She grabs my hand. “I loved your songs on YouTube. I play ‘You are my Lightning.’ all the time. Or try to anyway.” She hugs Bear affectionately, “Don’t I, Bear?”
“She does,” he sighs.
I hug her, because “You are my Lighting” is the one song that’s all mine, written without help from the living or the dead.
A squealing microphone interferes with our bonding.
Will Pyne stands unsteadily on a milk crate and shouts, “Welcome to our Wang Dang Doodle!”
Scales gasps and shrinks. Her lemony head looks like it’s been squeezed. I believe she thinks Will said something obscene. I snort, bemused by his use of that old blues’ expression for a party. Bear and Nomi respond to Will’s remark by sneaking into a corner for a passionate make-out session, as if his words were somehow romantic.
Will raises a magnum bottle of champagne. “Let’s toast the happy couple.” His monster gumball eyes appear almost kind today. “To Del and Scales.” He signals us to lift our glasses. His head sinks down, as if he’s passed out for a second, and then revives to speak forcefully. “On behalf of Del’s late mom and myself, I wish you two a magical life together.”
His words trigger a skull-splitting headache that forces my eyes shut. I hold my forehead, and feel an arm fall over my shoulder. I know it’s Mia. I keep my eyes closed and think of all the things that I should have been doing to help her, things to make sure that Will went to jail, things for which she should rightly chastise me. I deserve whatever punishment Mia Delaney’s ghost has in store for me. I open my eyes and discover the fingernails attached to the hand on the arm aren’t blue. But things are still bad because the arm on my shoulder is covered with paint splatter.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Little Lila, still stalking the big bad murderer man.” Will wipes his palms together, as if making a clean break from something. “Would you like a drink?”
In lieu of the champagne he gave everyone else, he offers me a hit of whiskey from his pocket flask. “No thanks, Will.”
He tosses a gulp of whiskey down his throat and shakes the flask at me. “Excuse me for being friendly. I thought you might be looking for a strong beverage today—considering your predicament.” He winks in Del and Scales’ direction.
Scales watches us. Will pours whiskey from his flask over his head, trickling it directly down his throat like a leaky faucet. His eyeballs redden as he gargles and swallows hard. “I suppose you can’t help the fact that you are young and stupid, Little Lila. I was young and stupid once. Look where it got me.”
Will cups a hand around my ear, to prevent Del and Scales from lip-reading his words as he whispers, “By the way, you’re wrong about me being a murderer. No matter how much pressure the cops get from your boyfriend’s big daddy, they won’t sentence me for Mia’s death because I didn’t do it.” He points at Del and Scales. “Yet, you’re about to sentence the love of your life to a fate worse than death just because you don’t like me.”
He’s drawing my focus away from the murder, which isn’t difficult right now, as Scales floats through the crowd like cotton candy in a ridiculous soft pink sundress.
“Any feelings I have for your son are irrelevant,” I tell Will. “My upcoming tour is my priority.”
“You’ll be missing the big wedding then?”
I’m about to reply when Del storms into us.
“I know you two aren’t having a social chat. This has to stop now. Mona, it’s time for the three us to talk. C’mon.” He leads his dad and me to the Mustang couch and sits Will between us, so we can prop him upright, not to mention keep the fire ants at bay.
“Dad, tell her your version of what happened between you and Mom. Start when you were a nineteen-year-old Yale sophomore, and Mom was a sixteen-year-old junior at Colt High.”
Will’s torso lilts my way. I push him back.
His words flow fast, like a dammed-up river, bursting, “After I met Mia at a Rush concert in Hartford, I was hooked. We talked about starting a band that would rival her father’s band, the Hoodoo Chickens. But that plan fizzled when Mia got pregnant during her junior year. Babies are band killers.”
I recall Mom saying this same thing. Now I believe it.
Will continues, “She wasn’t due till late August and she hardly showed until summer, so nobody at school knew about the pregnancy. We moved up here the summer before her senior year to have Del in secret. It was a good plan because her father often went on tour during the summer and she could do as she pleased.”
