“I… I'd rather not, if you don't mind.”
“Why ever not?” Rachelle continued.
“I'm not very welcome at the lab,” Clare admitted.
“Oh.”
That's what she was after. “Come on, Rachelle, out with it.”
Attempting to feign innocence and not doing a very good job of it, Rachelle said, “Well, I was up at the One Stop earlier and those three old women were there. You know, Sarah, Katherine, and Rebecca.”
“I know them.” The three old women in question hogged the small cafe inside the One Stop Food Shop, chatting about seemingly nothing for hours on end. They would gossip about anything and anybody, and if there was news of any sort, they had it.
“As it happens, Katherine wasn't at the One Stop yesterday. She was out on Main Street, having coffee…”
“…In Friendly's by any chance?”
“You've got it in one.”
Clare let out a sigh. “Typical. So you had a near-perfect re-enactment of the whole episode?”
“Pretty much, yes. Clare, you need to be careful around types like that. If the sheriff hadn't shown up, you might have been in serious trouble. There's something wrong with Jonathon Finely. There's a darkness that you don't want to explore.”
They neared the end of the road, stopping in the dappled shade of a grove that protected the bottom of the local graveyard, weathered headstones sprouting through the ground like a failed crop of corn, patchy and random. Clare steadied herself on the trunk of a nearby pine, the bark of the trunk rough on her hands. Her skin did feel dreadfully thin.
Rachelle held Clare by the shoulders. “Clare, you don't look well. Are you all right?”
“What is it with everybody? I'm fine. But if it will give you any peace, it is the reason I'm out this morning.”
This seemed enough for Rachelle. “Good. You may not see it but it's clear as daylight.”
“Thanks for your concern. I'll be sure to let the gossips know if the doctors find anything.”
Rachelle meant well, Clare understood this. It appeared she had taken no umbrage from her gruff dismissal, scrutinizing her before throwing up a brief wave and starting back to her house. Yet Clare now felt on edge. Was there really something wrong? She felt weary, sometimes dog-tired. She needed to pee a fair bit. She had been described as a girl who liked to drink a lot by Dr. Strange, the family physician, when once referred by her parents. And losing weight? She held her hands out. “Well that's always a good thing,” she said aloud and started up the path between the graveyard and Reservoir Street.
In only a few minutes, she had crossed the road away from the graves, caught in the glare of the sunshine as it began to beat down from on high. She stopped to swallow down the contents of a bottle of Evian. Only a couple of streets ahead, the One Stop faced Walgreens across Main Street, two titans of the town intent upon retaining the customers of the other and yet wholly dependent on their co-existence. The One Stop was compact in comparison to the majestic structure of its neighbor. It was the way of things. Even in sleepy Holden, the super-corporations of the world had gained a foothold. Eventually, she had no doubt the One Stop would become a Wal-Mart. The Big Y was already on the boundary of the town, the monstrosity that it was. Clare considered for a moment crossing to the food store to give the elderly trio a confrontation to gossip about. Then she changed her mind and turned to Walgreens. Her health might be a topic of discussion to many, but to Jeff she had an obligation to be sensible.
“There's nothing wrong with me a few good meals wouldn't sort out,” she said to nobody in particular. An elderly couple stopped and stared at her for a moment before shuffling into the parking lot behind Walgreens. She would prove to all that knew her that Clare Rosser was as healthy as a horse. For that reason only, she opened the door.
Chapter Eight
The cavernous interior of Walgreens yawned out in front of her, sterile and clean as if she were standing in the Worcester Precinct morgue. White flooring, aisles where shelving resembled dominos primed to fall, staff in blue for the registers and white for the pharmacy. It suited Clare's needs since she was able to remain relatively anonymous in such enormity.
She looked about, worried, until she found the target of her search. Jena Baxter had been the manager of Walgreen's since it had opened the year before. She also happened to be the victim of a robbery Clare had helped solve with forensic analysis of the perpetrator's DNA. A gang of jewel thieves had been apprehended as a direct result and Jena's engagement ring, in time, returned. Clare had become friends with Jena and she needed a friend now.
