Don't Believe a Word

by Patricia MacDonald

  That description also applied to the man behind the desk, a sallow man of about fifty, wearing a dust-colored shirt and brown pants that seemed to match the rug. Could Flynn really have been staying here? Even if they were weighed down with expenses, surely he could have afforded a nicer hotel a little further out of town. This motel was certainly convenient to the convention center, but it seemed to have little else to recommend it. Eden walked up to the desk and the clerk eyed her suspiciously, and did not ask her what she wanted.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I was wondering if you could help me. I’m trying to find out if this man stayed at your hotel.’

  ‘Name? Date?’

  Eden gave him the date and showed him the photo of Flynn on her phone.

  ‘This your hubby?’

  ‘No,’ said Eden. ‘My name is Eden Radley. This man is my stepfather.’

  Steve frowned at the photo. ‘Your stepfather? He doesn’t look much older than you.’

  ‘My mother’s second marriage was to a younger man.’

  ‘You’re not a cop?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How come you’re asking questions?’

  ‘The cops seem to have lost interest in the situation,’ said Eden.

  The sallow-faced man sighed wearily and peered at the picture. ‘Come to think of it, they did show up here a few weeks ago, asking about him. I’ll tell you what I told them. He and that Arab girl checked in that night. Two rooms. Different floors. He checked them out in the morning.’

  So the Cleveland police had actually made the trip to Toledo. Eden didn’t know if she was gratified or disappointed. ‘Did you see him here during the night?’ she asked. ‘Maybe coming in from dinner or … I don’t know. Going out to a bar or something?’

  ‘What did this guy do anyway?’ the man asked. ‘First the cops. Now you. They said he wasn’t in any trouble, but I don’t buy that.’

  A heavy-set black man in a flat-brimmed hat came up to the desk, and stood, clearly waiting for Eden to be finished. Eden stepped out of the way. ‘Go ahead,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait.’

  The man looked at her suspiciously, and nodded. Then he spoke to the man behind the desk. ‘Hey, Steve.’

  The clerk reached around and pulled an actual key off the wooden grid of mailboxes behind him. Eden couldn’t remember the last time she had seen an actual room key like that. Steve handed it to his customer. ‘There you go, Darnell.’

  ‘See the Bulls game last night?’ Darnell asked.

  ‘I think they need to get that point guard from Denver,’ said Steve, seeming suddenly energized.

  Darnell shook his head and jingled his keys. ‘Denver wants too much for him, man. Multiple first rounders!’

  ‘Yeah, but without him …’ said Steve.

  ‘Trust me, that ain’t never gonna happen,’ Darnell predicted.

  Eden waited patiently while the two men discussed their team’s prospects. Finally Darnell took his keys and headed for the elevator.

  Steve resumed his slump-shouldered posture at the desk, his enthusiasm over the Bulls now exhausted. Eden pressed up against the desk again. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what the cops told you, but my mother and my half-brother died that night when Flynn Darby was staying here. I just want to know for sure if he was here all night or if he slipped away during the evening.’

  ‘Like I told the cops, he checked in. And he checked out in the morning. With the girl in her Arab gear. I go off at eight, so I didn’t actually see him after he checked in.’

  ‘But he left in the morning.’

  Steve shrugged. ‘The night man said so. He left his key.’

  Eden pounced. ‘So the police didn’t actually know if he actually spent the whole night, or if he left and came back. Just that he left the key. I think I need to talk to the night man.’

  ‘Good luck with that. He was an African guy. He got deported.’

  Eden sighed, and stared out of the hotel’s plate-glass windows, nearly opaque with grime in the weak winter sunlight. ‘This is a dead end, in other words,’ she said.

  Steve watched her warily. ‘Sorry. Can’t help ya.’

  Eden decided to be blunt, and appeal to this man’s better instincts. ‘You see, the police think my mother killed herself and my half-brother, but I don’t accept that. She was my mother. She was not …’ Eden faltered. ‘She was far from perfect, but she had a … gentle heart. She would never have taken her child’s life. I was her child too. I don’t believe that she would do that.’

