“Well?” Judy hung up the phone. “Am I off the case?”
Mary glanced over at Judy, whose face was illuminated from below by the glowing screen of the BlackBerry, which made her look like a spooky version of herself. “I have a more important question. Are we still best friends?”
“Forever.” Judy set the BlackBerry on the console, so even her spooky face was no longer visible. “Now, am I off the case?”
“Yes,” Mary answered after a moment, steering into the darkness.
Chapter Twenty-six
Mary locked the front door behind her and let herself into a house that was quiet and still. It was past midnight, so Anthony had already gone to bed, and she set down her purse on the small ladderback chair in the hallway, oddly relieved not to see him. Maybe because it had taken her almost half an hour to find a parking spot, driving around the block until she was dizzy.
“I want my own parking space,” Mary said aloud, to no fiancé in particular. Still, she felt touched to see the bills, mail, and catalogs arranged in neat piles on the console table, sorted into His, Hers, and Theirs, and he’d left the lamp on for her, another thoughtful touch. It was as if she was happy to see the evidence of him, but didn’t mind missing him in person. She’d done enough fighting for one night, with Judy, and it left her feeling disoriented and empty.
You have a question to answer, partner.
Mary kicked off her pumps and padded down the hallway, past the darkened living room and into the kitchen, on autopilot. The amber fixture hung over the granite island, where Anthony always left her a note when she got home late. This one was written on a piece of legal paper, since they always had so many canary yellow pads laying around, and it lay next to a ballpoint pen and a flowery pink birthday card that he must’ve picked out for his mother’s birthday.
Mary went over to the note, which read, “Honey, will you sign the card to Mom? Love you. Get some sleep!” She picked up the ballpoint, opened the card, and scanned it like a contract before she signed her name after, Anthony and, then set the pen down and padded to the refrigerator, where she consumed approximately half an hour of comfort food, including but not limited to a glass of milk, a brownish avocado, hummus with baby carrots, and the entire container of green Ceregnola olives, which coated her lips with a telltale shine, like lip gloss for Italians.
Am I off the case?
The food gave her a second wind, if little comfort, and she watered her fig tree, then left the kitchen, turned out all the downstairs lights, and tiptoed up to her office, where she sat down at her desk and logged into the Internet, with a sour taste in her mouth that had nothing to do with her snack parade. She saw her philly.com home page pop onto the monitor, without focusing on any of the bold-faced news headlines or the wiggly ads for mortgage rates. She felt so strange without Judy, vaguely rudderless, having no sounding board to bounce ideas off of. She’d have to shift to Plan B, working with Lou, whom she loved, but it wasn’t the same as working with her best friend.
Judy, what’s the matter with our girl?
Mary navigated to her email and scanned the senders’ names, who were all clients, so they read like an endless things-to-do list that she’d rather avoid for now. She bypassed them until she got to Lou’s email, with its re line that read Confidential, then she clicked Open. It was characteristically blank, since Lou hated to type, but the attachment with the guest list was there and Mary clicked Print, to read it later.
She navigated to Google and plugged in the names of Fiona’s friends, the girls who had died in the car crash, Sue Winston, Mary Weiss, and Honor Jason. A lineup of news stories appeared on the screen and she clicked the first one, which opened under a heartbreaking photo of a red car, with its grille smashed cruelly into its shattered windshield, under a headline, TRAGIC ENDING FOR HIGH-SCHOOL FIELD HOCKEY SEASON.
Mary sighed, skimming the article, which contained no new details, except the age of the girls repeated after each of their names, age sixteen, which struck like a blow each time she read it. They were so young, too young to cope with the horror of losing their friend to such an awful and violent murder, but none of that made its way into the story, where they sounded like a bunch of reckless partiers. The alcohol and toxicology tests were still pending, but the girls had already been pronounced guilty in the newspaper, with none of the nuance of the real-life story.
