by D. J. Palmer
“And?”
Mitch took in a breath and held it. For a moment, Eve said nothing. He studied her face, burning with curiosity. Her hard look softened.
“No,” she said with assuredness. “I didn’t write that note.”
The tone of finality in Eve’s voice told Mitch that she didn’t harbor any doubt. It was true. She did not write the note to Darla. The implications tore through him.
Someone else wrote it. Someone wanted her dead.
CHAPTER 36
ON THAT BLEAK AFTERNOON, Lucky Dog looked anything but. The dark interior had the ambience of a power outage, with the brightest lights coming from a jukebox tucked away in a corner of the room and the guitar-shaped neon fixture mounted to the wall above it. What the place needed was natural light, but the small, square windows fronting the wood exterior simply weren’t cutting it.
Four of the nine stools at the dark varnished wood bar were occupied by beefy men, who put the dive in dive bar. The small round tables scattered about were unoccupied, but Lucky Dog had been open only thirty minutes, so that would probably change. Behind the bar stood stacks of bottles that looked sticky even from a distance. The air reeked of booze and cleaners, overlaid by a whiff of desperation.
The woman working the bar, whom Grace put in her late thirties, radiated attitude. She was quite pretty, with tousled auburn hair held together in a loose bun. She wore a cut-off belly shirt, which prominently displayed a muscular physique that no doubt was a tip-generator. All sorts of piercings adorned her—nose and ears, both done many times over—and a host of tattoos that snaked up her well-defined arms. She was dressed all in black, and if the rock and roll coming out of the jukebox could somehow have become a person, it might very well have taken her form.
When the trio entered, the heads of the men seated at the bar swiveled as one in their direction. Truth be told, the three Francones did look decidedly out of place: Annie might as well have crawled out of a Western film in her denim outfit, cowboy boots, and sparkling belt buckle, this one featuring a bucking bronco. Jack, in his signature flannel, looked like he was hoping—for his band’s sake—that Lucky Dog featured live music. As for Grace, her arrival here, based on dress and appearance alone, would be explainable only if she’d come to ask for directions to somewhere else.
Grace led the way to the side of the bar closest to the exit, thinking a quick departure might become a necessity. She waved to get the attention of the bartender, who turned and eyed Jack suspiciously.
“Is he old enough?” the bartender asked in a raspy voice that carried a whisper of annoyance.
“We’re not here to drink,” Grace answered.
The bartender screwed up her face. Maybe she was thinking this was the oddest group of robbers she’d ever encountered.
“Booze is pretty much all we have to offer,” said one of the men at the bar, an older fellow with a grizzled face and wisps of silver hair sneaking out from beneath his tweed scally cap. His Boston accent came on thick, so “offer” sounded like “offah.”
“We tried karaoke, but that was a bust,” another man said, and all chuckled.
Grace pasted on a smile. “I’m here to ask about Rachel Boyd,” she said, and the laughing died quickly. The men took on serious expressions, and the bartender kept her distance.
“And who are you?” Scally Cap asked, a warning clear in his voice.
“I’m Grace Francone. I’m … Penny Francone’s mother.”
The four men on their four stools sent Grace looks as hard as granite.
Jack, in a burst of overexuberance, blurted out, “It wasn’t in the papers, but I found out Rachel Boyd worked here. We’re hoping to talk to her friends, family, people who knew her.”
Scally Cap pushed his stool back with an audible scrape. When he stood, he gave Grace a look at an ample belly under a black T-shirt with an eagle on it, both of which were only partially obscured by a faded denim jacket. He strode over to their side of the bar.
“And why would you want to do that?” Scally Cap asked. His eyes turned to two slits beneath his bushy white eyebrows. He got close enough for Grace to see the stubble dotting his round, ruddy face, to smell the beer soaking his breath.
Jack held his ground, but to his credit, he refrained from making any threatening gestures. “It’s possible my sister didn’t kill anybody.”
Scally Cap shifted his weight to his heels, assessing Jack anew as if he didn’t know what to make of him. “Who the hell are you?” he asked. His voice wasn’t quite angry, but it wasn’t pleased-to-meet-you either.
