“I hope you find the person who did this.”
“Were you close with Lily?”
“Not close, no, but she was a sweet girl.” Dorothy fussed with her hair again. “If it was some random break-in or her boyfriend, John there—makes no difference—I don’t feel safe.”
“Make sure to lock up, and police detail will be there another twenty-four hours at least. We’re putting every effort and resource we have toward finding out what happened to Lily.” Grace nodded. “Have a good day, Ms. Hutchins.”
She strode down the driveway and met Mac at the other officer’s patrol car.
“He’s at the Whitestone Lodge,” the officer said.
“Good.” Mac nodded. “We’ll be on our way to see him after we finish up here. Thanks, Malone.”
Malone. Right. Why didn’t I remember that?
Grace followed Mac to the door.
“No signs of forced entry.” Mac stepped inside. “I’m going to check the other points of entry. Would you look around the house, and we’ll meet in the living room?”
Grace nodded and took the steps upstairs. Three rooms merged off the hallway: a bathroom, an office, and a bedroom.
She walked into the bedroom with a king-sized bed dressed with several throw pillows. A jewelry stand sat on the dresser, and Grace walked toward it. Some of the pieces looked like costume jewelry, but many looked like the real deal.
Lily had only made her first sale that year, and John worked at a bait and tackle shop.
Where’s she getting the money for this? Gifts maybe? From her parents? Mickey?
If any was stolen, why leave the other expensive ones behind?
Grace opened Lily’s nightstand. A vibrator was tucked in the corner with a jar of lotion in the middle.
A Narcotic’s Anonymous bible sat alone in John’s drawer.
A recovering addict?
After checking the office and bathroom without finding anything suspicious, she went back downstairs, and on the way to the kitchen, she ducked into the powder room.
She crouched, searching for traces of hair or water across the bright white tile. She knelt beside the garbage can and snapped on one of her plastic gloves, pulling out a few tissues and a Q-tip.
“Anything?” Mac asked, and she jerked away from him, startled. “Sorry.”
“Upstairs is clean. No forced entry.” She stood and followed him to the living room. “He’s an addict. I found a Narcotics Anonymous book in his beside table.”
Mac nodded. “I know the type. You think he was on something last night?”
“No, I didn’t get that impression at all,” Grace said as they stopped in the entryway. “He might be clean.”
“Maybe. Maybe we should test him.”
“Lots of expensive jewelry. They weren’t here for that.”
“I didn’t find anything stolen,” he said, stepping onto the carpet. “No glasses in here. No cigarettes. If anyone else was here, they didn’t leave a visible trace.”
“You see where the vase was.” Grace pointed to the outline created by blood and roses. “Right by her head there, under the table. I’m interested in what the M.E. has to say about that. If someone threw it at her, I can imagine it landing so close to her head, but if they were standing close and hit her with force, and maybe dropped it…”
“There you go with your theories again.” Mac shook his head. “Here’s what I see. Blood ran from the back of her head and created a puddle there, but it doesn’t have clear outlines on this side. She could have been moved slightly, but not much, or she could have moved herself. The point is, there was movement.”
Grace nodded. “The M.E. will be able to confirm whether it was before they moved her or not.”
“It’s not clear whether she was hit with it, or it was thrown at her,” Mac said. “But there’s blood on the corner of the table, there. She hit the back of her head for sure, and she may not have seen it coming. If anything was found under her fingernails, it would help to tell us whether or not there was a struggle because everything else in here…”
“Is exactly in its place.” Grace nodded.
“I want to question John some more, but I don’t want him lawyering up like Mickey Clarke,” Mac said.
So now you wise up.
“So we’ll question him where he feels comfortable,” Grace said. “And maybe no drug test?”
Mac started for the door, and she followed.
“I was thinking you could question her co-workers and friends while I talk to John,” Mac said.
Grace stopped behind him.
“I’d like to be there when you talk to John again,” she said, trying to think of an assertive, yet professional way to tell him it wasn’t his call. “I can speak to the co-workers and friends afterward. In Amherst, we interviewed in pairs.”
“Suit yourself. It would be useful to spread out and cover more ground. Two people don’t need to be there to question John. Not how it’s done in Tall Pines.”
If I don’t go, he’ll try to edge me right out of this case.
“I’ll meet you at Whitestone Lodge,” she said as they reached the road.
“Fine,” Mac said and strode to his car, waving to Malone.
Malone didn’t acknowledge her.
Maybe they were talking about me while I was at Dorothy’s.
Now Malone thinks he knows me too.
Grace got in her car and turned the key in the ignition as Mac drove down the street.
He’s not used to working below anyone but Banning. Remember that.
She took a deep breath and started out, hoping to catch up with him and follow him to the motel.
Meet me at the PD in 20.
Madigan read Thane’s text with Buster lying at her feet, his hairy golden tail wagging—waiting for a promised slice of apple.
After five hours of sleep, she figured her leftover tiredness would help her sleep later that night, instead of lying awake, thinking about her brother, Drew.
If only she had moved faster.
If only she had paid more attention to him.
