The Ugly Truth

by Jill Orr

  “I can assure you that’s not the case,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “You know,” he said, a patronizing sort of diplomacy dripping from each word. “I never really thought about it before, but it’s got to be hard for you to see me and Ridley moving on while you’re all alone.”

  “I am not all alone—”

  “No, of course not. You have Coltrane, your job, your parents.” He stopped as if he’d exhausted the entirety of my life by listing three things, one of which was a dog. Before I could open my mouth to defend myself, he cocked his head to the side and put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re a great girl, Riles. Don’t worry, you’ll find somebody eventually.”

  If I was a cartoon character, this is where my head would have spun around and blown off. A flurry of comebacks swam through it, but the smugness in Ryan’s voice told me getting angry would only strengthen his unbelievably arrogant belief that I was somehow still in love with him. “I’m so relieved you think so.”

  “And now I can see why you don’t want to give me advice about Ridley,” he said, oblivious to my sarcasm. “Sorry I asked.”

  I would not be responsible for my actions if he stayed here much longer. “Okay, well, I should get back to work!”

  He gave me a sad little smile that seemed to say Be brave, little Princess, and I swallowed my outrage so I didn’t punch him in the face. Fortunately, before he could say anything else, my phone rang.

  Ryan waved goodbye as I checked the display. It was Holman.

  “Hey.”

  “What’s wrong? You sound upset.”

  That was one word for it, but the last thing I wanted to do was talk about it with Holman. “I’m fine,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Carl called and wants to see us before the press conference. Can you meet me over there in ten minutes?”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know what I am, Holman.”

  “Well, I do. You’re a reporter,” he said in that matter-of-fact way of his. “And you’re going to be late if you don’t get moving.”

  There were times when you just couldn’t argue with Will Holman’s particular brand of logic.

  CHAPTER 37

  First off,” Carl said, “have either of you heard from Rosalee?”

  Both Holman and I shook our heads no.

  “Okay.” He seemed relieved and disappointed at the same time. “What I’m about to tell you is pretty much what I’m going to announce at the press conference, but I wanted you to have it first. I want to make sure the reporting out there is accurate, and I trust you to get it right.”

  “Thanks, Carl,” I said.

  “Don’t thank me,” he said. “This isn’t a gift. That leak from a few days ago? I don’t want that repeated, so this time I am controlling the information much more tightly.”

  I shut my mouth and took out my notebook.

  “I’m going to ask you not to report certain things I tell you, at least not yet. But as soon as we’re ready to release this publicly, you can run it.”

  It was a tricky thing agreeing to not report information in exchange for a scoop. On the one hand, we didn’t want to obstruct Carl’s investigation by printing something that could make it difficult to catch the killer or killers. On the other hand, we had a responsibility to our readers. It was a complicated ethical dilemma, and I was glad Holman was there to answer for me.

  “Okay,” Holman said. “Deal.”

  Carl gave us both a long look and then nodded for me to close the door to his office since I was standing closest.

  “A lot of what I’m sharing at the press conference today is stuff you guys already know. Dale Mountbatten has come forward with new information pertaining to the death of his wife and Justin Balzichek, etcetera, etcetera. You already know all that because he stupidly decided to go to the press before coming in and talking to me.” Carl rolled his eyes.

  Dale Mountbatten’s bid to control the narrative around his wife’s death had been both transparent and effective. Getting out there with his side of the story—that just happened to point the finger directly at Rosalee—was sure to garner some points in the court of public opinion. He turned himself in for financial crimes, which made him appear repentant, apologetic. When in reality, he knew that day I showed up at his house and mentioned Colonel Mustard Enterprises that he was going to be exposed. Coming out ahead of the story in the press was smart, and it also gave him the perfect opportunity to blame everything on Rosalee. I can see why it annoyed Carl.

  “I’m sure there will be a lot of questions about what’s gonna happen next with Mountbatten’s federal case, none of which I’m going to answer. I couldn’t even if I wanted to, and that’s the honest truth.”