  Steve ran a hand over his stubbly face. ‘That would be pretty tough to swallow,’ he admitted.

  Eden looked at him directly. ‘You know your own mother. No matter what anybody else says, there are certain things about her that you just know.’

  Steve regarded her with rheumy eyes, now alight with curiosity. ‘So you think the husband killed her?’

  Eden shook her head. ‘I don’t know about that. I just want … all the information. I want to know what happened.’

  ‘But it stands to reason,’ he said. ‘I mean, who else would do that but a husband?’

  Eden grimaced. ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘I see a lot of bad husbands in this job, miss.’

  ‘I’ll bet you do,’ said Eden.

  Steve shrugged, noncommittal. ‘Tell you what. Send that picture to my phone. I’ll ask around if I have time.’

  They exchanged numbers and Eden sent the photo of Flynn to him. Steve studied it for a minute and then set the phone down. ‘All right. I’ll give you a call if I hear anything.’

  With a sigh Eden replaced her phone in her bag. ‘I’d really appreciate it,’ she said politely.

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Steve, shuffling a pile of papers on his desk distractedly. ‘Do what I can.’

  FIFTEEN

  All the way back from Toledo, Eden argued with herself.

  She knew that she might be jeopardizing her own position by going around voicing her suspicions about Flynn. She was Flynn’s editor, and supposedly she had his best interests at heart. She had always blamed her mother, first and foremost, for what happened to their family, but now that she knew Flynn Darby up close and personal, every meeting, everything she learned, added to her dislike of him. And deep within her own heart, she felt a growing conviction that somehow he was to blame for these deaths.

  He had been drunk or stoned at Tara and Jeremy’s funeral, and was leaning on the arm of a modest but beautiful young girl. He had proved to be an egomaniacal author. Lizzy had defended him as an artistic personality, but that was no excuse in Eden’s eyes. She had often thought that people who blamed their bad behavior on their artistic natures were like spoiled children, so sure they were special that they felt entitled to be rude. Marguerite had said that she had seen Flynn consoling and embracing another woman before Tara’s death. Eden reminded herself that there might be some innocent explanation for it, but, she was inclined to doubt it. Eden knew that she had nothing concrete to hold against him. Nothing she could take to the police or the insurance investigators to give weight to her theory. All the more reason to continue, she thought grimly.

  By the time Eden was back in Cleveland, the afternoon light was fading. The thought of driving directly back to the motel made her feel depressed. She pulled up to a gas pump outside a convenience store and filled the tank. Then she went inside to pay. She picked up a bottle of water and some pretzels, walked up to the counter with her purchases and set them down. The clerk behind the counter had a narrow beard and was wearing a knitted hat, and a gown-like garment with a long vest over it. A Muslim, she thought, and then chided herself for profiling the man. But as he rang up her water, Eden reminded herself that presuming someone was a Muslim was not an insulting assumption.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for a mosque. I was wondering if you might have heard of it?’

  The young man looked up at her with calm, dark eyes. ‘Which one?’

  ‘Um, it’s a mosque
called the Al-Aqsa? I’m not from around here and I got my directions mixed up. I’m supposed to be meeting with Imam …’

  The young man nodded. ‘Abd al-Bari?’

  Eden pretended to frown at her phone. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘It’s three streets over. About ten blocks from here.’

  ‘Really? I’m that close?’ she asked.

  The young man smiled. ‘You’re in the neighborhood. But if you’re going there …’

  Eden looked at him warily. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You better wear something on your head.’

  Eden exhaled with relief. ‘Thanks,’ she said sincerely. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’

  The man nodded as Eden paid, and left the store. She got back in the car, had a few swigs of water, and rearranged her light woolen scarf over her head. She didn’t know what she was going to say, but it seemed almost like an omen that the mosque was nearby. She was trying to make this picture come into focus. Perhaps the imam could be of some help.

