She blinked as though I'd surprised her. "You can?"
"Mom, you don't get knocked up at sixteen if you haven't gotten carried away."
Her gaze fell to her lap. Her fingers were tightly clenched together, the knuckles turning white with strain.
I put a hand on her arm. "I'm not judging you, okay?"
"Why not?" Agnes's tone was harsh. "I judge myself."
I'd known her my entire life, but suddenly it felt as if I were looking at a stranger. One with hopes and dreams that had been dashed, who'd gotten drunk and sought to make herself feel better by bedding down with a man who admired her. Someone less Agnes and more…human.
"Was it just the one time?" She'd intimated as much before.
She nodded. "Afterward, I felt terrible for using him that way. I told him he deserved someone who could really love and appreciate him. Someone better than me. He begged with me, pleaded with me to reconsider. Told me he would wait for me forever. So, I went back home, to my father. At least until I found out I was pregnant."
"You must have been terrified." The same way I'd been when that pregnancy test had shown a big fat plus sign, confirming my worst fears.
"That's one word for it. I didn't know what to do. My father was already so ashamed, and I was enough of a burden to him. I thought about Al, too. I thought maybe I would grow to love him. I thought maybe I could be a good wife to him and a good mother to you, and then everything would be all right."
"So, what happened?"
"I bought a bus ticket back to Boston. Went to his mother's house, where he'd been staying. Reg answered the door. And I fell for him, just like that. Love at first sight."
"Oh, Mom." My heart actually ached for her.
"I couldn't tell him, couldn't tell either of them the truth. Maybe if things had been different, if I hadn't been pregnant, I could have walked away from them both, started fresh somewhere else." She looked over at me. "But I had to think about more than myself. I stayed with a friend, got a job, let Reg court me, and then pushed for a fast wedding. Since he was being deployed, he was all for it. It was easy enough to pass you off as his. Easy enough to pretend…at least until Al confronted me."
"When?"
"A little over a year ago." She looked away, her layers of protective armor nowhere in sight. "Will you take me home now? I'm exhausted."
A million questions warred within me, but Agnes didn't look like she could take any more torment. Instead, I set down my empty coffee cup, put the car in drive, and headed home.
"Are you coming in?" Agnes asked when I parked at the curb in front of our house.
"No, I have a lead I need to check out."
She frowned at my workout clothing but then shook her head, as if even criticizing me would take too much energy.
"Mom?" She looked younger and less imposing than I'd ever seen her. Defeated.
"He kept his promise, you know. Al did. That's why he never married." Her eyes filled with tears. "Because even after he found out about you, even after I chose his brother instead of him, he still waited for me."
* * *
Depression settled over me as I drove to the electronics store where Elijah Hawthorn debugged computers for people who didn't have a Mac to keep their tech in tip-top shape. The windshield wipers swished in a lulling rhythm.
Agnes's heartfelt confession about Uncle Al had burrowed beneath my skin like a tick. I'd liked the man before, not just because he'd left us his house. His unpublished manuscript gave me glimpses of his personality, the wry sense of humor and steadfastness to do his job to the best of his ability. Having heard her tale, my heart went out to him even more.
He'd wanted her, but would he have wanted me? I thought maybe he would have. I tried to imagine growing up in the apartment, in Mac's room, instead of various military housing and eventually Nana Taylor's house. What would it have been like to grow up with my mother not harboring this secret that kept her on edge all the time?
My life would have been so different.
My mother claimed to love the Captain, yet she'd lied to him for their entire marriage. And what had that love gotten her in the end? Al had provided for her, provided for me even after his death, whereas the Captain was about to lose his home.
Could I blame them, any of them, for their choices? Who was I to play judge? I'd been truthful with my mother. Given the same set of circumstances, would I have made the same calls? No. But hearing her talk about all her perceived failures, I almost understood why she'd been so hard on me my whole life. Because my very existence altered the course of hers.
Albert Taylor had loved her, had pined for her. Okay, maybe he hadn't pined, but what else would explain why he had remained a bachelor all his life?