“I’m Jack Francone. I’m Penny’s brother. And you’re Russell Harrison,” Jack said quickly. “You own the place. I Googled you. Saw your picture. These guys…” He pointed to the other men. “I don’t know.”
“And why you looking me up, son?” Russell said, this time more threateningly, which inspired the beefiest of his three companions to stand.
“It’s my daughter, Penny,” Grace interjected quickly, fearing Jack would reveal too much about his doxing expedition. “We’ve uncovered new information about the murder … and as Jack was saying, we think there’s a possibility that Penny may be innocent. We’re hoping to talk to Rachel’s friends, people who knew her, might uncover information for the police that might help them catch the real killer.”
A twisted grin curled Russell’s top lip, giving Grace a flash of his yellowed upper teeth.
“That crazy girl … your daughter…” He said it languidly. “She killed my dear, dear friend.” Russell’s whole demeanor turned two shades darker. “I’ve known Rachel my whole life. She grew up here; neighborhood girl. Her father was a union carpenter, damn fine one. Helped build this bar. She had a job here anytime she wanted it. I thought of her as a daughter.
“Now, I don’t know how you went digging up your information on Rachel and me, and I’m not going to grace you with any answers to whatever questions you have. I won’t be of any help to you at all. So I strongly suggest the three of you turn yourselves around,” he twirled his index finger to mimic the gesture he wanted, “and mosey on out of here. Capeesh?”
He pointed to the door.
“Sir—” Annie began, but Grace gripped her arm—hard.
“Okay, Russell,” said Grace as she pulled Annie toward the door, with Jack following. “We won’t trouble you anymore. And I’m sorry for your loss.”
Outside in the gray gloom, which perfectly echoed Grace’s mood, the trio headed for Annie’s SUV parked at the end of the block. Grace was about to open the passenger-side door, when she heard a voice call out: “Hold up a sec, will ya?”
Turning, Grace laid eyes on the striking bartender, who appeared to have emerged from the alleyway between Lucky Dog and the adjacent convenience store. “I was hoping to catch you,” she said in a resonate voice layered with a local accent. “Told Russell I had to do inventory and snuck out the back.” Only now did Grace realize she was breathing hard and might have sprinted to catch up with them. “Russell is actually a really good guy,” she said. “A real teddy bear type, but he can be a prick sometimes, too.”
“His anger is understandable,” said Grace. “We’re all devastated. What’s your name?”
“Morgan. Name’s Morgan.” She put out her hand and Grace shook hello. Annie and Jack did the same. “I … um, wanted to catch up with you.” She glanced back to see if Russell or someone was coming before returning her attention to Grace. “The reason is … my sister, Jacqueline … Jackie … she’s got problems, mental problems.” Morgan pointed to her head as if Grace wouldn’t know where those problems would originate. “Schizophrenia,” she clarified.
“Oh,” said Grace, unsure how to respond.
“She’s doing okay, I mean…” Morgan shrugged her shoulders. “She’s not great, but you know, she’s got a life. Look, I know about your daughter because of Rachel and all, but … but mental illness scares people because they don’t really know about it, it’s different—the head stuff,
ya know?”
Grace nodded. She understood better than most.
“But really, people like Jackie are going to hurt themselves before they’d hurt someone else. I’ve looked up the statistics. It’s just … they get judged a lot. I know it looks real bad for your kid, but if you think she didn’t do it, I mean, the least we can do is try to answer your questions.”
Annie, always one to take charge, asked the first question. “Anything you can tell us about Rachel … did you know her well?”
Morgan offered a shrug of her shoulders—how to begin? “I knew her from the bar … like, we were friends, but we weren’t super close. She’s older.”
“But you knew her back in the day and she was a bartender at Lucky Dog when she abandoned Penny?”
Morgan nodded. “Yeah, I knew her from the party scene. She’d hang out with my crew now and again, even though we were younger, but she hung out with lots of people from town, especially if they had good stuff. That’s why when her kid showed up on the news, everyone knew it was Rachel Boyd’s daughter. I don’t know who told the police. A bunch of people, probably.”
