The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(66)

At least I brought my laptop, and I hope to do some work. There is no one to see—no friends from high school—and no favorite restaurants to visit. Perhaps the hotel room is the best environment in which to begin the next Patricia novel. I still haven’t found the premise for this one; I haven’t a clue what I’m going to do. But something will pop up; it always does. The only trouble is that I’m emotionally drained and exhausted. The nap on the plane gave me enough of an energy boost to rent a car and drive it safely from the airport to the hotel. I take comfort in knowing that I will sleep well tonight. So this evening, all I want to do is have some dinner—truthfully, I could go for more Tex-Mex; I can’t get enough when I’m in my home state—watch a little television, read my Sandra Brown until my eyelids become heavy, and then hit the sack.

And I sleep very well until dawn, when something wakes me up earlier than I wanted. I’m not sure if it was a dream, but I bolt upright and gasp for breath. My heart is pounding. Am I having a heart attack? I don’t think so, there’s no pain. Just anxiety. There is an overwhelming feeling that I’ve missed something. Eddie had been trying to tell me something. Crane had originally said that Eddie had wanted to talk to me, and I assumed it was about something specific. But since my visit to the prison, I assumed he had requested my presence for no other reason than to, perhaps, see my face; after all, all he did was speak gibberish. I went away disappointed, upset, and confused.

The morning light streams through the window. I glance at the digital clock on the night stand next to the bed. 6:35. It’s a bit earlier than I prefer to get up, but I do so and go to the bathroom. When I’m done, I cross the room to the window and peer outside. The glow of the new day nestles over the hotel parking lot and the highway alongside.

I have to speak with Jim Baxter. If he’s still alive. How old was he at Eddie’s trial, seventy-eight? My God, he’ll be eighty-seven or thereabouts if he’s still with us. Chances are he isn’t around. Damn. I grab my cell phone, which was charging overnight, and switch it on. Somewhere back in my office at home, I have his business card. Billy won’t be there, so I have to find Baxter’s number the old-fashioned way. I dial directory assistance.

There are several James Baxters in Limite. Double damn.

I decide to shower, dress, and get some breakfast, just to let a little time go by. Then I’ll call Billy and ask him to head over to my house pronto and find the former detective’s card.

Around eight o’clock, I figure it’s late enough that Billy won’t kill me for phoning. He answers sleepily. I apologize profusely and make my request.

“All right, but you better remember me generously when it comes to Christmas bonuses,” he says.

“When have I ever given you a Christmas bonus?”

“Exactly my point.”

“Okay, I’ll be sure to tell Santa. Could you get over there as quick as you can, please?”

“All right. Geez. How was your visit to the prison yesterday?”

“Oh, Lord. Very creepy and disturbing. I’ll have to tell you about it later, all right?” By nine thirty, I have Jim Baxter’s phone number in hand, and I make the call. The former lawman answers.

“Jim Baxter.”

“Mr. Baxter, this is Shelby Truman, the writer.”

“Ms. Truman. How are you?”

“Fine, and you?”

“Still kicking, if you can believe that.”

“Let me guess, you’re eighty-seven?”

“Good guess.”

“My, my. And your health? Everything okay?”

“Okay is about the best I can say for it. Had a hip replacement four years ago, and every time it rains my whole body feels like I’ve been sawed in half. Luckily it don’t rain much in Limite. But guess what—I can still drive! Knock on wood. I may get around like an old codger, but I get around. So what can I do you for? And call me Jim, please.”

I take a breath and say, “Jim, I went to see Eddie Newcott yesterday in prison. Death row.”

“Lord have mercy. His execution’s coming up, isn’t it?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Right, right. I remember. There was something in the paper on Sunday. Did you see that?”

“No.”

“It was one of those retrospective pieces about the crime. Evil Eddie and his Satanic church and all that. It said all his appeals had run out.”

“That’s correct. It looks like he will die at six o’clock tomorrow evening.”

“Well, that’s too bad. I never thought he should have been found guilty. That man was very disturbed. Very disturbed.”

“I agree with you. Listen, I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Jim, you investigated the abduction of my baby brother and arrested Gordon Alpine.”

“That’s correct.”

“Whatever made you go back to Alpine after interviewing him the first time?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, as I remember it, it was a few days after the abduction, and you and your team had talked to everyone on our street. Then, one morning, the police showed up at Mr. Alpine’s house with a search warrant. What was it that led you to suspect him and get a search warrant?”

“Oh, it was a phone tip. Someone called the police station and said Alpine had done it. Not only that, the caller said Alpine had been making ‘naughty movies’ of children. Those were the words he used, ‘naughty movies.’ Back in 1966, we took that kind of thing seriously, just like we do today. Then there was another thing. We had interviewed young Eddie Newcott as a witness, you know. We talked to him again at length a couple of days after the abduction.”