by Cate Conte
“Yes, I’m calling about your recent story in the Fairway Independent,” I said, trying to send my voice up a couple of notches. We’d only spoken once, so she likely wouldn’t recognize it anyway, but why take the chance?
“Yes,” she said, her voice warming slightly. “How can I help you?”
“I have a tip on another one of these terrible fraudulent people,” I said, working some distress into my voice. “I just handed over my grocery money for the week and I’m devastated.”
“What is the business, ma’am?” she asked. I could hear pages rustling, as if she were looking for a clean sheet in her notebook.
I hated being called ma’am. “I’d rather not say over the phone. If you’d like to meet me I can give you more details. Better yet, I can point the place out,” I said.
“Sweet,” Mazzy said. “Where?”
I gave her the name of a diner on the outskirts of town—a place I hardly ever went. I didn’t want to bump into a million people I knew. “Twenty minutes okay?”
She started to protest, then changed her mind. “Sure. Yes. I’ll be there.”
I disconnected, satisfied with my performance. Now Mazzy and I could have a real heart-to-heart.
CHAPTER 37
I cut through the alley to my car and slipped into it, cranking the heat. While I waited for it to warm up, I thought of texting Josie to tell her what I was up to. Then changed my mind. I didn’t feel like reporting in to anyone today. I was probably being childish, and deep down I knew Josie had been only a bystander to whatever family drama had played out all those years ago, but still. She’d kept this from me for so long, and it hurt.
I tried Todd again. Voice mail. I gritted my teeth and waited for the beep. “Got your message. I think we need to talk,” I said. “When are you done at work? Oh, and I’m fine, thanks for asking. I haven’t been arrested. Yet.” I ended the call and tossed my phone into my console. Then I pulled out of my parking space and headed to the diner.
* * *
Seven Points Diner’s biggest selling point was its ’50s-throwback persona. The building itself was built to look like the silver car-like diners of that time frame, and there was so much food on the menu I wondered how any kind of cook could wrap his or her head around it. Or make any of it really good.
I made it there in seven minutes and commandeered a booth right near the front. After nineteen minutes, a beat-up silver Volkswagen Jetta zipped into the lot, parking haphazardly in two spots. Mazzy emerged almost before the car stopped and rushed inside, glancing at her watch. Her multicolored hair was in desperate need of some hairspray to tame down the static. She wore jeans, a North Face jacket, and a pair of black leather motorcycle boots I found myself admiring until I remembered who was wearing them. I wondered what kind of fiction she’d been in the middle of creating when I summoned her away.
I watched her eyes do a quick scan of the diner, then land on me the moment the front door slammed behind her. I pasted on a sweet smile and waved gaily. I had formulated a plan on the way over, so I was ready.
She wasn’t. Score one for me.
Eyes narrowed, she skulked into the diner and poured herself into the seat opposite me. She didn’t entirely look human as she did so. The thought flitted through my mind, uninvited, and I tried to brush it away. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the image—or lack thereof—I’d seen in the mirror when she was in my shop. She reminded me of some kind of giant snake, slithering around. I shivered involuntarily.
“Are you my anonymous tip?” she asked with a sneer.
I nodded. “Sure am. What gives, Mazzy? What are you up to? Did Carla Fernandez put you up to this?”
Mazzy threw back her head and laughed. It was a booming sound that didn’t seem like it could even come from someone as small as her. “You’re blaming a dead woman?” she asked when she got hold of herself. “That’s awesome. No, I’m just reporting.”
“I guess you could call it that,” I mused. “When you work for a tabloid, you have to dress it up somehow. But, I might be able to be convinced not to sue you or your paper for libel.” Libel: a written or published defamatory statement. I’d looked it up when I’d arrived to make sure I had the right term.
Mazzy frowned, shifting around in her seat. I could see the wheels turning in her head. If I was right, she was ambitious enough to want a job at a serious paper. Even the threat of a lawsuit like that could be a career killer, especially for a young reporter who had no proven track record.
