“Can’t say that it does. That’s whose house he went to?”
“I just told you. She has a son named Liam, who might be Hey Buddy, because at the airport Dad asked, ‘Where’s Liam?’ But she doesn’t look old enough to be dad’s mother.”
Grandma shook her head. “Never heard of any of it. Or them. But aren’t you ignoring another possibility?”
It was there, in the back of my mind. I couldn’t do anything except ignore it. “If she’s not his mother, what is she?”
“Honey, he never talked about his family. I told you that, didn’t I? What’s with all the tough questions? Did you actually go there and ring the doorbell?”
“I might have.”
“You’ve got more nerve than I do.”
“Nobody,” I said, “has more nerve than you. I took Mei out for ice cream. Dad wasn’t there.”
“Did Mei explain who she is?”
“I didn’t ask her,” I said. “It would have been rude. Do you think Mom would know anything? I already tried that when we got the letter.”
“As far as I can figure,” Grandma said, “your mom wanted to know as little as possible about your dad.”
“Maybe that’s why he took off.”
“Correction. It’s because he took off. Not to change the subject, but I kind of remember the word ‘prison’ in that letter. Could be it has something to do with why they don’t want to talk about it.”
She might have a point there. As for the rest of it, I could almost believe she didn’t know any more than I did.
“Sorry I interrupted you,” I said. She turned the TV’s sound back on. I went upstairs to my room and sat down at the computer. It stared back at me with its big blank eye. I was hoping it would tell me where to begin.
I booted up and typed in “Hudson Hills.”
It gave me a lot of stuff about the murder, stuff I’d seen in the paper.
“Okay, then, what about it?” I asked the computer. “If that’s what you want to talk about.”
Hudson Hills was where Dad had gone, someone Dad called Hey Buddy was in prison, and a kid named Johnny had been killed. All those pieces. There just had to be some kind of connection. I tried to see what else they had on Hudson Hills, NY.
Teen Questioned in Death of Friend
It was the same story I had read before. They didn’t give any names except for the victim.
A coat hanger. What a horrible way to die. How could anyone do that?
So, if Hey Buddy was in prison—unless Dad had exaggerated—and the police were questioning a suspect, could they possibly be the same?
I tried a search for Liam Penny.
Nothing.
Mei could’ve gotten it wrong. I tried Ursula Mulvaney.
Still nothing.
I called Maddie. I thought she’d seemed kind of interested in the story. She might have followed it up.
She hadn’t. “Cree, there are a lot of people in Hudson Hills. Just because your dad knows someone there doesn’t mean it’s the same person.”
“I know that. It’s what I’m trying to find out. He did mention prison in his letter.”
She was unimpressed. “Being questioned by the police isn’t the same as being in prison.”
“I am aware of that. You don’t know my dad’s sense of humor.”
Neither did I, but I’d been reading his letters for years. It would be just like him to put it that way, trying to lighten the mood. I wondered if it helped or only irritated Hey Buddy. If I were in prison, or facing it, I don’t think I’d appreciate someone making jokes.
I tried Google again. Nothing new had appeared in the last couple of minutes. At least nothing new about any Mulvaneys or Pennys.
So I called Ben. It was late enough that I was sure he must be home. I called him on his BlackBerry so only he would answer. It rang a few times and then went to voicemail.
I left a message. “Hi, Ben, it’s me. I really want to know if you know anything about that high school murder in Hudson Hills.”
I explained why I was asking. About Dad’s reference to prison and his coming all the way from Borneo.
“I thought Mrs. Mulvaney said Liam was her son. I tried looking up Liam Penny and Mulvaney but I couldn’t find anything.”
I waited for Ben to call me back. He should have been home by then. Unless he’d gone out with Miss Brown Shorts.
Skinny legs. Knobby knees. Actually her legs weren’t bad. I just wanted to think they were.
Then I began to feel like an idiot. Why should I care what my dad was doing in Hudson Hills? He didn’t care about me. Not even enough to get a computer so we could email.