“What about the birth father? Anybody know him?”
Grace noted the way Jack had worded his question—birth father, not father. Arthur was Penny’s dad.
“No clue,” said Morgan. “I’m not sure Rachel even knew. She was clean when we were working together, or at least that’s what she told me. But back then she said she was pretty wild, so I guess it could have been any number of guys. She never gave a name, and nobody really asked.”
“Is there anybody who’d want to hurt her? Did Rachel have any enemies?” Annie wanted to know.
Morgan thought a moment. “I mean Vince Rapino, he was her high school sweetheart,” she said.
“Vince and Rachel dated before?”
“Oh yeah, their fling was a boomerang thing. What goes around, comes around.”
“They broke up?” Grace asked.
“I think it was on again, off again, even after graduation, but they went their own ways eventually. After everything went down with Isabella … sorry, Penny, right? That’s her name now. I knew her as Isabella. Anyway, after all that, Rachel moved to Rhode Island for a bunch of years, get away from all the reminders. She came back not that long ago, a year or so before … you know.” She looked away, because everyone knew. “I guess she and Vince started seeing each other again, even though he was married with kids. Maybe things got ugly between them. Vince came into the bar a lot. Not the nicest guy.”
“The apartment where she was murdered was rented in his name,” Jack revealed.
Morgan seemed visibly disgusted. “He put her up, huh? Yeah, that would piss me off extra if I was his wife,” she said. “But I’m not surprised. Rachel was always short on cash. She was talking though about how she could get flush fast, use the money to invest in something that would make her rich. I got the sense she had something on someone, too, that’s where this investment money was going to come from—a blackmail kind of thing—but she didn’t share any details with me.
“Anyway, if you can figure out that blackmail piece, it’s a possible motive for murder. Or maybe someone should be looking into Vince’s wife. Woman scorned, know what I mean? Those two are separated, headed for divorce, and Nicole—I think that’s her name—blamed Rachel for everything. Nicole would stop by the bar from time to time when Vince was here, make a big scene.”
Morgan gave an anxious glance behind her, telling Grace their time together was coming to an end. But there was still something else she needed to know.
“When Rachel moved back to Lynn, did she ever talk about Penny? What made her reach out to Penny after so many years?”
“I mean, I’d hear her mention it a bit, just on her birthday and stuff, maybe Mother’s Day, that kind of thing,” Morgan said. “But really, it was in the past. She just hoped she was happy, wherever she was.”
“Did you ever see Rachel get violent or angry with Penny—Isabella back then?”
Morgan gave a vigorous shake of her head. “No, never. I mean, look, she wasn’t the best mother. Wasn’t doting or anything. She was kind of into drugs, partying back then, a lot more than parenting, that’s for sure, but I didn’t see her ever lay a hand on her kid. Not once.”
“Any idea why Rachel would have abandoned Penny, why she left her in the park that day?”
Morgan gave a shrug. “It wasn’t a shock to us when it happened. I mean nobody questioned it back then. Rachel was kind of a mess, and caring for a kid … it’s not that easy. I should know. I’ve got three. She probably just snapped. But she loved her daughter … your daughter … I know that much. Like I said, she prayed for her, just like she did her other kid.”
Grace’s breath caught. “What other kid?” she asked. She shifted her attention to Jack, who seemed unsure.
“I didn’t find anything about her having other children,” Jack said.
“Penny … she was a twin,” Morgan revealed. “But her sister died at birth.”
Reflexively, Grace touched her hand to her heart. “Oh … I didn’t know,” she said.
“There’s a little grave for her at the Pine Grove Cemetery,” Morgan said with a touch of melancholy. “Rachel had her faults for sure, but she was a good person, had a proper funeral for her baby and all.” Morgan sighed aloud while stuffing her hands into the pockets of her black jeans to warm them. “Look, I’ve got to get back,” she said. “You know how to reach me if you have other questions. I’m happy to help.”
