by Nancy Bush
Luke was getting a different picture than he’d been told. “But Ted didn’t want to.”
“He suffered from nostalgia. His grandfather built the original cabin and, after a fire, his father rebuilt it into what it is today. Ted wouldn’t touch a nail to renovate, so here it remains. The place I’ll most likely die.”
Anger, he thought. Very likely forged from guilt. “Would it be possible to talk to you in person? I promise I’ll be as quick as I can.”
There was a long pause. He really thought she would refuse him. It hung in the air like a dark threat. “I saw you on the news,” she finally said. “When you were interviewed at your partner’s hearing.”
On the steps outside. He hadn’t been the warmest interview. “I was worried about Bolchoy’s chances.”
“I applauded you. Pauline Kirby is an overbearing bitch.”
“Ah . . .” He cleared his throat, fighting a smile. Maybe Bolchoy had been right. She’d seen him and taken his side against the shark reporter.
“I suppose you can come to the cabin,” she said doubtfully.
“If you would prefer to meet somewhere else . . . ?”
“No. I’m not going anywhere, so if you want to stop by today, just give me a time.”
He looked at the clock. Noon straight up. “Two o’clock?” he suggested.
“You know the address?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll see you at two, Mr. Denton. And it’s Peg,” she added.
“And I’m Luke,” he said.
“Luke,” she answered carefully, as if trying it out.
He clicked off, thought about it a second, then reached for the phone to put a call through to Andi. He hesitated with his thumb over her number on his favorites list. It would be better to wait until after his full interview with Peg. He was rushing. Eager to let her know he was making progress on his mission to bring the Carreras to justice. But was he? He had no idea really what Peg Bellows could offer him.
He warred with himself for a few minutes, then grabbed his jacket and headed out into a crisp October afternoon. He would get lunch and go over the case notes he’d written out for himself, part of which were the questions he wanted to ask Ted Bellows’s widow. Preparation. The type of writing he was best at.
She’d been broken after the fate that had befallen her and had retreated from the world. She was proud and alone and refused to be coddled, even when coddling would have fulfilled his own desire to play the hero. He wanted to protect her, wanted to be the one to make her safe, wanted to shine in her eyes....
“Total crap,” he said aloud as he climbed into his truck. Picking up his cell, he punched in his brother’s number. Dallas didn’t answer, so he left a voice message, “Just so we’re clear. I’m not writing any goddamn book.”
* * *
September walked out of the squad room and through the door to Laurelton PD’s reception area. She passed by Guy Urlacher, who slid her a look as she exited the front doors. Guy was a stickler for protocol and had intimidated September with his strict rules when she’d first been promoted to detective. He never intimidated Gretchen, however, who did as she pleased and told Guy he could do many colorful things to his body should he really demand she sign in and out every time she entered or left the building. Over the last year September had become inured to his stiff and small ways and had adopted some of Gretchen’s chutzpah. Now there was a silent, cold war brewing between them, but at least he’d stopped sliding the clipboard her way and demanding her signature.
She was alone and intent on interviewing Grace Myles, Tynan Myles’s mother, at Maple Grove Assisted Living. Weeks had passed since she’d planned to contact the elderly woman to see what, if anything, she could glean from her memory, weeks when she and Gretchen had been drawn into other cases, both of which were Wes and George’s, but for one reason or another on which they’d needed extra help. Gretchen had actually gotten a pot thrown at her by the infuriated husband whose wife and girlfriend had been cheating on him. She’d deflected the missile but not the hot soup it contained and she’d ended up with a scalded arm.
September had helped unravel what had truly gone down among the three of them along with Wes, Gretchen, and George who, true to form, had spent most of his time in the squad room rather than doing legwork. She and Gretchen had helped be Wes’s “partner” while George rode his swivel chair. Lieutenant D’Annibal had seen what was happening, but so far nothing had changed, and because no big cases had come along, the relationships within the squad room were status quo ... except that Wes’s feelings about his partner had taken a slide down the scale. He’d moved from mildly annoyed to pissed off to out and out angry with George.
