“He was wasted. Maybe—maybe he didn’t know what he was doing. Tomorrow he’s going to feel horrible.”
I opened my mouth, shut it. I couldn’t believe Vee was siding with Elliot. “I have to go,” I said curtly. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Can I be completely honest, babe? I know you’re worried about this guy in the ski mask. Don’t hate me, but I think the only reason you’re trying so hard to pin it on Elliot is because you don’t want it to be Patch. You’re rationalizing everything, and it’s freaking me out.”
I was speechless. “Rationalizing? Patch didn’t show up at my door this morning and slam me against my house.”
“You know what? I shouldn’t have brought it up. Let’s just drop it, okay?”
“Fine,” I said stiffly.
“So . . . what are you doing today?”
I poked my head out the door, listening for my mom. The sound of a whisk scraping the side of a bowl carried up from the kitchen. Part of me didn’t see the point in sharing anything else with Vee, but another part of me felt resentful and confrontational. She wanted to know my plans? Fine by me. It wasn’t my problem if she didn’t like them. “I’m driving to Portland as soon as my mom leaves for a wedding at Old Orchard Beach.” The wedding started at 4 p.m., and with the reception following, my mom wouldn’t get home until 9 p.m. at the earliest. Which gave me enough time to spend the evening in Portland, and beat her home. “Actually, I was wondering if maybe I could borrow the Neon. I don’t want my mom to see the miles I put on my car.”
“Oh, boy. You’re going to spy on Elliot, aren’t you? You’re going to snoop around Kinghorn.”
“I’m going to do a little shopping and grab dinner,” I said, sliding hangers down the rack in my closet. I pulled out a long-sleeved tissue tee, jeans, and a pink-and-white-striped beanie I reserved for bad-hair days and weekends.
“And would grabbing dinner include stopping by a certain diner located a few blocks from Kinghorn Prep? A diner where Kjirsten what’s-her-name used to work?”
“That’s not a bad idea,” I said. “Maybe I will.”
“And are you going to actually eat, or just interrogate the workers?”
“I might ask a few questions. Do I get the Neon or not?”
“Of course you do,” she said. “What are best friends for? I’ll even come with you on this doomed little tromp. But first you have to promise you’ll go camping.”
“Never mind. I’ll take the bus.”
“We’ll talk about spring break later!” Vee called into the phone before I was able to disconnect.
I’d been to Portland on several occasions, but I didn’t know the city well. I stepped off the bus armed with my cell, a map, and my own inner compass. The buildings were redbrick, tall and slender, blocking the setting sun, which blazed out from below a thick stretch of storm clouds, settling the streets under a canopy of shadow. The storefronts all had verandas and quaint signs extending over the doors. The streets were lit by black witch-hat lamps. After several blocks, the congested streets opened up to a wooded area, and I saw a sign for Kinghorn Prep. A cathedral, steeple, and clock tower peered above the treetops.
I stayed on the sidewalk and rounded the corner onto 32nd Street. The harbor was only a few blocks away, and I caught glimpses of boats passing behind the shops as they came in to dock. Halfway down 32nd Street, I saw a sign for Blind Joe’s diner. I pulled my interview questions out and read them over one last time. The plan wasn’t to look like I was holding an official interview. I hoped that if I casually broached the subject of Kjirsten with the employees, I could tease out something the handful of reporters before me had somehow missed. Hoping the questions were stored to memory, I underhanded the list into the nearest trash can.
The door chimed when I entered.
The floor was yellow and white tile, and the booths were upholstered in nautical blue. Pictures of the harbor hung on the walls. I sat in a booth close to the door and shrugged out of my coat.
A waitress in a stained white apron appeared beside me. “Name’s Whitney,” she told me in a sour voice. “Welcome to Blind Joe’s. Special today is the tuna fish sandwich. Soup of the day’s lobster chowder.” Her pen was poised to take my order.
“Blind Joe’s?” I frowned and tapped my chin. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”
“Don’t you read the paper? We were in the news for a week straight last month. Fifteen minutes and all that.”
