True Blend

by DeMaio, Joanne

  “I’m glad. Because if seeing me brings back too many memories from that day, I’d understand.”

  “You don’t bring any bad memories. You’re the good in all this, George. We like having you visit.”

  George stands and pulls his keys from his pocket. “Well that’s nice to hear.”

  Amy glances over at him. “I know that Grace and I aren’t the easiest people to be with right now. We’ve got some issues going on, trust issues really. Especially in public places.”

  “I can understand why. But you trust me?”

  “Yes, yes I do.” She gives Grace another gentle push.

  “Okay then.” He looks at his watch. “I’ve got to get to the shop.” He backs up a few steps toward his pickup truck, watching her. “Listen, there’s a fair on The Green next weekend. It’s nothing much, just pony rides, food booths, that sort of thing. Maybe you’d feel better about being out in public if you weren’t alone. What do you think?”

  “The Strawberry Festival? I thought about taking Grace to get her out a little.”

  “How about if I bring the two of you? For a couple hours? We’ll make it an afternoon.”

  Amy hesitates. She looks out to the street, seeing the old stone wall running along the yards, the distant farm with rows of young corn plants lining its fields. It’s so easy to not venture out, to stay right here. But still. “If things go well all week with Grace, then okay, that sounds nice. Maybe a fair would help her.”

  “All right then,” George says, jangling his keys in his hand. “I’ll call you later in the week to see if we’re still on.” He reaches for Grace on the swing and gives her foot a shake. “And to see if someone would like to ride a pony there.”

  Amy smiles. “And thanks again for the swing,” she calls after him as he heads to his truck. He waves back at them, and Amy thinks it’s more than a swing he’s given her. It’s a summer with her daughter, in the shade of an old tree.

  * * *

  When Detective Hayes calls later that morning wanting to stop by with further questions, Amy’s long easy summer seems out of reach once again.

  “Can I get you a cup of coffee, Detective?” she asks when he arrives.

  “No, thanks. This won’t take long.” He sets a briefcase on her kitchen table, unsnaps two clips and opens the top. Papers and file folders are neatly stacked inside. He lifts out a pen and notepad. “I understand your reluctance to go out, so I hope you don’t mind my stopping by. It’s just that I like to check in to see how things are going.”

  “It hasn’t been easy, that’s for sure.”

  “I’m sure it hasn’t, but time is critical and I do have a few questions, especially about Grace. Have you gotten any details from her at all?”

  Amy sits down and crosses her hands on the blue table. “Nothing,” she answers. “I’ve tried a few times, but she just clams up.”

  Detective Hayes snaps the case closed. He sets it on the floor and flips open his pad to a blank page. “That’s understandable, she went through a lot. How about yourself? Any new details come to mind since we last talked?”

  “No. Nothing of significance, anyway.”

  “Stop right there, Amy. Everything is significant. Every detail. The more we know, the better picture we get of the perpetrators. One random characteristic can tie everything together so it all makes sense. A tone of voice or accent, a brand of shoe, any little thing.”

  Amy watches him waiting, pen poised over his notebook. She stands and opens a kitchen drawer to retrieve her sketch pad. There’s a moment of uncertainty when it feels as though the pad is her own diary, personal and difficult to relinquish. But she sets it on the table, nodding at him to open it. “I’ve been under a doctor’s care,” she begins. The detective studies her first handgun sketch. “I have flashbacks.”

  Hayes looks up at her. “A flashback can be just as good as a photograph.” He lifts the page to the next picture, a second angle of the same gun.

  “Dr. Berg advised me to keep a pad and put down, either in words or pictures, any new images that I saw.” She sees the next sketch in the pad, one of Grace’s upper body with a man’s arm wrapped around it, his large watch visible. “He thought it might help me process the day. And that something might help the investigation.”

  “What is this?” Hayes asks when he sees the picture she drew just this morning, right after George left. It shows a man’s hand covering hers, both hands slightly cupped.