They were all on edge, actually. Talk of cutbacks had reached the department, and being the newbie, September knew her job would be axed first. She honestly didn’t know what she would do, if that were to happen. She was as attached to her job as if she were already a lifer. And she knew, even though she’d been a media darling for a while, that it wouldn’t cut any ice if and when jobs were cut.
So, Gretchen was with Wes, interviewing several eyewitnesses to a knifing outside a sports club in downtown Laurelton, while George was working the phones and following up on the background of the prime suspect. September hadn’t been needed on the case, so she’d gone back to the list of Aurora Lane residents she’d compiled, anyone who’d lived in the houses over the last thirty years. It was discouraging how little people remembered or knew about the Singletons and/or the eighteen-year-old male whose bones had been found in their basement. She’d worked the phones and walked Aurora Lane and generally bothered people to the point where none of them wanted to talk to her or anyone from the Laurelton PD any longer. Gretchen had tried her own brand of bullying with even less productive results. More interviews with Fairy and Craig had seemed to only confuse them, so for all intents and purposes, she was back at square one.
Today, after another unproductive conversation with the Lius’ daughter, Anna, whose Chinese, non-English-speaking parents had lived across the street from the Singletons and whose patience with September was paper thin, she’d decided to make another run at Grace Myles. She’d been to see the older woman twice and had been rebuffed by the administrator who ran the facility both times with what September now thought might be excuses. She’d sensed that Tynan, for all his expansive talk about allowing his mother to be interviewed, had asked that she be left alone, and the place had complied. September had been nice about it. She truly didn’t believe Grace had any information for her. But she was at loose ends and pissed off and cranky, and so today she’d thought, to hell with it and had headed out to take a final stab at it. Gretchen was busy, so she didn’t have her partner with her, and maybe that was a saving grace as well; subtlety wasn’t Gretchen’s strong suit.
Maple Grove Assisted Living was a two-story, aluminum-sided building painted a pinkish beige. The second floor boasted green shutters on the windows, though the color had faded and showed patches of white, and several hinges were loose or broken, making them lopsided. The effect wasn’t exactly in keeping with their motto, The Closest Thing to Home. If September had been asked to move in she would have run the other way.
This time she passed through and, noticing the sign-in sheet wasn’t being closely manned at the moment, sailed down one of the corridors, checking the nameplates on the doors. Several older women were deliberately pushing walkers down the hallways and one gent followed her with his eyes and finally called out, “Hey, good-lookin’. Come back here.”
Grace Myles’s residence was on the second floor and toward the end of a corridor, which suited September just fine. The room wasn’t on the way to anywhere else, so therefore might be less traffic outside her door. Good. September didn’t want to talk to the battle-ax of an administrator if she didn’t have to. She gave a soft, perfunctory knock, then tried the handle, which opened beneath her palm.
September peeked into the bedroom. No sign of Grace,
but the bathroom door was closed. Stymied, she waited a few minutes, then knocked on that door, too. “Grace? Do you need any help?”
“Go ’way!” was the feisty reply.
“I’m not with the staff here,” September said, shooting a look over her shoulder. She’d closed the door to the room behind her, but that was no guarantee someone might not enter behind her.
“I’d like to talk to you,” September called loudly.
“Sit down, then. Don’t take my chair.”
That was as good an invitation as she was going to get. September looked around and settled herself on the small love seat that was hugged up against a La-Z-Boy with a green and gold afghan draped over the back. It took another ten minutes before Grace appeared, and when she did, she walked without the aid of a wheelchair or walker and chose the La-Z-Boy. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m September Rafferty. I’m a police officer. I came to visit you before and—”
“Braden Rafferty?” she interrupted sharply.