“Oh!” I said with sudden clarity. “Now I remember. There was a murder, right? Didn’t the girl work here?”
“That would be Kjirsten Halverson.” She clicked her pen impatiently. “Want me to bring out a bowl of that chowder to start?”
I didn’t want lobster chowder. In fact, I wasn’t remotely hungry. “That must have been hard. Were the two of you friends?”
“Hell, no. You going to order or what? I’ll let you in on a little secret. I don’t work, I don’t get paid. I don’t get paid, I don’t make rent.”
Suddenly I wished the waiter across the room were taking my order. He was short, bald back to his ears, and his body type mimicked the toothpicks in the dispenser at the end of the table. His eyes never reached higher than three feet off the ground. As pathetic as I would have felt after the fact, one friendly smile from me might have been enough to have him spilling Kjirsten’s entire life story. “Sorry,” I told Whitney. “I just can’t stop thinking about the murder. Of course, it’s probably old news to you. You must have had reporters in here all the time asking questions.”
She gave me a pointed look. “Need a few more minutes to look over the menu?”
“Personally, I find reporters irritating.”
She leaned in, bracing a hand on the tabletop. “I find customers who take their own sweet time irritating.”
I blew out a silent sigh and flipped open the menu. “What do you recommend?”
“It’s all good. Ask my boyfriend.” She gave a tight smile. “He’s the cook.”
“Speaking of boyfriends . . . did Kjirsten have one?” Nice segue, I told myself.
“Spill,” Whitney demanded. “You a cop? A lawyer? A reporter?”
“Just a concerned citizen.” It sounded like a question.
“Yeah, right. Tell you what. Order a milkshake, fries, the Angus burger, a bowl of chowder, and give me a twenty-five-percent tip, and I’ll tell you what I told everybody else.”
I weighed my options: my allowance or answers. “Done.”
“Kjirsten hooked up with that kid, Elliot Saunders. The one in the papers. He was in here all the time. Walked her back to her apartment at the end of her shift.”
“Did you ever talk to Elliot?”
“Not me.”
“Do you think Kjirsten committed suicide?”
“How should I know?”
“I read in the newspaper that a suicide note was found in Kjirsten’s apartment, but that there was also evidence of a break-in.”
“And?”
“You don’t find that a little . . . odd?”
“If you’re asking if I think Elliot could have put the note in her apartment, sure I do. Rich kid like that could get away with anything. Probably hired somebody to plant the note. That’s how it works when you got money.”
“I don’t think Elliot has a lot of money.” My impression had always been that Jules was the wealthy one. Vee never stopped raving about his house. “I think he went to Kinghorn Prep on scholarship.”
“Scholarship?” she repeated on a snort. “What’s in the water you been drinking? If Elliot don’t got big-time money, how’d he buy Kjirsten her apartment? Tell me that.”
I struggled to hold my surprise in check. “He bought her an apartment?”
“Kjirsten never shut up about it. About drove me insane.”
“Why would he buy her an apartment?”
Whitney stared down at me, hands on hips. “Tell me you ain’t really that dumb.”
Oh. Privacy. Intimacy. Got it.
I said, “Do you know why Elliot transferred out of Kinghorn?”
“Didn’t know he did.”
I juggled her answers with the questions I still wanted to ask, trying to summon them up from memory. “Did he ever meet friends here? Anyone other than Kjirsten?”
“How’m I supposed to remember that?” She gave a hard eye roll. “I look like I got one of them photographic memories?”
“How about a really tall guy? Really tall. Long blond hair, good-looking, tailored clothes.”
She ripped a ragged fingernail off with her front teeth and dropped it inside the pocket of her apron. “Yeah, I remember that guy. Hard not to. All moody and quiet. He came in once or twice. Wasn’t that long ago. Maybe around the time Kjirsten died. I remember ’cause we were serving corned beef sandwiches for St. Patrick’s Day and I couldn’t get him to order one. Just glared at me like he would have reached across the table and slit my throat if I’d stuck around reading the daily specials any longer. But I think I remember something. It’s not like I’m nosy, but I do got ears. Sometimes I can’t help hearing things. Last time the tall guy and Elliot came in, they were hunched over a table, talking about a test.”
