All the Blue-Eyed Angels

by Jen Blood

  “And before that? You didn’t start spending summers in Maine until you were a teenager, right? Where did little Jack Juarez spend his formative years?”

  I’d been a reporter long enough to recognize the silence that followed: he was trying to decide how much of his story he was willing to tell. I kept my mouth shut and let him figure it out for himself.

  “I don’t remember,” he finally said.

  “You don’t remember meaning, ‘I don’t want to talk about it’?”

  “ ‘I don’t remember’ as in, I don’t remember. I have no memories before I was a teenager.”

  That certainly stopped me. I stared at him. “No memories at all? Until when?”

  “Thirteen,” he said without hesitation. “I remember everything after that.”

  “But nothing before,” I said. “Bike accidents, family pets, childhood illnesses?”

  “No. What about you?”

  “I remember all of them—I’m not the issue here. Don’t you have family photos? What about stories your parents tell you?”

  “My parents are dead. I don’t remember them. I was raised by nuns in a convent just outside the city.”

  Logic was starting to stymie me. “Wait. Matt Perkins was an orphan.”

  He looked like he didn’t get the connection.

  “How did he find out he was your uncle? And why didn’t he…I don’t know, adopt you, instead of just having you up for the summers?”

  Once the light bulb clicked, Juarez shook his head. “He’s not really my uncle. He was in Miami one winter and ended up doing some maintenance work at the convent. We hit it off.”

  “And these nuns had no problem sending you a thousand miles away every summer to live with a strange bachelor who liked to give you presents and call you his nephew?”

  That earned a smile. “They were very trusting women.”

  “Apparently.”

  We were in Portland by this time. Jack took the Forest Ave exit without directions from me and we merged with traffic heading past the University of Southern Maine, nestled in a neighborhood in the city’s East End.

  “Have you tried hypnosis?” I asked.

  “Gee, I hadn’t thought of that.”

  I gave him a look, which he returned.

  “You said it’s on Baxter?”

  It took a second before I realized that he was talking about Jim Abbott’s place. “Yeah—he’s got a duplex.” I gave him the address.

  My experience with Portland in recent years was limited to the downtown area, but Juarez navigated the quiet, tree-lined streets as though he’d spent some time there. Yet another topic to pursue when conversation lagged. For now, though, I had to get to work. He pulled into a rutted driveway badly in need of fresh paving, beside a faded gray duplex badly in need of fresh paint.

  “I could come with you if you’d like,” he offered.

  “I think I’ve got it. Thanks, though. I probably won’t be more than an hour, tops—I’ll give you a call when I’m done?”

  “Sounds good. I’ll see you soon.”

  His hand brushed mine and our eyes caught. I forgot about his slow driving and terrible taste in music.

  “Will you have dinner with me tonight?” he asked. “My treat. There’s a nice little Eritrean place on the other side of town.”

  So, Juarez was familiar enough with Portland to know out-of-the-way ethnic places on the wrong side of the tracks. So many mysteries, so little time.

  I nodded. “You’re on. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  The way things were going, we could spend another half an hour in the car discussing our plans for the evening, so I climbed out before I completely lost track of why I was there. He waited with the engine idling until I got to Jim Abbott’s door, then drove off five miles under the speed limit once Abbott opened up and ushered me inside.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jim Abbott was built like a very tall stick figure, with the posture of a yogi and a tangle of graying curls atop his narrow head. Two greyhounds, one flanking him on either side, completed what was a distinctly Seussian picture. Neither of the dogs barked, but they both sniffed at me politely before trotting off on slender legs to curl up side by side on a floral sofa pushed up against the far wall.

  The apartment had old-fashioned wallpaper decorated with tiny pink roses, and a hardwood floor that needed buffing. Newspapers and boxes were piled high in every corner. A modular television the size of a bureau was tuned to a news program with the sound off.

  Abbott motioned me through an archway to the kitchen, where the wallpaper had daisies and the appliances hadn’t been updated since the ‘50s. We sat at a faded red kitchen table with matching vinyl chairs.

  “It was my mother’s place,” Abbott explained. “She died six months ago—I’m still trying to clear everything out.”

  “I’m sorry. Don’t worry about it, though—it’s very Donna Reed.”

  He laughed. The sound triggered something—a flash of the past that was there and gone so quickly that it was hard to hang onto. Another kitchen table, long thin fingers clasped together. The same laugh, as my mother scolded me for…what?

  “We’ve met before,” I said. It was a revelation to me, and sounded it.

  He nodded. His eyes were blue-gray and clear, giving the impression that he was younger than I suspected he must be.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d remember. It was a tough time, I know.”

  I tried to call up other memories, unsuccessfully. I felt like a swimmer navigating murky waters, the pictures around me too hazy to see clearly. Over the stove in Jim Abbott’s kitchen, there was a black and white, plastic clock shaped like a cat’s head. With each passing second, the bulging eyes moved from side to side. The time was quarter past two.

  I handed him the photos I’d found in Malcolm Payson’s things, uncertain how else to begin.