I wondered how he'd found out about me. I thought maybe Agnes had told him, but her shame over deceiving both of the Taylor men was too great. And the Captain hadn't known. So how would he have confirmed it?
And who the hell was the naked blonde in Hunter's bed? Was she still there?
As much as I wanted answers to my multitude of questions, personal investigation had to take a back seat to my actual case. The electronics store was large enough to stand on its own and even had a small parking lot attached. I parked as close to the entrance as I could and then picked up my phone.
It was almost noon, which put it at either eight or nine in Arizona. I decided to follow up with Mrs. O'Flannigan before chasing another band member.
She answered on the third ring with a grumbled, "Who's this?"
"Hi, Mrs. O'Flannigan? This is Mackenzie Taylor calling from Boston."
"Are you selling something?" Her voice was thin and reedy, her tone suspicious.
"No, ma'am. I'm a PI. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about your son."
"The good one or the bad one?"
Interesting to hear a mother qualify her children like that. "Um, Daniel."
"The good one," she muttered. "We should have passed the bar to him. But my fool husband said no, all Mike needed was a taste of grown-up responsibility and he'd get himself straight. It's been thirty-five years, and he's flushed his life completely down the commode."
"I see," I said faintly. "What do you know about Michael's relationship with Lois?"
"That poor girl. She was such a help to us, running the bar while her husband served. Taking care of her sick mother and baby brother. Michael wouldn't know a good thing if it bit him on the rump. She still calls to check on me every Sunday, you know."
More proof that Lois was a saint and Michael was an inapt drunkard. "Did Daniel and Lois get long?"
"Oh yes. My Danny Boy had a terrible crush on her. It was too bad. By the time she divorced Michael, he was married. I would rather have kept Lois for a daughter-in-law than that pampered poodle Daniel was with. Did I tell you Lois calls me like clockwork every Sunday?"
I winced. Lois would not be calling her former mother-in-law this Sunday. I didn't know if Mrs. O'Flannigan's memory was to be trusted, but she had some strong opinions about her sons. One thing was clear—she either hadn't been told or had forgotten that Lois was dead. "Thank you very much for your time, ma'am."
After hanging up with the very opinionated Mrs. O'Flannigan, I dialed the electronics store's number. No sense going out in the rain if my UIS guy was MIA.
A middle-aged woman with a two-pack-a-day voice and a thick Southie accent answered on the second ring. "Thank you for calling Data Dashers. My name's Dorothy. How can I help you?"
"Is Elijah Hawthorn in?"
"Who?"
"Medium height, kinda lanky. Brown hair needing a cut. Wears rimless glasses."
"Oh him. Yeah, I saw him earlier. Hang on a sec."
"Thanks." I hung up.
Snagging the broken laptop Mac had lent me as a prop out of the trunk, I dashed for the shelter of the store. The rain had lightened, but the temperature was plummeting. It had to be at least fifteen degrees colder than it had been when we'd hit the workout mat. I would
n't be surprised to see sleet or freezing rain in the next hour. By the time I crossed from the parking lot into the store, my workout gear was soaked.
The doors slid open, and a burst of warmth from the heater made me sigh in bliss. I looked around briefly. Racks of electronic gismos in front, registers to the right, and tech service to the left by the restrooms. Even though the store had only been open for ten minutes, I could see two people in the tech-support line. An Indian man with the kind of musical accent was helping an elderly man, and a woman in an ankle-length black trench coat shifted in line behind him. No sign of Hawthorn. There was an oversized door blocked by maroon curtains. Maybe he worked in the back of the house? How could I slip a bug on him if I couldn't contact him?
Just as I was deciding whether or not I should wait in the parking lot until he took his lunch break, another employee approached from out of nowhere, like a retail ninja.
"Can I help you?" A short man in his forties with a bald head and push-broom mustache that appeared pasted on. His bloodshot brown eyes were focused on the clingy fabric of my workout top, which was even clingier after a thorough soaking. He looked familiar—then again, he was something of a caricature of all men who worked store service well into middle age.
