Joey lived in the Lower Falls neighborhood. The houses were smaller and closer together than in Riverbend, with lots of pickups in the driveways. Joey took out a key, opened the side door. Ingrid went in.
“This is the kitchen,” Joey said.
Ingrid could see that. It was very tidy, with a sailing-ship calendar on the wall and two places set at the table. “Want something to eat?” Joey said.
“I’m all right.”
Joey opened a cupboard, took out a bag of potato chips. He offered them to her. She shook her head. He ate a few, then a few more, offered the bag again. This time Ingrid took a handful.
“Okay,” Joey said. “I’ll show you the thing.”
They went into the living room.
“You’ve got a woodstove,” Ingrid said. Coals glowed through the glass window.
“Heats the whole house,” Joey said. “Pretty much.”
Paintings hung on the walls, all of sailing ships. A chessboard sat on a table between two chairs, the pieces in some kind of midgame formation.
“Who plays chess?” Ingrid said.
“Me and my dad,” said Joey. “Do you?”
“No.”
Joey opened a door. “It’s down here,” he said. He flicked on a light. They went down to the basement.
“You’ve got a workshop,” Ingrid said.
“Yeah.”
An amazing workshop, with a long bench, different power saws, a vise, tons of tools, lots of stuff Ingrid didn’t even know the names of. On the end of the bench stood the catapult, about three feet high, made of some yellowish wood that seemed to glow under the workbench lamp.
Ingrid went over, touched it.
“No modern materials or techniques,” Joey said. “I got the plans from a book about the Hundred Years’ War.”
Ingrid had never heard of the Hundred Years’ War.
“They weren’t fighting the whole time,” Joey said.
“Does it work?” said Ingrid.
“I told you,” Joey said. “Tack down the leather string.”
“Here?”
“Yeah.”
“Now crank the wheel.”
Ingrid turned the wooden wheel, a little thing, beautifully made.
“You can do it harder than that.”
Ingrid cranked harder. The arm of the catapult began to bend. She felt its strength.
“Now put this in the bowl.”
He handed her a golf ball. She stuck it in the bowl at the end of the catapult arm.
“Unhook the string.”
Ingrid reached for it.
“Get your head out of the way first.”
She got her head out of the way, unhooked the string. The catapult arm snapped forward with a tiny whoosh of air, flinging the golf ball across the room in a blur. It thumped against a punching bag that Ingrid hadn’t noticed and bounced on the floor.
She turned to him. They looked at each other for a moment. “If there’s time before the fair,” Joey said, “I’ll build a little castle to knock down.”
Ingrid nodded. For some reason, it sounded like one of the best ideas she’d ever heard.
There wasn’t much space between them, the way they were standing, close to the catapult. Joey leaned across that space, face first, a very awkward movement, leading with his mouth. Ingrid, like a figure in a dream, turned up her own face. Their lips came together. Ingrid’s eyes closed. She felt his arms going around her. She put hers around him. Ingrid had done plenty of hugging—Mom, Dad, Stacy, Mia, other friends, Grampy once or twice, Aunt This and Uncle That—but nothing compared to this. She opened her eyes to see what he was doing. He was watching her. She’d never been so close to someone’s eyes before. At that moment a door opened upstairs and Joey backed away, fast, like from an electric shock.
“My dad,” he whispered. And then, out of nowhere, “Divorced.”
A voice called from upstairs. “Joe?”
“Down here,” Joey said.
Heavy footsteps started down the stairs.
“Ingrid’s here to see the catapult,” Joey said.
Chief Strade came into view, wearing his uniform. “Is she?” he said.
“You remember Ingrid,” Joey said.
“From the woods,” said Chief Strade. “Nice to see you.”
“Hello, Mr. Strade,” Ingrid said. “It’s one heck of a catapult.” Possibly the dumbest remark of her life.
“Not bad,” said the chief. “I’ll just get supper started. You’re invited.”
“Thanks, I—”
“Fire up the grill, Joe.”