  Abbott took them and shuffled through. “Son of a bitch,” he said softly, when he got to the shot of the padlocked door. He looked annoyed, but not particularly surprised. “Where did you get these?”

  “Isaac Payson’s brother died—he left me the island, actually. These photos were in with a box of his things.”

  He shook his head and continued looking.

  “I found the notes you took after you questioned my mother and me.”

  His eyes remained on the photos in his hands. I could tell by the slight tensing of his thin shoulders that I had his attention.

  “You thought I was lying to you.”

  Abbott considered the statement long enough for the cat clock to roll its eyes a couple dozen times. He carefully put the photos back in order and set them on the table.

  “Have you shown these to your mother?”

  “Kat?” It wasn’t the question I’d expected. “No—I’ve only told a couple of people about them. My mother and I don’t really…”

  He nodded without waiting for me to finish the sentence. “I’d be interested to hear what she has to say about them.”

  “Why?”

  He knotted and unknotted his long fingers. Cracked the thumb knuckle of his left hand. The murky waters settled, for just a second.

  “She’s a child—she doesn’t have to tell you a damned thing. She didn’t see anything. She told Constable Perkins what she knows.”

  My mother is angry. I sit at the kitchen table in a chair too big for my child-sized legs to reach the floor, Jim Abbott seated across from me.

  “You don’t have to be afraid, Erin. I’m not here to hurt your dad.”

  “Get out.” My mother pulls the policeman from his chair, and I worry that he will shoot her. Arrest her. She’s all I have left.

  “I don’t want to talk anymore.” I start to cry.

  The tall policeman goes away.

  I couldn’t remember him coming back.

  “You think my mother had something to do with a cover-up?” I asked.

  “I do,” he said without hesitation. “She was one of the first ones
out there. I think she was protecting your father.”

  “My father was with me.”

  He smiled, just a little. Kept his eyes steady on mine. “So you said.”

  I broke the stare first. I traced a crack in the Formica tabletop with my index finger. “My father died, you know.”

  “I heard that. I’m sorry.”

  “If something else happened that morning—something other than the story I gave police then…”

  “You were ten years old, Erin. You’re not culpable for anything. That case was closed a long time ago.”

  “What if I told you there was someone else on the island that morning? With that and these pictures, do you think they’d reopen the investigation?”

  “What do you mean, there was someone else on the island?” he asked sharply. “When?”

  “The day of the fire—my father and I went out there. There was a man in a black cloak…He chased me through the woods.” I stopped. For the first time, I thought I understood why Kat had been so hell- bent on me keeping quiet; the whole story really did sound insane.

  Abbott clearly thought so, too, though he was kind enough to play along. “You think that’s the person who started the fire?”

  I met his eye. “You were right—my father wasn’t with me that morning. Something happened, but I don’t know what. I don’t know where he went. You talked to my mother, you talked to me. Did you…” I hesitated. “Did you interview my father?”

  “I did.” His voice was soft. “We spoke a few times. But he wasn’t exactly…The fire took a toll on him.”

  “Meaning he went nuts,” I interpreted. I tried to keep my voice matter of fact, but there was a ragged edge that I couldn’t seem to control. “I know. He was never the same after that.”

  “He asked you to lie for him that day?”

  I hesitated before I finally gave in. “That morning. We were staying in a motel on the mainland. He left while it was still dark out, and didn’t get back until almost eleven. Before he left, he said I couldn’t tell anyone he’d left me in the room alone or he’d get in trouble.”

  I thought of the giant motel beds, of scrounging for loose change in his pants pocket that morning so I could raid the hallway vending machine for breakfast. There was nothing usual about that morning.

  “What was he like when he came back?” Abbott asked.

  “That morning?” I thought about the question, phrasing my response carefully. “Distracted.”

  “That’s it? Not upset?”

  “We’ve gotta go, Erin—you don’t have time to get your clothes. We’ll get them later.” My father is crying when he comes through the door. He grabs me by the arm and drags me outside. He won’t answer my questions, and he drives too fast through Rockland traffic to get back to Littlehope.

  “We’re gonna get arrested, Dad—slow down.”

  He doesn’t answer. He is too white, and his clothes are drenched. Rain is coming down hard. During the car ride, he prays softly and keeps his fingers tight around the steering wheel.

  “Yeah. He might have been a little upset.”

  “What did he say? Did he tell you where he’d been?”

  I shook my head—that much was true. “He didn’t say anything. Just that we had to get to the island, but I had to stay in the boat.”

  “And when did you tell Katherine about this?”

  “About what?”

  “The lie. I mean—she knew, obviously. Did you tell her, or did Adam?”

  “Nobody told her anything. She never knew.”

  Abbott scratched his pointed chin. “Listen, you don’t need to protect her. It happened a long time ago…I’m just trying to get to the truth.”

  “And so am I,” I insisted. “I’m not protecting her—I’m telling you, she never knew. I never told her, and my father sure as hell didn’t. She was the whole reason he told me to lie in the first place.”