“After Del was born, I dropped out of college to care for my baby boy so Mia could finish high school. On the last day of Mia’s senior year, I was supposed to pick her up and bring her back here to live with us for good. I painted her something that was going to blow her away. Something that would make her forget about all the other guys that were after her.” He grumbles, “But then you already know about that special painted room, as does the entire Hartford Police force.”
I mutter an apology.
Will digs a dog-eared photo from his wallet that shows a cluster of 1990s-era teenagers standing in front of Colt High sporting high-waisted jeans and gelled hair. Every guy is leaning toward Mia.
He points to her. “Beautiful, wasn’t she? I took this photo on the morning of her last day of school. She didn’t know I was there.” He rubs the well-worn photo.
I now believe what Del said about Will sleeping with his mom’s picture, every night.
“What happened on Mia’s last day of school? “ I ask.
“The students gathered in the parking lot. I overheard a group of girls mention Mia’s name and pulled my bike beside them. One of them claimed Mia had fallen in love with Worthy Dill. This hit me hard. I knew who Worthy was. I’d heard Mia talk about him, far too much. When I heard this gossip, I lost it. One of them started talking about how nervous Mia was about telling her old boyfriend she was dumping him for Worthy. I waited a little while, hoping that girl was wrong. But she and her friends all turned and laughed at me. I knew Mia had played me and gloated about it to her friends. I figured if Del’s momma wanted a happily-ever-after with Richie Rich, then baby Del and me were better off without her.”
“When you found out about her death, later on, why didn’t you come forward and tell the police this story?”
He shakes his flask at me. “By the end of that summer, I’d replaced Mia with whiskey as my new love. Your grandparents were doing most of the diaper-changing and bottle-feeding. Imagine how freaked I was when I got a call from your mom at the end of the summer, telling me that the police were looking for me in connection with Mia’s death.
“I thought she was nuts. I couldn’t process the fact that Mia had died at Colt High. Lila said she had a hard time believing it, too. She’d assumed she hadn’t heard from me because Mia and I had ridden off happily into the sunset with baby Del.”
Will doubles over onto my arm. “The truth is, Little Lila, I wanted to die when I found out Mia had been murdered. But your grandmother encouraged me to paint my way through the darkness.” He points to the paintings overhead, obscured by cupcake-pink balloons. “That’s when I began to draw these doors with swirling portals, to help Mia escape from her basement closet prison. I tried to repaint the past. Even though, deep down, I knew it didn’t matter because she’d already moved on from our relationship, when she died. I figure that Worthy guy was in bad shape, like me. So I left him alone.”
I feel like I’m holding an unpinned grenade. I had no idea Will thought Mia loved Worthy when she died. I gently remove the flask from Will’s hand, so he can’t throw it at me. “Will, Mia never loved Worthy. She didn’t even like him. He told me that himself.”
“He must be lying!” Will’s bloodshot eyes bulge like a dissected frog. He slides off the couch onto the floor.
“Why would Worthy lie about that?” I kneel beside him. “It
makes him sound suspect.”
“Maybe he is suspect,” says Del. “Or maybe there was somebody else. Dad and I have spent our lives hiding. It’s time we faced this thing head on and uncovered the truth. I’m going to ask some hard questions around Hartford, regardless of how important this Dill guy is.”
My heart pounds at the thought of Del coming to Hartford.
“Del, if anyone finds out you’re Will Pyne’s son, they’ll clam up.”
“Then you can ask the questions and I’ll help you anonymously.” His smile is harsh, sizing me up for trustworthiness. “Do you believe Dad now? Are you willing to help us find Mom’s real killer?”
“Yes.”
Will’s face changes as he processes the emancipating revelation that Mia has never betrayed him. The wrinkles around his eyes run deeper, yet the eyes, themselves, soften, and he chuckles grimly.
Scales rushes toward us and snatches Del’s hand, as if he’s a stray toddler. “What’s going on, guys?” Her lemonhead looks terribly squeezed.