It got to be after midnight. If Ben did call, the phone would wake everybody. I knew he wouldn’t do that, so I went to bed.
At 7:30 in the morning, he called.
“You up?” he asked.
“I am now. Where were you last night?”
Stupid me, asking a question like that. Why couldn’t I stop being jealous?
He let it go. “Why are you so concerned about all that?”
“Ben, he’s my dad. Isn’t that a good enough reason?”
“Are you his keeper?”
“He’s my dad. I haven’t seen him in what, six years?”
“So he finally pays a visit, but not to see you. And that bothers you.”
Ben had me all figured out. Amazing, for an Aspie. Or maybe it showed how close we were.
“Wouldn’t you be curious if it was your dad? Wouldn’t you want to know who his associates are?”
I deliberately didn’t say anything about their relationship to me. With him being a foundling, it might hit a sensitive spot. He would never know who his actual relatives were.
I went on, “He did mention something about Hey Buddy being in prison. I need to know more about that murder.”
“Can’t help you there,” he said. “I don’t know anything about the murder or about Hudson Hills. A place that size, it’s bigger than Southbridge. It might have more than one murder.”
“I haven’t heard of any others.” Not that I was watching for them. “I know! Phil Reimer.”
“Who’s that?”
“My friend at The Chronicle. Maddie knows him, too.”
“Give it a try. And good luck.”
Maddie didn’t know anything, either. Not about my dad’s family—why would she?—or about the murder. She hadn’t been keeping track.
“Psychopaths,” was all she had to say.
On Monday I asked if she would go with me to see Phil Reimer.
“Oh Cree, I’d love to, but I have this giant project for Daddy and a paper for French. Anyway, what would Phil know about your relatives?”
“I’ve given up on that,” I said. “I want to know about the murder.”
That interested her. “Can it wait a few days till I finish the typing?”
By then she would have another project. I said, “My dad’s not going to stay around forever. I need to know if his being here has anything to do with anything.”
“Why would it? And what can you do about it, anyway?”
She was being so logical, it annoyed me. “Aren’t you curious?” I said. “Just to find out?”
“I’m dying to find out. But I promised Daddy I’d do the typing and I don’t want to let him down.”
I couldn’t blame her. She had a sweet, cuddly daddy, not a mystery man like mine. The main reason I wanted her was for moral support, but maybe I didn’t need that with Phil Reimer. He was a reporter I’d met last year when little Kippie Hurlow got kidnapped, and I’d seen him a few times since then. He always called me Lucretia.
After school Maddie drove me home, as she usually did. I dropped my book bag, freshened up a bit, and set off along Riverview Boulevard.
I walked a couple of blocks, then down a long flight of steps built into the hillside. They led to the lower village with the train station just across the street. The Chronicle was on one side of the station plaza.
It wasn’t a huge newspaper office because it wasn’t a huge newspaper. It had one main room with some desks, a few cubicles along one wall, and several food vending machines. I peeked into Reimer’s cubicle. Only his plaid jacket was there, hanging on the back of his chair. I went out to the main room where a skinny guy with rubber bands around his shirt sleeves sat working at a computer.
“Is Phil Reimer anywhere?” I asked.
“Yeah, somewhere,” said the man. “Have a seat, take a load off. He’ll show up.”
I went back to Phil’s cubicle and tried to decide how I was going to explain myself. I needed a stronger reason than mere curiosity even though my father might be involved. All the way down those long steps I’d been thinking, but hadn’t come up with anything that made a lot of sense.
Reimer came in, wearing a pink shirt and a pink and gray tie. He was somewhere in his fifties, with brown hair graying at the sides, and a frown of concentration that turned to a grin when he saw me. “Hey there, Lucretia!”
“How are you, Mr. Reimer?
“Phil. I keep telling you, it’s Phil.”
“And I’m Cree.”
