, and Gavin touched her arm and motioned for them to leave. Then she felt someone grab her other wrist.

“There you are,” said Caroline, who was holding an umbrella large enough to cover the two of them, but Betsy kept her distance.

“Hey,” Betsy said, still hiding behind her sunglasses.

“I assume you spoke to the police? I know that they were looking for you,” said Caroline.

“I did. I got your message. I called Officer Mendes and went in to answer his questions yesterday,” Betsy said, praying her inquiry would end there.

BETSY AND GAVIN drove back from New Orleans immediately after they saw the story in the paper, after her conversation with Kathy, but Betsy was in shock, not quite believing what she had heard. They found Ginny and the other victim on the same morning, though the woman had been dead for three days. They went to Nana Jean’s first, then back to Gavin’s house for a bottle of emergency Valium in his medicine cabinet. Then they went straight to the police station. They had settled on a story. Betsy left the party at Weird Bobby’s house after her fight with Mack, walked across campus, found a bike, and was riding toward Ginny’s apartment. She didn’t know Ginny had left the sorority house. As far as Betsy knew, Ginny and Caroline were staying the night there. Betsy was disoriented and scared after her argument with her ex-boyfriend, Mack, and wasn’t sure why she wanted to go to that apartment instead of her own. She thought it would be more comfortable. Gavin left the party to come look for her, and spotted her on 16th Street, down the block from Williamsburg Village. Betsy ditched the bike she was riding, jumped in his car, and they made a plan to get out of town, to go visit a couple of Gavin’s friends and get away from the chaos on campus. It made sense. It was clear that Betsy was not a suspect, and after a half hour of simple questions about her whereabouts, Betsy was free to go. The detectives had their hands full, trying to catch a murderer, and Betsy, who was barely responsive, wasn’t much help. She apologized for stealing the bike and offered to repay the owner, if he or she ever came forward to report it stolen.

“SO THAT’S IT. That’s all you have to say to me?” said Caroline.