“A test at school?”
“How should I know? From the sound of it, the tall guy failed a test, and Elliot was none too happy about it. He shoved his chair back and stormed out. Didn’t even eat all his sandwich.”
“Did they mention Kjirsten?”
“The tall guy came in first, asked if Kjirsten was working. I told him no, she wasn’t, and he got on his cell phone. Ten minutes later, Elliot strolls in. Kjirsten always handled Elliot’s table, but like I said, she wasn’t working, so I got it. If they talked about Kjirsten, I didn’t hear. But it looked to me like the tall guy didn’t want Kjirsten around.”
“Do you remember anything else?”
“Depends. You going to order dessert?”
“I guess I’ll have a slice of pie.”
“Pie? I give you five minutes of my valuable time, and all you order is pie? I look like I got nothing better to do than chitchat with you?”
I glanced around the diner. It was dead. Other than a man hunched over a paper at the counter, I was the only customer.
“Okay . . .” I scanned the menu.
“You’re going to want a raspberry lemonade to wash that pie down.” She scribbled it on her pad. “And after-dinner coffee.” More scribbling. “I’ll be looking forward to an additional twenty-percent tip with that.” She pinned me with a smug smile, then tucked her pad into her apron and sashayed back to the kitchen.
CHAPTER
21
OUTSIDE, THE WEATHER HAD SHIFTED TO COLD AND drizzling. The lampposts burned an eerie, sallow color that did little against the thick fog brewing along the streets. I hurried out of Blind Joe’s, grateful I’d looked at the weather forecast earlier and brought my umbrella. As I passed storefront windows, I saw crowds gathering in the bars.
I was a few blocks from the bus stop when the now familiar icy feeling kissed the back of my neck. I’d felt it the night I was sure someone looked in my bedroom window, at Delphic, and again right before Vee walked out of Victoria’s Secret wearing my jacket. I bent down, pretended to tie my shoelace, and cast a surreptitious glance around. The sidewalks on both sides of the street were empty.
The crosswalk light changed, and I stepped off the curb. Moving faster, I tucked my handbag under my arm and hoped the bus was on time. I cut through an alley behind a bar, slipped past a huddle of smokers, and came out on the next street over. Jogging up a block, I veered down another alley and circled back around the block. Every few seconds I checked behind me.
I heard the rumble of the bus, and a moment later it rounded the corner, materializing out of the fog. It slowed against the curb and I climbed aboard, heading home. I was the only passenger.
Taking a seat several rows behind the driver, I slouched to keep out of sight. He jerked the lever to close the doors, and the bus roared down the street. I was on the verge of offering a sigh of relief when I received a text message from Vee.
WHERE U AT?
PORTLAND, I texted back. YOU?
ME 2. AT A PARTY WITH JULES AND ELLIOT. LET’S MEET UP.
WHY ARE YOU IN PORTLAND?!
I didn’t wait for her answer; I dialed her directly. Talking was faster. And this was urgent.
“Well? What say you?” Vee asked. “Are you in the partying mood?”
“Does your mom know you’re at a party in Portland with two guys?”
“You’re starting to sound neurotic, babe.”
“I can’t believe you came to Portland with Elliot!” I had a sinking thought. “Does he know you’re on the phone with me?”
“So he can come kill you? No, sorry. He and Jules ran to Kinghorn to pick up something, and I’m chilling solo. I could use a wingwoman. Hey!” Vee shouted into the background. “Hands off, okay? O-F-F. Nora? I’m not exactly in the greatest area. Time is of the essence.”
“Where are you?”
“Hang on . . . okay, the building across the street says one-seven-two-seven. The street is Highsmith, I’m pretty sure.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. But I’m not staying. I’m going home, and you’re coming with me. Stop the bus!” I called to the driver.
He applied the brakes, and I was thrown against the seat in front of me.
“Can you tell me which way to Highsmith?” I asked him once I’d made it to the top of the aisle.
He pointed out the windows paneling the right side of the bus. “West of here. You planning to go on foot?” He surveyed me up and down. “’Cause I should warn you, it’s a rough neighborhood.”
