I didn’t get around to calling the boyfriend Barry for several days. By then, I’d heard through Betty Huckleston that Shannon’s death had officially been ruled a suicide by the Gilcrest police. Her associates and in particular, Barry, had been interviewed; he’d reported her missing the day before she her body was found and had fully cooperated with the police in trying to find her. He’d been at a business function with a hundred other people the night of Shannon’s death. Everyone else checked out, too. It seemed that Shannon had driven to a lake where she and Barry had spent some time and drowned herself, leaving a suicide note on the car seat.
It seemed wrapped up but something was compelling me to talk to Barry, if only to find out about Shannon’s life with him in Gilcrest. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but maybe I hoped maybe he could throw some light on her emotional state. At any rate, I had decided to deliver the trunk to him since I couldn’t give it to Bernice. It was still in the car, and I could drive it out to him, and be done with it.
When I finally called the number, a receptionist answered, “Binder Enterprises, how may I help you?” I was surprised because I had expected it to be Barry’s home number for some reason, but this worked just as well. Then, I realized I didn’t know Barry’s last name, so to respond to the “how may I help you?” I stuttered, unprepared, “Uh, mmm, I’m looking for Barry, uh—sorry, I don’t have a last name. Uh, I don’t know if he works there?” The up inflection in my voice made me sound like a Valley Girl.
“Mr. Barry Correda? I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting. May I take a message? Who may I say is calling?”
“This is Lillian Raffenport—I am a—uh—I knew—uh, I have something of Shannon Parkhurst’s, and I thought I’d ask him if—”
At the mention of Shannon’s name, the receptionist drew in her breath and said, “Yes, yes, of course. May I put you on hold? I may be able to reach Mr. Correda.”
As I waited, I thought about what I knew about Binder Enterprises, a well known land development company around for decades. It had been founded on agricultural land sales, cattle feedlots, and agricultural chemicals, and I now frequently read about the company in the paper as having a hand in commercial and residential developments around the area, such as they were in a down economy. Its founder, Billy “Cowboy” Binder, was often cited concerning various charitable events he attended or supported. From the photos, he looked like a good ol’ country boy in a bolo tie that the articles reported as retired from the day-to-day workings of the company.
The articles mentioned his son, Phillip Binder, the heir apparent. In his photo, Phillip did not look like a country boy, but rather a sophisticated wheeler-dealer in an Italian suit. Phillip Binder’s name and money were associated with a large mega church and several conservative politicians.
The receptionist interrupted my thoughts. “Mr. Correda has time this afternoon, two o’clock? Shall I schedule you?”
I thanked her, took the appointment, and then rescheduled myself for the day so I could make the meeting. It dawned on me that I couldn’t wear my usual summer shorts-and-t-shirt ensemble, so I rounded up some presentable slacks, a blouse, and comfortable shoes.
That afternoon, after a brief wait, I was shown into Barry Correda’s office. The warmly wood-paneled room gave off an air of luxury and entitlement. It was bigger than I had expected, and seemed to be the office of an important man in the company. Again I was a bit surprised, as I had made up the story in my mind that Barry, as a young guy, would be working his way up the ranks. It seemed as if he’d already arrived.
Barry Correda extended his hand in welcome; I felt the perfectly manicured hand in contrast to my own work-roughened mitt. He seemed about thirty years old, had stylishly cut dark brown hair, muscular physique; shorter than I had envisioned, but still wonderfully dressed; everything just right, except for his shoes. The scuffed, cheap, off-brand loafers seemed wrong for a sophisticated man in an expensive suit. But I was getting distracted. The rest of the package was just right, and Barry Correda was a very handsome guy: I could see why Shannon had fallen for him.
He glanced down at a piece of paper on his desk, and then said, “Ahhh, Mrs. Lillian Raffenport. Please, please sit down. How good to meet you, how good! May I get you something to drink? Anything at all? How very good of you to come.”
First of all, I was not Mrs. Raffenport, except to my first-graders, with whom it was easier to have them call me Mrs. instead of trying to introduce the concept of Ms. to them. Secondly, I had never been anybody’s Mrs. And thirdly, even though his words and gestures seemed “nice,” as Hannah had described him, the formal, unctuous tone and overly welcoming behavior seemed off, rehearsed. It had something of a Sidney Greenstreet quality to it—a suave insincerity.
Barry Correda took my elbow as if I were an invalid and slowly guided me to a plush-looking seat by his glass-block, ultramodern desk. Okay, I thought, he thinks I’m an old lady—the outdated name Lillian fools them every time. Or did I look that old? I didn’t know where this was going, but I could play along with it. So I murmured, demurely, “Oh, thank you, young man” and carefully took out my reading glasses to perch them on my nose so I could peer over the rims at him like an old-fashioned schoolteacher.
