by Jill Orr
I was gripped; I waited for him to go on.
“That first visit from Twain was about two weeks ago, you see, and I had rather hoped the matter was settled. But then about a week ago, Twain showed up with two more associates. These men he introduced as Charles Dickens and F. Scott Fitzgerald. They wanted to clarify that their boss would like to pay all costs associated with the project—and that we wouldn’t have to do anything but allow the bookmobile to be parked in our lot when it wasn’t out delivering books. Once again, I thanked them for their generosity but politely declined. Twain was not happy. As he left, he said, ‘You’re making a bad call. Hope it doesn’t’—and this part he enunciated very clearly—‘blow up in your face.’”
Chills spread around my whole body as he said the words.
“This, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, is the reason I haven’t been quite myself lately. And the reason for the little mishap with the gun the other day. I’ve been worried, apparently with good cause. This morning, the literary thugs came back and repeated their offer, which was now more of a demand. When I once again refused, Fitzgerald said he wanted to be real sure I knew where the sprinkler system was in case of a fire. And that’s when they handcuffed me to the pipe.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was stunned. Someone was shaking down Dr. Hershel Harbinger? It was insane. I asked the obvious question. “Why not tell the sheriff?”
“Ah,” Dr. H said. “Well, Twain warned me that they have a source inside the sheriff’s department and that if I contacted them, he’d know. I believed him.”
“Who are these people? And why on earth would they be so insistent on donating a bookmobile?”
“I’m not sure.” He frowned. “But I think it’s clear whoever they are, they’re up to no good.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We aren’t going to do anything, little miss,” he said, his tone suddenly becoming firm. “I have this under control, and I will deal with it. I do not want you involved with these people in any way.”
“But—”
“That is non-negotiable, you hear?”
Just then the bell chimed, alerting us that a patron had entered. Dr. H nodded his head toward the door for me to go back out front. The conversation, at least for now, was over.
CHAPTER 19
I ran home after my shift at the library to change before making the fifteen-minute drive to West Bay to break up with Ajay257. Will Holman called as soon as I walked in the door. “So, you find anything else out?”
I held the phone on my shoulder as I shimmied out of my pencil skirt and into a pair of cut-off shorts. “About what?”
“Jordan and her mystery man. Obviously.”
My conversation with Holman and our unsubstantiated theories about Jordan’s death seemed like remnants from another life. Between the drama with Ajay and Ryan and now Dr. H, I hadn’t had time to give it a moment’s thought. Did I really think Jordan had been murdered? It seemed a little dramatic. I thought back to my conversation with Kevin Monroe and the look of pity on his face. The same look Carl Haight had given me. The same look my own mother had given me. Poor Riley, bless her heart, she just can’t accept that anyone would commit suicide. Maybe that was true? First I doubted Granddaddy’s suicide, now Jordan’s. In both cases, the authorities believed it. The family believed it. The only one on my side was an oddball reporter with a penchant for conspiracy theories.
I sighed. “I don’t even know if there was a mystery man. I think I was just having a hard time thinking of her committing suicide.”
“You’re saying you think she killed herself now?”
I didn’t know what to say. Part of me did, and part of me didn’t. Most of me was just sad and sorry for her family. “I guess so. That’s what the sheriff’s office thinks.”
Holman sighed. “And I suppose you think the sheriff is always right.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Would it interest you to know that I found Jordan’s most recent credit card statement, and there was a purchase from Victoria’s Secret for $67.32?”
“Not really.”
“Even though Victoria’s Secret is generally accepted in our society as the place to buy reasonably priced, often risqué lingerie? This would support the claim that she had a mystery boyfriend she was trying to entice with her sexuality—”
“Holman!” I cut him off. “Victoria’s Secret sells everyday stuff too. Just because she shopped there doesn’t mean she had a boyfriend.”
“Under items sold, the receipt lists an item called Very Sexy Chantilly Lace Babydoll. I’m not an expert on women’s lingerie, but that doesn’t sound like an everyday item to me.”
I had to admit he was right. But still. Buying lingerie did not mean Jordan had a boyfriend. And having a boyfriend did not mean she hadn’t killed herself.
“I just think between the Chantilly Lace Babydoll and her cageyness about whether or not she was seeing someone, the mystery-guy angle is worth pursuing.”
“What do you mean ‘pursuing’?”
“I would have thought that was obvious. I think we should work the story.”
“We? I’m not a reporter. I’m not even a journalist! I’m only helping her parents with the obituary because of old times…and probably because of who my granddad is—or was. Anyway, I don’t work stories.” I realized I was shouting, my voice echoing through my empty house.
“Shame. You’d make a good reporter. You have your grandfather’s instincts, you know?”
A combination of guilt and flattery, with a hint of the same excitement I felt during my first conversation with Holman, took root. “Fine,” I huffed, as I looked at my reflection in the mirror and dabbed on a little more blush. “I talked to Jordan’s mom the other day and found out a couple of things.”
I could practically see Holman’s self-satisfied smile as he waited for me to elaborate.
“Apparently she was on Click.com. Her mom said she thought maybe there was a guy, but she wasn’t sure.”
