Page 57 of Second Chance

Charlie’s hands clasp together as his elbows lean on his desk. He turns his head to the side.

“I’m familiar with the Calvin Chance case. His murder was an unsolved mystery around here some forty years ago.”

Sitting up straighter, the leather suddenly doesn’t feel as comfy, but rather stiff around me.

“What?”

“It’s an old case. Nobody knows exactly what happened. An internet search might produce some general information, although the case is considered ancient by now. There might be some information in the archives of the library.”

“How is it I don’t know anything about this?”

“Again, it sounds like a question for your family, but you and I were young when it happened. I’m only familiar with it because it was a case still open when I first started practicing law. The statute of limitations on the investigation is open-ended in Georgia.”

I don’t know what this could mean, but I’m sensing something big is still a mystery.

Charlie says I can’t have access to official court documents, but the case itself is public knowledge. I could head to my lodge room and fire up my laptop, but I’m thinking archives at the library might be a better place to start.

Ida Hildenbreth is still the librarian at Blue Ridge Public Library, and my guess is she’s a hundred years old. Then again, she probably isn’t, and I just remember her as already being old when I was a child. She’s sharp as a tack, though, and instantly knows where to find the information which might interest me. I don’t want town gossip or speculation, I tell her. Within minutes, she has me pulling up scanned documents from ancient newspapers and article after article about the mystery of Calvin Chance’s murder.

Five years younger than his older brother, Calvin Chance served a tour of four years in the army, returned home only briefly, and reenlisted. Four years later, he returned home on a medical discharge to a hero’s welcome. Three months later, his body was found in the woods opposite McIntyre Farm, my grandmother’s estate. A gun wound to the chest was the cause of death. The news reports speculated he had a lover’s quarrel, although he had no official sweetheart. Known to frequent a dance hall in Elton—the same place my mother claims to have met my father—the articles paint the picture of a playboy, a decorated veteran who knew how to attract the ladies. While there were no official suspects, the police deemed it could be any number of scorned women. After questioning, the mayor and his wife were cleared as suspects.

I sit back as I read this tidbit. Why would Calvin’s brother and young wife—my parents—be considered in a murder investigation?

One article features a picture of my family. My parents stand with their arms around each other. It’s a rare show of affection, one I later learned was practiced for the cameras. Dolores holds my father’s hand on his right. I stand wrapped around my mother’s leg on her left. I might be four or five years old.

The first family of Blue Ridge. What a joke.

Sitting forward, narrowing in on the image of my family, I see myself clinging to my mother at an early age, already holding onto her for love and protection which disappears years later. As I stare at the picture, I notice others standing around them, people I always considered nameless well-wishers or who worked with my father. As I zero in on the image, I realize the man to my left is dressed in full military uniform. His hand rests on the top of my head, but his face is turned toward my mother, not the camera. The image is grainy in black and white newsprint, but there’s something about his face I don’t need to see to comprehend. I’ve worn that expression myself—yearning. Suddenly, suspicions of the truth haunt me.

+ + +

I leave the library without concrete answers, yet I’m consumed by my speculation and find myself at BRMP on my fourth beer by six fifteen in the evening. The dinner rush is in full force, and I’m on my way to being hammered. I’ll pay tomorrow for the shots between the craft brew, but I don’t care tonight. I want my thoughts to disappear.

It can’t be, I think for the millionth time, and then I knock on the bar top for another shot.

Things aren’t bad until your ex looks good, and that’s the stage I’m at when Kristy walks into the pub all hair sprayed up, stuffed into skinny jeans, and covered in a layer of makeup like icing on a cupcake. She looks good in a blurry sort of way, which is bad. So bad. Noting my condition, she saunters right up to my barstool and spins me to position herself between my knees.

“Kristy.” Her name slurs on my tongue, which feels thick and pasty.

“Denton.” My name like nails-on-a-chalkboard, instantly recalling all the times she used it, and all the times I fell for it. What was I ever thinking?

Mati. That’s what I was thinking.

Get back at Mati.

Only it backfired on me.

“You look good, baby. You feeling good tonight?” If I didn’t know it was her, she could have been any woman, in any bar, propositioning me, and I’d laugh at the cheesy pickup line. Suddenly, pinpricks tiptoe up my chest, and I glance down to see the daggers of her fingernails over my T-shirt. “We can be good together, honey. Remember?”

Not good, I think.

Not like I was with Mati.

Now that I have memories of how things could be, I’ll never go back.

Unfortunately, my hands have found Kristy’s hips, and I’m tugging her to me. On the other hand, I consider I might be hanging on, so I don’t fall off the stool. Either way, the position is compromising…not promising.

“Aw, fuck,” I hear someone mutter at my side, and my head slowly rolls to see Billy Harrington glaring at me. He’s standing on the wrong side of the bar. Statue still, arms crossing over his chest, he glares at me, which gives Kristy the perfect opportunity to kiss my cheek and then turn her head to face Billy.