“It’s raining, Dad.”
“Stopped twenty minutes ago,” said the chief. “You didn’t notice?”
fourteen
THEY ATE AT THE kitchen table, under the sailing-ship calendar. It was different from dinner at Ingrid’s. First, it was called supper. Second, it was happening earlier. Third, they were eating steak, banished from the Levin-Hills’ table because of mad cow. Ingrid loved steak, especially medium rare and juicy, just like this.
“Been saving these,” said the chief, loosening his tie, a navy-blue tie that matched his uniform shirt. “How’s yours?”
“Great,” Ingrid said.
“Pass down that A1, Joe, where she can get it.”
“That’s all right,” Ingrid said.
“No A1?” said the chief. “How about ketchup?”
“I like it just like this,” Ingrid said.
“Me too,” said the chief. “Joe puts sauce on everything.”
“That’s not true,” Joey said, although his steak was swimming in A1 and there was a pool of ketchup on the side.
The chief rolled up his sleeves—his forearms were huge, the links of his steel watchband stretched to the max—and poured himself a beer. Ingrid and Joey had milk—whole milk, which she’d hardly ever even tasted. So good, like a meal all by itself. There was a lot to be said for eating at Joey’s.
“How’s school?” asked the chief.
“Good,” said Ingrid.
“Ingrid’s one of the brainy kids,” said Joey. She felt something press against her foot.
“That’s clear,” said the chief.
Joey’s foot. “I’m not,” said Ingrid. How could a foot pressing against another foot feel this good?
“What’s your favorite subject?” the chief asked.
“English.” Joey pressed a little harder; it actually sort of began to hurt.
“Least favorite?” the chief said. “Send those rolls around, Joe. And the butter, for Pete’s sake. What’s wrong with you?”
Joey withdrew his foot fast.
“Math,” said Ingrid.
“Ingrid’s—” Joey began, and then stopped himself. She knew what he’d been about to say, knew he’d realized he’d be opening a can of worms.
But too late. “Ingrid’s what?” said Chief Strade.
“Uh,” said Joey.
“I’m going to be in Joey’s math class,” Ingrid said. “Starting tomorrow.”
“Pre-Algebra?” said the chief.
“Yeah.”
“Where were you before?”
“Algebra Two.”
“Her teacher was a jerk,” Joey said, a streamlet of A1 leaking from the corner of his mouth. Ingrid felt the crazy temptation—totally whacked—to mop it up with her napkin.
“How so?” said the chief.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ingrid said.
“Just being a jerk,” said Joey.
“Who’s the teacher?” the chief said.
“Ms. Groome,” Joey said.
His father nodded, chewing slowly. Joey’s eyes narrowed.
“You know her?” he said.
“Is she new?” the chief said. “From Hartford?”
“You know her?” Joey said again.
“I think she’s going out with Ron Pina,” said the chief.
“You mean like dating?” Joey said. “But Ron’s a cool guy.”
“Who’s Ron P
ina?” Ingrid said.
“Sergeant Pina,” Joey said. “He works with my dad.”
Ingrid, putting more butter on her roll, froze: Sergeant Pina.
“How’s he doing, anyway?” said Joey.
“Be on crutches for six weeks,” the chief said.
“What about that hunting trip to Wyoming?”
“Had to cancel, and they’re fighting him over the deposit,” the chief said. “Pass those potatoes down where Ingrid can reach them, Joe.”
Joey passed the potatoes. “Sergeant Pina was the one who chased the guy into the woods,” he said. “He ran into a tree.”
“Oh,” Ingrid said. A baked potato she was transferring from the bowl to her plate somehow got loose and fell to the floor. “Sorry,” she said, reaching down to pick it up, lying right next to one of the chief’s enormous feet. The laces of his black shoes were untied, black shoes that gleamed even in the dim light under the table; she could smell the polish and see where—what were those things called? bunions?—deformed the leather.
“That’s all right,” the chief said. “Take another.”