At least I hoped that was how it worked.
“You have no grounds,” she said, but she sounded less certain now.
“I think I do,” I said. “I’ve already spoken to my lawyer.” A white lie, but it did the trick. “You took my quote out of context, you weren’t forthcoming about why you were in my shop, and this could hurt my reputation.” I could see the waitress approach from the corner of my eye and shot her a look that said, Don’t even think about it. She backed away.
I could see Mazzy calculating all her options before she folded her arms across her chest. “What do you want?”
“I want to know who tipped you off to the financial troubles at Carla’s real estate practice.”
Her eyes widened. “I can’t give up a source.”
I shrugged. “Okay. I’ll call my lawyer, then.” I grabbed my bag and started to slide out of the booth.
She muttered something that sounded like a curse. “Wait!”
I paused and looked back at her expectantly.
“Are you gonna tell where you got his name?”
His. I sat back in the booth. “Nope.”
“How do I know that?”
“Guess you’ll just have to trust me,” I said with a wink.
She hated me. It was written all over her face. The feeling was kind of mutual. I could see her waging one more internal battle in her head, which she subsequently lost. With a giant sigh, she admitted defeat. “It was that guy. The environmentalist, Rain. No last name, at least that he’d given me.”
So I was right. Not that it made me feel much better. It just opened up more questions. “Did he say what his connection was?”
“He said he was a ‘family insider.’ ” She shrugged. “It worked for me. He said he could get me proof in a few days so I could write a follow-up.”
This was getting weirder and weirder. I stood. “Thanks, Mazzy. One more thing.”
Her jaw set, but she waited.
“You’re going to print a retraction. At least about me and my store.”
“No way,” she started, but I waved my phone at her.
She cursed again under her breath. “Fine. Whatever.”
“And you’ll print my real quote? I’m happy to repeat it for you. Or maybe I should email it to you,” I decided. “Just to alleviate any room for error.”
“Sure. Whatever. Email it. Are we done here?”
“We’re done. A pleasure doing business with you. Oh, and do me a favor? Don’t ever come to my store again.”
CHAPTER 38
I took great pleasure in strolling to my car, taking my time, upper hand played. Little twit. But forget her. What she’d told me, on the other hand, was sobering enough to take away some of my satisfaction. I got in and cranked the heat, thinking about what I’d learned. Or rather, what new questions were in front of me.
All of this kept coming back to Rain—some scruffy guy who wore weird hats to make his point, who seemed to love the planet more than people. Who’d shown up in town out of nowhere and claimed to have family ties to Carla, enough to know about her financials. But if he had family ties with her, wouldn’t he be worried more about her death than the railroad bridge? It made no sense.
To make it more complicated, Sydney had fibbed about her conversation with him—I knew she had in my gut. And Sydney had been communicating with Carla, her sworn enemy, via Facebook message. And Andrew Mann knew him, well enough to invite him into the office.
I needed to know who this
guy was. Obviously his name wasn’t really Rain. But I didn’t have a lot to go on otherwise. So what kind of family ties could he have with Carla? Charlie mentioned she was getting divorced. She couldn’t be seeing this guy, could she? He had to be half her age. I didn’t know how old Carla was, but old enough that this guy could be her son.
Her son.
I sat straight up with a small squeal. Was Rain Carla’s son? Did Carla have a son? Carla was of Latino descent, but I’d never seen her husband. Rain was light skinned, but he could very well be of mixed race. I fished my phone out of my bag, shutting off DND, and checked my messages. No reply from Sydney. Josie, however, had texted me, wondering when I was returning. She wanted to talk more. I didn’t.
I opened my browser and Googled “Carla Fernandez North Harbor CT family” and searched images.