Mary felt her heart go heavy in her chest, and her gaze wandered back to the wrecked car. She flashed on Mike’s hideously warped bicycle, wrenched out of shape by the car that had struck him on his daily ride along the West River Drive. Mary hadn’t known it wasn’t an accident when it had happened, and it had almost cost her her own life to find out the truth. She’d never get over it, and she could never have handled it at all, at sixteen years old. But for the grace of God, she could have been in a car, drinking and trying to outpace the pain. And she couldn’t help but add the deaths of Fiona’s girlfriends to Fiona’s, because the girls were all victims of the same murder. It made Mary more determined than ever to find the real killer.
She hit Print, then skimmed and printed the next few articles about the car crash for her bulletin board in the war room at work, then she navigated back to the Internet, logged onto Facebook, and searched for Hannah Wicker. There were only a few Hannah Wickers, with just one in the Philly suburbs, in Newtown.
Mary edged forward in her chair and opened Hannah Wicker’s page. Hannah’s email was listed there, and she tapped out an email asking the girl if she would meet to talk about Fiona’s murder. Hannah’s response came back almost immediately:
How awful, but yes. Say when.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The next morning, Mary scurried down the street, her pumps clattering on the gum-spattered pavement. It was just before dawn, the sky still a dusty blue over the flat rooftops, though the coming light of day would ghost the stars, hiding them in plain sight. Only the runners were out, trying to get some exercise before work, and lights were barely beginning to go on inside the houses. Mary had showered, put on a suit, and left before Anthony even woke up, because she had to get an early start if she was going to reach Chester Springs by the time the post office opened.
Mary kept up her pace, her purse and messenger bag bumping against her hip. She was already feeling stressed that her day would be cut short for El Virus’s birthday party tonight, but she tried to keep her residual resentment at bay, though it wasn’t easy. She was only on Delancey Street and she had five blocks to go before she reached the car, since the only parking space she could find last night was nowhere near the house. In fact, it was farther than remote parking at the airport, but there were no shuttle buses for women who didn’t have the balls to stand up to their fiancé. Nice girls finished last.
Mary slid out her BlackBerry on-the-fly and scrolled through her email, to see if Lou had been able to find out anything about Alasdair overnight. She still felt funny working without Judy, but she told herself to suck it up and opened the email, which was typically terse:
Alasdair Leahy, born, Manchester, England, May 3, 1960. Graduated high school. Emigrated to U.S. 1980. Became U.S. citizen 2003. No criminal record. Employment, Gardner Group, 1992–present. Horse trainer and horse sales, Hagan, Ltd, Unionville, PA, 1987–1992. Jockey and exercise rider, Delaware Park, 1980–1987. Lives in tenant house on Gardner property, 2 bedroom, 1½ bath. Wife Maeve, no children. And he’s not on Facebook and her settings are private. LOL!
Mary hit Reply and took a right on Twenty-second Street, then hustled down toward Walnut. She wrote, thanks and see you at the office around noon xo, thumbing the keys and trying not to collide with a fire hydrant, vaguely aware that the sidewalk was busier here, with other overachievers doing the same thing, texting their way into high blood pressure heaven, followed by an early grave. She checked her watch, and it was 5:45, too early to call Alasdair yet. She slid her BlackBerry back into her pocket and reached the end of the block where she had parked the car, but halted,
confused. Her car was gone.
Mary double-checked the street sign, but she was on the right street. She looked around at the surrounding shops and remembered that she had parked in front of a soft yogurt shop, which was right behind her. Her car should’ve been at the end of the block, but there was only an empty space. Her first thought was that her car had been stolen, but her gaze found the NO PARKING—TOW ZONE sign that she must have missed last night, maybe because she was exhausted or cranky that she had to park in Timbuktu.
“Damn!” Mary said, but nobody looked over because they were on their BlackBerrys. If her car had been towed, it would have to stay where it was for now. She had to get on the road right away or she’d be responsible for the death of six thousand bees, which was more guilt than even a Catholic could take.
She needed a car and she needed it fast. She thought about using Mike’s old BMW, but it was parked ten blocks in the other direction and she couldn’t risk its not starting, since it hadn’t been driven in months. She could wake Anthony up and borrow his car, which would serve him right, but he needed it. She could ask Judy, but she didn’t want to bother her and/or admit that she was wrong. There was only one person left, who was awake at this hour and who could help, and would even be happy to be asked.