Joey put another potato on her plate. “Ingrid’s into Sherlock Holmes,” he said.
She glanced at him. How did he know that? He must have been talking to her friends. Ingrid wasn’t sure whether she liked that or not.
All the heavy features on the chief’s face seemed to lighten up. Was he really a hard-ass, like Stacy thought? “‘There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,’” he said.
“‘The Boscombe Valley Mystery,’” said Ingrid. One of her favorites.
The chief grinned. His teeth were huge, too, all different shapes. “I’m a big fan,” he said. He clinked his glass against Ingrid’s. “Wonder what he’d think of the case.”
“The Cracked-Up Katie case?” Ingrid asked.
The chief’s grin went away. “That’s what people called her,” he said, “but there was never any evidence of actual insanity and no criminal record whatsoever. She did have her share of problems.”
“Mental problems, right, Dad?” said Joey.
“Don’t know if you’d call them mental problems,” said the chief. “She got eccentric over the years, but at one time she must have been pretty normal. They say she was engaged to the most eligible bachelor in Echo Falls.”
“Who was that?” Ingrid asked.
“Philip Prescott,” said the chief.
“Of Prescott Hall?”
“Yup. The last of the Prescotts.”
“The one who took off for Alaska?”
The chief gave her a quick look. “How’d you know that?”
“Ingrid’s Alice,” Joey said. “In the Wonderland play.”
The chief glanced at him in a way that said Is this my son?
“My dad told me,” Ingrid said.
The chief nodded, helped himself to another steak from the serving platter, cut it into bite-size chunks. “That’s the story,” he said. “Long before my time, of course. This must have been thirty years ago or so. I was a kid back then, younger than you two.”
“Here in Echo Falls?” Ingrid said.
“Oh, no. Thirty years ago I’d of been in Germany. Army brat.”
“He lived in Omar too,” said Joey.
“Oman,” said the chief.
“Amen,” said Ingrid; it just popped out, completely ludicrous.
But the chief seemed to find it very funny. His eyebrows, thick and almost meeting in the middle, shot up and he laughed and laughed. “That’s a good one,” he said. “Have another steak.”
“I couldn’t.”
“This one’s barely two bites.” He plopped one on her plate. “They say her problems started up after he disappeared.”
“He just took off for Alaska?” Ingrid said. “Out of the blue?”
“He wrote a farewell letter to The Echo,” the chief said. “We found it among her effects, saved all these years.”
“What did it say?”
The chief reached for his briefcase, standing by the fridge. He opened it on the table and handed her a yellowed newspaper clipping.
My friends, Ingrid read.
“Read it out loud,” said Joey.
“‘My friends, this may come as a surprise, but after our wonderful production of Dial M for Murder, I feel a sudden and very deep need to refresh myself. My plans take me far away, to Alaska or even beyond. I want honest physical work, space, a chance to work things out in my head. Please don’t think badly of me. Sincerely, Philip Prescott.’”
“That’s so weird,” Joey said.
“What do you think, Ingrid?” said the chief.
Ingrid thought. She hardly ever got sick, so hardly ever stayed home from school; but when she did, she watched those afternoon shows on TV, soap operas, so unreal. Philip Prescott’s parting letter reminded her of those shows. “Yeah,” she said. “It’s weird.”
“He never came back?” said Joey.
“Nope,” said the chief. “Never heard from again.”
“What happened to all his money?” Joey asked.
“I wondered about that,” said the chief. “So I called old Mr. Samuels over at The Echo. If there’s an Echo Falls historian, it’s Mr. Samuels. Seems there wasn’t much Prescott money left by then. They hadn’t really worked for a generation or two. What was left behind got used up in taxes and maintenance over the years.”
Ingrid handed him the clipping. As he put it back in the briefcase, she noticed some color photographs in there. The corner of the top one showed Kate’s body on the floor, her arm flung out, almost as if reaching toward a pile of shoes in the corner. On top of the pile lay the red Pumas.