“See, was that so hard? What else?”
“What else? You’re lucky there was anything at all.”
“Focus. Did she say anything else?”
“I don’t know…her mom said she’d recently adopted a new dog and that she’d been traveling for work—”
“Hold up—traveling for work?”
“Yes, she said Jordan had taken a few work trips.”
“She didn’t travel for work.” Holman was definitive.
I got an uneasy feeling deep in my gut. “She didn’t?”
“Nope.”
“Mrs. James said she’d been gone to DC over Memorial Day weekend to cover the national parade.”
“Not true,” he said. “We don’t have the budget to send people to DC to cover parades. We always use an AP story.”
“Hmmm.” That was a little weird. Why would Jordan lie to her mom?
“If memory serves, she took two vacation days over Memorial Day weekend, Sunday and Monday. Normally the junior staffers have to work holidays, but she begged for the time off. Said it was her parents’ twenty-fifth anniversary and that they were going to Hilton Head.”
“Wait,” I said, remembering the picture Jordan’s mom showed me. “Her parents’ twenty-fifth was three years ago.”
“More evidence of a mystery here, wouldn’t you say?” Holman said.
“Maybe she went out of town with some girlfriends?”
“Then why lie about it? She lied to her parents saying she had to work; she lied at work saying she was with her parents. That doesn’t sound like someone going on a girls’ weekend. That sounds like someone going to a lot of trouble to cover something up.”
Deep in my gut, I agreed with him. I wasn’t sure what it all meant, but it seemed off. “There’s one other thing,” I said slowly, not sure if what I was about to say was a good idea; Holman didn’t need any help in the conspiracy-theory department. “She left a note.”
“She d
id? Did you see it? Do the police know about it?”
“Yes, yes, and yes. It was short. Full of grammatical errors. She said life was too hard but spelled ‘too’ with one ‘o.’”
“No way,” Holman said. “She was better than the copy editors at finding mistakes.”
“Her mom thought maybe she wrote the note after she took the insulin.”
“I don’t buy it. She must have been trying to send a message.”
“What do you mean?”
“To let us know she didn’t kill herself willingly. Think about it. It fits.”
“I don’t know.” I sank back onto my couch, dizzy with all this new information. “Doesn’t that seem a little too Agatha Christie?”
“We need to figure out who she was going on trips with and why she was lying about it. Can you look into that?” I heard papers rustling over the line. “I’ll keep looking into the anonymous tip and the Romero angle. My gut tells me there’s something there, too.”
I glanced at the huge clock I had mounted over the mantle. I had to leave to meet Ajay in ten minutes. “Okay. Fine. I have to go, Holman.”
“Good. Call me back when you have something.”
“What about your phone being tapped—are you not worried about that anymore?” I said, half-joking.
“Oh, right. Forgot to tell you: I was thinking maybe we should have code names.”
“What?”
“Code names. You know, just in case someone is listening in. It would be better if they didn’t know your name.”
I had no idea how to react to such a suggestion.
“Do you have a nickname?” he asked.
“Um.” The only nickname I had was Dad’s, but the thought of being called Raccoon by Will Holman made the name even less appealing. I mean, Ryan called me “sugar” and “sweetie” and things like that, but those were hardly appropriate aliases. So I said the only thing I could think of. “Back in middle school, people called Jordan and me the Obit Girls.”
“Obit Girl. Great. That is how I will refer to you from now on.”
“Okay. Whatever.”
“What will you call me?”
Insane, I thought. “Um, I’m not sure. Let me think on it.”
“Okay,” he sounded slightly disappointed. “If you need inspiration, I can tell you I have every episode of Dr. Who ever made on DVD, I am an avid player of Clash of Clans online, and I have a near-photographic memory of flags, including—”
I interrupted him. “Okay, great! That’ll give me some good food for thought—but I have to go now or else I’ll be late.”
“Okay. Right. Over and out, Obit Girl.”
“Goodbye, Holman.”
Dear Regina H:
I am writing to inquire if it is possible for one Click.com member to see who another Click.com member has gone out with? Please advise.
Thank you,
Riley Ellison
Dear Miss Ellison:
I am so sorry you find yourself in a situation in which you feel compelled to “check up on” the activities of another Click.com member. If you don’t mind me asking, is it Ajay257? I know the two of you got off to a difficult start, but I had rather hoped you’d been able to work through the challenges of the roller coaster and your labile emotional state. Did something else happen? Did you not order the whitefish? #hindsightis2020
Unfortunately, I am not able to provide you directly with information related to another member’s account. However, Click.com does offer an added-value service called the Safe Protocol Initiative (SPI for short) available for download directly to your computer! Our patent-pending SPI software will allow you to track the activities of the Click.com members you are linked with through the arrow and quiver system. This proprietary technology was developed when we were alerted to the significant volume of Click.com members who were using the site for less than romantic purposes. One gentleman had delivered 133 arrows after he’d gotten married to another member.
And that member sued Click.com for emotional distress. The case was settled out of court for an undisclosed amount. #nochristmasbonusesthatyear!