"I need help with this." I moved toward the line.
He followed. "What seems to be the trouble with it?"
"Do you work in technical support?"
He buffed his nails on his maroon vest. "I know a thing or two about computers."
"I'll take that as a no." I took a place in line behind the elegant woman who was tapping one of her high heels on the polished concrete floor.
"My name's Bill, and I'd be happy to assist you in any way." He waggled his eyebrows.
Uck. Fine. If he was going to make a pest of himself, I'd deal. "Okay, Bill, do you know if the store carries a J-9 Ubus converter? Serial number 27845798?"
He blinked. "Um…I don't know."
"Could you be a doll and look it up?" I smiled sweetly.
The older customer shuffled off, and the impatient woman stormed up to the desk. The Indian guy held up one finger, panic in his brown eyes, and disappeared behind the maroon curtain.
I looked over to Bill. Though I'd clearly stumped him with my make-believe request, clearly he didn't want to admit to it. "Uh, sure. An Ubus you say?"
"Yup." I rattled off a bunch of digits again, though I'm pretty sure there were fewer than there had been in the faux serial number I'd given him earlier.
"Oh, and if they don't have it here, be a lamb and have it special ordered for me. Thanks so much."
"Hey!" impatient lady barked and slammed one perfectly manicured hand down on the counter. "I don't have all day to fart around here!"
Just showed that money doesn't buy class. But her outburst was to my advantage because it sent good old Bill scurrying off to look for my made-up Ubus converter.
The curtain moved again, and to my relief and his obvious chagrin, Elijah Hawthorn trudged toward the Gorgon at the counter. His accent was distinctly Southern, a little twangier than Len's Georgia honey—Kentucky or Tennessee, maybe—and his eyes were red-rimmed. "Can I help you, ma'am?"
Her nostrils flared. "Ma'am? Do I look like a ma'am to you?"
"Well." He pulled at the maroon collar of his store polo, all nervous flop sweat. "It's meant respectfully, ma—"
She narrowed her eyes and leaned forward.
"Er…Miss."
"Ms. is the proper way to address a lady when you don't know whether or not she's married," she corrected with the same snooty air of authority as Agnes typically would have. "And I'm here to pick up my tablet."
"It isn't here—" Elijah began, but again she cut him off.
"What do you mean it isn't here? I dropped it off a week ago. It should be ready by now."
"We had to send it out to repair. There were viruses and—"
Again, her palm cracked down on the counter. "I want to speak to your manager, now."
"He…he's not here." Elijah's owl eyes got even bigger.
She inhaled, shoulders going back, about to rain holy hell down on him.
He showed zero confidence, looking meek as milk. If I hadn't seen him with my own eyes, I never would have believed he got up on a stage.
My maternal instincts kicked in. The guy was roughly my age but had the posture of a whipped mongrel. He was thin and pale and looked as if someone had ridden him hard and put him away wet.
"Hey." I laid a hand on the Gorgon's shoulder. "Cut the guy some slack. He's just a working stiff. It's not his fault."
She turned to face me slowly, her gaze flitting from my hand to my face and then back. "Excuse me? How is any of this your concern? And keep your hands to yourself."
I let go of her but didn't back down. "Look, your tablet isn't here, the manager isn't here, and getting a pound of flesh outta this poor schmo won't change either of those things. Would you look at him? He looks miserable." I pointed at Elijah's haggard face.
The Gorgon blinked. Elijah blinked.
I continued, "So, maybe you should leave your contact info, and the manager will call you as soon as he gets in. Right, Elijah?" I faced him and raised my eyebrows, nodding.
He nodded back. "Yes, of course. He'll call you as soon as he gets in."
Obviously she was not satisfied. Nevertheless, she slapped a pristine white business card down on the counter. "See that he does."
She marched off to terrorize someone else, and Hawthorn practically sagged in defeat. "Thanks."
I waved my hand in front of my face. "No sweat. Now if I can just get the smell of brimstone out of my nose…"
He smiled, but then his eyebrows drew down. "How do you know my name? Have we met?"