  “Has the FBI shared anything with you?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “ ’Course not. They don’t share with the local yokels. My guess is once they confirm some of the things he’s told them about his foreign contacts, they’ll charge him pretty quick. Wouldn’t be surprised if something happened early next week. The money laundering stuff is another issue. Either way, it’s not my problem.” He paused as I finished writing. “I’m going to go public with the fact that we are looking at the possibility that Greer Mountbatten and Justin Balzichek were killed by two different people, like we talked about, Riley. And I’m going to announce that Balzichek was poisoned.”

  He paused again, letting us catch up.

  “Now,” Carl said, scooting forward in his chair, “Riley, I told you the other day that it was cyanide.”

  “Right,” I said. I hadn’t told Holman yet, so this was the first time he was hearing this information.

  “What I didn’t tell you was that the medical examiner knew it was cyanide even before the results of the tox screen came back because he noticed a strong smell of burnt almonds when he was doing the autopsy.”

  “Is that what cyanide smells like?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Interesting,” I said, making a note.

  “But there was also something else,” Carl said.

  He was clearly building up to some kind of dramatic reveal. It was annoying, but I forced myself to wait patiently like a good reporter and not someone who used to dare him to eat rubber cement in preschool.

  “Balzichek’s stomach contents revealed undigested almonds and pastry dough.”

  I broke out in goose bumps from the top of my head down both arms. “Almond croissants.”

  Carl nodded, his face grim.

  I didn’t even turn my head toward Holman. I knew he had to know how bad this looked for Rosalee. He’d wanted her to be innocent so badly, and with each new piece of evidence it was getting harder and harder to believe that she was. My heart hurt for him. I knew how infrequently he allowed himself to care about people, how few friends he had, and how he hated to be wrong about anything, least of all something like this.

  After a moment, Holman cleared his throat. When he spoke, I could tell that his voice was stiffer than usual, more stilted. “Was the medical examiner able to tell whether or not the poison had been administered via the pastry?”

  “That’s what we’ve been waiting on,” Carl said. “We’ve known for some time about the stomach contents and the cyanide, but it took some additional testing of the remnants of the undigested food to know for sure, but yes. Results came in today. Dr. Mendez feels he can say with a high degree of certainty that’s how the cyanide got into his system.”

  I wrote down what Carl said exactly, my forearm beginning to cramp from writing so fast.

  “There’s more, and this is a big one,” Carl said. “There’s evidence to support the idea that Balzichek killed Greer Mountbatten.”

  Both Holman and I stopped writing and looked at Carl in astonishment. “What evidence?” I finally asked.

  Carl opened a file on his desk. “The blood found in the vehicle is his blood type, AB Negative, relatively rare. We’re
waiting on the DNA results, which should be back in about two weeks. Also, we were able to match a print left in the mud at Riverside Park to Balzichek’s shoes. We also got her cell records that show a call in the hours before she went missing from a burner phone with an 804 area code, presumably Balzichek’s. We don’t have a complete picture, but it’s sure starting to look like he might be guilty.”

  “Then who killed him?” I asked.

  “We’re still working on that,” Carl said.

  “You’re going to announce all of this today?”

  “Nothing about stomach contents, nothing about cyanide. I’m going to keep it general during the press conference and use the word poison. If and when we get a suspect in for questioning, I want to be able to see just how much they know. Someone comes in knowing about the cyanide or what Balzichek ate just before he died, that’ll tell us a lot. If every little detail is splashed all over the news, it won’t be so easy.”

  I had a feeling he was going to say that, so I wasn’t surprised as much as I was disappointed. Kay Jackson would give up her firstborn for a scoop like this.

  “I’m releasing the details about the shoe print and the blood type and that we’re working off the theory that Justin Balzichek may be responsible,” Carl finished.

  “But Balzichek was obviously just a hired gun—or sledgehammer, I guess,” I said. “The real question is who hired him?”