The chief pushed himself up from the table. “Wash up, Joe,” he said. “I’ll take Ingrid home.”
A question popped up in Ingrid’s mind. “What’s Dial M for Murder about?” she said.
“No idea,” said the chief. He smiled at her. “Let me guess—you want to be an actress too.”
Or a director. But those were secret ambitions, so Ingrid said, “I don’t know what I want to be yet.”
“Give a thought to criminology,” said the chief.
Out in the driveway, Ingrid started to get into the police cruiser. “Off duty,” said the chief, gesturing to a pickup parked on the street. He drove her home in that.
“Want some music? Joe likes music in the car.”
“Mr. Strade?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“These men—Albert Morales and Lon Stingley—why did they kill her?”
“The motive?” said the chief. “We don’t know that.”
“Isn’t it a pretty big crime not to know the motive?”
He glanced at her. “What do you mean?”
“‘The bigger the crime the more obvious, as a rule, is the motive,’” Ingrid said.
The pickup slowed down slightly, as though the chief’s foot had come off the pedal. “‘The Blue Carbuncle’?” he said.
“‘A Case of Identity,’” said Ingrid.
He glanced at her again. “Right,” he said.
They turned onto River Road; Ingrid put a name to the street at once: She was learning Echo Falls. It was dark now, the river sliding by black and shiny, like licorice. Once there would have been barges out there, loaded up with shovels for the gravediggers.
“Just between you, me, and the lamppost,” said the chief, “very few cases end up being one hundred percent tidy.”
“What’s untidy about this one?” Ingrid said.
The chief laughed. “Poor little Joe,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” said the chief. “I’ll tell you what’s untidy about this case. First, Morales and Stingley left prints in the house but only in the kitchen, and she was killed upstairs. We’ve got witnesses who say they sometimes socialized with her, so the prints could date from some other time. Second, they really don’t seem to know anything about the break-in that happened the next day.”
“Why is that important?”
“Because there’s evidence of tampering at the crime scene. Who would take a risk like that other than a guilty party?”
“Tampering?” said Ingrid.
“Meaning that the crime scene was changed.” Before Ingrid could say she knew what tampering meant, he went on, “Plus there’s the problem of Stingley’s physical condition.”
“He limps. I saw it on TV.”
“Says he stepped on a land mine in the Gulf War, although the fact is he never served in the military and was born with a clubfoot. But it’s hard to imagine just about anybody not being able to get away from him.”
“Then what makes you think he did it?”
“Morales ratted him out. We hadn’t been questioning him more than twenty minutes before he described the whole thing, how the victim and Stingley…uh, went upstairs together, then he heard noises but got there too late.”
“Maybe he’s just protecting himself,” Ingrid said. “Maybe he did it.”
“That’s exactly what Stingley said the second we told him Morales’s story,” said the chief, turning onto Maple Lane.
“This tampering,” Ingrid said. “What kind of changes were you talking about?”
They pulled up in front of ninety-nine, all lights shining inside. “Nice house,” said the chief. He turned to her. “You know the way Holmes always talks about the observation of trifles?”
“Yes.”
“After the break-in, I took a pretty close look at the crime scene. That’s basic. And something bothered me. Couldn’t put my finger on it, naturally. Like Joe, not the sharpest knife in the drawer. But procedure says to take photographs before the body is removed, so back at the office I had a look at them. Sure enough, something was missing.”
“What was that?” Ingrid said.
“A pair of red shoes. Can’t make out what kind, maybe those bowling ones. But we’re working on it.”
“You…you think it’s important?” Ingrid said.
“Got to be. Who else would do that but a guilty party, like I said?”
“Guilty of what?” said Ingrid.
“Maybe they had an accomplice,” the chief said. “It’s even possible that they were set up and the real killer is still loose.” He glanced out the window. “Starting to rain. Better get inside.”
Ingrid went into the house. Her legs felt wobbly. Mom was waiting on the other side of the door.
Down the Rabbit Hole Page 11