He sat down at his desk and asked what he could do for me.
“I’m wondering if you can tell me anything,” I said, “about that high school murder in Hudson Hills. The kid named Johnny Kinsser. I mean, more than was on the Internet and the paper.”
He said, “That was pretty much the same thing, as I recall. What more do you want to know? And for what do you want to know?”
“Just some details. I have a—personal reason.”
It seemed easier to go with the truth, even if it sounded silly. I told him about my dad, the letter, and the house in Hudson Hills.
“I want to know who Hey Buddy is, who Liam is, and what it all has to do with my dad.”
“And you think there’s some connection with the killing?”
“I can’t help thinking it. That’s what I want to find out.”
He gave me a twisted smile. “It sounds as if you know more about the case than I do. Unfortunately, it’s not my beat. The day it broke, I was on another assignment. They gave it to somebody else and I doubt you’d get any more from her. The police haven’t released the other kid’s name, only the victim.”
“So you’re saying the reporter who covered it wouldn’t know anything either?”
“Frieda Snyder. She might, but she’s not here right now. I’ll ask her when she gets back but I doubt she’ll be much help.”
In spite of his denials, I kept trying. “It’s so maddening. My dad came all the way from Borneo and went straight to that house, and nobody will tell me anything.”
“I do apologize.”
“I don’t mean you, I mean my whole family. And my dad. I haven’t seen him since he got out of the car. He’s my father. Before that, I didn’t see him for six years. He hates me. I got to thinking maybe he’s not my father. Then who is?”
“Lucretia,” said Reimer, “nobody could hate you. How about a Sprite?”
He went out to the soda machine and got me one. He got himself one, too, and popped it open as he went on talking.
“I’ll ask Frieda if there’s anything she knows, but if it’s a name I’m afraid that’s hush-hush. Except the victim. He’s not covered anymore.”
“Johnny Kinsser. The newspaper said he was friends with the suspect. I mean the car owner.”
“Musta had a falling out. You never know. Kids get emotional.”
“Does he have any family? Johnny Kinsser?”
“I do know that much,” Phil said. “The parents are divorced. He lives—er, lived with his mom.”
“Any brothers or sisters.”
“Nope.”
“That’s sad.” I was thinking of his mother.
The coat hanger kept bugging me. I tried to imagine the logistics. Johnny had been found on the front passenger side. I supposed the car’s owner would have been in the driver’s seat. How could he garrote somebody sitting right next to him?
I was about to put that question to Phil when his phone rang. He spoke for a moment, then picked up his jacket.
Dismayed, I asked, “Are you leaving?”
“Got a job to do.” He took his pocket tape recorder out of a drawer and stuffed it into his pocket.
“But—can you tell me anything else you know? Like quickly, while you’re putting on your coat?”
He gave it a tug to straighten it. “It’s this way, Lucretia.”
“Cree.”
“Right. Cree. This is an ongoing police investigation. The police won’t tell us anything until they’re ready to hold a press conference. That’s how it works.”
“They won’t even tell a reporter?”
“Especially a reporter. I’ll see ya.”
What a maddening world, I thought as I trudged back up the long steps. Phil couldn’t help who he was. Some reporters would push until they got their story even if it meant stepping on toes or bypassing the law. Just my luck Phil wasn’t one of those aggressive types.
I couldn’t do much about him, but there was someone else I could depend on.
Me.
Chapter Seven
I didn’t feel like going home and badgering Grandma, who claimed she knew nothing. That just might be true.
Ben didn’t know anything either. A lot less than I did. I knew he was busy, but I couldn’t help myself.
When I got to Frosty Dan, I didn’t see Ben at all. The only one behind the counter was the girl in brown shorts. I didn’t know if Ben had told her who I was. Probably not, so I went over and introduced myself.
“Hi, I’m Cree. I’m a friend of Ben’s. Is he here?”
Without a word she went to a door at the back and yelled, “Ben! You have a visitor!”