  I thought back to those days after the fire, trying to call up conversations I’d had with my mother. Had she asked me what happened? Pushed me to tell her the truth? I could remember little about that time, but I had a funny feeling that the reason I didn’t remember that particular conversation was because we’d never had it.

  “I don’t know what to think anymore,” I confessed. “If this was your investigation, where would you go next?”

  “This was my investigation.” He smiled dryly. “What about the other guy who was there—the one I’m assuming shot these pictures. Noel Hammond? He was there when the investigators arrived, if memory serves. And with the history between him and your mother, I always got the—”

  “I’m sorry,” I interrupted. “What history are you talking about, exactly?”

  Abbott’s eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. He bit his lip. “You didn’t know about the, uh…”

  “‘The uh’ what? Noel Hammond was married.”

  “It was never confirmed—it was just a hunch I had. I could’ve been off base.”

  And pigs could fly. “Did my mother know about this theory of yours?”

  “She denied it, as did Detective Hammond. No surprise there, of course.”

  “But you didn’t believe them.”

  “I had my doubts.”

  He didn’t come right out and say he knew my mother had been lying through her pearly white teeth, but it came through loud and clear anyway. My chair scraped across the linoleum as I stood. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me—I really appreciate it. I should get going.”

  “Listen, I might have been wrong. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “I’m sure you were right, actually. Don’t worry about it. Things are making a little more sense now—thank you for being honest with me. If it’s all right, could I call you with any further questions?”

  He looked uncomfortable. Sorry for what he’d said, and even more sorry for me. I’d always loved being a reporter, but I’d never known what it was like to actually be the story.

  It wasn’t a good feeling.

  “Of course,” he agreed. “Call me anytime, I’ll be happy to help any way that I can.”

  We shook hands and I was on my way. The prospect of a romantic dinner with Jack Juarez was suddenly the very last thing on my mind.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Noel Fucking Hammond. Can you believe that?”

  It was just after one a.m. I’d been waiting three hours for Diggs to get home from work; Juarez had given up and turned in at a little after ten. Our dinner together had been fine, but I was distracted and he was distracted, and neither one of us seemed eager to share the reasons for our distraction. Conversation was stilted, and we hurried through our Eritrean veggie platter and were back on the road by five. I’d had too much honey wine and ended up falling asleep in the car. I woke up as we were pulling into the driveway, glad to have the day come to an end.

  And now, I was back in the kitchen with Diggs. We were both in sweats and slippers, munching on leftovers and talking quietly so we wouldn’t wake Juarez. The fact that I’d never quite achieved this level of comfort with my ex-husband was not lost on me.

  Diggs shook his head in response to my question. “It does seem a little coincidental. Noel Fucking Hammond.” He was making fun of me, but that was fine. I knew I was onto something.

  “She slept with him. Do you know how many times he could have mentioned something about sleeping with my mother?”

  “Several?”

  “At least a few. You know how many times he did mention bumping uglies with my mom?”

  “None?”

  “None.” I kicked back the last of my beer, my second of the night. “What the hell were they thinking? I mean, obviously something was going on. Do you think she slept with him to keep him quiet?”

  Einstein sat up and rested his fuzzy chin on my thigh, ever hopeful. I gave him a piece of the leftover injara I’d brought home for Diggs. The dog gobbled it up, then resumed his position at my feet in hopes of more of the same.


  Diggs got a bottled water from the fridge for himself, and I nodded gratefully when he tipped one my way. A headache was starting somewhere behind my eyes; more water and less beer was a good place to start. He sat back down, close enough that I could smell the chocolate on his breath from the hot cocoa he’d just finished.

  “I don’t have a clue why your mother would sleep with the guy,” he finally answered. “Hey, you know who you could ask who probably would know?”

  “Forget it,” I returned. “I’m not calling my mother. I’m asking Hammond. And you better believe he’s gonna tell me.”

  “Hammond won’t even take your calls. Your mother, on the other hand…”

  “Diggs.”

  “Solomon,” he countered, the water at his lips.

  Things got quiet for a few seconds. I kneaded the back of my neck, trying to ease the tension there. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

  “Yeah, no problem.” He studied me in that way he’d been doing since I was fifteen—like he was seeing more than I cared to show. “I got a call today.”

  He fell silent.

  “Am I supposed to guess from whom? Because I’m a little tired for games.”

  “Michael.”

  “Michael my husband?”

  “Ex-husband, isn’t it?” I didn’t say anything. He scratched his chin. “He said he’s left a couple of messages but you’re not returning his calls. He’s worried—wanted to know if you saw your doctor before you left town.”

  I lay my head on the table, resting my cheek on the cool pine. I closed my eyes when Diggs brushed the hair from my forehead.

  “You could’ve told me you were pregnant, you know,” he said.

  “I know that.” His fingers remained in my hair, a ghost of a caress that brought back memories I wasn’t prepared to revisit.

  “How many times did we see each other? Hell, I saw you the weekend before the—”

  “I didn’t tell Michael, either.”

  He didn’t say anything for so long that I looked up. “I don’t want another call like that in the middle of the night—especially not from him.”