  Amy sits and slides her chair close to point out the details. “It’s a hand of one of the gunmen. Remember I said there was a struggle for my daughter’s shoe?”

  “Yes.”

  “This image really bothers me. I guess it’s because I was so near to him.” The pencil sketch shows their hands atop the shoe. “We were inches apart,” she explains. “I saw everything so close, I felt his grip, I heard his breath. And his hand, it was warm. That surprised me, that feeling.” Finally she shakes her head in frustration and pulls the sketch pad closer. “There’s something more, I know there is. And I’m not seeing it.”

  “But you got the shoe back?”

  “Not until later. This was the man whose gun I witnessed up close. When we struggled for the shoe and I looked up at his face beneath that hosiery, I flinched. That’s when he took the shoe and backed off.”

  “He took the shoe? What did he do with it?”

  “I guess he put it on Grace’s foot. When I got her back that night, she had on both her shoes.”

  “In your picture, he isn’t wearing any gloves.”

  “No. No, he didn’t have gloves on.”

  “That shoe should have been checked for prints.”

  “It wasn’t. Grace had it on, and now I have it here, in her room.”

  “For Christ’s sake. It’s probably no good to us now, but can I see it?”

  And just like that, suddenly, there’s a new sliver of hope. Just a sliver, she feels it. A mountain. An ocean. A fingerprint. That might be all it takes to put an end to this. “That night of the kidnapping, I put her things in the closet and haven’t touched them since. Her jeans, shirt, everything.”

  “Do you have a bag? A plastic bag, maybe?”

  She retrieves a brown lunch bag from a drawer near the refrigerator. “How’s this?”

  “That’ll work fine.”

  Upstairs, she points out the pink and white saddle shoes sitting on the top shelf of Grace’s closet. Holding them by only the shoelace, Detective Hayes picks them up, one at a time, and drops them in the bag.

  “I know it’s difficult for you to go out still, but I’ll need you to stop in at the station to be fingerprinted.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. These will be dusted and if we get clear prints, I’ll need to differentiate yours from any others.”

  “All right, I can stop in. Do you think the kidnapper’s prints can be deciphered too?”

  “I don’t know, Amy. At this point, I just don’t know what we’ll find.”

  The detective steps to the window and looks out to the yard where Celia is pushing Grace in her new swing and Amy can’t help but wonder, while watching the small child, if he feels that ocean, too. That mountain. Hoping with one single set of fingerprints to end this, finding that same thrill as when the swing flies so high, it feels as though your feet will touch the sky.

  * * *

  There’s something about that voice, that swagger in it, that gets his customers smiling, or tapping a foot as they consider the meat cases. Arranging a tray of boneless center cut pork chops in the display case, George hears only that, Sinatra’s voice on the stereo system. But then another voice comes through, louder than Frank’s.

  “Mr. Carbone?”

  He straightens and wipes his hands on his black apron. “What can I do for you?”

  “Detective Hayes, Addison Police.” Hayes shows his identification. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  His brother was right. The leads must’ve run cold and they’re back for more
questions.

  “Sure.” George motions to a small office near the back workroom, turning down the music on his way there. A wooden desk, two file cabinets, an extra mismatched chair and a large bulletin board fill the space. “Have a seat, Detective. How can I help you?” George leans up against the desk front, his arms folded in front of him. Years of playing poker count for something. Though he feels a nagging prickle of perspiration, he wears his poker face. Reveal nothing, show nothing.

  Detective Hayes lifts a briefcase to his lap. “Well, Mr. Carbone.”

  “George. Call me George.”

  “Okay, George.” He glances over his shoulder. “What a business you run. Been here long?”

  “Just over ten years. Took it over from my father.”

  “Nice place, definitely. Food looks great.” Hayes opens his briefcase. “So listen, I like to check in with my witnesses periodically and see how they’re doing. If anything new has come to mind.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  “All right then.” Hayes pulls his notepad from the briefcase and jots down a few lines of information. “There’s something I wanted to verify with you, Mr. Carbone. George.”