September gave her a long look. The two times she’d interviewed Grace before, she hadn’t made that connection. “My father’s name is Braden Rafferty. I’m one of his daughters.”
“You’re rich.”
September gave a slow nod. “My father is,” she corrected. She was a little surprised Grace Myles knew of Braden Rafferty, but he and Rosamund knew how to get their names in the paper, and if you were paying attention to the Portland Who’s Who, their names would certainly be there. “I’m a police officer, Mrs. Myles,” she repeated.
One hand flew to her chest and she cried, “Oh my. What happened?”
“Nothing. I’m here about a different matter. Do you remember meeting me before?”
“You gonna arrest someone? Not me! Not me!”
“No. No, not you. I’m just looking for information about the Singletons. Do you remember them? Jan and Phillip Singleton?”
“Harry?”
“Yes, Jan’s brother’s name was Harold,” September said, encouraged.
“He was a randy one,” she said, giving September a knowing look.
“You knew Harold?”
“Not that way,” she said with an outraged sniff.
“I meant you were acquainted with him?”
“He was sweet on me, but I was loyal. You don’t cheat. Uh-uh.” She wagged her finger in front of September’s face. “You don’t cheat.”
This was more than September had hoped for. On her previous trips to see Grace, the older woman hadn’t been able to remember the Singletons at all. “The Singletons had a son, Nathan, who died in an automobile accident,” September reminded her.
“Oh yes.” She nodded gravely.
“I’m trying to identify a man who’s been deceased for about a decade. He may have known Nathan, and he would be in between Nathan and Frances’s ages, I believe. Maybe a friend . . . ? He’s someone who’s likely connected to the Singleton family.”
“You mean Tommy.”
“Tommy?” September repeated.
“He mowed their yard.”
Grace seemed so clear and on target today that September had to remind herself she suffered from dementia. “Was Tommy around eighteen?”
Grace chortled and clapped her hands together. “Oh, heavens. You gotta be kidding. He was a kid.”
“Okay. How many years ago was this?”
“I don’t know. You ask a lot of questions.”
“I do ask a lot of questions.” September smiled. “I was talking to your son, Tynan, and your grandson, Caleb, and his wife, Hannah.”
“Oh, her . . .”
September soldiered on. “The man I’m trying to identify would have been about eighteen when he died. He may have known the Singletons or been connected to them in some way. He would be about thirty now.”
“Talk, talk, talk.” She flapped a hand at September.
Realizing she’d probably gotten everything she could from Grace, she nevertheless asked, “What do you remember about the Singletons?”
“Oh, them. Stuck-up. No good. Snotty, snotty.” She sniffed. “And that son of theirs . . . a no-goodnik through and through. Yes, ma’am.”
“Nathan?”
“Uh-huh. And his wife . . .”
“Davinia.”
“Who?” She frowned and shook her head. “The blond one. Always had all the jewelry. La-di-da. I hated her.”
“You could be describing Davinia, Nathan’s wife?” September heard voices outside Grace’s door and readied herself in case someone was coming to find out who Grace’s visitor was.
“Naughty, naughty,” she singsonged, nodding sagely.
“Why do you say that?”
Grace pressed a finger to her lips and looked around surreptitiously, as if afraid someone would overhear. “You know they were having intercourse.”
“Who?”
“Davinia,” she hissed. “And that boy.”
“That boy?”
The voices outside the door grew louder and September heard keys rattle. She braced herself, but another door opened and slammed shut, and she guessed whoever was there wasn’t coming to Grace’s room.
“Yes, ma’am. The one she was mmm-mmm-mmm-ing with,” Grace clarified.
“Davinia was having an affair? Do you remember with whom? His name? The boy?”
She drew back and eyed her up and down. “What do you want him for?” she asked suspiciously.
“I’m trying to identify a . . . body . . . a male who died when he was about eighteen. He would be thirty now.”
“He died?”
“Yes. He could maybe be Davinia’s lover?” she tried.
