The Ugly Truth

by Jill Orr

  “If the Converse fits…”

  “Hey,” I took a step closer and pointed a finger at his chest. “You don’t get to talk to me like that. I was just doing my job.”

  “You know what?” Ash said, switching from irate to ice cold in two seconds flat. “That’s fine. You’re the kind of person who puts her own career ahead of people’s feelings. Now I know. I’ll just file that little piece of information away for the future: Riley Ellison cannot be trusted. Good to know.”

  I was so angry, I almost couldn’t speak. Almost. “I will have you know that is not at all what I—”

  “Save it.” Ash cut me off. “I really don’t care. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go see my grandmother and reassure her that her only living grandson hasn’t tanked the family business while she’s been caring for her dying husband.” He brushed past me and continued on his way.

  I followed him, calling after him several times, but he just kept going. Finally, riding alongside him, I grabbed the elbow of his shirt. “Hey, just stop a second—please.”

  When he finally stopped, I was caught up short by the pained expression on his face. Gone was the arrogance and ire of a few minutes ago; now Ash just looked sad. “What?” he asked, his voice weary.

  “I’ll go with you.” I’m not sure why I said it—it just popped out of my mouth.

  Ash looked about as surprised as I was at the offer.

  “I can help explain to her what happened, or at least provide backup for your explanation. Your grandmother knows me and knows that I work for the paper. I think in Tuttle there’s a certain amount of trust that comes with that.”

  He looked across the park at two men who were heading toward us. One was holding a camera. “More reporters,” Ash mumbled. “C’mon, let’s go before they get here. I’ve had just about enough of the free press for one day.”

  The ride over to the long-term care facility was an awkward one. I tried to make small talk—I asked Ash where he was staying while he was in town, did he have any friends here, had he decided how long he was going to stay—but each question was met with stony silence. Clearly, Ash Campbell knew how to hold a grudge. During the entire ten-minute ride, the only thing he said to me was, “You sure ask a lot of questions.”

  Patricia Campbell, who, as it turned out, had not read my story online, reacted with a subdued sort of surprise when we explained all that had happened over the past twenty-four hours at the funeral home. Her eyes widened and narrowed at different points in the story, but when we finished talking, she took her grandson’s hand in hers and said, “It’s such a blessing to have you here to take care of all of this, Ashley.” Then her gaze returned to her husband of fifty-four years who lay, barely conscious, in the bed beside her. Patricia’s priorities had shifted, and it was clear she didn’t want to think about the family business. We stayed for a few minutes longer, and when the nurse came in to check Franklin’s vitals, we said goodbye.

  Back in Ash’s truck, both of us sat silent with the sad reality of what was now clearer than ever. His grandpa was not going to recover, and his grandmother was not going to be able to run Campbell & Sons, at least not for a while. It would be up to Ash whether or not to carry on the family business. He’d have to choose between the future he wanted for himself and the past his family had created. I didn’t envy that choice.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, turning to face him.

  His head was lying against the back of the headrest and he rolled it toward me. “No,” he said, his voice soft, “I’m sorry.” He reached a hand out in my direction, rolled his palm upward. “Can we be friends again?”

  I looked at his outstretched hand for a couple of seconds. Could we be friends again? Were we ever? Ash was cruel one moment, sweet the next. He switched between cold and flirty and vulnerable like he was changing lanes on a highway. Every time I thought I had him figured out, he did or said something that put me on shaky ground. But despite all that, there was something about him I liked. Before I could think too much about what it meant, I reached over and put my hand in his.

  He closed his fingers around mine and gave them a gentle squeeze. “Good,” Ash said, giving me the full glory of those honey-colored eyes. “Because if I’m going to be living here now, I’m going to need all the friends I can get.”

  CHAPTER 35

  When I got back to the office, it was pretty much mayhem. Calls and emails had been coming in from all over the country about the Mountbatten story—requests for comments, verification of facts, link requests, etc. Kay was on the phone with her door closed. Stupid Spencer, who had been assigned to cover the updates coming out of the sheriff’s office (it was now all hands on deck with this story), said Dale was meeting with Carl at the sheriff’s office again this morning. District Attorney Lindsey Davis was with them, as well as four other individuals thought to be federal investigators and possibly Mountbatten’s attorney. Carl must be having a day, I thought.

  No one over at the sheriff’s office would comment officially, but speculation was that assuming Mountbatten made the same admissions as he had when he spoke to us, the federal agents would file paperwork with the courts to file charges and probably take away his passport. Being that it was Friday afternoon, I doubted anything would get processed before the weekend.

  Back at my desk, I checked my messages and was glad to hear there was one from a Nicole Breedlove with the prothonotary’s office (a fancy name for the chief clerk in some jurisdictions) in New Castle County, Delaware, the municipality where Colonel Mustard Enterprises had been incorporated. I had left her a message the night before asking for some information I had a right to under the Sunshine law, which required that certain information from government agencies be available to the public. Nicole said she’d be happy to help. When I called her back, she confirmed, as I had suspected, that Dale Mountbatten had filed a DBA (doing business as) certificate under the name Colonel Mustard Enterprises nine years ago just before he moved Rosalee down to Tuttle Corner. She agreed to fax me a copy of the certificate.