Crap, I'd slipped up already using his name. Sadly, the computer nerds didn't wear nametags, probably for their safety. And I must stand out more than I realized in a crowd if both Cliff Rogers and Elijah Hawthorn remembered me.
I decided to go with the truth…ish. "I saw you play with UIS. And…I wanted to meet you. I'm a bit of a groupie."
Elijah's eyebrows shot up.
"Oh yeah. Love your music. Haven't missed a performance since I first saw you." I was getting good at this half-truth shtick. "I was there the other night."
He snapped and pointed. "That's right. I saw Daniel taking you back to his office." Then in a lower tone, "He gets all the hot ones."
Behind him, the Indian man peered out from the curtain, probably checking to see if the coast was clear before committing to emerge.
I nodded and set my laptop down on the counter so it looked as if Elijah and I were discussing computer glitches instead of his after-hours gig. "I was hoping to meet all of you, actually, but you most of all."
"Me?" He blinked again, his manner owlish.
"Of course." He'd easily bought the groupie lie but doubted I would prefer him over Daniel of Cliff. "You've been with the band since its inception."
He liked that, I could tell by the way the smile stole across his face, as if he'd just pulled off an amazing feat. "I'm the founding member. Came up with the name and everything."
"How come you guys don't perform more? You used to have concerts all the time. Back when you played at O'Flannigans."
He pushed his glasses farther up his nose. "Daniel doesn't have as much time to practice as he used to."
"Because of the bar?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No, since his divorce last year."
I wanted to know more about Daniel O'Flannigan's divorce, but my gut told me Elijah Hawthorn wouldn't respond well to numerous questions about the band's front liner.
"It's a shame you don't have more shows. Have you ever thought about going pro?" I gave his ego a careful stroke.
He nodded eagerly. "I've been sending out demo tapes. Only problem is Daniel and Cliff aren't as committed to the music as I am."
Obviously his tapes hadn't been very well received, which was why he was currently getting the hair
y eyeball from his coworker.
Time to make my questions count, before I was asked to leave the store. "It's a shame about what happened to that hostess. What was her name again?"
"Lois. It's sad. She was a real sweetheart, very maternal." There was a hesitation, like he wanted to say more.
"But?" I prompted.
He glanced around, as though checking to see if anyone would overhear us. Even though there was no one within twenty feet, he still lowered his voice before continuing. "This may sound bad, but I'm not all that surprised."
"Really?" I reached out a hand, slipping another one of Mac's bugs beneath the collar of his polo while pretending to straighten the thing. "What makes you say that?"
"Lois was man crazy. Had a different one every night. Cliff and I both tried to look out for her, but we weren't always around."
"Really?" This was the first time anyone had attributed anything other than saint-like behavior to the murdered hostess. "What about Daniel? Didn't he keep an eye on his sister-in-law?"
"That's one way to put it." Elijah's tone was laced with bitterness. At my questioning look, he dropped the bomb. "Lois is the reason Daniel's wife left him. She walked in on them together, having sex on Daniel's desk."
CHAPTER NINE
"A source isn't a source until the information has been validated. Even then, be wary of ulterior motives. A real PI is nobody's dupe." From The Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living, an unpublished manuscript by Albert Taylor, PI
"Can you work with that?" I asked Len via speakerphone as I towel dried my sopping hair. I'd gotten soaked on my way out of the electronics store. Between the icy rain and the information Elijah the Envious had slipped me about Daniel and Lois O'Flannigan, I couldn't stop shivering.
Lois's demonic cat prowled the kitchen looking for its next meal, and Snickers scratched restlessly on Mac's bedroom door. I needed to do something with the menagerie soon but wanted to update Len first.
"Maybe." The attorney sounded as though he were contemplating something. "Get confirmation from Daniel's ex-wife. I'll take a gander at their divorce proceedings, see if Lois is listed as the correspondent in an affair. Even if it's true, we're wielding a double-edged sword. While an affair gives both Daniel and his ex a reason to kill Lois, it could also be used by the DA to strengthen the case against Michael."
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