“Clare, so good to see you,” Jena said as they embraced. The dark blue trouser suit she wore barely shifted as opposed to Clare's sweater, already twisted and rumpled on the strap of her backpack. Jena was the epitome of good management, her blonde hair short and business-like, her smile and manner formal yet welcoming. “What can I do for you today?”
“Jena, I need a favor.”
Clare looked about them. The few customers in on a Sunday morning were preoccupied with their own business, teenage girls trying on free samples of eyeliner and a middle-aged man trying to look inconspicuous but failing in spectacular style as he poked through goods on a knee-high shelf.
“Don't worry about Rob,” Jena reassured her. “He has his own problems. In here every Sunday buying… whatever he buys. He's got a thing with chatty Sarah.”
“You mean Sarah from across the road?”
Jena nodded. “Between the two of us, a sledgehammer probably ain't enough. Not that he really has to worry. She's in the One Stop all day with her cohorts. She's probably with them all night too.”
“No wonder he looks sheepish,” Clare replied, and the two of them burst into laughter. “Can we borrow your office?”
Jena's face became instantly serious. “Of course we can. This way.”
They passed through two sets of double doors at the back of the store and into an austere but functional room.
“I'm not one for decoration. I'm barely ever in here to be honest. I prefer the action on the floor. So what's up?”
“I need to get hold of a blood testing kit but I need to be discreet about it. Can you get me one?”
Jena pursed her lips for a moment and then sat down at her desk to log into her computer. A few minutes of quiet tapping passed. Clare sat and waited.
Jena smiled. “Well, would you look at that? We had a delivery last night containing several of the kits you want, and one of them was damaged and had to be disposed of due to sharp parts. What a crying shame. You wait right here.”
Clare sat in the office, the silence enclosing her like a shroud of cotton wool. She began drumming her fingers on the desk, unsure if an anonymous test would even work. There were always chinks in the system, loopholes from which confidential information could be gleaned. If emails from presidential candidates could be made public, surely blood test results were small fry.
Clare was on the verge of panicking and walking out altogether when Jena returned, a blue box labeled 'Home blood test kit' in her hand. “This all you need?”
“I want to mail it as soon as possible when I'm done. Can I use the basin in your washroom to scrub up?”
“Feel free. I'll be on the shop floor. When you're done, just leave the kit sealed and addressed. I'll see it mailed within the hour.” Clare must have looked dubious for, as Jena was about to close the door, she added, “You got my wedding ring back. It's been in the family two hundred years. You can trust me, Clare. You're safe in here.”
Clare smiled in response. “I know.” For just a moment after the door closed, she believed her own words. Then thoughts of the warehouse intruded into her thoughts, and Clare got to work.
A single prick on the side of her finger with a sterilized lancet and, with a few squeezes, blood freely flowed. She filled an inch long plastic container with a bit of effort. Her blood was thick and sticky. From all the fluids she had taken, Clare expected the opposite.
A quick click and the container was sealed. Writing a name, address, and a few personal details, she sealed the vial in polystyrene housing, marking the name of Worcester Medical on the mailing slip. By this time, her finger had ceased bleeding, and she left the office as if she had never even been there.
Outside, there was a strange kind of quiet, even for a store as sparsely populated as Walgreens. Jena stood by the entrance talking to one of her staff, a middle-aged woman who, by the look of her streaked mascara, had been crying. Other staff stood around in two's and three's by the cash registers, quiet, their faces pale, eyes wide.
Seeing Clare, Jena laid a reassuring hand on the shoulder of the woman she had been talking to and came over. “All done?”
“Yes. Jena, what's going on? I feel like I've come out to the end of the world.”
Jena swallowed, taking a few breaths to steady her nerves. “We just received word from the family of Luke Morris, one of our cashiers. He was found dead in his bedroom this morning. The woman you saw me with, Pauline, had been calling. He was late for his shift.”