Mary reached for her BlackBerry and pressed P, for POP. She waited while the call connected, thanking God for the umpteenth time that her father was still alive, not only because she adored him, but because he was her own personal 911. The phone rang and rang, because even though he was awake, he wouldn’t hear the ringer until her mother, who was probably getting dressed for Mass, told him so. The phone stopped ringing but no voicemail came on, because her father didn’t know how to set it, so Mary pressed P again, let it ring, and the call was answered on the third time.
“MARE, HOW YOU DOIN’? YOUR MOTHER SAYS HI.”
“Say hi for me. So Dad, you’re awake?”
“SURE.”
“Thank God.” Mary felt lucky all over again, that her father rose at the crack of dawn even though he had no job to go to anymore. “Can I borrow your car?”
“SURE. WHEN YOU NEED IT?”
“Right now. Sorry about the short notice.” Mary stepped to the curb to hail a cab to go to South Philly. There was only light traffic on Walnut Street, with the SEPTA bus heading toward the bus stop. “I don’t see a cab yet, but there’ll be one along any minute.”
“DON’T TAKE A CAB, MARE. I’LL PICK YOU UP.”
“Aw, you don’t have to do that.”
“I WANT TO. THE CAR’S RIGHT OUT FRONT. I WAS ABOUT TO GO TO THE DINER, BUT I DON’T HAFTA.”
“Wait, the diner?” Mary blinked. “You meeting The Tonys?”
“YEAH.”
“Perfect!” Mary said, getting an idea.
An hour later, she was steering her father’s massive Buick Electra along the expressway, trying mightily to hold it steady despite the softness of its aged tires and the shimmy in a steering wheel the size of the equator. The car was thirty years old, but white as a set of new dentures, with a black interior that must’ve looked badass in the eighties. It had only twelve thousand miles, since her parents never left the kitchen, and the air conditioning blew a filmy soot, albeit weakly. They drove with the windows half-open, which not only added humidity to the cigar-and-mothballs smells, but rendered it impossible to hear each other. Mary didn’t bother playing the radio, which boasted not only AM but FM, and even at speed, the constant chatter of the three Tonys surrounded her on all sides. Her father sat in the passenger seat, and Tony-From-Down-The-Block, Pigeon Tony, and Feet rode in the backseat, jazzed to be on an adventure.
Feet was saying, “Jesus, Mare, how far out is this place? We been in the car forever.”
“We’re almost there.” Mary glanced at the rearview mirror and caught his eye behind his Mr. Potatohead bifocals.
“What?” Feet shouted, his few wisps of frizzy gray hair blowing in the wind. He had on a white short-sleeved shirt and brown pants, and his skinny frame looked swallowed up by the big bench backseat, his narrow shoulders caving in on themselves, as if he were folded in half cross-wise, like an origami octogenarian.
“It won’t be long now, Feet,” Mary shouted back, loud enough to be heard. The traffic was moving quickly out of the city, since the rush-hour commuters were going the other way. The top speed of the Buick was fifty miles an hour, and at this rate they’d be at the post office by the time the bees were writing their wills. “I’d say an hour more, at most.”
“An hour?” Feet groaned. “Can we stop again?”
“Do you really need to? We just stopped.”
“I do.” Feet shrugged with regret. “What can I tell you?”
“I GOTTA STOP, TOO, MARE.” Her father looked over, his lower lip puckering. “SORRY. BETWEEN US, WE ONLY GOT A PROSTATE AND A HALF.”
Mary nodded. “It’s okay, Pop. Next stop, you got it.”
Feet craned his neck toward the front seat. “We must be in Camden by now. Mare, we in Camden yet?”
“No, Camden is in the other direction.”
“What did you say, Mare?” Feet frowned.
“We’re going the opposite direction, toward Delaware.”
“I can’t hear you!” Feet shouted.
“We’ll be in Camden soon!” Mary shouted back.
Tony-From-Down-The-Block leaned over, peering past Pigeon Tony to scowl at Feet. “What’s’a matter with you? Don’t you know anything? We’re going southwest.”
“Get offa my back.” Feet glared back at him. “I got a bad sense of direction, is all.”
“Camden’s north, Feet. You don’t know that? Who don’t know that?”
“Awright awready. Don’t make a federal case.”
