by Jill Orr
Ajay’s brow was deeply furrowed. “Jordan who?”
“Jordan James?” Carl asked. “Riley, we talked about this. That was a suicide. We found a note, the insulin bottle, everything.”
“Someone forced her to write that note!” I shouted, as if saying it louder would make them believe me. “She never would have made that many mistakes—Carl, you knew her. She was the smartest person in our class.”
“Who is Jordan James?” Ajay cut in.
“Oh, like you don’t know,” I hissed.
“Riley, you are acting a little insane right now.” Ajay said this like he was talking to a two-year-old. “I don’t know anyone named Jordan James.”
“You went out with her! You put an arrow in her quiver—”
“Hey, hey,” Butter put his hands up. “There’s no need for that kind of talk.”
“I saw your activity on Click. You went on two dates with Jordan James—while she was investigating Romero, your boss, and then suddenly she ends up dead? And then a week later you ask me out, while I’m investigating your boss, and then my car gets blown to bits? That’s a little too coincidental.”
Ajay said nothing for a moment. For a half-second, I actually thought he might come clean—just confess everything right there on the spot, but when he opened his mouth to speak, it wasn’t a confession. His voice was tight with restrained anger. “I am listed as a consultant on Little Juan Park because two years ago there was a structure, a shed, on the land that collapsed and crushed a homeless man who’d been sleeping under it at the time. State law says that when a death occurs on property, the land must be inspected by a forensic geotechnical scientist before they can issue building permits.”
He paused. I started to get a sick feeling in my stomach.
“I’m one of only four certified forensic geotechnical scientists in the area.” He let this information sink in. Carl and Chip were quiet, rapt with the soap opera unfolding before them. I swear if Butter could have pulled a tub of popcorn out of his pants he would have. “I’ve never even met Juan Pablo Romero. I was contacted by his foreman and submitted my report via email three months ago. He did pay me my consultant fee, but I hardly think that makes him my boss.”
I was shaken, but I dug in deeper. There was more than just the Romero connection that was off about Ajay. “And what about the fact that you’re married, huh? Didn’t think I knew about that, did you?”
There was a moment’s hesitation. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all day—”
“Aha!” I yelled. “So it’s true!” I looked over at Carl and Butter to see if they were getting all this. They looked thoroughly confused.
“I am married, Riley,” Ajay said, “but only on paper. My wife left me a year and a half ago. She isn’t a US citizen and would be deported if we divorced. It’s complicated. I’m sorry I lied, it’s just not something I usually bring up in the beginning of a relationship.”
My mouth was as dry as a bucket of sand.
“And as for your theory that I dated your friend?” he said. “I don’t know anyone named Jordan James. I went on two dates in May with a woman named Jordan Blaise, a reporter. We went out a couple of times for lunch, but it didn’t work out. I got the impression she was still hung up on her ex.”
Hearing the name Jordan Blaise was like a punch to the gut. “That’s Jordan,” I whispered, almost to myself.
“Jordan Blaise is Jordan James?”
“It’s her mother’s maiden name,” I said, still struggling to piece together all that Ajay had just told me. An image of a twelve-year-old Jordan popped into my mind. She was holding an invisible microphone and saying, “This is Jordan Blaise signing off from Air Force One.” She’d giggle and say how she thought that name sounded so reporter-like. I’ll bet she planned on using it for her byline. And she must have been using it on Click.com, too.
Ajay sighed, his shoulders slumped, and put his hands in his pockets. “And that Jordan was your friend from high school, the one who died?”
I nodded.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “She seemed like a really nice woman.”
“She was,” I said. My mind was reeling. Everything I thought I knew about Ajay’s involvement with Jordan’s death was wrong. I hadn’t gotten a single thing right. So much for me having my granddad’s instincts.
Ajay stared at me. “Did you really think that I was some kind of…hitman for Juan Pablo Romero? That I would hurt an innocent woman? That I’d blow up your car? Is that why you’ve been acting so weird lately?”
I was mute in response.
“Wow. I’m such an idiot. You’ve only been going out with me in order to find out my connection to Jordan and Juan Pablo Romero.” He laughed a mirthless laugh. “I actually thought we connected.”
“Ajay,” I started to say but was cut off by Mrs. Foley who was standing at the foot of my driveway in her cream housecoat and slippers.
“Butter,” she called out, “can we shut down the discotheque, please?”
“Sorry.” Butter hurried to his cruiser to turn off the lights.
“So can I report an all-clear here, Riley?” Carl said, once again using his official deputy voice.
“Yes.”
“All right then,” he said. “I’m going to go work on crowd disbursement. That means—”
“We know!” Ajay and I said in unison.
“Okay, okay,” Carl said, looking hurt. “I’ll file my report and be in touch if I have any further questions.” He looked at me, then to Ajay. “Seems like you guys have some things to work out, so I’ll just leave you to it.”
Once Carl and Butter were gone, I asked him, “Do you want to come in so we can talk in private?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Listen,” I started to say.
He held up his hand to silence me. “I gotta go.”