But we believe in transparency and integrity here at Click.com, and those values can be yours for a one-time fee of $29.95. Do let me know if I can sign you up for our SPI program. And please keep me posted on your relationship with Ajay257. I’m keeping my fingers crossed! #ihaveafeelingaboutyoutwo
Best,
Regina H, Personal Romance Concierge, Click.com
CHAPTER 20
I went ahead and ordered the SPI program because I couldn’t see any other way of finding out who Jordan had met through Click. Since she obviously didn’t talk to anyone about her love life, it seemed like my only option. It only took a couple of minutes to download the software, which gave me just enough time to do it before I had to leave to meet Ajay. I figured that was the least I could do for him—making him wait on me to break up with him was just adding insult to injury. I quickly followed the instructions to look up Jordan’s account, but it was blocked. Their software only tracked the arrows and quivers of people you were already linked with on the site, and since I didn’t know Jordan’s username or password, I couldn’t access her account. I tried to think of a few usernames she might have chosen, but as Mr. Monroe pointed out, I didn’t really know her, so I didn’t have any luck. There went $29.95 down the drain.
Just before shutting down, I decided to take a quick peek at who else Ajay257 had been in contact with. You know, just to make me feel better about breaking up with him. I was sure there were tons of people interested in a guy like Ajay, and I thought it might make me feel less guilty about ending things.
Dang! Ajay had received more than 110 arrows! I’d only gotten like twenty. Of course, I hadn’t been a member as long as he had. I started scrolling through the profile names of the women who were about to get the good news that Ajay was back on the market. Stylin’Suze, AngelKitty97, HotnessAberdeen, Profgirl, HattieG, Milf73, SexyBikerBabe—gosh, there were just so many of them! I couldn’t believe it. Ajay was truly a hot commodity.
And I was glad to see how in demand he was because it made me feel better about letting him go. He’d easily be able to find happiness with Latinalover69 or someone else. A pang of something tugged at me—jealousy maybe? I squashed the feeling. I had Ryan back, and that was all I’d wanted for so long, wasn’t it? So what if Ajay was nice and cute and successful? Maybe under other circumstances, I could see myself with him, but not now. Not with Ryan back in my life.
I was about to close my laptop when I saw a link to the arrows he had sent out. There were only two: the one he sent to me and one to a WoodwardBernstein93. I suddenly felt like I had the wind knocked out of me. Woodward-Bernstein93. Jordan. It had to be Jordan. She, like me, was born in 1993. And Woodward and Bernstein were her dogs’ names. It had to be her. And here she was in Ajay’s quiver? My pulse started to race, and my mind was a jumble of emotions that hadn’t even had time to distill into thoughts. With a trembling hand, I clicked on the username, and a window popped up showing that he had initiated contact with her in May. It showed she responded a couple of days later, though I couldn’t read the contents of their communications. It showed that Ajay257 and WoodwardBernstein93 had made a date for May 12th. And another on May 19th.
The tingly feeling on my skin progressed into a leaden feeling deep in my chest. Ajay and Jordan? It didn’t seem possible. How could he have not mentioned dating a girl from Tuttle Corner who died, especially after I told him I had a friend who died recently? Tuttle Corner was a pretty small town. He’d have to have guessed that I would have known her. Had he kept his relationship with Jordan a secret from me on purpose?
I was grasping to make sense of this new information. I looked at the clock. It was 4:37. I needed to go, or else I’d be late. I grabbed my purse and headed out to the car, this time locking the door behind me as I left.
“You already found the mystery man?” Holman said when I called him from the car. “W
ell done!”
“Listen—I may not even be right.”
“But your boyfriend, the professor, also dated Jordan?”
“Maybe. But he’s not my boyfriend. I’m on my way to break up with him right now.”
“Don’t!” Holman shouted.
“Don’t what?” I said, as I cranked the air conditioning to full blast. A thin film of sweat covered my entire body.
“Don’t break up with him! Are you crazy?”
“Are you?” I said. “I can’t go out with him now. He dated Jordan! It’s too weird.”
“You can’t cut ties with our only suspect, Riley. You have to keep seeing him.”
“Suspect?”
“Yes,” he said, sounding as close to impatient as I’d ever heard him.
“You think Ajay had something to do with Jordan’s death? No way. Ajay would never—”
“Listen, right now we are just collecting data. We don’t know who did what to whom. But since we are working from the hypothesis that Jordan’s death was not a suicide, that makes everyone in her life a suspect. Especially a boyfriend she wanted to keep secret.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little paranoid?”
“I’m in the business of being paranoid. It’s the reason I’m good at my job.”
I didn’t know what to think. I felt as though I’d been plunked down in the middle of a bad spy movie.
“I’m going to check out a possible connection between Ajay and Romero. You try to get him to admit to knowing Jordan. But don’t be too obvious. We don’t want to tip him off that we’re onto him.”
“What am I supposed to do? Pretend to be his girlfriend and snoop around for information?”
“Exactly.”
I was sure that my tone of voice indicated I was being sarcastic, but Holman must have missed it. “I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can.”
“Holman!” I would be at the coffee shop in just a few minutes. I had no idea how I was supposed to pull this off. I was approaching full-out panic mode.