  “Shoot.”

  “When the Trewist girl was given to you at the market, you didn’t notice any weapons in the kidnappers’ possession. Is that right?”

  “Yes it is. It was kind of dark out, though.”

  “But you were called over to a car. And the girl, Grace, was put in the parking lot from the back seat of that car?”

  “Correct.”

  “And when that happened, the car’s door must have been open.”

  “It was.”

  “So the car’s interior light would have come on, with the door open.”

  George pauses, watching the detective. Nate is right again. His best defense is ignorance. “It may or may not have been illuminated. I really don’t remember.”

  “Nothing comes to mind? An interior seat color? A person’s hair as they set the girl out? A fabric of clothing, a sleeve maybe?”

  George knows damn well exactly who sat in the car, what they were wearing, what they looked like. He also knows damn well that he can straight-up confess right here, right now. He considers the detective waiting, pen poised. “No. Nothing,” he answers. “Do you have a suspect in mind?”

  “Just doing a little fishing.” Hayes makes a note in the pad. “How about on the car seats? Maybe they got careless and left a nine-millimeter in view? You wouldn’t have noticed anything by any chance, papers, a weapon, a cell phone in the dim light?”

  George lets out a low whistle while his heart pounds in his chest. “Oh you’re wrong there. Weapons I would have noticed.”

  “Seems they covered their bases pretty well.”

  George shrugs. “People make mistakes. You’ve got to follow through, I guess.”

  “Anything else you might recall in that low light?”

  “No, nothing more than I’ve already reported.”

  The detective flips his notepad closed and sets it in the briefcase. “You okay?” he asks when he looks over at George.

  “Yeah. Why?” George asks, shifting his position.

  “You must handle a lot of raw meat in here.” Hayes tips back his chair and looks out at the work area behind him. Meat grinders and a bone saw are readily visible on a long countertop. “You’ve got the air temperature pretty low.”

  “Have to. Health regulations.”

  “That’s what I figured.” He points to George’s face. “You’re sweating.”

  “Jesus.” George quickly brings his hand to his forehead.

  “It’s tough, I know,” Hayes adds, snapping the case closed. “Being involved in a crime does funny things.” He stands then, the briefcase hanging from his grip. “Listen, if you think of anything, give me a call, would you?” Hayes reaches into his pocket and hands him a business card.

  “Sure.” George walks him out into the showroom while tucking Hayes’ card in his pocket. “You, too.”

  “What’s that?” Detective Hayes turns toward George.

  “If you catch those guys, let me know. We’ll all rest easier.”

  “Oh, you’ll know about it. You’re an eyewitness. I’m hoping you could identify a voice at least.” He extends his hand for a shake. “We’ll be in touch.”

  George shakes the detective’s hand and watches him leave, waiting at the door until he is long out of sight.

  Ten

  IT MIGHT HELP HER TO have an emotional release. The child psychologist saw right through Grace’s growing silence to the source of it. At our next appointment, we’ll try play-acting, association cards, that sort of thing. Her fear is bottled up inside her and she needs to rid the feelings from her system, to get mad, to cry, Dr. Brina had said.

  Are there association cards for adults? What would elicit a response from Amy? Because she needs it too, to get mad, to purge the rage from her system. Slamming her hand on the steering wheel while driving isn’t cutting it. Wouldn’t she love to go face-to-face with the men who subjected her child to this? To lean in like a drill sergeant and spew her thoughts at them?

  By the time she gets home and unbuckles Grace from the car seat, she’s still too mad to get afraid of the voices coming from the house. How can someone be inside? If anything, it makes her even angrier, this violation of her home, this thought of what else can go wrong. She and Grace walk the flagstone path from the driveway to the back door and hear conversing, arguing even, in her kitchen. She turns to Grace and holds a stern finger to her pursed lips, shushing her firmly. Standing off to the side, she peers through the paned windows on the farm-style door but sees nothing out of place. It’s only when she turns the key in the lock does she realize the voices come from a talk show on the radio.