  She found the address easily and parked across the street, although the building she was looking at did not conform to her expectations. Cleveland was a low-rise city for the most part, and she had expected to find a mosque with the traditional dome and minarets. Instead, the building front was unadorned and windowless, with a sidewalk awning over the large wooden double doors. The lack of windows gave it a closed, forbidding look, but she told herself she was just projecting. There was way too much anti-Muslim sentiment already floating around these days. She didn’t want to be a part of that. She looked both ways and ran across, dodging dirty, ice-crusted snowdrifts. She approached the tall double doors and hesitated. They did not seem to invite walk-in visitors. She decided to knock. She rapped on the door several times but there was no answer. She was thinking about grabbing the square door handle and pulling it open, when the door was pushed forward, and a swarthy man emerged, scowling. He spoke to her in Arabic, but his message was clear. Get back. Get away.

  Startled, she blurted out, ‘I’m looking for Imam Abd al-Bari.’

  The man’s scowl lightened somewhat, but he still regarded her as if she were some sort of alien invader. ‘Not here,’ he muttered.

  ‘Can I just go in and look?’ she asked.

  The man glared at her. ‘Not here. There.’ He jabbed a finger at the rundown apartment building beside the mosque. ‘There.’

  ‘Oh? He lives there?’ Eden asked.

  The man nodded and pushed past her, gesturing for her to follow him. She walked behind him to the apartment building next door and waited as he pushed the buzzer and barked into the intercom. A woman’s voice answered, also in a language unknown to Eden.

  What am I doing? she thought. Even if I meet this man, I won’t be able to speak to him or his family. The man who pushed the buzzer turned away and began to return to the mosque.

  ‘But I don’t—’

  ‘Wait,’ the man commanded, and then turned and disappeared back into the mosque.

  Eden hesitated, wondering why she had come, and what she could possibly hope to learn here, when suddenly, in the gloom of the building’s foyer, she saw someone, loosely garbed in layers of fabric, descending the stairs. She realized, as the shrouded person approached the door and looked out at her, that it was Aaliya herself. Eden smiled at her in relief.

  Aaliya looked puzzled, and did not smile in return.

  ‘Aaliya,’ she said. ‘I’m Eden. We met at—’

  ‘I know who you are,’ Aaliya said gravely. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you,’ Eden said. ‘And your parents.’

  The girl’s expression was inscrutable. ‘My parents are dead. My aunt and uncle are my guardians.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Eden. ‘That’s right. I had heard that … If you could just spare a few minutes …’

  The girl frowned and hesitated, but finally opened the door. ‘Come in,’ she said.

  Eden entered the building, her nose instantly aware of delicious, spicy scents in the stairwell. She followed Aaliya up the stairs and through the open door of a dimly lit apartment.

  The apartment was sparingly and starkly furnished, except for some worn but still colorful rugs overlapping one another on the floor. Instead of paintings on the cracked walls, there were decals of Islamic calligraphy. The only other decorative elements were several ornately filigreed metal shades which covered the few lights in the gloomy apartment.

  A woman’s voice called out to Aaliya from the back of the apartment in Arabic, and Aaliya answered, but in English. ‘A visitor,’ she said. ‘My teacher’s stepdaughter.’ Aaliya turned to Eden and indicated a low cushion. ‘Please sit.’

  Eden seated herself awkwardly.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ Aaliya asked.

  Eden shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I went to the mosque first, but the man who … met me there … sent me here. He said your uncle would be here.’

  ‘He is at the mosque,’ said Aaliya. ‘But you’re not allowed to go in there. Why were you looking for him?’

  ‘I wasn’t specifically looking for him. I didn’t expect to find you here. I just wanted to ask some questions about the night that my mother died …’

  At that moment a woman with a deeply lined face wearing a long robe and a headscarf entered the room. She looked suspiciously at Eden.

  ‘Khala,’ said Aaliya, ‘this is the daughter of my teacher’s wife. Her name is Eden.’ She turned to Eden. ‘This is my aunt, Chandani.’