Great.
I had to walk only a few blocks before I knew the bus driver had been right to warn me. The scenery changed drastically. The quaint storefronts were replaced by buildings spray-painted with gang graffiti. The windows were dark, barred up with iron. The sidewalks were desolate paths stretching into the fog.
A slow, rattling noise drifted through the fog, and a woman pushing a cart of garbage bags wheeled into view. Her eyes were raisins, beady and dark, and they twitched their way over me in almost predatory evaluation.
“What we got here?” she said through a gape of missing teeth.
I drew a discreet step back and clutched my handbag against me.
“Looks like a coat, mittens, and a pretty wool hat,” she said. “Always wanted me a pretty wool hat.” She pronounced the word prit-ee.
“Hello,” I said, clearing my throat and trying to sound friendly. “Can you please tell me how much farther to Highsmith Street?”
She cackled.
“A bus driver pointed me in this direction,” I said with less confidence.
“He told you Highsmith is this way?” she said, sounding irritated. “I know the way to Highsmith, and this ain’t it.”
I waited, but she didn’t elaborate. “Do you think you could give me directions?” I asked.
“I got directions.” She tapped her head with a finger that strongly resembled a twisted, knotted twig. “Keep everything up here, I do.”
“Which way is Highsmith?” I encouraged.
“But I can’t tell you for free,” she said in a chiding tone. “That’s gonna cost you. A girl has to make a living. Nobody ever tell you ain’t nothing in life free?”
“I don’t have any money.” Not much, anyway. Only enough for a bus fare home.
“You got a nice warm coat.”
I looked down at my quilted coat. A chilly wind ruffled my hair, and the thought of peeling my coat off sent a flush of goose bumps down my arms. “I just got this coat for Christmas.”
“I’m freezing my derrière off out here,” she snapped. “You want directions or not?”
I couldn’t believe I was standing here. I couldn’t believe I was bartering my coat with a homeless woman. Vee was so far in debt to me she might never get out.
I shucked off my coat an
d watched her zip into it.
My breath came out like smoke. I hugged myself and stamped my feet, conserving body heat. “Can you please tell me the way to Highsmith now?”
“You want the long way, or the short way?”
“Sh-short,” I chattered.
“That’s gonna cost you too. Short way’s got an additional fee attached. Like I said, always wanted me a pretty wool hat.”
I tugged the pink and white beanie off my head. “Highsmith?” I asked, trying to hold on to the friendly tone as I passed it over.
“See that alley?” she said, pointing behind me. I turned. The alley was a half block back. “You take it, you come out on Highsmith on the other side.”
“That’s it?” I said incredulously. “One block over?”
“Good news is, you got a short walk. Bad news is, ain’t no walk feel short in this weather. ’Course, I’m nice and warm now I got me a coat and a pretty hat. Give me those mittens, and I’ll walk you there myself.”
I looked down at the mittens. At least my hands were warm. “I’ll manage.”
She shrugged and wheeled her cart to the next corner, where she took up a post against the bricks.
The alley was dark and cluttered with trash bins, water-stained cardboard boxes, and an unrecognizable hump that may have been a discarded water heater. Then again, it just as easily could have been a rug with a body rolled inside. A high chain-link fence spanned the alley halfway down. I could hardly climb a four-foot fence on a good day, let alone a ten-foot one. Brick buildings flanked me on both sides. All the windows were greased over and barred.
Stepping over crates and sacks of trash, I picked my way down the alley. Broken glass crunched beneath my shoes. A flash of white darted between my legs, stealing my breath. A cat. Just a cat, vanishing into the darkness ahead.
I reached for my pocket to text Vee, intending to tell her I was close and to watch for me, when I remembered I’d left my cell phone in my coat pocket. Nice going, I thought. What are the chances the bag lady will give you back your phone? Precisely—slim to none.
I decided it was worth a try, and as I turned around, a sleek black sedan sped past the opening to the alley. With a sudden glow of red, the brake lights lit up.
The Complete Hush, Hush Saga Page 19