I heard Ben’s voice, but couldn’t make out what he said. The girl answered, “Somebody named—” She turned to me. “What did you say your name is?”
“Lucretia.”
She seemed befuddled. It wasn’t what I’d told her before. I gave it an Italian twist. “Lucrezia. As in Borgia.” That baffled her still further.
“Just tell him Cree Penny,” I said.
Ben opened the door and looked out. I greeted him with a finger wave. Behind him I could see a desk with a computer lit and running. So that was how he got his homework done. On break time, with the boss’s equipment. Ben wouldn’t do that without permission.
“Be right with you.” He closed the door.
My eyes swept over the row of pictures in back of the counter. I could have gone for a banana split but I wasn’t about to ask the girl for anything. Besides, I had barely any cash on me and I knew Ben didn’t want people taking advantage of his position. The offer would have to come from him.
Ben came out, untying his big white apron. “What’s the problem?”
How did he know there was a problem? Wasn’t there always? I beckoned him to a table in a far corner.
“Who is she?” I asked in a whisper.
“Who’s who?”
“Her.” I gestured with my head and saw her watching.
“That’s my coworker,” he said. “Didn’t we talk about this?”
“Not really. What’s her name? Is she from around here?”
“Of course she’s from around here. Do you think a person would commute to a job like this?”
“Why can’t you tell me her name?”
“What difference does it make?”
He gave a low chuckle. He knew he was making me crazy.
I had done it to myself. After being dumped that time by Troy Zoller, and being walked out on by my dad, I was so insecure I could be a jealous bitch without half trying.
“I told her who I was,” I said. “I mean, I told her my name but she didn’t return the favor.”
“Yeah, she’s pretty quiet. Makes her a good person to work with. Is that why you came all the way here? To ask about her?”
“No, I came to talk about Hudson
Hills. I went to see my friend at the newspaper but he said it’s not his beat.”
Ben shook his head as though trying to clear it of my garble. “What do you need to know about Hudson Hills and why?”
“I told you all that. Because of Dad. And that letter, and prison and stuff. I keep thinking there’s some connection with the murder. And who Hey Buddy is. I pictured him as someone Dad’s age, but Mrs. Mulvaney looks about Dad’s age and she said Liam, who I think might be Hey Buddy, is her son.”
“You don’t know that,” Ben said. “Hey Buddy could be Liam’s father. Or an uncle, or grandfather…”
“Mei said there’s no Mr. Mulvaney.”
“He might exist even if they parted company.” Ben got up and retied his apron. “Break is over.”
I caught his arm in passing. “Kiss me.”
“Not here. Maybe later.” Gently he eased himself out of my grasp.
“Ben—”
“Sandy Boyd,” he hissed, not loud enough for her to hear. He went behind the counter, greeted Sandy with a smile and some comment that made her laugh, and got right back to scooping ice cream.
I stood up. Sat down and tried again. How could he be so indifferent? Ben wouldn’t dump me without any warning. Would he? He’d never sneak up on a person with that sort of thing, the way Troy Zoller did. Ben was literal and honest. Subtlety, innuendo, were not in his nature.
Or mine, it seemed. Why on earth did I ask him to kiss me? Was I trying to show off to Sandy Boyd?
Now I faced a long walk home. It wasn’t easy, but I managed to leave the store without looking back at either of them.
The strip mall where Frosty Dan was had cars parked with their noses right up to the curb. I wandered past a silver submarine without giving it a thought. My brain wasn’t engaged, except to mope over that brush-off from Ben. And his friendly smile for Sandy Boyd. If she asked him to kiss her, what would he do? Leap at the chance?
I looked into windows without seeing them. I already knew what was there. A sushi nook. A unisex hair salon. An overpriced dress shop. A place where you could rent stuff like machinery and appliances.
Finally something registered. It was a little stationery store that sold magazines and newspapers. I stood there for a moment before it really clicked.
Under Cover Page 5