by Madelyn Alt
Annie slid an Annie-Thing Good napkin and a Sharpie my way. I scrawled down Liss’s directions and recapped the pen. “Thanks, Liss. I’ll call you back later.”
“I’ll be counting on it.”
Annie looked at me as I handed the phone back to her. “What’s up?”
“I have to see Marcus about a . . . computer problem a friend of mine has. Password breaking, that kind of thing.”
Annie’s freckled nose crinkled. “Ooh, I hate that, when you password-protect a file and then can’t remember what password you used! That’s great that Marcus can help with that kind of thing. I’ll have to remember that.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not that she forgot the password. She never knew it to begin with.” At Annie’s curious stare, I caved and lowered my voice to barely above a whisper. “The files belonged to Amanda Roberson. I’m just helping her mom out.” I glanced over at Randy Cutter. He had been watching us, but the instant my gaze shifted in his direction, he looked down into his lunch. Men. Do they never tire of ogling the opposite sex? On second thought, I’d been doing a fair bit of ogling myself of late. Enough said.
Annie’s mouth was forming a pained Oh. “Maggie . . . you won’t get into anything you can’t handle, will you?” she urged in an undertone.
I shook my head. “Not me. Not this time. If there’s anything important there, it’s off to the police the thing goes. You have my word on it.”
Marcus’s bachelor pad, as I soon discovered, was a study in contrasts. Should I have expected any less? No grungy trailer stuck out in a run-down trailer park for this big, bad biker boy. Instead Marcus lived in a small, Craftsman-style bungalow in one of the earlier parts of town, complete with an old waist-high cast-iron fence in the front. The fence brought vividly to mind memories of The Omen, which I had sneaked into the theater to see when I was a little kid, contrary to my mother’s strict orders. (I am, of course, woman enough to admit that I’ve had nightmares ever since. Score one for the moms of the world.) If the house was a bit Ozzie and Harriet for my image of Marcus, the garage out back was the perfect atmosphere for a Harley-Davidson lover, a converted livery barn that provided ample room for all the tools, spare parts, and even biker friends.
But that’s not where I found Marcus.
I found him on his knees in the kitchen, elbow deep in soap suds while an old-school Seger tune blared from a boom box on the counter, more than audible through the back door. Kind of a more up-to-date Mr. Clean, except someone really ought to tell him that it’s probably not the best idea to scrub the floor on hands and knees wearing leather pants. Oh, the chafing possibilities! Still, I took a moment to appreciate the image of him in total domestic bliss before I wiped the grin off my face and knocked on the door. I had to knock again—guess the music was up higher than I thought. Marcus glanced up the second go-round, and this time I did laugh at the look of chagrin that crossed his face. In one easy movement he pushed himself to his feet and motioned for me to enter while he reached behind to turn down the music.
“Hey there, tough guy,” I greeted him as I closed the door behind me to shut out the swirling eddies of cold. “Worried about dishpan hands?” I nodded toward the yellow rubber gloves.
He glanced down at himself, and I could swear I saw a blush rise in his cheeks. “Er, yeah, well, you know how drying all the cleaning solutions can be.”
“Oh, yeah,” I sympathized, “they’re terrible. You know, this is a side of you that I haven’t seen before. I never really figured you as the Domestic Goddess type.”
“Smart-ass.”
I grinned. “Thanks, I do try.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, doing his best to look imposing. All he accomplished was to bulge out his biceps under his white T-shirt. On second thought, he managed his objective quite nicely indeed. “Cleaning your home can have many benefits, you know. You can sweep out the negative energy with the dirt and dust. You freshen the air and clear the way for new and positive energies to join you. You can trace a power sigil into the soap suds and empower your wards—”
“And you get a super clean floor, too.”
“Have I ever told you you’re a—”
“Smart-ass, yeah.” Circumventing the soapy puddle and bucket, I leaned up against the kitchen counter. “So. This is the place you call home.”