  Carl turned to Holman, who looked like he wasn’t even listening to us anymore. “Maybe, maybe not. Coulda been that Balzichek and Greer had a dispute of their own, and he got mad and killed her. At this point, we just don’t know anything about motive one way or another.”

  I looked at Holman to see if he was planning to contribute anything else to this conversation. “Will? Do you have any questions for Carl?”

  “She’s not the only person in the world who makes almond croissants,” Holman said, his voice one notch below pleading.

  Carl looked at me, closed his eyes, and gave a gentle shake of the head. When he spoke his voice was soft and compassionate. “As hard as it may be for us to believe, Will, it’s looking more and more like Rosalee could be behind Balzichek’s murder.”

  I could tell by his tone that Carl must have figured out that Holman had feelings for Rosalee. Then again, Holman was the kind of man who didn’t just wear his emotions on his sleeve; he wore them as a full body suit.

  “I’m just saying it’s important not to jump to conclusions,” Holman said. “If someone were trying to set her up, wouldn’t that be the perfect way to do it?”

  “Fair point. But let me assure you we will not be doing any conclusion jumping. We are going to follow the evidence wherever it may lead, and when the time comes to charge someone, you’d better believe it’ll be because we feel confident we’ve got the right person.”

  Holman nodded, having done his level best to stand up for Rosalee.

  Carl looked at the clock on his phone. “I gotta get going.” He stood up. “Remember, hold everything about the cyanide and croissants. As soon as I’m okay with releasing it, I’ll let you know.”

  I wanted to tell Carl my theory about the rosary, but Mayor Lancett and Toby were already outside his office door. Mayor Lancett gave me and Holman a pleasant hello, while Toby, who wore track pants, a T-shirt that read “Real Deal Flex Appeal,” and a houndstooth blazer, said, “My, my, aren’t you just everywhere these days, Riley Ellison.” His sneering tone told me he didn’t mean it as a compliment.

  “I see you’re all dressed up today.” I smiled sweetly.

  Toby preened at the compliment. “I do try to look my best, especially when we’ve got so many out-of-town visitors. I like to think of myself in some ways as the face of Tuttle Cor—”

  “Toby!” Mayor Lancett snapped her fingers at him like he was a Yorkipoo. And like a Yorkipoo, he scrambled after her on his stubby little legs.

  CHAPTER 38

  Holman said he wanted to be alone for a few minutes, so we agreed to meet back for the press conference, which was scheduled to start in fifteen minutes. I found a spot on a bench in Memorial Park and was about to start writing the lede for the press conference story when my phone rang. The call was from a 202 area code. Washington, DC.

  “Friend of Jay? This is Ivan from garage.”

  “Hey, Ivan,” I said, relieved. Maybe this call meant my car was finished and I could go pick it up. “What’s up?”

  “Your bill.”

  I laughed; he didn’t.

  “What we have here is worst-case scenario. When your timing chain break, the valves and pistons collide like in…what was that show? You know with the nerds?”

  “Um,” I said, a little thrown off. “The Big Bang Theory?”

  “Yes. I loved that show—bazinga!”

  He laughed; I didn’t.

  “Oh, well, maybe you have to be there. Anyhow, the valves and pistons collide in big bang and start poking holes in engine block.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about, but it sounded expensive. “So what do we do?”

  “Well,” he said, “this is up to you. Ivan can fix and it’ll run you about three, maybe three and a half, four thousand dollars.”

  Four thousand dollars? I did not have four thousand dollars. I cradled my head in my free hand. “Please tell me there’s another option.”

  “Yes. Always other option,” Ivan said merrily.

  “Okay. What is it?”

  “Option two is sell car.”

  “Sell the car? Are you serious?”

  “I’m sorry, friend of Jay. I wish I had better news for you. Maybe you think it over, yes?”

  “Yes,” I said sulkily. “I will. Thanks, Ivan.”