“Jena, I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
Tears began to brim in her friend's eyes. “No, there's not really. I'm gonna sort out the mail and send everybody home out of respect. Clare, he was only sixteen.”
“Do they have any idea what happened?”
Jena pointed at the front window. “Why don't you ask them? One of the guys popped over there for a coffee during their break, and they were gossiping about it. Clare, they knew before we did.”
“That does it,” Clare decided. “Those three seem to know more than is good for them. It seems at almost every turn, they have the jump on the rest of the town. Jena, thanks for your help. If I find anything of use, I'll be sure and tell you.”
Leaving Walgreens, Clare paused on the sidewalk, staring at the One Stop. Her heart had been thumping harder of late, as if inside her, there was a battle going on, but between her and what? After thirty seconds, her pulse was still racing, so she crossed without waiting for her heart to calm, pausing for a yellow Sunday School bus to pass first, the frenzied waving of children greeting her as it went by. She raised her hand in acknowledgement, but no smile touched her face.
If Walgreens was grand and orderly, the One Stop was anything but. The store lived up to its name, selling anything and everything, aisles crammed, rotating displays at the end of every walkway. Clare ignored the shelves of Twinkies and Zingers, so often her first port of call, seeking out the small cafeteria at the back. The scent of coffee was earthy and pungent in the air, the ground beans making her mouth water. A few brown tables with laminated cream surfaces sat beneath a sign proclaiming in bright red letters the home of the best cup of coffee in Massachusetts. As she closed on the counter, she heard what she was after. Three elderly voices cackled. A group of fair-haired old women hunched over a table, staring at a screen. Beyond the counter, a bored looking teenager in a blue and white striped apron and white paper hat waited for the order that never came.
“Would you look at that?” exclaimed one of the elderly women as she stood. Rebecca was wearing a red sweater, the sleeves pushed up above her elbows. Her short hair still held hints of the red from her youth. “I knew no good would come of that one. He was always staring at me whenever we walked past.”
“It's because you cut such a fine figure, dear,” white-haired Sarah replied, her multicolor knitted cardigan too tight in places, the stitches ignored and pulling apart.
Both women cackled. Katherine, the third of them, remained quiet for a moment. “Listen,” she said, holding her hand up.
“Dispatch, we have another,” said a deep, officious-sounding voice. “What the hell is going on here?”
“Just secure the area, Troy,” a voice advised. “Federal agents are en route. They have jurisdiction and will deal with the incident. Just stop anybody getting too close. Okay?”
The voice set off alarm bells in Clare's head. Where had she heard it before?
“Gotcha,” the other voice replied.
“Right, what else is there?” Sarah asked, elbowing her way closer to the screen. “Have a look at his record. Is he a delinquent?”
Intent upon the screen, the three women had no idea they were in turn the subject of scrutiny. From the corner of her eye, Clare saw the long-suffering barista shift behind the counter, as if he were building up the courage to say something. Whether to her, or the three women, Clare had no idea. She fixed him with a glare, and he resumed his impassive stance. Cupping her hand and waggling it to indicate she wanted drinks, she raised four fingers and mouthed the word 'cappuccino' at him. The barista nodded and got to work, tapping coffee grounds into their fixings and setting the milk to frothing. The three elderly women never even noticed.
“There. Would you look at that?” Katherine's announcement was nothing less than triumphant. “I told you. He's got a record as long as his arm. The kid is practically a vagrant, a bad seed growing under the branches of a rotten tree. That one came to a suitable end.”
“How did he compare to last night's vic?” The way Rebecca used the shortened term of the word 'victim' grated on Clare's nerves, and she clamped her hands on the edge of the table behind which she stood. Nobody on the force said 'vic'. Some people watched too much CSI.
“Well, the guy last night was hardly the biggest of sinners, but he wasn't exactly a saint. They were both from disruptive environments in one sense or another. This one's parents divorced, last night's had his own juvie record and barely stayed out of jail. Somebody's targeting the products of broken homes.”