He took a chamois cloth from his back pocket and began to dry the floor. “Yeah. It isn’t much to look at, but it’s mine.”
“It’s nice. It has a lot of character.”
“Thanks.”
“But I must admit, it is pretty funny to see you doing this kind of thing. Do you cook?”
He looked up, his brow arching. “Doesn’t everyone?”
Well, some of what I did probably shouldn’t be called cooking. But that was beside the point.
“So what brings you out this way?” Marcus asked, crossing his arms and mimicking me, one hip against the counter.
I took the CD case out of my purse and set it on the counter, placing my hand over it for safekeeping. “This has to be kept under wraps,” I cautioned.
“Scout’s honor.”
I took a deep breath and plunged in. “This belonged to Amanda Roberson.”
He looked more closely at the two, but didn’t make a move. “And you have it . . . why?”
“I visited Mrs. Roberson today. She was . . . distraught, and a little out of her mind with grief, I think, and somehow one thing led to another and . . . she asked me to take it. To help.”
He slipped the jewel case from beneath my palm and looked at it more closely before handing it back. “Bubblegum pop. Pretty typical for a teenage girl.”
“There’s another CD inside. A copy.”
“What’s on it?”
“Don’t know.”
He quirked his dark brows at that. “What do you mean, you don’t know? Didn’t you look?”
“No time. According to Mrs. Roberson, the files are password-protected.”
“Why would anyone password-protect a music CD?”
“I don’t think it’s a music CD.”
Briefly I explained what had happened at the Roberson house and how I had come to be in possession of Amanda’s property. To his credit, he listened to the whole tale, allowing me to ramble at will. “I think Mrs. Roberson was hoping to find someone who could tell her what was on the CD, and with luck, reassure her that it was something completely innocent. After what happened to Amanda, it’s understandable that she might be suspicious of anything she thought was out of the ordinary. And apparently she . . . had her concerns about her daughter’s, well, activities. You know. Sexually.” I was a grown woman. I would not blush. I would not blush! “She had a boyfriend she was intimate with, and maybe more than one. Or at least that seemed to be the gist of her mother’s worries. I wasn’t completely clear on that. Whether the files on the CD are personal or not, relevant or not, who knows? It could be anything. But maybe knowing for certain will set her mind to ease, once and for all.”
Still frowning he said, “I don’t get it. What’s the connection?”
“A daughter dead? A mother’s fear? Guilt? Hope? Everything all wrapped up into one?” I shrugged. “Does there have to be more?”
He was silent, thinking. “These really should go to the cops, Maggie.”
I squirmed, knowing he was right . . . and yet something held me back. “Mrs. Roberson just wants to know what’s in the files for now. It could be nothing. If it’s anything relevant, even potentially relevant, then they can have it, with pleasure. But if it’s nothing . . . well . . . what’s the point?” I looked him straight in the eye. “So. Will you try?”
“Do you even have to ask? Maggie. I might challenge you, but I will always be here to back you up.”
Smiling at his loyal response, I handed him back the CD.
“Let’s see what we’ve got.”
I followed him through the little bungalow, through arched doorways from kitchen to living room to a dark litt
le hallway. First door on the right, a bedroom that seemed to be taken up mostly by a very large bed—I averted my eyes quickly, but not before I noticed with approval that the bed was neatly made. Next on the left, a cottage-sized bathroom with olive green vanity and bathtub, very seven-ties. The last door proved to be a small bedroom that Marcus had turned into his office-slash-computer room.
Actually it was more than just your typical computer. The setup he had tucked away in his dark little office was enough to keep a midsized company powered up and happy. It was a wonder the town hadn’t nailed him for overloading energy capacities on this end of town.
Marcus the bad boy as technogeek. The very idea never failed to crack me up.
Marcus pulled up an extra chair for me and pressed a button on the computer. It flared instantly to life. He inserted the CD into the drive and opened the gateway to the CD drive. A list of the files contained on the CD appeared on his extra-large flat-screen monitor.