The only recent pictures were of her alone, in various settings including on the council bench. But there was a picture from three years ago of her at some gala event, all dolled up in an evening gown, laughing. I enlarged the photo and studied it. Her hair was down, and it was long and straight. She’d been a pretty woman when she wasn’t being nasty. It really was too bad.
Shoving away the melancholy, I shifted my focus to her husband, breaking into a smile. A blond guy, identified as Thomas Grella. Bingo. She hadn’t taken his name, but I could see why. Carla Grella didn’t have the best ring to it, especially for a politician. I scrolled the rest of the images, but there were none of Carla, her husband, and a son. I tried another Google search, this time looking for “Carla Fernandez North Harbor CT son” and waited for results to load.
I checked images first. A lot of solo images of Carla again. I scrolled through, past pictures of her alone, pictures of other Carla Fernandezes, and found nothing. I checked the other results. A lot of unrelated items for the first bunch of pages. I almost gave up—I wasn’t known for my patience—but then on page nine, I hit the jackpot.
A short blurb from the North Harbor Day from seven years ago that read:
Miguel Fernandez, son of esteemed councilwoman and local business mogul Carla Fernandez, has been arrested in Boston, Mass., for disturbing the peace and assault. Fernandez was picked up outside of the Bijou Nightclub, where he was reportedly having an altercation with another man. He’s currently held on $50, 000 bail.
Miguel Fernandez. No kidding. I wish there’d been a photo accompanying the article so I could see if I was right. But my gut was telling me I was on to something here. Now all I had to do was prove it.
And if Rain was Miguel Fernandez, therefore meaning he was Carla’s son, he definitely didn’t seem that broken up about her death. Which was pretty suspicious in and of itself.
Maybe I could talk to him at the protest tomorrow and see if I could get him to confess his real identity. If he wasn’t chaining himself to the side of the railroad bridge for the next forty days. But first, I needed to see if anyone knew about this guy. If he’d grown up here, people had to. And what about the police?
I needed to talk to Gabe. He at least didn’t think I did it. Maybe he’d listen to my theory.
But when I got to the police station, I lost my nerve. I didn’t really want to go back in there. I reached for my phone and dialed the non-emergency number.
“North Harbor PD,” a guy’s voice barked.
“Yes, hello. I’m looking for Sergeant Merlino.”
“One minute.” He put me on hold.
I held my breath, hoping Gabe was there. A minute later, he picked up. “Merlino.”
“Gabe. It’s Violet Mooney.”
“Vi, hey. What’s going on?”
“Do you have a few minutes?” I asked.
“Sure I do. Where are you?”
“Outside, but I don’t want to come in.”
A pause, then, “Okay, I’ll meet you at Pete’s in ten.”
* * *
I parked my car back in my lot and walked down to Pete’s. Pete wasn’t behind the counter. He may have left for the day, since he got in so early. And the place wasn’t busy, which suited me just fine. I found a table in the back, avoiding the one Fiona had taken over this morning, and pulled out the Milk Duds I’d scored earlier. I was starving.
Gabe slid in opposite me a few minutes later. “Coffee?” he asked, jerking a thumb at the counter.
I shook my head.
“Be right back.” He went to the counter and returned with a small black coffee. “Okay. What’s going on?”
I cut right to the chase. “Does Carla Fernandez have a son?”
He nodded slowly, but said nothing.
“Is it Rain?”
Now Gabe grinned. “How’d you figure that out, Vi? You want a job?”
I sat back, satisfied with myself, but more concerned about what that meant. “Are you guys looking at him? I mean, for someone who just lost his mother . . .”
“Whoa, hold on.” Gabe held up a hand. “I don’t know a lot about that family, but some of the guys on the force have been around a while. They remember the kid when he was younger, before Carla banished him out of state. Said he’d given her a lot of trouble, and they became estranged when he left.”
“For Boston?”
“No idea.”
“He got arrested there seven years ago,” I added.
He raised his eyebrows, impressed.