“Go ask the blond bitch. She’s a cheater. You shouldn’t cheat. Never, never.”
“If you mean Davinia, she died in the automobile accident with Nathan.”
“She cheated. Everybody knew it.”
“Did Nathan know it?”
“Oh sure.”
“Do you remember who she cheated with?”
“That boy,” she said, as if September were the densest person on record.
They were stuck in a loop. “Who is that boy?” September asked a trifle wearily. “Tommy?”
“No, he grew up and got fat. Big blubbery blubberhead. That’s what my grandson says.”
“Your grandson, Caleb?”
“Caleb . . . no. Not him. The other one.”
“What’s the name of your other grandson?”
She reared back and her face grew red. She suddenly shrieked, “He’s dead! He died from those drugs! Don’t talk to me about him!”
And with that she reached back and yanked a cord attached to the wall. Realizing she was calling for help, September scooted for the door. She didn’t want to be there when the cavalry arrived. “Thank you, Grace,” she murmured, letting herself out.
“Bitch,” Grace snapped as the door closed behind September.
As she slipped into the hallway, she could hear muffled howl after howl coming from Grace’s room. September heard brisk footsteps heading her way. She prepared herself to meet with the administrator, but two young aides paid no attention to her as they headed at a leisurely pace to Grace’s room.
Chapter Twelve
Andi pushed through the front door of Wren Development and made her way to the elevator, her head full of unresolved issues. Telling herself she needed to confront Mimi Quade and her unborn child was one thing, doing it quite another. She’d picked up the phone half a dozen times only to put it back down. She’d even thought about calling Luke, but though she’d told him about Greg’s affair during one of their conversations, she’d brushed over the details and didn’t want to go into them any further now.
Instead, she’d decided to talk to Carter about the situation. Like Greg, Carter firmly believed Mimi was faking it, but Andi wasn’t so sure.
Her phone rang when she was in the elevator and she was surprised to see the call was from Trini. She answered and said quickly, “I’m in the elevator, s
o if I lose you, call me back.”
“Are you at work?”
“Yeah, I’m coming in a little late today.”
“Well, I won’t keep you, but I just wanted to say, things are better.”
Andi heard the lightness in her voice. “Oh?”
“With Bobby. I was really bummed. I just didn’t want to talk about it. All these years, y’know? Of being the dumper, instead of the dumpee . . . Well, it really sucks to be on the other end.”
“It sure does.” Andi smiled.
“But we’re seeing each other again, so maybe, maybe, fingers crossed, I can finally have you meet him this weekend.”
“Good. Yeah. Let’s do that,” Andi said with a little more enthusiasm than she really felt. She and Trini had drifted apart some, and she wanted their relationship back on track, but to do that she thought they might need to see each alone.
“Okay, listen, I gotta go. But I’ll call you, okay?”
“Sure. Sure. Just glad to know you’re all right.”
“Oh, of course I am.”
“Well, don’t confront the Carrera brothers. That’s all I’m saying. They’re dangerous.”
“Okay . . . noted,” she said, sounding slightly abashed. “I’d had a little more to drink than I should have, and I’m not a drinker.”
“I know you’re not. That’s what worried me.”
“I probably said some things I shouldn’t have, but Carrera didn’t pay much attention to me anyway, as far as I can remember.”
“What were you doing at Lacey’s anyway?”
“Oh . . . I don’t know. I just was missing Bobby and I . . . well, it doesn’t matter now. We’re back together and everything they say about makeup sex is true.” She laughed. “So I’ll call you, and we’ll get together. Now go to work. Make some more Wren dough.”
“Aye aye.”
The conversation buoyed Andi’s spirits and she was in a better frame of mind when she walked into Carter’s office. He was standing by the window, looking over the wetlands behind the building, talking on his cell. Seeing Andi, he wrapped up with, “I’ll call you back,” then clicked off. “You look well,” he observed.