“No password to access the CD . . .” Marcus muttered to himself.
He double-clicked on the first file. Up popped a window prompting him for a password. He closed the file and selected the next. And the next. The same thing happened through the next five files. The sixth, however . . .
The sixth file opened without a prompt with his photo editor. Marcus and I both leaned closer to the screen as the JPEG appeared on the screen. It was a graphic design of hearts, interlocked with daisies and sparkles, very pretty, very girly, very . . .
Familiar.
“Oh my God,” I breathed. The revelation was enough to bowl me over. I stared at the screen, dumbfounded at what had been under our noses all week long.
Marcus had, as usual, leaned back in his chair, his long legs stretched out beneath the table and crossed at the ankles. Now he sat up straight, his focus intense on the screen as he tried to discern the reason for my interest. “You recognize it.”
I nodded, excitedly. “I think so, Marcus! You know the SunnyStonyMill website?”
“I like to think so.”
“Did you know there is a kind of underground blog attached to it?” When he shook his head, I continued, “The high school kids have been all over it. No one knows who wrote it. I discovered it accidentally through Evie and your cousin Tara, the day that Amanda disappeared. At first I thought it might be a virus or something, because the SunnyStonyMill site didn’t work properly when I accessed it through the history. Evie filled me in, but not before I reported the problem to the county M.I.S. department. The woman didn’t believe me at first, but . . .” I shrugged.
Intrigue lit his clear blue eyes. “And you recognize this graphic from this underground blog page?”
“I believe so. Which means—”
“That Amanda is, if not responsible, at least involved.”
“Exactly.”
“So. What kind of blog are we talking about here?”
“Have you ever heard of Peyton Place?” At his nod, I explained, “Well, consider this blog sort of a modern-day version.”
His right eyebrow lifted. “Is it still there?”
“I’m not sure. The blog was heavily firewalled against a preemptive strike, according to the systems person I talked to. I haven’t talked to her since, so I’m not sure if she’s found a way to take it down or not.”
He turned back to the computer and opened up the Internet browser. With a glint in his eye and hands in position over the keyboard, he said, “Well, let’s just take a look, shall we?”
“Not like that,” I said as Marcus began to type in the SunnyStonyMill.com address with lightning-quick fingers. I dug in my purse for the scrap of paper on which Evie had written the address and various password commands, and handed it to him.
The familiar black-red-black strobing screen made its appearance. “I think it’s still there,” I told him. “This is exactly what it did for me. I guess the systems people haven’t cracked it yet.”
Marcus shook his head in awe as he keyed through the many password scenarios. A rueful half smile played at the corner of his mouth. “In a way I feel like a proud dad or brother or uncle or something. I always knew Amanda had it in her. This is amazing. I mean, I knew she was smart, but this is way beyond anything I’d ever seen from her. She was holding out on me, that much is obvious.”
I had forgotten that he’d once told me he had known her. It occurred to me I’d never asked how. “What do you mean?”
“Amanda was a student in the extracurricular computer programming workshop I put on at the high school. She was quite good. Better than most.”
Every time I turned around, this man was surprising me. “I didn’t know you volunteered at the school.”
“My uncle Lou got me into it. He’s a history teacher at the high school, you know. Anyhow, he thought I could do the town a favor and teach these kids some stuff they would never learn in their regular computer classes. To keep things interesting for them. And it was fun for me, too. I’ve even been thinking about going back to school to finish up my degree to become a teacher myself.”
His pride in Amanda’s talent faltered slightly when he began to read about an altogether different sort of talent. The blog hadn’t been updated since the day before she disappeared, which only served to confirm my suspicions. “This is pretty shocking stuff,” he commented gruffly.
“Uh-huh.”
“Little Amanda had quite the social life.”
“Yup.”
“And I’m only up to page three.”