Morgan was walking away when Grace called out to her. She turned.
“What was her name?” Grace asked. “The baby who died?”
“Chloe,” said Morgan. “Her name was Chloe.”
And with that, she disappeared back into the alley.
CHAPTER 37
AS ONE OF THE few doctors at Edgewater, Mitch didn’t have a moment to meet with Whitmore until that afternoon. He hoped her schedule would be free. After Darla’s attack, he knew that Penny needed much tighter security around her—and that CO Blackwood, for obvious reasons, could not be among those providing protection.
A check of Penny’s record at Edgewater revealed for Mitch her six stints in solitary for a few scuffles, some more violent than others. Most of her adversaries from those fights continued to reside here, but Mitch’s top candidate for sending that note to Darla remained the guard who had almost smashed in Penny’s head with his baton. He also recalled that Blackwood was one of the men who led Darla away after her tense standoff in the hallway with Grace.
In Mitch’s mind, it was not out of the question that Blackwood knew Darla’s triggers and had used them to cause Penny harm. The crayon and odd phrasing of the note made it look like it had been written by a patient, not a guard. The fact that Penny (or rather, Chloe) had used crayons to make a drawing was most likely what Navarro had said: a coincidence.
Mitch had finally sat down in his office and was getting ready to draft an e-mail to Whitmore when his cell phone rang. To his surprise, Dr. Dan Bouvier, who headed up the emergency room department at Edgewater, was on the other end of that call.
“It’s um … Penny Francone,” Dr. Bouvier said.
Hairs on the back of Mitch’s neck rose as he gripped his desk, bracing for bad news.
“What about her?” Mitch asked. “Is she all right?”
“I think so … it’s a bit out of my depth.”
Relief washed over Mitch like a wave.
“She’s in the PT room,” Dr. Bouvier went on, “taking that soak you’d arranged, and well … she started speaking in a British accent, and she’s been asking for you nonstop. Look, it’s packed in here right now and I can’t spare a body to look after her. Can you go straight to PT and check her out?”
Mitch was already on his feet. “I’ll be right there,” he said.
* * *
When Mitch arrived at the ER, he found it, as Dr. Bouvier said, bustling with frenetic energy bordering on mayhem
. Doctors and nurses, outnumbered by patients, scuttled from one curtained bay to the other like a team of first responders triaging an accident. Powerful overhead lights vanquished all shadows, putting additional strain on Mitch’s already fatigued eyes. From one of the bays, he heard a howl worthy of a wolf, and a nurse informed him that Dr. Bouvier was in there.
Mitch thought: Nobody here has an easy time of it.
The PT room, located off the ER, did not take up much real estate, but it did feature modern equipment including exercise machines, weights, bosu balls, and other apparatuses for improving balance, stability, and mobility. Physical therapy facilities in hospitals, including those in a prison setting, helped improve balance and mobility so that when patients got out they were less likely to slip, fall, and go right back in.
Most importantly, there was the tub: about four-and-a-half feet long and two feet high, made of polished stainless steel, occupying a good portion of the emerald green floor.
The portable motor powering the whirlpool feature was shut off. Penny, without the fiery look or angry eyes of Eve, sat upright in the tub, dressed in a blue one-piece suit that was stamped PROPERTY OF EDGEWATER. Mitch dismissed a female guard who was keeping an eye on things while Penny enjoyed her soak.
“Dr. Mitch.”
The British accent was back, and so was Ruby.
“Glad you’re here. Would’ve tried to come find you myself,” Ruby said, “but this bath was too delightful, and Dr. Bouvier was nice enough to ring you for me.”
“Hello, Ruby,” Mitch said, wheeling over a metal stool. “How are you doing?”
“A bit confused, to be honest,” said Ruby. “One minute we’re talking VSCO girls and whatnot, and then this crazed woman comes bursting into the room, no idea what she’s going on about, and the next thing I know, I’m here, enjoying a soak.”
Ruby turned the faucet on, letting some hot water flow into the tub. The splashing of the falling water echoed in the quiet room.