Del pulls her away where I can’t overhear. She holds her hands over her ears, clearly displeased with whatever he is saying. I’m guessing nobody told her that Del’s mom was murdered.
I overhear her squeal. “Murdered! Why investigate the murder now? Why does Beetle have to do it with Mona? Can’t this wait until after our wedding?”
Del shouts back, “I need to do this before Mona Lisa goes on tour.”
“I’m not sticking around while you take a trip with another woman. I’m heading back to the Cape.”
“I’ll be back for our wedding, Scales. I promised you we’d get married on Halloween and I’ll keep that promise.”
Will speaks to me, confidentially. “That ain’t real love between those two. We both know it. Make your move now, Little Lila. Save my boy from himself. Save yourself, too. Go where your true feelings lie. You can stop being young and stupid any time you want. Now would be good.”
“Will, Del is engaged. I’m going to help you both find out who killed Mia. But I plan to remain young and stupid when it comes to my relationship with Del.”
“That’s a damn shame for all of us, and for the universe. You may be a nuisance but so am I. That’s because we’ve got depth. As it stands, I’m getting a daughter-in-law who wades in the shallow water.” He offers me a glass of champagne—not more whiskey or a plastic cup like he gave everybody else—a real crystal glass of champagne, and I accept. He dumps the remaining contents of his flask down the sink, and fills a matching champagne glass for himself.
“To justice, for Mia,” he toasts.
“To justice, for Mia,” I echo. A hand brushes mine. No one is near me.
Will taps his temple. “Now that you’re working for our side, I feel guilty about tossing your portrait into the landfill after the cops came to the house to grab Mia’s yearbook.” He strokes his chin, contemplatively. “I’m surprised I didn’t burn it. Fortunately, my work is too good for anyone to trash. One of the locals fished it out of the muck and sold it. I need to buy it back for you.”
“Gee, thanks, Will. Just what I’ve always wanted, a painting of my glorious face that’s been in the dump.”
He bows. “You’re welcome.”
Will strolls over to Scales. She and Del have their backs turned to one another. Will tosses an arm around her quivering shoulder. “Bride-y! Mona and I were just saying this is one hell of an engagement party.”
He pours the rest of his magnum bottle of champagne on his slick, axle-grease head and yowls like a wild animal, newly unbound from his chains.
Eighteen
Graffiti Girl
Hartford Police Headquarters appears darker and dirtier than the last time I was here. Perhaps some lights are out, or I’m seeing the place through Del’s more critical eyes. The same cop as last time mans the reception desk, rubbing his steel-wool buzz cut. I notice him checking out our guitars.
“You again?’ he says. “Don’t you have enough to worry about, writing hit blues songs? We checked out the lead you gave us and even the added information from Worthy Dill. We still came up with squat. Bring something fresh and valid to the table and we’ll talk.
Del steps in front of me. “I am the victim’s son, Delaney Pyne. Is that fresh and valid enough for you?”
I drop my head to my hands. “So much for you staying anonymous.”
The officer practically jumps out from behind the desk and offers his hand to Del. “My name’s Mealy, and I’m truly sorry to hear that, kid.” He bangs his fist against his forehead.
“What’s wrong?” Del asks.
“We should have solved your mom’s case.”
“So why didn’t you?”
I put a hand on Del, worried that he’s already losing his temper.
Mealy takes my hand off him. “It’s all right. I deserve tough talk. Son, what I’m about to say, I will surely regret.” He kisses some saint’s medal hanging from his neck. “We botched the evidence in your mom’s case.”
Del’s lichen eyes transform into Saint Elmo’s fire.
Mealy crosses himself. “The janitor who found your mom’s corpse tampered with the crime scene.”
“What exactly did he do?” asks Del.
“I’m not sure, exactly. I was a rookie back when it happened, not in the full loop.”