“See what else the scanner brings up,” Sarah advised. “There might be more nearby in West Boylston.”
“So that's how you do it,” Clare said aloud, causing all three women to jump.
“How dare you sneak up like that?” accused Rebecca, the fiery temperament associated with her hair very much in evidence.
“How dare I? What right have you to go round prying into people's lives like this? What is that? An internet police scanner?”
Katherine slammed the lid of the laptop shut, the Apple logo glinting off the silver cover in the glare of the fluorescent counter lighting. “It is nothing. You saw nothing.”
Clare's simmering rage began to boil over. “You know damned well who I am. What I am. All of you do. You,” Clare pointed at Katherine, “were at Friendly's yesterday when I was being threatened. All three of you sit here casting aspersions until the whole town gossips. I heard about myself from a neighbor not half hour ago about everything I got up to yesterday with the Sheriff. And now you are sitting around once more, talking trash about people, judging them before their bodies have even gone cold.”
“How dare you presume to judge us?”
“Judge not, lest ye be judged.” Clare was not one for scripture, but these three brought out the worst in her. “You three are modern day Graeae. Katherine, Rebecca, and Sarah of Holden, who with their all-seeing laptop and nasty barbs perform their own cruel sorcery on a town.”
“You see fit to judge us? You are hardly from what one could call a model family.” Katherine's retort stopped Clare in her tracks. “Yes we know what you are. Your parents were far from the top of the social pile, girl. Given that your family is surely cursed, the fact that you came out on top is a miracle. And look at you now: Stick-thin and white as a sheet. You may as well be your mother.”
“You didn't know my mother,” Clare shot back.
“Girl, practically the whole town knew Jane Rosser at one time or another. She had more boyfriends than it was possible to count, always in and out of trouble or some fella's bed. 'Harlot' didn't begin to describe her. It came as no surprise to us when she got knocked up as she did, by a man other than Ched, while she was still with Ched. The oddest thing was that he stayed with her to let her have somebody else's child.”
Clare's stomach tightened. The photo in her possession began to make sense. Her legs threatened to wobble, and her thro
at went dry, beyond the normal constant thirst.
The photo from the day before was still in her bag. She reached for it, passing it over the table to the three old women. “Was this the man?”
All three squinted at the photo before Katherine looked up at her, suspicion written all over her face. “Why should we help you, girl? All you've been to us is rude and demanding.”
Clare pulled out her Worcester P.D. accreditation and showed them.
“You aren't police,” Rebecca countered. “You can't do a thing. We know our rights.”
“Do your rights include hacking, appropriation of personal and private information, and illegal misuse of Federal property? One phone call and cop or not, I can have that laptop seized and your houses searched. I might not be police, per se, but I know plenty that are. Now tell me about the photo. Is that the man?”
The threat had clearly registered with the three old ladies, mollifying them. “That is the man. Probably your father,” Katherine confirmed. “He wasn't around long enough to make much of an impression. He stayed in town maybe only a couple of weeks. His name was Bert or Judd or something like that. He came and went, so to speak. You were here nine months later. Your pop never forgave your mom, but he stuck with her.”
He never forgave me either, not really.
“Is that it?” Rebecca interrupted Clare's introspection, obviously eager to get back to her snooping.
“Not quite. What's going on in this town?”
“We don't know. Bad kids getting comeuppances happen everywhere. There was one last night, another this morning. We only just heard about the second. Then the Feds took all coverage off the airwaves.”
If that were the case, there would be no point going to the latest scene. “Where was the boy found last night?”
“Laurelwood Road, right down at the bottom in the woods. Your police Captain Harley took a personal interest. He went in earlier with a team.” Katherine said this without referencing any information. She was cleverer than the little innocent old lady she purported to be. Clare turned and left the three of them in a state of confusion, the argument not concluded. Harley was at another crime scene in her town? One they wanted to keep quiet? Clare felt a profound sense of déjà vu. She had a house to visit.
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