“Don’t be,” I said. “It was a fairly easy Google search. But why are they questioning me when he suddenly shows up in town and she ends up dead? Especially if they didn’t get along and the fact that she’s dead seems to not even be a blip on his radar?”
“Vi. You know I can’t give you details about the case. But trust me when I say, they are pursuing everyone they think deserves pursuing.”
I sat back and let my gaze drift around the café. No one seemed to be paying attention to our conversation, and no one was sitting close enough to hear us. “None of the reporters have figured this out yet?”
Gabe shrugged. “Guess not. And it’s not up to us to reveal his identity. At this point. As long as he cooperates.”
“Is he dangerous?” I asked.
Gabe frowned. “I don’t honestly know. He seems to be all about peace, love, and tackling climate change, but I haven’t spent any time with him.”
“Sydney has.” I hadn’t known I was going to say it until it came out, and then I realized that was why I was worried. If this guy was dangerous and Syd was affiliated with him in some way, enough that she was lying to me about it, then what if he was a danger to her? Those messages with Carla made a bit more sense now—at least the part about leaving her family alone.
Which meant Syd knew Rain before he’d shown up in town a couple of weeks ago, and Carla knew it.
“What do you mean? How do you know that?” Gabe asked.
“I saw them in the alley the other night. Next to the police station, after I left. When I asked her about it, she brushed it off, saying he stopped her for directions. I felt like she was lying but had no idea why.” I leaned forward. “Can you help me make sure she’s okay?” I didn’t mention the Facebook messages. I wasn’t about to tell the police anything that would make them suspect my best friend had killed Carla.
Although the timing of that meeting troubled me. But if they had seized Carla’s computer or other device, chances were good they’d seen the message anyway.
Gabe looked troubled too as he thought about what I’d said. Finally he nodded. “Let me see what I can do.”
“Thanks,” I said, relieved. “You’ll let me know?”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, one more thing,” I said.
He waited.
“This might sound odd too, but . . . Charlie?”
“What about him?”
“What’s his deal? I know he can’t stand Carla,” I said. “And I’m starting to worry that everyone I care about are the biggest suspects in this thing, myself included.”
“Wait. You think Charlie killed her?”
“I d
on’t know.” I filled him in on the cease and desist Carla had thrown at Syd. I was willing to bet Charlie had gotten a similar one, since it was his property. “And when I talked to him after, he just . . . well, there was really no love lost there.”
Gabe was silent for a few minutes. Then he said, “Did you know Charlie was in Vietnam?”
I shook my head.
“He was. He and his best friend, a guy named Eddie Mathers. Eddie had a market here in North Harbor all his life. Real old-school market. People loved it.”
I waited. I could sense there wasn’t a good ending to this story.
“Eddie rented his shop. From the town. And when certain. . . people decided they wanted to make this town more high-end, they started raising rates on all the properties they owned, hoping to drive out some of the old-timers.”
“And Eddie got driven out,” I guessed.
Gabe nodded. “My dad knew Eddie well from being on the force here most of his life. I remember he was really upset about it. That market was the whole reason Eddie had held it together after the war, and once his wife died it was all he had left. And it got ripped out from under him.”
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“He moved to Florida. And then killed himself less than a year later.”
I gasped. I wasn’t expecting that.
Gabe nodded. “Charlie never got over it. It happened about five years ago, right around now, actually. So yeah, he has no love lost for Carla. Would you?”
“I wouldn’t,” I murmured.
“Now. All that said, I don’t think Charlie has the strength to do anything like that.”
I perked up. “Like what?”
“Like strangling . . . shoot. You cannot repeat that,” he said, pointing at me.
I stared at him. “Strangled? Like with my scarf ?” My hand was on my throat. Guess my powers of deduction had been right.
Gabe didn’t answer, but I could read his face. I was right. She’d been strangled with my scarf.
“Don’t worry, Vi. We’re going to get it solved. Okay?” He rose to go. “Hey, by the way. That girl. Your sister?”