  This was a big deal. Even though Dale Mountbatten had basically told us this much, up until now all we had was his word. And I didn’t trust Dale Mountbatten’s sudden desire to come clean. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him about the foreign money and scheme to launder it, I suspected he had an ulterior motive for his sudden confessional. It didn’t make sense to me that a guy who spent the better part of a decade breaking the law for monetary gain would give it all up so easily. He said it was because Rosalee killed his wife and was trying to set him up to take the blame for that, but I wasn’t so sure. There was too much finger-pointing going on between Rosalee and Dale. Neither was acting innocent. And neither seemed to care one bit about Justin Balzichek. Which is what made it all the more odd that someone out there, presumably a third person involved in this whole mess, wanted Balzichek’s things badly enough to commit fraud to get them. A rosary and twenty-eight cents in coins wasn’t exactly a treasure. I couldn’t understand why someone would want to steal them badly enough to risk being found out. If Ash had been any more knowledgeable or experienced, he would have asked the person for their ID. What would they have done then?

  On a hunch, I decided to swing by St. Paul’s church, the one that was just down from Campbell & Sons. I thought Father Dunn might have some insight for me on why someone might want to steal a rosary.

  “The rosary is basically a meditation on the life of Christ,” Father Dunn said as I followed him from pew to pew helping him put the hymnals into their correct spot after that morning’s Mass.

  “Is there any other use for them? Something less…pious, perhaps?” I asked carefully.

  Father Dunn looked concerned. “I’m not sure what you mean, Riley.”

  “Oh no, it’s not for me,” I said. “It’s a story I’m working on for the paper.”

  His face lit up like a Christmas tree. “A story on the tradition of the rosary!” He clapped his hands together. “How joyous!”

/>   “Oh well…” I said, sheepishly. “It’s not exactly that kind of story.”

  “No?”

  “I mean, well, it is about a rosary…but more about a crime that someone committed using one…”

  He sucked in a sharp breath and then crossed himself. Father Dunn was known for being a little dramatic. People in town still told the story of the Palm Sunday picnic when a king snake slithered into the He is Risen! Balloon Filling Station and Father Dunn was convinced it was Satan himself. When Millie Hedron grabbed it behind the head and took it down by the river, he insisted on taking her straight back to the church and dosing her in Holy water.

  “It’s nothing to worry about,” I said, trying to calm him (although I’m pretty sure if I told him the rest of the details, he might conclude that Satan was once again among us). “I was just wondering if there’s any reason you can think of why a person would want to take someone else’s rosary beads? Are they valuable?”

  Father Dunn sat down as he thought about my question. “Value, of course, is in the eye of the beholder. My own rosary was given to me on my first communion by my beloved grandmother, who has since passed, so to me it’s priceless.”

  “But there’s no intrinsic value, like they’re not made of precious metals or anything like that?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not usually. There are artifacts, of course, rosaries from throughout history that would have some value. And I suppose there are probably some out there adorned with valuable stones or gold and silver and whatnot, but the real value of the rosary comes from within. The key is what it means to each individual person.”

  I stilled, a thought slowing starting to take shape in my mind. “Say that again, Father.”

  He looked confused. “I said, there are rosaries from throughout history—”

  “No,” I said, startling poor Father Dunn. “Sorry. Not that part—what you said at the end.”

  He knitted his brow together. “I said the key to a rosary is what it means to the individual.”

  “That’s it!” I said, running for the door. “Thank you, Father! You’ve been such a huge help!”

  “A key?” Ash said, looking at me like I was crazy.

  “Yes, I think the rosary was either holding a key or possibly the key itself.” I held up the results of my Google search to show him. “Look at all of these. Every single one has a mechanism by which you can slide the top of the crucifix over or unscrew a tiny little invisible screw on the bottom to reveal a hidden compartment.”

  He took the phone from me and studied the images. I moved around to his side of the desk so I could look with him. “And these,” I said, taking the phone and calling up the search I’d done for crucifix keys, “you slide over this shield, and the sides of the crosses have been carved into the shape of a key. It’s very subtle, not something you’d necessarily notice if you didn’t know what you were looking for.”

  Ash studied the pictures silently. Every now and then he’d enlarge a photo and bring the phone closer to his face.

  “Did Balzichek’s rosary look anything like these? Could it have had a hidden chamber?” I asked.

  “I suppose it’s possible,” he said as he handed back my phone. “It was bigger than most of the other rosaries I’ve seen, but I’m not Catholic. I’m no expert.”

  “See, that’s the thing. Most people here aren’t. Carl isn’t. And even if you were, it’s not like you’d be suspicious of someone hiding something inside a rosary. It’s kind of brilliant, actually.”

  “If it is a key, what do you think it opens?” Ash swiveled his chair around to face me.

  I’d thought about that on my bike over here from St. Paul’s. “The obvious answer is some sort of a safe or safe deposit box.”

