Sam said, lowering his voice. He would move to another room except the phone was attached to a cord. “Shaw said she was with a date at the beginning of the night. Do you know who that might have been?”
“Before I answer any of your questions, I want to know why you’re investigating her death again. Sheriff Carter all but assured my parents that Ryan Winters killed my sister.”
Sam explained what they’d discovered.
“Oh no. His poor family,” she said. “I taught Ryan in the tenth grade and never quite believed Sheriff Carter’s accusation.”
“What do you mean, you taught Ryan?”
“I taught English at Natchez High School for fifteen years—until I took a leave of absence last year to take care of Mom. Of course, when Mary Jo attended Natchez High, she didn’t want anyone to know we were sisters.”
Mrs. Wyatt. He remembered her now. Tall and willowy with blonde hair. “Do you know who your sister might have gone on a date with the night she was killed?” Sam asked again.
“No. Mary Jo fell in with the wrong crowd at college, got involved in drinking and partying. I don’t think she ever got into drugs, though. And as for the men in her life, she never brought any of them around . . .”
Suddenly she fell silent.
“Wait . . . let me think.” Silence filled the air briefly. “There was this one guy . . . I met him a couple of weeks before . . .” Her voice dropped, and she took a breath. “He came to the house to pick her up, and he had flowers . . . Look, you need to see her journal. It might have his name in it. I’ll be right there.”
“What kind of flowers?” Sam asked, but she’d already hung up. He replaced the receiver and turned to Emma and Mr. Selby. “She’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“Good. I was just telling the ranger here that I let Mary Jo down by not being home more,” the older man said. “I was working twelve-hour shifts at the local bottling company and didn’t see her much. Jane—that’s my wife—said I needed to be firmer with her. Sandra was complaining about her coming and going all hours of the night.”
“She wasn’t staying with you at the time of her death?” Sam asked.
“No, we’d had another one of our arguments, and Mary Jo was staying with Sandra until she could get enough money to go back to Southern Miss.” He shook his head. “Seems like once she got grown, argue is all we did. Anyway, she’d come home to save money. Mary Jo was always good about money. What she wasn’t so good about was boundaries.”
“What do you mean?” Sam asked.
“Mary Jo came and went as she pleased at Sandra’s, like it was her own house. She thought nothing of coming in at three in the morning, waking her older sister up, and I’m afraid that’s my fault.”
“How so?”
“After my wife had so much trouble carrying Sandra, we never expected to have another child, so twelve years later, Mary Jo came as quite a surprise. When she was a little girl, she could wind me around her little finger like a rubber band.” Mr. Selby’s eyes got a faraway look in them, then he wiped his eyes. “Anyway, Sandra was complaining to my wife, and she wanted me to talk to Mary Jo . . . and I never got around to it.”
“I remember Mary Jo from school,” Emma said. “She was very popular.”
He took another look at Emma. “You look a little familiar. Were you friends with my daughter?”
“We were in several classes together,” she said.
Suddenly red flooded his face. “Oh, my goodness. I haven’t even offered you two refreshments. My wife would be horrified. There’s drinks in the refrigerator, or I can make a pot of coffee.” He stood and started toward the kitchen.
“Nothing for me,” Sam said quickly.
“Or me,” Emma added.
George Selby turned around. “You sure?” When they both nodded, he said, “Be sure to tell Sandra I offered. She’s as bad as her mama was about things like that.”
Sam checked his watch. It’d been ten minutes since he talked to Selby’s daughter. “Did you say she lived next door?”
“Her house is about a quarter of a mile—don’t take long to walk the path.” A crease appeared between his brows. “But she shoulda been here by now.”
Unease crept into Sam’s mind. “Why don’t I go check on her?”