Del rattles the man’s shoulder. “How did he get away with it? He could be my mom’s murderer!”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. Irving Stone was a decorated veteran of The Gulf War. Trouble was, so was our late chief of police. The two of them were loyal comrades-at-arms.” He scribbles Stone’s phone number on a yellow sticky note, hands it to Del, and walks away. “Talk to him. Find out what really happened. But do it soon, before it’s too late. He’s real sick. Maybe he wants to clear his conscience.”
He turns to Del, “ I should have paid better attention to what your friend had to say. I should have reopened this case. But its easier to live in denial.” He hands Del one of his business cards and writes Stone’s number on the back.
Del dials Stone’s number. He presses the phone to my ear and huddles with me so we can both hear. A nurse at the Veteran’s Administration hospital answers and tells us we can visit Irving Stone right away, and “the sooner the better.” We run red lights the whole way there. Del focuses like a flaming arrow.
“Please let me ask the questions,” I urge. “You may scare Stone into silence.”
“That’s fine, as long as I see you making progress.” He remains icy. “This may be it, Mona Lisa, our one and only chance to uncover the truth.”
The signs posted in the hospice wing insist on quiet, and the walls are painted the pinkish-orange of a New England sunset. Yet there is nothing peaceful about Irving Stone’s sick room. It smells like a pharmacy, a frat house, and a zoo. The complexity of the scent gives away the severity of his condition.
The nurse who greets us is middle-aged and sturdy. You might say “fat” at first glance but only because she wields every ounce of flesh like a barricade, blocking Del and me from seeing Stone until we’ve signed in. Of course, Del doesn’t write his real name. He wants to meet Stone anonymously.
Sometimes you lie.
Irving Stone is a tissue-paper ghost of a man. He pushes his body up into a sitting position, like he’s a kid hoisting open a heavy garage door. “Greetings, Ms. LaPierre and Mr. Woods.”
I roll my eyes over Del’s chosen pseudonym. “Greetings, Mr. Stone,” I say for both of us. “We’re researching the Mia Delaney case and hope you can shed some light on the subject.”
Stone signals his nurse to leave—which she does grudgingly. He tries to clear his throat in order to speak, but fails. His blue-spotted hand reaches for a short paper cup of water—the kind found in dentist’s offices and kindergartens—but he can’t grasp it on his own.
�
��Allow me to help you, Mr. Stone,” I say, assisting him with his drink, even though I know that he may be a well-camouflaged monster.
After taking a sputtering sip, Irving speaks to us through faintly purple lips, his rumpled eyelids fluttering, “Of course they ruled Mia’s death an accident. They figured she got locked in the basement unintentionally. Maybe some kids were fooling around, locking doors, and didn’t know she was there. There were no wounds, no harm done to the body. But you must already know those technical details from your research. Right?”
“Right, right,” urges Del.
Stone pulls himself away from him, toward me. “One of the students told me it was that motorcycle bastard boyfriend of hers who did it. He was the one who locked her up in my closet.”
“I think we both know that’s not the real story,” says Del, leaning into Irving’s bed aggressively, like he’s prepared to squeeze the last teaspoonful of life out of the old man if that’s what’s necessary to get him to admit to Mia’s murder. “I think you locked her in. You had the keys.”
“No! That’s just it. I didn’t have them. They weren’t hanging on my key rack that Friday.”
“That sounds pretty convenient.”
“Not for me. The principal gave me a bad mark on my personnel file and laid me off. I was the first to go with the city cutbacks.”
Stone’s fists tighten beside his emaciated cheeks and his eyes widen into a silent scream. He is obviously remembering some terror, perhaps his own violent actions in the war or something worse.
He stutters, “If it hadn’t been for the school board and their budget cuts, I would have been working at Colt as a janitor that summer. I would have found Mia in time. Damn those budget cuts. Damn them.”
I try to prop Stone back up on his drool-stained pillow, to help him take another drink, to keep him talking. His eyes drift in different directions as if he is having another flashback, or a spell, or his heavy medication is taking its toll. He appears to have lost track of his surroundings.
Wabanaki Blues Page 22