If only she had been a better swimmer.
She put her dish in the sink and filled Buster’s water bowl, rubbing his head goodbye before handing him a piece of apple and dashing out the door.
When she arrived at the department with three minutes to spare, Thane’s car wasn’t in the lot. As she pushed the heavy front door open, a woman glanced up at her from behind a tall counter where she stood.
“Hello, I’m here to—” She’d never been to speak to the police before.
Don’t sound like a newbie.
“I’m Madigan Knox from the Tall Pines Gazette, and I’m here to get a statement regarding Lily Martin’s death.”
The woman glared at her. “You people don’t talk to each other? One of your reporters was already by.”
Madigan shook her head. “I think there’s a mistake. What’s your name?”
The woman shot her a dirty look. “Rhonda.”
“Rhonda, okay. This reporter, was his name Thane Wilson?”
Rhonda checked a book on the counter.
“This tall,” Madigan held her hand well above her head. “Black man in his late forties, early fifties.”
Rhonda nodded. “That’s him. Guess you just got scooped.”
“Thanks for your help, Rhonda,” Madigan quipped and marched out of the department.
So much for attempting to work together.
He was probably back at the paper, typing out the statement for the next day’s news.
This is why I haven’t made the front page. What did I expect? I ditched him at the crime scene. Of course he played me now.
Thane had been so by-the-book, she hadn’t expected him to try to ditch her.
“I’m on my own now,” she muttered as she marched to her motorcycle. The feeling liberated her and scared her at the same time.
I need to find out as much as possible before tomorrow.
If she knew where John
Talbot was staying, she’d try to question him again. He seemed comfortable talking to her, although it could have been the shock of it all.
As she got into her car, she remembered the articles about him working at the bait and tackle shop on the shoreline of Bones Bay.
“Maybe he’s there right now,” she said, pulling out of the lot and making a right.
It would be odd to go back to work so soon after your fiancée’s death—or worse—finding your fiancée dead, but it was the only lead she had.
As she drove along the coast, the salty air of the ocean calmed her, washing away her worries as it always did when she rode.
After parking in the small gravel lot of Thom’s Tackle, she couldn’t see John’s car, but took a chance going inside. The handsome older man behind the counter nodded to her with a half-hearted grin as she strode toward him.
“How can I help ya, Ma’am?”
“I was actually here looking for John,” she said.
The smile dropped from his face, and he straightened up. “I’m afraid Johnny—well—he won’t be in for a while. Maybe I can help you?”
“I heard what happened,” she said.
“Ah, well then.” His sad eyes roamed the shelves behind her until he frowned. “Then why were you coming in looking for him?”
He won’t talk to a reporter. He cares for John.
“I’m a friend of Lily’s—was. I was hoping to speak to him.”
“Do you know Johnny?” he asked.
“No. Lily and I were friends from high school. Good friends.”
“Johnny’s a good man. He’s—he’s broken over this.”
“You’ve spoken to him?”
“I went to see him last night. He didn’t do this to Lily.” He leaned against the counter. “He loved her, alright? More than anything in his whole life, so whatever the news wants to make it look like, it wasn’t him.”
Why is he already defending him?
“Okay.” She nodded. “I guess I’m just trying to make sense of this, and she told me she was engaged. I thought maybe talking to him might help.”
He nodded, and tears welled up in his eyes.
“My name’s Ma—ry,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Thom Hanks,” he said, shaking her hand with a firm grip. “I’ll save you the question. I’m older than he is, so I was Thom Hanks first. Plus, mine’s spelled with an ‘H’ as you saw on the sign out front.”
Madigan grinned and nodded, letting go of his hand. “How long have you known John for?” she asked.
“Since he was about twenty. How much did Lily tell you about him?”
Madigan shrugged. “Not much.”
“They had their issues,” Thom said. “All couples do, but if you’d gotten a chance to see them together, they were the real McCoy. Love birds.”
Madigan smiled. “So you knew him well before they got together.”
Thom nodded. “Oh, yes, Ma’am. Doesn’t feel that long. I had him working for me shortly after.”
He walked out from behind the counter.
“I’d like to show ya something,” he said, waving her toward the back room.
He entered the office first, and she walked in afterward. The windows offered a spectacular view of the ocean, and the walls were covered with pictures, bulletin boards, and little taped notes.
“This here’s a picture of us after winning the Tall Pines Fisherman award for the biggest fish a few years back. I had that hanging in the shop for a while.”
She nodded, studying John’s face. His well-trimmed beard matched his thick, short hairstyle. His eyes smiled, but his lips pressed together—modest in a way.
She couldn’t shake the familiar feeling.
“This is the one I wanted to show you,” he said, smiling, and pointed to a picture Madigan had seen on her computer. “Our annual customer appreciation picnic just this past summer. That’s me and the wife. John and Lily. He’s my business partner now. Owns the shop with me.”
“Oh really?”
He nodded, his eyes glazed over as he stared at the photo. “Can’t believe she’s gone, but you knew her. You see how happy she is with him there?”
