Dev had also called this morning. When I asked him about Willie, he’d been cagey about it.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Odelia,” he’d said to me.
I was about to press the point when it struck me that Dev Frye would never be able to confess to knowing the whereabouts of William Proctor. He did, however, give me some advice.
“If Greg’s cousin has to disappear suddenly, don’t take it personally, and don’t follow him.”
Dev was currently working a double homicide but asked me to keep in touch. Seeing that he was a cop, I didn’t tell him about the photos. I knew he’d insist I turn them over immediately, and I wasn’t quite sure that was the best route to take—at least not yet.
It seemed many of the men in my life were working hard to keep me safe, even if there was no reason to worry about my safety. It felt wonderful and annoying at the same time, like biting into a warm chocolate chip cookie only to hit a piece of nutshell.
“So,” Willie pressed, “the Blue Lobster, or someplace else?”
“I ate at the Blue Lobster yesterday.”
“Then someplace else. Any ideas?”
I gave thought to another restaurant, then changed my mind. “No, let’s go to the Blue Lobster. I ate there yesterday with Clark, so chances are slim that we’ll bump into him there today.”
“Good thinking, but are you sure you don’t mind?”
“The food’s delicious, but almost all of it is deep fried or made with mayo. That sound good to you?”
“Like heaven. My cholesterol’s kind of sketchy. Can’t remember when I last ate something fried.”
“For dessert, we can walk next door and pick up a couple of scoops of homemade ice cream, the kind made with thick cream.” I laughed. “That will throw your system into real shock.”
Willie grinned. “Stop it, you’re exciting me.”
The Blue Lobster was bustling with activity. Most people were in casual attire but some were in dressier clothing. Those folks had probably just come from church. We claimed a table on the outside deck, not far from where we parked the car. Willie sat facing the road. I noticed his eyes were always moving, continually scanning his surroundings, making sure of all possible exits and escape routes, and all possible danger. Even when he seemed relaxed, it was obvious it was only on the surface, like a smooth, cool iceberg with its sharp, jagged edges just beneath the water.
We made our food choices, and Willie went inside to place our order. He returned with three cold bottles of beer in hand. I could easily see him and Greg bonding over beer and pizza and smiled. Mi felon es su felon.
Neither of us spoke about the murder or my mother. Instead, we sat enjoying the warm, humid day, surrounded by trees and fields. People came and went from the restaurant and the ice cream stand. Across the street, Buster’s vegetable stand was open and just as busy.
“I love rural areas like this,” Willie said, breaking the silence. “Nice, slow pace; good people; fresh air.” He had polished off his first beer quickly and started on his second, taking it slower, while I nursed my one. “I prefer living in more metropolitan areas, but I always loved the country.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Would you believe Butte, Montana?”
“Not in a million years.”
“It’s true. Left to go to college in California and never returned. While I was at school, my dad got a job in New Jersey, and the family moved there. I adopted New Jersey as my home state after that.”
“Your family still there?”
“My mother is—and my sister, who’s divorced with no kids. Father’s been dead a number of years. That’s where I was before I dashed up to rescue you.”
“I don’t need rescuing, Willie.”
“It’s early yet, little mama.” He took a pull off his beer. “Give it time.”
“I’m sorry this took you away from your family.”
“Don’t be—I was going to leave today anyway. I can take just so much family togetherness, especially since they frown on my unlawful status.” He took another long, thoughtful draft from his beer. “Of course, they don’t fuss when the substantial support money rolls in each month.”
For a fleeting moment, I saw beneath the iceberg and viewed its prickly underbelly. I wondered if Willie was happy with the path he’d chosen. It seemed like a lonely life. Once, before Greg and I were married, Willie had asked me to leave everything and follow him underground. I was having my own emotional issues at the time, and for a few seconds the idea had intrigued me, although I knew I’d never be happy living the life I only imagined Willie leading.
“Speaking of family, I was very sorry to hear about your dad, Odelia. I know you two were close.”
“Thanks, Willie. Dad wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but I never doubted that he loved me. Not for a moment.” I started tearing up and internally ordered myself to knock it off.
Willie raised his bottle in my direction. “To Horten Grey. He raised one hell of a daughter.”
I blushed and clinked bottles with him, winning the battle with my tears, but just barely. “To Horten Grey.”
Our food came, and Willie groaned with open delight as he surveyed the plates being put in front of us. Foregoing grease today in favor of mayonnaise and butter, I’d ordered a cup of chowder and another lobster roll with coleslaw. Willie had ordered a combo plate overflowing with fried clams, scallops, fish filets, and fries, with a side of slaw.
I took my first bite of creamy chowder. “Tonight for dinner, I’ve got to find a salad.”
“You and me both, little mama. But for now, we dine like pigs at the trough.” He winked and licked the grease from his fingers.
While we ate, I told Willie about my time spent with the CPAC detectives and about my conversation with the Littlejohn brothers. While I was at the police station, Willie was going to have his people check out Francis McKenna. So far, he’d heard nothing.