  Eden did not know what the protocol might be, but she bowed her head to the woman, and that seemed to work. The older woman bowed back, unsmiling.

  ‘Why does she come here?’ the aunt asked.

  ‘She has questions.’ Aaliya looked at Eden expectantly.

  Eden took a deep breath and plunged ahead. ‘The night that my mother died, you were in Toledo at a writers’ conference, I understand. With my stepfather.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Aaliya.

  If her question was a revelation to Aaliya’s aunt, the woman did not give any sign. But the police detective had said that Aaliya had had the permission of the imam to go to Toledo.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Eden, ‘I was wondering if you could say for a certainty that my stepfather was in Toledo all that night.’

  Aaliya nodded. ‘Yes. I’m certain that he was,’ she said.

  Eden knew that she was about to tread all over the religious and cultural values of these two women. She hesitated, and wondered if she should. And then she thought of her own mother and Jeremy, and she ignored the sensibilities of her reluctant hosts and forged ahead. ‘Was he with you … throughout the night?’ Eden asked bluntly. ‘Is that how you can be so sure?’

  Aaliya’s eyes widened, and the color drained from her face.

  ‘What is this woman asking you?’ Chandani demanded of Aaliya. So far, she had not addressed Eden directly.

  ‘She is asking me if her stepfather and I were …’ Aaliya hesitated, her pale face suddenly flushed. She murmured something in Arabic.

  The older woman turned indignantly on Eden and glared at her. ‘How dare you suggest that of my niece?’ Chandani demanded.

  Eden refused to be intimidated. ‘Aaliya is a beautiful young woman. My stepfather is older, and more experienced. It’s the sort of thing that can happen.’

  ‘Maybe in your culture this is normal,’ Aaliya’s aunt spat out, shaking her head. ‘My niece is pure. She is a devout. What you say is an insult,’ Chandani insisted. ‘You must please leave. You are no longer welcome in my house.’

  ‘Khala, it’s all right,’ said Aaliya soothingly. She turned to Eden. ‘Then the answer to your question has to be no. Absolutely not. We had separate rooms. He walked me to my room after the conference and said goodnight. The next morning, we met for breakfast at a coffee shop and then he drove us back to Cleveland.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I gave offense,’ Eden said. ‘But if Flynn was not actually in his room that
night, I am thinking that he might have returned to Cleveland. He might have somehow … had something to do with my mother’s death. Now, if he was with you …’

  Aaliya’s large, dark eyes studied Eden’s face. ‘I understand that you are upset. But what you’re insinuating … that’s not possible.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Eden humbly.

  ‘I did call his room about midnight, but there was no answer.’

  ‘He wasn’t there?’ Eden hardly dared to breathe.

  Aaliya shook her head. ‘Then I called his cell phone. He answered it and said he was out in a bar. I could hear people and music in the background. I told him that he had insulted me. Unintentionally. But all the same.’

  ‘Did he make a pass at you?’ Eden asked.

  Aaliya sighed wearily. ‘No. It was something else. An assumption he made about me. People who are not religious often do not understand those who are. He presumed that, because the laws and customs of his religion do not matter to him, that I would be equally dismissive of my own. When I complained, he was very apologetic. He said he was on his way back to the hotel. He wanted to come to my room, to talk face to face, but I declined, of course. But he was willing to come and have a discussion. So, he had to have been nearby. Then he asked me to meet him in a public area. I said I would see him in the morning.

  ‘The next day, when we met for breakfast, he seemed quite sober and he apologized to me again. He did not have the demeanor of a man who had driven to Cleveland and back to commit a monstrous crime. This I cannot imagine. He is a man of …’ Aaliya hesitated, and seemed to grope for the right word. ‘… good intentions. The best of intentions. In this crime against his wife and son, he could not have been involved. It was a tragedy to him. That I can tell you for certain.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Eden. She had a feeling that Aaliya was telling her only part of the truth, but she also felt certain that what she had said was the truth as she knew it. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’