  “Maybe it contains proof of who murdered him—like in the movies where the person leaves a letter saying, ‘If you’re reading this, then I’m probably already dead.’ ”

  I laughed. “I know this all sounds a little far-fetched, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past few months, it’s that you just never know.”

  “You going to tell the sheriff your theory?”

  “Definitely.”

  “They probably have pictures of it in the evidence locker. Maybe someone over there could blow up the images.”

  “Good idea,” I said, putting my phone back into my purse. “I’ll let you know what he says.”

  Ash stood up to walk me out. “Thanks for…well, for everything you’re doing,” he said as we got to the front door of Campbell & Sons. “I know it’s not all for me or anything, but…” he let his sentence trail off.

  I felt a blush beginning. “Just doing my job.” I smiled. “But I hope it’ll help.”

  I was halfway down the steps toward my bicycle when he called out, “Listen, after this is all over, maybe I could take you out for a drink to say thanks or something?”

  “Fraternize with a reporter? You sure about that?”

  He laughed. “Maybe I’m reconsidering my position on reporters?”

  I slung my purse across my chest and climbed onto my bike. “If you’re not careful there, Ash, I just may start to think you’re actually a nice guy.”

  CHAPTER 36

  I was pedaling my way back to the newsroom when I saw Ryan in the Sanford Farm & Home delivery truck turning down my street. He was probably dropping off my monthly dog food order. I had a couple of minutes to spare, so I turned to follow him. I figured if I caught him in time maybe he could lug the bags inside instead of me.

  “How’s that for timing?” he said as I rode into the driveway behind him. He smiled, his dimples appearing like two adorable parentheses around his mouth. Even in the dorky white golf shirt with the store emblem embroidered on the sleeve, Ryan looked cute enough to be the lead singer of a boy band.

  “Hey,” I said, leaning my bike up against the house. “Want to do me a favor?”

  “Always.”

  “Mind bringing the bags into the garage for me?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “By the way, where’s your car?”

  I flared my nostrils. “Long story.”

  “Sounds juicy.” He gave me an easy smile as I opened my garage and let Coltrane out so he could come jump on his favorite person in the world other than me (and maybe Ridley). After a few rounds of “Who’s a good doggie?” Ryan slung a large bag of dog food over his shoulder and carried it over to the back of the garage.

  After he dropped the second bag in the designated spot, he handed me the invoice to sign. “Hey, did you have a chance to think about what I should do with Ridley yet?”

  Damn. I had hoped he would drop the whole thing.

  “Ryan,” I said, unable to look him in the eye. “I just don’t think I can play cupid for you two. It’s too weird.”

  “What do you mean ‘too weird’?”

  “What do you mean ‘What do you mean’?” I didn’t want to have to spell it out. Surely he could understand why I would feel weird helping him get closer with Ridley.

  He let out a nervous laugh. “I’m confused, Riles.”

  I sighed. He was going to make me say it. “Listen,” I said, intensely studying a crack in my garage floor. “I want you to be happy. I want Ridley to be happy. And I definitely want Lizzie to be happy.” I paused to figure out how to say the next part. “But it’s kind of hard for me to see you…falling in love with someone else, okay? There. I said it. Are you happy?” It all came out in a rush. I wanted to get this conversation over with as quickly as possible.

  Ryan didn’t say anything for so long that I actually looked up to make sure he was okay. When I did, I found him looking at me with a strange expression. Gone was the laid-back smile from before. Replacing it was a look somewhere between frustration and anger. “What are you doing to me here, Riles?”

  “What? Nothing—”

  “I beg you for months to take me back and you refuse and now just when I’m finally ready to move on, you tell me yo
u can’t stand to see me with Ridley…”

  “No,” I said, my defensive reflex kicking in. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Then what are you saying?” He crossed his arms in front of his chest.

  “It’s just…I mean, it’s just that I know you’re moving on, but you can’t come to me for advice on this stuff.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…it’s…” I was frustrated because I knew what I wanted to say but was having trouble finding a way to say it that didn’t sound hypocritical. It had all seemed so clear and reasonable to me on my walk this morning. “I just can’t be there for you in that way—”

  “Are we friends or not, Riley?” He sounded straight-up angry now. He rarely called me Riley. It was always Riles or Ri or Sweets or Sugar…

  “Of course we’re friends—”

  “Then what’s the problem? Friends are supposed to help friends, right?”

  “Yeah, but—” I was getting confused now. It felt like he was twisting my words. Just because we were friends, did that mean I had to give him relationship advice?

  “Ah,” he said, sounding like he’d just solved the case. “Maybe this doesn’t have anything to do with friendship?”

  “What?” I snapped.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Oh, you think it’s because I’m sitting at home pining for you or something like that?” I rolled my eyes.

  “Maybe.” He shrugged. “I mean, you don’t have anyone right now. Maybe you see what Ridley and I have and it makes you wonder about what could have been. The baby, buying a house…I mean, you’re not getting any younger and I’ve heard girls’ clocks start ticking…”

  I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Was he kidding me? Clock-ticking? I was barely twenty-five! Besides, I was the one who’d been walking around town quoting T. Swift for months now, saying that we were never, ever, ever getting back together.