English.
Marta went into labor early Saturday night. Emilio called Ross around ten-thirty p.m.
“You called his answering service?” Bobby asked.
Emilio glanced at Quinn.
Quinn interpreted, then Emilio said, “No. I call Dr. Ross. He give his mobile number to Marta.”
“What time did he get to your house?”
“Eleven-thirty, about.”
“Then what?”
Emilio shrugged. Angelina started to fuss and Marta turned away from us to quiet her. I could hear her crooning softly to her daughter. In my arms, Emilio still slept placidly.
“Then the babies come. First Emilio, then Angelina.”
“What time?”
“Four o’clock.” He waggled his fingers. “Around. For Emilio. Then maybe half hour and Angelina.”
“So they were born Sunday morning,” Bobby said.
“What time did Dr. Greenwood leave?”
“
“You’re sure?” Bobby asked.
“I got Ross on his mobile around six-thirty,” I said, looking down at the sleeping child. “He told me he was on his way home after delivering the twins.”
“Thanks for that info, Lucie.” Bobby glared at me. “I’ll just finish with Emilio here, okay?”
“Don’t interrupt him,” Quinn said in my ear. “Or you’ll blow it.”
“Did Dr. Greenwood leave your apartment anytime between eleven-thirty and six a.m.?” Bobby asked Emilio.
“No.”
“Marta, you agree?”
She looked up when he said her name, her eyes flitting to Emilio, who interpreted. In the darkness I heard her say softly,
Bobby pulled an overstuffed wallet out of his back pocket and extracted a battered-looking business card. “Call me if you remember something you forgot to tell me. I can get an interpreter for you, easy.”
Emilio took the card. “Can we go?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll help you get the children into the car,” I said.
I slipped Emilio the money when I gave him back his son. He took it without a word.
“They’re beautiful, Marta,” I said, pressing her hand with mine. “Two little Geminis. The twins.”
She looked puzzled and glanced at Emilio who said, “
“I think she looks very sweet.” I smiled back. “Thank you for coming.”
“So now Ross has an alibi,” I said, as Manolo backed out of the parking lot. “He couldn’t have murdered Georgia, since he was delivering those children.”
Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “I dunno. Something’s bothering me still.”
“What?”
“The murder weapon would be nice. Whatever was used to whack her on the head and knock her out.” He blew a bubble and popped it. “We never found it. You would have figured Randy would have it.”
“What are you gonna do now, Bobby?” Quinn asked.
“At the moment we’re holding Ross without bail. But he has a preliminary hearing Tuesday morning to determine if there’s probable cause and to set the bond,” he said. “Under the circumstances, I’d bet it’s going to be low enough that he can make bail and we’ll kick him loose.”
“That’s great news,” I said. “Why do you have to wait until Tuesday?”
“Tomorrow’s Memorial Day. If the magistrate happens to come by the jail, maybe we can move things up. But no guarantees. Anyway, I still think something’s off here.”
“If you’ve got hard evidence that he didn’t do it,” I said, “then what more do you want?”
Bobby blew another bubble. “The truth,” he said.
The weather changed on Memorial Day, and not for the better. I had a fitful night’s sleep filled with interruptions. Siri had called around midnight to tell me that Sam Constantine was going to try to talk to the magistrate and call in a favor so he could get Ross’s hearing moved up to Monday. Even if there was probable cause to accuse him, it had now been weakened by Emilio’s statement—and, besides, Ross had such strong ties to the community. She sounded elated, unaware she’d woken me up. Then at three-thirty, I had heard footsteps on the spiral staircase and the sound of Mia’s bedroom door closing.
When I finally got up at five-thirty, her door was tightly shut. She’d probably sleep until noon. I went downstairs to fix breakfast and switched on the radio in the kitchen. The forecast called for possible pop-up thunderstorms late in the day, continuing into the evening. We could always move the picnic to the villa if it rained, but you couldn’t move fireworks indoors.
I ate on the veranda. The air had thickened and a film of haze settled in, blunting sharp edges so the view looked like a slightly out-of-focus photograph. The outline of the Blue Ridge softened and bled into the skyline. Inside the house, the phone rang. I got to it just before the answering machine kicked in.
“How come you didn’t answer your mobile?” Quinn demanded.
“Because it’s probably in my car. I don’t suppose you have any idea for Plan B if it’s pouring rain when we’re supposed to have our fireworks tonight?”
“Not really. Maybe we’ll catch a break and we can have ’em between storms or something.”
“The truck from Boom Town Fireworks ought to be down by the pond setting up,” I said. “I’ll go talk to Hamp and let you know what he says.”
“Call me on your mobile,” he said, “because I’m heading over to the new fields to see how the planting is coming.” He paused and added, “Unless you forgot to charge your phone again.”
“Well, I might have. But it doesn’t take long to charge.”
“I knew it,” he said, and hung up.
I got the phone and connected it to the charger, then drove the Mini down to the pond, parking next to Hampton Weaver’s white van. The owner of Boom Town Fireworks spent his days working as a carpenter, building houses. He spent his nights blowing things up.
Hamp was on his knees working over what looked like a large rectangular wooden frame. If I ever got into a barroom brawl, I wanted him on my side. Not because he packed a mean punch, but at six-foot-five, three hundred pounds, and a skin mural of tattoos, all he had to do was show up and he’d intimidate the hell out of everyone else.
“Hey, Hamp,” I called. “How’s it going?”
“Goin’ good, Lucie. Goin’ good.”
“What are you doing?”
“Putting shells into these tubes,” he said. “They go into this here frame and that’s your fireworks. Some of them, at least.”
“What are we going to do if it rains?” I asked. “They’re talking about intermittent thundershowers.”
He grunted. “Yeah, I heard. If it’s just rain, we can still shoot. I got plastic to cover everything until tonight. But not thunderstorms. You got to worry about the wind in a thunderstorm. It’s a safety hazard.”
“So you still plan to go ahead?”
“Sure. We might have to be a little flexible about timing. Ain’t necessarily a given we have to start at nine sharp. I got three shooters showing up for you. They’ll fire some manually and the rest electronically. If we’re pretty sure of twenty, maybe thirty minutes where we don’t get any rain, it should be okay.” He picked up a roll of masking tape and handed it to me. “Tear me off a six-inch piece of that so I can connect these fuses, will ya, sweetheart?”
I handed him the tape and he stuck one end between his teeth while he twisted two fuses together. “I can