“I agree with you, little mama, sounds like your brothers don’t want you to meet your mother. Something changed the chief’s mind. Would be interesting to find out what it was, especially with the alteration in his attitude just since yesterday. He knows about your sleuthing, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Maybe he’s concerned you’ll learn something from good ol’ Mom before he does. Just because he’s not on the case officially doesn’t mean he’s not investigating on his own.”
It was the same thought that had crossed my mind. Clark had asked Dev specifically about the murders I’d been involved with. He knew I had a problem keeping my nose out of things.
“But if he knows about some of my past activities, wouldn’t you think he’d want me involved—you know, to help?”
Willie shook his head. “First of all, little mama, cops do not like it when civilians get involved. You should know that from your dealings with Dev Frye. Secondly, it’s possible the chief might not want you uncovering something he doesn’t want uncovered. He might have his own ideas about the murder or its motive—ideas he doesn’t want public. And you never know, either he or his brother could be involved somehow or connected in some unsavory way to the victim.”
“Certainly something to consider.” I took a bite of sandwich and rolled that thought around in my head while I chewed. After parking it in a compartment of my brain for later consideration, I changed the subject. “Did you find out anything at the farm?”
“Not much. People are rather shocked about the whole thing. Titillated, too. It’s definitely feeding the gossip mills. A lot of curious folks were hanging around the corn maze, snapping photos of it from behind the yellow tape.” He ate a fat, juicy clam and washed it down with beer. “I pretended I was a reporter and started asking questions.”
I nodded. “You know, when I first entered the maze, they gave me a numbered flagpole and made a note that I was alone. They were quite diligent in telling me the procedure. That was how they controlled the numbe
r of people in the maze at any one time. I wonder if Frankie McKenna was given the flag with number one. And how did my mother get into the maze without a flag? Or was she given the first one? And if neither were, who had it? All the others were accounted for when the police rounded us up for questioning. I had number six.”
I finished my beer while I gave it some thought. “I’m sure the police have notes on it, but I’m also sure they wouldn’t share any of that with me.”
“I managed to find someone who was working the maze that day and asked her about the first pole. She said she had noticed it missing when the maze opened for business but didn’t think anything about it. She said sometimes they get misplaced or mixed up.”
“You know, I forgot about something that might be important.” I looked at Willie with wide eyes as a tidbit of information surfaced from the depths of my memory. “The girl at the maze also told me that someone is always posted in a watchtower above the maze. That’s the person who keeps an eye out for waving flags and sends help. I wonder who was in the tower during the murder and if they saw anything?”
Willie went on alert. “That’s definitely information worth pursuing. I’ll go back to the farm and see who was in the tower that morning.”
“Was the fair across the street open today?”
“Yep. Probably had a better turnout because of the murder. People came to gawk at the corn maze and stayed to visit the fair.” He drained his bottle, then pushed back his plate. “I made the rounds of the food booths, too. Like you said, Grace was supposed to have been working the booths. The folks I spoke to had no idea what she was doing in the maze.”
“People actually talked to you about it?”
Willie smiled. “Of course, little mama. I can be quite persuasive, especially when I’m hinting that their names might end up in the New York Times.”
“That’s shameful.”
“Never said my services came wrapped with integrity.” His intelligent eyes measured me, deciding what to say next.
“What?” I asked. “You have more to tell me?”
“It’s just that I asked around about Grace Littlejohn.” He paused a long time, making me want to eat his cold, leftover fries in frustration.
“And?”
“It’s just that I got the impression she wasn’t a sweet little old lady.”
“She wasn’t a sweet middle-aged lady either.” It was my turn to pause, wondering how much I wanted to know. Finally, I asked the dreaded question. “What did people say about her?”
“Nothing horrible, just that she has a temper and can be stubborn and opinionated.”
“Sound like anyone you know?”
He laughed. “In part, yes, but have you ever assaulted anyone?”
“You’re forgetting that I shot and killed a person a few years back. You were there, remember?”
“Indeed, but you did it to save someone’s life. Seems your mother has a reputation of causing scenes, even slapping people every now and then.”
“She never touched me that I can remember. But then she hardly spoke to me. It was like living with a ghost.”
Then I remembered Cynthia Rielley. She didn’t seem to have a problem with my mother, or maybe she was just being nice. On the other hand, Cathy Morgan openly despised Grace Littlejohn. Willie interrupted my thoughts.
“People did say, though, that these incidents happened in years past, not recently. But the general consensus is that she lost her temper and did the poor schmuck in.”
“I still don’t buy that a seventy-seven-year-old woman had the strength to overcome and spear Frankie McKenna to death like that. You saw the photos.”
“People can do amazing things when adrenaline kicks in.” Willie started to get up. “I am going to get some coffee. Want anything else?”
“Some iced tea would be great. This humidity is making me sweat worse than a hundred hot flashes.”