  “You have beautiful weekend.” Just before he hung up, he said, “By the way, Jay call this morning to check on car. Jay is good man. You have good friend in him.”

  I laughed, in spite of myself. It had been quite a day in the love life of Riley Ellison. I’d been sort of asked out by a mercurial funeral home director, pitied by my ex-boyfriend who thought I was still in love with him, and now my mechanic was telling me what a good man my other ex-boyfriend was.

  “Why you laugh?”

  “No, you’re right,” I said. “Jay is a good man.”

  “Ahhhh.” There was a twinkle in Ivan’s voice. “I see. You have the hots for him.” His otherwise charming Eastern European accent meant that every time he used a word that began with the letter h, it sounded like he was hocking a loogie. You chhhhave the chhhhots for chhhhhim.

  “No! That is not—”

  “Yes. Yes,” he said, confidently. “Ivan is almost as good at diagnosing relationships as he is diagnosing car. Back in Bulgaria I was like Oprah.”

  I started to argue but then realized the absurdity of this conversation. “I think we’re going to have to agree to disagree on this one.”

  “It’s okay. I think he might have hots for you too. He was very concerned about your car, if you know what I mean.”

  I didn’t, but thankfully at that exact moment, I saw Holman walking toward me. I told Ivan I’d call him later with my decision about the car. Holman sat next to me on the bench, his perfect posture somehow even straighter and stiffer in light of his current state of mind.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I just don’t understand how I could have been so wrong about her.”

  I hoped by just being there with him I could lift some of his disappointment or at least share in it. After a few moments, I said, “When we like somebody, sometimes we make excuses for them. I did it for years—am still probably doing it—with Ryan. And Rosalee is tough…she’s manipulative and—” I broke off. I knew I had to be careful not to insult her too much. Holman was still very much holding onto the belief that she was a decent person. I tried to think of what Regina H would say. “Well, she’s like a psychic vampire.”

  “A what?” Holman looked alarmed.

  “A psychic vampire. Someone who drains your energy by ma
nipulating or charming you into…oh, forget it.” I lost steam halfway through the explanation. Psychic vampires were really outside my emotional IQ. “She played you, Will. It sucks and that’s all there is to it.”

  Holman blinked hard, twice, and when he spoke it seemed like he’d put his Rosalee-feelings away for the moment. “Okay. So what was it you were going to tell Carl about the rosary?”

  I explained to him my theory about there being a key hidden inside the rosary or possibly the crucifix being the key itself. “I’ve been thinking about it and—this is wild speculation, by the way,” I admitted, “but I’m bothered by Mountbatten’s sudden decision to unburden himself to Sheriff Haight. It’s true, I was onto the whole Colonel Mustard Enterprises thing and would have probably eventually written about it, but it would have taken me a while to prove it. By then he could have covered his tracks or fled to another country, for that matter.”

  “And he lives in Washington, DC. He could have walked into the FBI office—it’s under their purview anyway,” Holman added.

  “Right. It’s like he wanted to come to Tuttle Corner. We know he’s been laundering money through the Tavern for years…what if there’s something else here that he wants?”

  Holman’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “Rosalee.”

  “What? No, I don’t think so,” I said. “I was thinking more along the lines of something tangible.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, like what if Dale bought some gold or silver? Maybe he had more money than he could run through the butter distributor without risking raising a red flag.” I was again in wild-speculation territory. “Or I guess he could also just have stashed some actual cash. Remember that case of the mobster who hid millions inside the dry-wall of his crappy little house in Miami?”

  “And you think the rosary found on Balzichek when he died held the key to a safe in Rosalee’s Tavern?”

  “I think it’s possible. Dale clearly has another reason for coming all the way down here. Maybe it’s Rosalee, but given that he’s just ratted her out to the sheriff, I’d guess not. If I had a bunch of cash or gold that I was trying to hide from the government and my wife, I certainly wouldn’t keep it in a bank safe deposit box, let alone in my home.”