“Ajay.…”
He did not turn around. He walked back to his car still parked in my driveway. I had been so sure that he was involved in Jordan’s death, but I’d been wrong about it all. Everything I thought I’d figured out about the entire situation was wrong. And now, not only had I ruined what could have been a promising relationship with a great guy, but I didn’t trust any of the theories Holman and I had so blindly decided were reasons for Jordan’s death. If we were so wrong about Ajay, maybe we were wrong about everything else too?
“An obituary is often the last chance to tell a story, and it’s crucial that it’s factually correct. One of the great things about obituaries is that they last, that they are saved and put in scrapbooks and on refrigerators.”
—JIM SHEELER, in an interview on Poynter.org
CHAPTER 31
With my second cup of coffee in hand, I dragged my weary bones into work the next morning. All night long, my mind churned through the theories Holman and I had come up with, sorting them into two camps: reasonable suspicions and batshit-crazy conspiracy theories. Obviously, Ajay was not a henchman for Romero. That went into the batshit-crazy column. On the other hand, he was married and had been hiding that from me. But, to be fair, he had been trying to tell me something all day yesterday, and my heavy drinking and subsequent puking got in the way of that. So we were right to be suspicious of him—but not for the reasons we thought. That was justifiable batshit, I supposed. Then, there was our sentinel theory that Jordan’s death hadn’t been a suicide at all. That I still believed; I didn’t think there was any chance Jordan killed herself. So that just left our theory that the anonymous tip about the taco trucks had something to do with how she died. I had a gut feeling this theory had merit. Then again, after last night I was beginning to lose faith in my gut instincts.
I cut through Memorial Park on my usual route into work and saw Kevin Monroe waving at me from the far side of the park, just beyond the courthouse steps. I waved back. I wasn’t in the mood for chitchat, but I didn’t want to be rude. He’d always been really nice to me.
“Hold up!” he
called and jogged over to where the path met the sidewalk. “Everything okay? I heard a couple of deputies were at your house last night.” News definitely traveled fast in Tuttle Corner.
“It was just a misunderstanding,” I said.
“Glad to hear it.” He kept up with me as I walked toward the library. “How’s it going with Jordan’s obituary? Haven’t seen it in the paper yet.”
“I think it’ll run in next week’s edition,” I said. “Mrs. James said no rush since they’re waiting on having the funeral till her mother can come down.”
“Gotcha,” he said. “Well, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Thanks.” I had reached the path that led off the park to the library. I was about to turn and walk up it when I had a last-minute thought. “Mr.—I mean, Kevin—can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“I was wondering what kind of information could be gained by looking through arrest citations?” If Holman and I could just figure out what Jordan was working on, maybe we could figure out what it was that she’d stumbled across that got her in trouble.
“Gosh, it depends on what the arrest is for. But they’ll all have the basics like time, date, name of the person arrested, name of the officer, location, charge—stuff like that. Why do you ask?”
“No reason, I was just doing some research.”
He sighed. “Does this have anything to do with Will Holman’s conspiracy theories?”
I didn’t say anything; my silence implied consent.
“C’mon, Riley, do you really think someone murdered Jordan James? This is Tuttle Corner!”
“I know, but something isn’t right about her death.” I leveled my gaze at him to let him know I was not going to be deterred. I wasn’t some confused young girl so aggrieved over my friend’s death that I was acting crazy. I may have been wrong about Ajay, but I knew Jordan hadn’t killed herself.
He stared back at me for a few long moments. “Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll help you if I can, but it has to stay off the record.”
“Deal.” I smiled, pleased to be taken seriously for once. “We think Jordan intercepted a letter meant for Holman that contained a tip to check out some of Juan Pablo Romero’s taco trucks.”
“Hmmm,” Mr. Monroe said, “do you know if she followed the tip? Or what she found?”
I shook my head. “We don’t. All we know so far is that she got the tip on the same night she died. Now why would a reporter as ambitious as Jordan kill herself when she had just gotten a tip on a big story?”
“Even if I agreed with you, which I’m not saying I do,” Mr. Monroe said, “you’d have to convince the sheriff that the tip Jordan got was somehow linked to her death. Then they’d have to convince a judge to get the proper warrants to investigate further. I gotta be honest, Riley, I think that’d be a tough sell.”
I agreed. “What if there’s some way to get around all that and look into it ourselves? If we found—”
“If you did that, whatever you found wouldn’t be admissible.”
“But what if—”
“Listen,” he said, lowering his head toward mine, “the chances are slim that the alleged tip was related to the fact that she took her own life hours later.” He paused. “But if you want, I can use some of my contacts and look into it. Would that make you feel better?”
“Yes!” I smiled. I wanted to do a fist pump and jump in the air. But I didn’t, of course. I did, however, appropriately thank him and gave him my cell number to call if he had any news.
Feeling excited, I walked into the library and texted Holman for the second time since last night. Again, I got no response. I wanted to tell him about the mess with Ajay and about how Mr. Monroe agreed to help. I wished he’d hurry up and text me back already.