  But still, something’s not right. Something that has her set the keys lightly on the kitchen table and silently tug Grace’s jacket from her arms. Something that keeps her ears tuned as she shuts off the countertop radio and walks through the rooms.

  Something that makes her question what she thought she knew, that she shut the radio off before they left earlier.

  * * *

  George cuts off a stretch of butcher’s twine. He slides it beneath the pork loin, pulls the twine tightly around one end and makes a square knot, leaving a long length on one side of the knot. Laying the twine along the length of the roast, his thumb holds the knot firmly in place as he wraps the string around the meat. A quick visual check confirms the tension is just right as very little of the juices seep out. He lifts the loop at his thumb and passes the end of the twine underneath, then pulls the twine upward to tighten it around the roast.

  Dean serves the lunch customers out front and has switched the stereo from Sinatra to a midday news report. The armored truck heist manhunt has been expanded from the eastern seaboard to the west coast. Reward amounts spiral as authorities suggest that professional, lifelong criminals played a hand in Addison’s headlines.

  Played a hand. George stands at the counter in his black apron and continues wrapping and tying the pork loin in one-inch increments until the entire length has been tied. If only they knew how playing a hand spiked the crime. It’s like paging through some old photo album in his mind, the images he remembers of Nate always playing a hand with fate. There he is climbing trees unfit for climbing, staying in the water until lightning strikes close, flirting with fast cars and bikes, skiing precipitous black-diamond slopes and walking blindly into an early volatile marriage. Moving back home after his divorce, he seemed to regroup. But after their father died, the gamble took different shapes as it escalated from weekly poker games to horse racing to the slots, each one strung together somehow, with Nate incrementally increasing the tension and tightening the knot of risk.

  George manipulates the roast, checking for tautness. He tightens each tie, then wraps the string around the meat lengthwise, bringing it back to the original knot. Too much pressure on the twine will misshape the r
oast. He pulls just tight enough, then ties one last knot in the string to secure the work he has done.

  Just like Nate did, perfectly securing his work. He tied him up hand and foot in his ultimate gamble until George can’t make a single move without feeling those strings pull.

  * * *

  “Now don’t get mad at me,” Celia says when she turns her car into the driveway of a small ranch house and parks in the shade of an oak tree. They had gotten cones to-go on the way, and she bites into the last of hers before wiping her fingers on a napkin. “The listing agent needs me to stage this for an open house, but I wanted to ask you something first.”

  “I won’t get mad, Cee,” Amy answers, holding a double-scoop, fudge-swirled vanilla cone. “What’s up?”

  “For starters, what do you think of this house?”

  Amy glances out the passenger window, aware of Grace behind her in the car seat, spooning her strawberry ice cream from a small cup. The neighborhood is one with older homes pressed close together on shaded lots. “It’s pretty,” she says of the cream and brick-front ranch.

  “It’s got new siding and a new roof, too. Move-in condition.” Celia steps out, opens the car’s back door and lifts Grace up, ice cream and all. Together they walk to the front entranceway where a garden bench and antique milk can sit on the stoop. Celia holds Grace on her hip and shifts a notepad and pen from one hand to the other. A realtor’s lock box hangs from the front door handle. “Do me a favor?” she asks Amy. “Punch my password on the keypad and get the key out.”

  “What’s the code?” Amy tips up the lock box, waiting.

  “Twelve fifteen. My birthday.”

  Amy presses the numbers, one, two, one, five and the lock releases.

  “Go ahead and open it up,” Celia says around Grace in her arms. She strokes the girl’s hair as they step inside, where the living room leads to a small dining room with sliders to a deck. “Okay,” she says, setting Grace and her ice cream down before taking a quick breath. “Now for my real question. I’m just going to put it out there.”