While Willie was gone, I cleaned up our table, gathering the various paper plates and plastic utensils and dumping them into a nearby trash bin. Using a couple of the little wipes, I cleaned the table top, then myself, all the time thinking about my mother’s alleged temper. Actually, the cleaning was an attempt to keep busy and not think about my mother. It wasn’t working. There weren’t enough disposable moist towelettes or dirty tabletops in the world to prevent my mind from bubbling and brewing like a witch’s cauldron. Then again, maybe if I started cleaning other tables, I could earn a few tips.
My mother may not have ever hurt me physically, but, if I was honest with myself, I’d have to acknowledge her white-hot temper. She and my dad went at it pretty good, especially right before they split up, with most of the violence stemming from my mother, especially when she’d been drinking. While not a common occurrence, on more than one occasion I had seen her strike him and throw objects. It had been like living in a war zone.
When Willie returned with our beverages, he had his disposable cell phone sandwiched in the crook of his neck, held there by his raised shoulder. He was speaking in Spanish. After putting the cups down on the table, he held the phone tight to his ear and continued the conversation. Mostly he listened, interjecting a few words every so often.
“According to my sources,” Willie said to me after ending the conversation, “Frankie McKenna was definitely a lowlife from Boston. He worked for a drug dealer.”
“A drug dealer?”
He nodded. “Yep. It was his job to act as liaison between retailers and the home office.”
“Meaning?”
“McKenna probably distributed product to and picked up money from local pushers.”
“Drugs? Here?”
“Wake up, little mama, drugs are everywhere. Although that doesn’t necessarily mean he was in town doing business. But he did have a possible local connection.” He took a sip of his coffee. I chewed the end of my straw. “I took the liberty of having my people also check into your brothers. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? I’m actually embarrassed that I didn’t think of it first.” When Willie didn’t offer up the information immediately, I added, “So?”
“Nothing much on Grady. He’s had a string of dead-end jobs until he became a cop here, thanks to his big brother. But Clark is a different story.”
After making sure no one was listening, I leaned forward. “Dev told me Clark was a good cop and even made detective, until his life and career started falling apart, mostly because of his drinking.”
Again, Willie nodded. “The scuttlebutt is that Clark Littlejohn was a hotshot cop with a major drinking and whoring problem in his day. He left the force when a drug investigation went bad and several people were killed, including his partner. He killed one of the alleged dealers but was exonerated. It was determined a clean shoot.”
“Dev didn’t provide me with those gory details, just that Clark had a drinking problem and had screwed up his career with some bad decisions.”
“And that’s pretty much what happened. But it still opens the door to suspicion about his current behavior. You see, it was rumored that Clark had done some private business with the guy he shot—that he shot him to hide their relationship.”
I picked my jaw up off the clean table. “You think my mother knows about that?”
“Not sure. But remember, it’s just a rumor.” Willie did a visual scan of our surroundings. “But it could be that McKenna is a guy from Clark’s past. Maybe he was threatening to make noise, and she killed him to protect Clark.”
“Or maybe Clark’s involved with something illegal now. Maybe he did the killing, and my mother saw it and is trying to cover for him. He and Grady might even be involved in something together.”
I tried to take a drink of tea but found my straw chewed beyond use. Yanking it out of the way, I brought the big glass to my lips and drank half the iced tea down in one long gulping action, much like a wet/dry shop vac. I drank until I coughed.
“Slow down,” Willie cautioned. “You’re going to drown i
n that stuff, and I don’t know CPR.”
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “All I wanted was to find my mother, chat with her, have a good cry, maybe even scream and yell a little. After thirty-four years, I think I’m entitled. The last thing I wanted was to end up in the middle of a drug-related murder—or any murder. Especially one involving family.”
Willie reached across the table and gently took one of my shaking hands in his. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to go home? Just give me the word, and you’re on a plane tonight back to Mr. Hot Wheels.”
“Tonight? But my ticket is for tomorrow!”
“No worries, little mama. You want to go home today, we’ll just swing back to the inn so you can pick up your things, then head to the airport. You can even leave the rental car. An associate of mine will turn it in for you.”
Boy, it was tempting.
“You’re really eager to get me on a plane back to California, aren’t you?”
Willie leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee a couple of times before answering. “I’m eager to make sure you don’t get involved in something dangerous. If I get you home tonight, Greg and Dev will crown me a hero. Maybe next time, Greg will even spring for extra cheese on the pizza.”
My head was starting to hurt. The pros and cons of leaving ran through it like floodwater through a gully. Who needed a mother? I had Greg’s mother, a woman who loved and cared about me. I even had a crazy, bitchy stepmother. And who needed brothers? Not counting Gigi’s jerk of a son, I already had two back in California. Seth Washington was the best surrogate brother anyone could have, along with Greg’s older brother. I was fine without my crazy lineage.
Still, my blood ran through the veins of these people—these strangers. The old adage blood is thicker than water ran through my brain like an old vinyl record with a skip. But this wasn’t about water, this was about drugs, murder, and people who knew about my existence but chose to pretend they didn’t, or even led others to believe I was dead.
More importantly, this was about dealing with my abandonment issues and the stuff that had screwed me up for so long.
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