Chapter 5: Lemonade with Buddy
Chapter 5: Lemonade with Buddy
Nothing is
But what is not.
-William Shakespeare, Macbeth 1.3
Chakchiuma County Sheriff's Office
"That is all the information we have at this time. I'll now be opening the floor for a brief question and answer period," J.J. said to the members of the press assembled outside the low brick building that housed the town's only law enforcement agency. It was a hot day, and J.J. was struggling to look composed in the sweltering sun. It would, indeed, be a brief Q&A.
A tall, sweating man with curly red hair surrounding a pink bald patch thrust a tape recorder at her. "Agent Jareau, does the FBI believe there will be more victims? If so, how soon can we expect the killer to strike again?"
"The man we're looking for believes he's helping the citizens of Earthshine, so it's very likely he won't stop until we stop him. That's why we're asking people to be extra vigilant in the coming days and weeks."
"These people were well-liked members of the community," a woman in a dark suit and eyeglasses said. "How is kidnapping and killing them helpful?"
J.J. had left out the witch trial angle, of course, but she smiled with well-practiced ease and said in a grave tone, "No one can be sure what exactly drives a man like this to commit his crimes."
"It's because they were witches, right?" a man called from the back of the crowd.
J.J. squinted toward the sound of the voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"
"Is it true, Agent Jareau? Were the victims witches?" the red-haired man asked.
She shook her head. "No, there's no evidence-"
"It doesn't matter if they were witches," the same voice called, "this guy just thinks they were. Right? He's puttin' 'em on trial."
"I'm not sure where you're getting your information, but-"
"Just answer the question, Agent Jareau," another reporter said. "Is the killer re-enacting witch trials?"
"Our investigation is on-going, and we do not wish to comment on motive at this time. Unfortunately, that's all we have time for today. Thank you." Without another word, J.J. and Sheriff Dixon disappeared back into the station's cool sanctuary, leaving the legion of clamoring reporters behind.
"I need you to find out who that was, Sheriff; the reporter who asked about the witchcraft angle. We brought that into the case, right?" Her delicate features were hard and set, and Dixon had to stretch his longer legs to keep up with her angry pace.
"We hadn't thought of it before," he said. "I'll talk to my boys, but I don't think they got it from us."
J.J. paused at the door to the break room and gave her temples a brief, rueful rub. "Well, it's out now. There's nothing more the press loves than hints of the supernatural; let's be thankful they don't think it has anything to do with demonic cults." She sighed; shook her golden head. "I just hope the town doesn't panic."
"It's a good town, Agent Jareau. People here know what they're about." Though he sounded confident, Dixon wouldn't quite meet her eyes. It made J.J. uneasy.
"I hope you're right, Sheriff," she finally said. "Either way, Agent Hotchner is not going to be happy about this."Residence of William "Buddy" Lester
The house was, as the Sheriff had described it, a "rundown pile." Reid had called it Stick Victorian, but even Prentiss couldn't produce a point of reference, so she just took the young genius' word for it; that was usually the safest course anyway. Like all homes from that era, the house had the jumbled-up look like it had been added onto dozens of times down the years; that was just an illusion, Reid had explained, because the Victorians liked to look like Old Money, as if generations of wealth had lived in the same house when in reality it was brand new. Prentiss shook her head at the recollection: was there any random bit of knowledge that hadn't somehow found its way into Reid's encyclopedic mind?
Prentiss and Hotch stepped down from the black SUV and approached the dark, sprawling building. The large front porch sagged under the weight of neglect and, Prentiss mused, melancholy. That was it: whatever style this house might or might not be, it was, above all, sad. Her mouth quirked, and she wondered when she'd suddenly become so fanciful.
Hotch rang the bell and eyed his fellow agent as they waited for someone to answer. "What do you think?" he asked.
"Not very isolated. I suppose he could have a cellar?"
"No, Dixon said the water table is too high here. No one has a basement."
"He said Lester hasn't been seen out of the house in years; that doesn't really fit with the stalking our UNSUB would had to've done."
Hotch nodded and pushed the bell again. Prentiss knocked on the weathered front door. "Mr. Lester?" Hotch called. "We're from the FBI. We don't mean to disturb you, but-" He stopped in surprise as the door swished open on silent, well-maintained hinges.
"Mr. Lester?" Prentiss prompted gently.
A round, moon-like face peeked through the crack. Bright blue eyes blinked in the brilliant flood of sunlight. "Folks call me Buddy," the man said. His voice was quiet, as though he feared the sound. "Y'all can come in if you want."
He opened the door wider and stepped back into the foyer. Hotch and Prentiss followed, and neither agent could conceal surprise when they saw the interior of the house. The outside might be rundown, but the inside was beautiful, pristine, sparkling, and they felt like they'd stepped back in time. "Your home is beautiful, Mr. Lester," Prentiss said as she marveled at the intricately carved paneling, the exquisite rugs, and the mint-condition antiques.