“Amazing, isn’t it? I’ve only read the first ten pages myself. It was about all I could stomach at the time. But now that I know it was hers . . . well, I think it bears a closer look, definitely.”
He pushed back in his chair, studying me. “Let me guess. You think maybe the blog contains some kind of information that might lead the police to her killer.”
“It’s possible, isn’t it? I mean, it’s more likely than a serial killer bebopping through Stony Mill proper and choosing Amanda at random. What do you think?”
He assessed me quietly. “I think we’d best do what we can to preserve the information on the website before county systems support shuts it down.” He began to systematically print off the text from the months’ worth of entries. The printer whirred to life and started spitting out pages.
“Print one for me, too, would you?”
“Done.”
“Marcus, you’re at the high school—maybe you know these boys. What do you know of Jordan Everett and Charlie Howell?”
“As relates to Amanda?”
I nodded.
“All three of them took my workshop, so I guess I know them as well as any adult can. Jordan Everett was Amanda’s boyfriend. You’ve heard of the Everett family, right? Jordan was typical of that kind of money. Big man on campus, athletic, good-looking kid, good student. He seemed to have it all together. Charlie, on the other hand . . . well, Charlie’s family are old-time Stony Millers, but they don’t have the right address, if you know what I mean. Good people, hardworking, but blue collar all the way. He’s worked hard for everything he had, and trust me, it wasn’t much. But what Charlie did have was a talent for basketball.”
That’s where I knew the name from. Charlie’s name came up almost as often as Jordan Everett’s in the Stony Mill Gazette, which faithfully reported on every single local game and most of the away games as well. Basketball was more than a sport in Indiana. It was a way of life. A Friday night game was likely to bring in a higher attendance rating than all of the town churches’ Sunday attendance numbers combined, and that was saying something.
“How was he connected with Amanda?” I pressed, curious.
Marcus leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers over his flat stomach. “Charlie had a crush on Amanda that would not quit. You could see it, every time he was within ten feet of her, as big and bright as the full moon. And she knew it, too, the poor kid. That girl led him around by the ’nads, no doubt about it. And he was the up-and-coming
big leaguer on the basketball team, which kinda-sorta threatened Jordan’s status as captain, I guess, enough that it got his blood up on a regular basis. Amanda liked to play with Charlie to keep Jordan in line.”
Obedience by emotional blackmail. Nice.
“Could either of them be responsible for what happened to her?” I asked him quietly.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the high back of the desk chair. “I don’t know. No. Maybe. Ah, who the hell knows what anyone will do with the right sort of provocation? I suppose anything’s possible.”
Which brought us straight back to where we were to begin with. Amanda dead, and just about everyone within her circle of acquaintance a potential suspect.
I nodded toward the computer monitor. There were other files there that we had not checked. “How good are you at breaking passwords?”
Marcus opened his eyes and studied me. “Fair to middlin’, I’d say. I trained for it in the military. A long time ago they used people as code breakers, but now they mostly use programs for it.”
“I’d like to know what was on those files. Will you work on it?”
“If I can break it, I will. But if it’s important . . .”
“Then off to the police it goes, straightaway. Scout’s honor.”
Chapter 14
The light on my answering machine was blinking when I arrived home at my basement lair, but for the moment I ignored it, instead throwing my coat and purse into the chair by the door and heading straight for the refrigerator for my daily indulgence of an ice-cold can of Classic Coke while I made my dinner. I probably shouldn’t, taking into consideration the piece of cheesecake I’d treated myself with at lunch, but then again, I hadn’t finished it, so the Coke wasn’t going to do any harm. Or at least not much.
Tonight’s entrée was going to be canned ravioli à la microwave and a side of peppered cottage cheese. Large curd, of course. Nothing fancy, but it would do the trick. I wielded the can opener like the pro I was and popped the ravioli into the microwave, waiting for the Ting! of completion before assembling a tray and carrying it to the living room.