After setting my stuff down, I went to talk to Dr. H. I found him at his desk poring over a newspaper with his magnifying glass, the one Louisa had given him for their fortieth wedding anniversary. It had a black marble handle with a gold tassel at the end. Dr. H was proud that at the age of sixty-seven, he still didn’t need reading glasses, but I’d noticed he was using the magnifying glass more than usual lately.
“Knock, knock,” I said, hovering just outside his open door.
“Ah, Riley.” He looked up. “Come in.”
I walked in and sat in my usual spot, in the chair on the left facing his desk. He set down the magnifying glass and smiled at me. “You’re doing better today, I trust?”
“Yes,” I said, “but I wanted to see if you’d consider going to the sheriff about the threats you’ve been getting.”
Dr. H exhaled, a heavy sound, like he was blowing out the weight of his troubles. “I’ve considered it, of course,” he said, “but I am inclined to believe them when they say they have a source inside the department. I’d like to gather a little more information before taking my suspicions to Joe Tackett.”
“Do you have any theories?”
“Well,” he said, again picking up his magnifying glass and turning it over in his hand, “as you’ve probably noticed, I’ve been doing considerable research on what reason Twain and his boss could possibly have for wanting to donate a bookmobile to our little library.”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that too.”
He nodded. “It’s a strange thing for someone to be so violently passionate about getting books in the hands of underserved populations.”
“Agreed.”
“I’ve been going over the possible nefarious applications of a bookmobile, and to be honest, I haven’t come up with much.” Dr. H paused, then smiled. “Times like this I wish my dear Louisa was still here. She had such a deliciously suspicious mind.…
“Anyway, the only thing I’ve been able to figure out is that it must come down to access. This Twain, and his boss, who I think we can safely figure is Juan Pablo Romero, are looking to gain access to outlying communities under the cover of books.”
“But what for?”
“That,” he sighed, “I don’t know. But I think we have to figure it isn’t for the enrichment of people’s lives.”
“What if this is like the park he’s building? A donation to the community to make himself look good?” I asked, playing devil’s advocate. I was no fan of Romero, but after being so wrong about so many things, I wanted to be sure the next time I accused somebody of something, I had grounds.
“Then why not make a big public show of it? Why threaten?”
Just then we heard a deafening scream coming from the circulation desk. Tabitha. We raced out of the office and saw her, face white as chalk, crouching down behind the desk, screaming, “Get that beast out of here!”
I followed her pointed finger to the source of her panic. It was Mrs. James standing in the library holding a very excited Coltrane on a leash. He jumped and twisted and reared up when he saw me, panting heavily.
“No dogs allowed!” Tabitha screeched. “Shoo!”
Dr. H went to calm her down, while I escorted a shocked-looking Mrs. James and Coltrane back through the front doors.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, trying to keep Coltrane from knocking me over with his enthusiasm. “I had no idea he would frighten her so much.”
I had to laugh because I hadn’t known Tabitha was so scared of dogs. I’d have to remember that for later. “Oh, she’ll be fine.” I bent down to rub Coltrane’s ears. “Who could be scared of a big softy like you?”
“She has every reason to be scared,” Mrs. James said seriously. “Coltrane is a trained attack dog. He’s all tail wags and kisses if he likes you, but if not, he’ll rip you to bits.”
“I’m glad he likes me then.”
“That’s actually why I’m here, Riley,” Mrs. James tugged on the leash and forced Coltrane into an obedient sit. “I want you to take him.”
“What?”
“I heard about what happened to your car,” she said, “and that the police were called to your house last night. I’m not sure
what’s going on, but I want you to take Coltrane. For protection.” I could see how worried she looked, and it touched me.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Really.”
“I insist.” She handed me the leash. “You’ll feel a lot safer with him around. I’ll feel a lot safer, too.” She petted Coltrane’s head and looked at him affectionately. “Besides, I have my hands full with the other two. And I think you remind him of Jordan.” Her eyes glistened as she looked at him.
I didn’t know what to say, so I just said, “Thank you.” And just like that I became the owner of a furry, eighty-pound trained assassin.
“Mrs. James?” I asked before she walked away.
“Yes?”
I felt like I needed to say something about the obituary. She hadn’t asked me when I’d be finished with it, but I knew she had to be wondering. “About Jordan’s obituary…I know you probably want it to run soon, but I haven’t gotten it quite right just yet. But I’m still working on it.”
She smiled at me the same way she used to when I’d ask for a second helping of lasagna at her house. “I’m in no hurry,” she said, with a wan smile. “I know you’ve been working hard on this. I hear things.”
I froze, my face no doubt showing a look of one part surprise, one part confusion. Did Mrs. James know that I was looking into alternatives?
“I knew you were the best person for the job. That’s why I asked you, Riley.” And with that she turned to leave.
CHAPTER 32
Tabitha nearly had a nervous breakdown over Coltrane, so Dr. H told me I could have the rest of the day off, which worked out really well because in addition to being incredibly distracted, I needed to get my new pet some basic necessities, like food and a squeaky toy in the shape of a newspaper.
The problem was I had no car. Once I got Coltrane home and he sniffed every inch of my house, I called Ryan. His family owned the only farm and home supply center in Tuttle Corner. And he had a truck.