The moon-faced man blushed like a delighted child. "Call me Buddy," he said. Then, with a gesture that seemed to encompass the whole house, "I take good care of it. I was always good with my hands." His expression stilled. "I just don't like it outside. It's too big. Come in, this way. I'm sorry I was so slow answering the door; I was makin' lemonade. Would y'all like some lemonade?" He led them into a small parlor and indicated that they should sit. A crystal beverage service adorned a Chippendale table, and the two agents perched on Queen Anne side chairs.
"We'd love some lemonade, Mr. Lester," Prentiss said. She glanced at Hotch, and a barely perceptible lift of his brows indicated that she should take the lead. "Mr. Lester - Buddy," she corrected at the man's look, "I'm Agent Prentiss and this is Agent Hotchner. We're with the FBI."
Lester poured three glasses of lemonade. He offered Prentiss and Hotch theirs before taking his seat and sipping carefully. "I've never met anyone in the FBI before," he said.
Prentiss smiled. "Sheriff Dixon asked us to come to Earthshine. He needs our help with a…a case…an investigation." She felt herself faltering, and she glanced at Hotch.
"Buddy," he began, his tone similar to the gentle, persuasive one she'd sometimes heard him use with Jack, "we came here to ask you a few questions. How long have you lived in Earthshine?"
The man laughed a little. "My whole life! Sheriff Mike didn't tell y'all that? There've been Lesters in this house since before the War." Hotch knew he meant the Civil War. "I take good care of it, to remember."
"I bet you can see the whole town coming and going from here," Prentiss said with a nod toward a shabby, comfortable looking chair near the window. It was decidedly out of place in the otherwise perfect Victorian showplace.
He nodded; blushed again. "I watch people come and go, go and come. I know the whole town."
"Do you know about what's been happening lately? About the murders?" Hotch asked.
"I heard. I read it." Lester shuddered; his expression was troubled. "It's awful. I can't believe it."
"Did you know the people who were killed? Carey Dixon, Audrey Dee, and George Carpenter?"
"Oh yeah, I watched them come and go like everyone else. Audrey was real pretty, and I hated how John Davis was mean to her all the time. And I liked George; he came to visit me sometimes; tried to get me to go to his church, but church is just too big. Miss Carey was Sheriff Mike's niece; I'm sure he's real tore up about all this."
"Who's John Davis, Buddy?" Prentiss asked.
"Audrey's friend. Sometimes he wasn't nice to her. I saw him yell at her once, right out on the street. She cried. That made me mad. He shouldn't make her cry like that." He sipped his lemonade in agitation, and his eyes were far away.
"When you've been watching lately, have you noticed anyone new in town?"
"I noticed y'all," he said with a sudden grin, eyes snapping back into focus. "I saw your big truck come in this mornin'. It's a real nice truck."
Hotch smiled, briefly. "Thanks, Buddy. But what Agent Prentiss meant was have you seen anyone new over the last few months. Since just before Miss Carey was killed."
He considered; shook his head slowly. "Noooo, all the same people. Everything's the same, except now people are scared. I'm scared some, too. Someone threw rocks at my porch yesterday."
Prentiss set her glass on the tray and leaned forward; Hotch recognized the determined set of her mouth as carefully controlled anger. "Look at me, Buddy. You've got no reason to be scared, ok? We can have Sheriff Mike send a deputy down here if you want, so that if anyone does that again they can go to jail."
He bit his lower lip; looked down at his own face reflected in the pale yellow liquid; back up at Prentiss. "Could the deputy have lemonade with me?"
"You'd have to ask him," she said, "but that would probably be ok."
This seemed to put him at ease, and he leaned back in his chair with a small, contented smile. Knowing that Buddy Lester had told them everything he could, Hotch rose. "Thank you for your time, Buddy," he said. "You were very helpful."
The man stood, his moon face beaming. "Y'all will come back, right? If you don't like lemonade I can make sweet tea. I make real good sandwiches, too. Do you like sandwiches?"
Another hint of a smile from Hotch. "Agent Prentiss and I both love sandwiches, Buddy. Maybe we can come back, but right now we have to help Sheriff Mike, ok?"
He nodded; escorted them to the door. "I think you will. Catch him, I mean. I hope you do."
The two agents agreed and said their goodbyes. Back in the car, Prentiss gave the house another long, lingering look; she caught the flash of a moon-like face at the parlor window. "I was wrong," she said.
"About what?" Hotch asked as he fastened his seatbelt and started the ignition.
"I thought the house looked sad. That's just the outside; inside it's pretty content, I think."
"Lonely, though," Hotch remarked. "And certainly not our UNSUB."
Prentiss' possible reply was cut off by Hotch's phone. He answered it, and she watched as his expression turned to stone. After a few terse words, he hung up. "That was Sheriff Dixon," he said. "We've got another body."