“I wasn’t making a federal case. I’m just saying. You’re acting like a cafone.”
Up front, Mary worried that the kids in the backseat needed to be separated. Cafone was Italian for country bumpkin, or in the modern vernacular, redneck. “What’s the matter with you two, lately? You seem to be fussing a lot.”
Tony-From-Down-The-Block turned away, looking out the window on the right. “He’s got a problem with me.”
Feet turned the other way, looking out the window on the left. “I got no problem with him. He’s got a problem with me.”
Mary was about to follow-up when her father nudged her arm. She glanced over to see him flaring his milky brown eyes at her, which was his version of a Meaningful Look. Her mother was the master of Meaningful Looks, able to convey don’t-be-fresh, put-that-down, or lower-your-voice merely by subtle changes in her eyebrows. Her father was an amateur by comparison, but Mary got the gist, so she went to safer ground. “You guys are gonna love it. We’re going to the country, the rolling hills of Pennsylvania. It’s beautiful.”
Feet brightened. “Like Rolling Rock, from the rolling hills of Latrobe, Pennsylvania? Like on the commercial?”
Mary had no idea what he was talking about. “Right, exactly.”
Tony-From-Down-The-Block shook his head. “Me, I only drink Heineken. It’s imported.”
Feet scoffed. “Big deal. It’s named after heinies.”
Mary decided to change tacks. There was a purpose to this field trip, and one of The Tonys was about to prove indispensible. “So Pigeon Tony, do you know what to do with the bees?”
“Che?” Pigeon Tony cupped a gnarled hand to his ear. His thin lips curved into their omnipresent smile, though he sat in the crossfire between Tony-From-Down-The-Block and Feet.
“You know what to do with the bees?” Mary asked, louder. She eyeballed Pigeon Tony, who was about five feet tall, and would fit easily into Allegra’s beekeeper outfit. “You know how to get them into the beehives?”
“Si, si, certo.” Pigeon Tony nodded, his bald head as hard and brown as a filbert. He had a faded red handkerchief tied around his scrawny neck, which managed to look jaunty with his white shirt and baggy jeans. In his lap sat a wrinkled old paper bag that held
the bee mister and other supplies. “I do alla, I take care, you see, Maria, I do.”
“Good, thanks,” Mary said, vaguely reassured. She wanted to touch base with Alasdair, so she slid her BlackBerry from her pocket, scrolled to the email she had sent herself last night, and highlighted his phone number.
Her father gasped in alarm. “DON’T DO THAT WHILE YOUR DRIVIN’, HONEY! THAT’S NOT SAFE!”
“Pop, I’m sorry, it will just take a minute. It’s really important.”
“NO, STOP! THAT’S DANGEROUS! MARE, PULL OVER!”
“I can’t pull over, I’m in the fast lane.” Mary pressed Call before he made a move to stop her. Her father wasn’t angry with her, just terrified for her, and he’d never yelled at her as long as she’d known him, except for the fact that he yelled all the time because he couldn’t hear anything. “It’s a really important business call, about what we’re doing this morning with the bees. I waited all night to make this call. Don’t worry, I’ll be safe.”
“THEN WAIT ’TIL WE STOP.” Her father’s tone softened. “MARE, GOD FORBID ANYTHING HAPPENED TO YOU! YOUR MOTHER WOULD KILL US BOTH!”
In the backseat, Feet frowned in disapproval. “Mary, you’re not supposed to talk on the phone while you’re driving. You could die. We could all die. Didn’t you see the commercial?”
Mary began to wonder if all of Feet’s information came from commercials, and in that case, he was fairly well-informed. “I’ll make it fast, Feet, don’t worry.”
Tony-From-Down-The-Block craned his neck, scowling. “Mare, that’s the only thing he’s been right about all year. You’re not supposed to talk on the phone and drive.”
Mary heard the phone ringing, or at least she thought she did, over her father’s yelling, The Tonys’ clucking, and the wind noise. She would’ve pulled over, but that was even more dangerous than talking on the phone or driving around with the crazy Tonys. “Okay, everybody, tell you what. I’ll put it on speaker, then I can drive.”
“NO YOU CAN’T.”
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