He first asked if I had had trouble finding the place, as if it were a major feat for a woman my age to navigate state highways. I assured him that I had made it just fine, even though I had had to pull over several times, I said, because “all those speedsters were jammin’ up behind me.” I couldn’t resist a little ham.
Even though he had just asked me the question, he seemed bored with my short answer, and fiddled with papers on his desk. Without trying to disguise it, he looked at his watch, I guess to show that he was a rude, busy man.
“Er, how did you know Shannon?” he asked.
“Well, you see—I heard about her death … Oh dear, well, Miz Thorton …” I said hesitantly. I looked down at the floor in faux despair, although I was feeling panic coming on since I was extemporizing here and didn’t have a clear-cut idea of what I wanted to say, but an alarm was going off in my head that said to act dumb. Not too hard to do.
“You know her aunt, then?” he asked.
“Oh, dearie—not all that well. You see,” I paused as I took a tissue out of my purse and dabbed at my eye under my glasses. “You see, after Mr. Raffenport passed on—bless his soul—I started at the same church as Miz Thorton, and we was on the Giddy Up Gals committee that the Reverend Jackson—” I could see Barry Correda trying not to roll his eyes.
“Yes, yes, she mentioned you to Shannon,” he said. She did? “Shannon used to go to that church, too,” he said. I doubt that. This conversation was definitely going a different way than I had anticipated. Something was sliding in another direction here.
“Well,” he said, “Shannon used to go there, until …” He lowered his eyes and paused, “Until she didn’t go many places anymore. I tried to get her help—I tried to help her!” I swear the guy was going to squeeze out a tear. “Are you familiar with 12-step programs, Mrs. Rah … Mrs. Raffenpot?” he asked, rather out of the blue. He had to consult the paper again to sort of remember my name
“Oh, no, young man,” I lied. I kept my eyes downcast and the tissue wringing in my hands.
“Well,” he said with a proud, white smile that he then tempered with regret,” I’m pretty high up in the AA organization, Recruitment Director, and even I couldn’t make my Shannon stay sober, and I know all the tricks. I’m sorry to have to tell you all this, but I think it’s important to know why Shannon was so, so depressed, enough to kill herself.”
The truth sliding continued because there were several things wrong with that statement: AA has no “organization” to be high up into, much less a recruitment director. And nobody makes anybody get sober—it’s personal responsibility that is taught in 12-step programs, not co-dependence. And there are no tricks, just hard work. The guy is lying, but why? I wondered.
“Oh, dear, yes, so sorry,
but it sounds like you did everything you could. What a kind, smart man you are,” I said, as I allowed my hands to flutter around my face.
Barry preened in the compliments. “Yes … yes, I am. So, the reason for your visit?”
Going with my instinct, I changed my original reason on the fly. “Oh, yes, dearie … Poor Miz Thorton needed a ride to her poor niece’s service, so I took her out to Gilcrest and dropped her off while I did some visitin’ with my own kin out there. It was the Christian thing to do for poor Miz Thorton.” I wrung my hands, but continued quickly on so I wouldn’t have to watch Barry Correda’s eye rolling again; he must think I was a blind fencepost not to notice it.
“I couldn’t wait for her after the service—had to git back for the four o’clock dinner special at Luby’s, you know—but Miz Thorton needed that trunk taken to town, so I took it for her. Now I can’t get a holt of Miz Thorton, and she’d said you … I was wondering … oh, dear …” Good god, how I could lie on the spot.
“Yes, you have the trunk,” he said softly in acknowledgement. Then he caught himself and quickly looked at me to see if I had noticed the slip. I dabbed my eyes and looked at him innocently.
“The trunk,” he said louder. “Yes, you have the trunk? I know it was important to Shannon, so perhaps I should have it? Or her aunt? I could get it to her aunt, if that’s what she wishes. Do you have it with you? Or I can send a car for it, if you wish.”
“Oh, thank you, young man. It’s too heavy for this old body to lift.” Maybe I was overdoing it; even still, as I stood up I thought of stooping over a bit to add to the effect. He came around the desk and put his hand on my elbow again.
“Thank you so much for coming, Mrs., er, uh, yes, thank you so much. You can just give your address to my secretary, and she will arrange for the trunk to be picked up. Thank you for your kind thoughts about my Shannon.” I thought he was going to tear up again. “She often talked about the good times that trunk held for her, and showed it to me many times …”
You two often talked about a trunk. Really? “Oh, how sad, dearie. It has stickers all over it, were they her favorite? My poor old eyes couldn’t see what they were—cute little creatures or …”
“Oh, yes,” he sighed, and looked away for a moment and then glanced back at me, bending down in a solicitous gesture. “Her favorite. They were—cute little bears.”