Madigan nodded. “Do you know what school he went to? Or where he grew up?”
She glanced back at the old wooden desk at the stack of business cards piled in the corner.
Madigan took a casual step back and swiped one, tucking it into her purse.
“I couldn’t tell ya where he went to school, but he grew up in Amherst,” Thom said, gesturing to another photo. “This one was taken just before our first boating trip together, right after he started working here. Fish out of water he was out here, I’ll tell ya that.”
Madigan stepped forward and turned to the picture of Thom, his arm draped over the shoulder of the much younger man, both standing just in front of their boat by the shore. John had an eyebrow piercing, jet black hair gelled up into a Mohawk, and jeans hanging down further than any manufacturer had intended them to go.
I’ve seen you before. At the house on Warbler Way.
She remembered coming home from school one day with Grace, and the boy in the picture standing at the side door talking to Evette. He passed them on the driveway without a word, but she remembered his hairstyle and eyebrow piercing. He looked rough, like many of the people Eli and Evette associated with.
They each held a fishing rod in the picture, and John’s scorpion tattoo faced the camera. Her knees felt weak beneath her, staring back at the face she recognized and the tattoo she’d seen in person at the same house.
A tattoo that had haunted her dreams.
A tattoo she couldn’t have been sure existed—until then.
But it can’t be him.
“First picture we took together, if memory serves me…”
She couldn’t focus on Thom’s voice or pretend to listen any longer.
“Have you met his parents?” she asked, her voice shaking.
Thom leaned against the chair behind his desk. “He doesn’t talk about them much. Johnny was adopted.”
A lump formed in her throat.
Her heart raced as she remembered the picture her foster mom, Evette, kept of Johnny, their son they had adopted who’d left before they took her and Grace in. Evette only ever spoke of him once. The only reason she’d studied the picture so well had been the fact that Evette hid it from everyone. Even Eli.
And secrets made her curious.
“You alright?” Thom asked. “You miss her already? I know I do. I can’t even believe—”
“I—thank you for showing me,” Madigan nodded and started for the door.
He followed behind her, stepping back behind the counter. “If you’d like, I can tell John you came by? Maybe leave your number so he can get in contact with you? What did you say your name was, again?”
“You said you saw him, and he wasn’t doing well?” she asked, clearing her throat. “Last night?”
Thom nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Maybe I’ll give it some time, then. Thanks, though.”
“Alright.” He nodded with a grin as she walked backwards to the door. “I’m real sorry for your loss. You take care.”
“You too, Thom.”
As she strode to her bike in a daze, kicking the gravel beneath her ankle boots, she wondered how she could have missed it. He looked so different, and he hadn’t kept their last name, but that wasn’t shocking. Madigan had taken on the name of her next adopted family, and Grace kept her given last name, having never been adopted.
Thinking of an angle that would help get a story on the front page was one thing, but it was another to be fueled by her personal curiosity, and where it led kept her heart pounding in her chest.
The dreams—they were real. That night was real.
The first summer she and Grace had lived on Warbler Way with Eli and Evette, strange things had happened. At seven, she couldn’t remember much of that first year, but she’d
been afraid—always on edge—since before their first beating.
But there’s more to it than that.
One night she awoke to the sound of arguing, but she couldn’t make out the voices. She climbed out of the bunkbed and crept downstairs, noticing the garage door in the hallway standing wide open. Something made her run back up the steps, and there—sitting on her perch, peeking between the railing spindles—she saw a body being dragged down the hallway—by the ankles.
And the scorpion.
The dark tattoo had been on the hand or arm, or even wrist. She couldn’t remember, and it had been different during each nightmare.
The body changed, too. Sometimes a man. Sometimes a woman. Sometimes a child.
But the dark tattoo was always part of it.
Madigan got back to her motorcycle, swung her leg over, but couldn’t move after sitting down. The gravity of what she’d put together washed over her, weighing her down.
The man who had lived in the same house—with the same parents—had found his fiancée dead in their home.
Did he kill someone else on Warbler Way?
Only three people might know what went on in that house at the time he was there.
Eli, their foster dad, rotting in prison for his crimes of child exploitation and drug dealing. She wouldn’t agree to see him if he were the last person on earth—never mind seek him out.
Evette, whom she doubted would still have contact with John after the way she acted about him and that picture, hiding it away under her nightstand beside their bed. Her contact with Madigan consisted of birthday cards they’d send each other every year, and Grace refused to have anything to do with her.
And then there was John himself, but before she tried to call him using the business card she’d swiped, there seemed to be a window of opportunity to do something she’d never had the courage to do.
Madigan drove in the direction of the city.
As the door creaked open, John leaned out from behind it, squinting into the sunlight. He took a step back into the dark room, leaving the door open. Grey bags hung under his bloodshot eyes, and he wore the same shirt as the night before after taking off the one he found Lily in to submit into evidence.
Grace walked into the room with Mac close behind. John sat on the edge of the unmade bed, and Mac sat down on one of two chairs by a small table beneath the window.
The Girls Across the Bay Page 7