Herbie asked, “Hey JP, what’s your beef with Jones-did he pull you over?”
Before I had a chance to answer, Lackety cut in with a knowing smile, “I hear that Jones has been dating Gwen Delaney. I’ll bet that’s the problem.”
This led to hearty laughter at my expense.
“The woman from the paper?” the bartender asked, obviously new to the town.
Lackety butted in again, “She could put me in her story anytime, if you know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, everyone did.
Herbie cleared it up for anyone who didn’t know the story of JP and Gwen, providing the
“So that’s your issue with Jones,” the bartender said. “That punk stole your girl. He’s bad news!”
Everyone at Main Street Tavern agreed, raising their beer-filled mugs in salute. I shrugged, acting as if I was busted, even though I knew
The second half began, diverting attention back to the screen. I remained until the game ended. Herbie offered me a ride home, but he was sloppy drunk, courtesy of myself, as were most of them. So I called cabs for everyone on my dime. “Hey, you never know if Jones is out there,” I explained.
Once I made sure everyone was safely getting a ride, I autographed a few things for Wally, and in return, he gave me a lift home.
The house was empty. There was a note on the kitchen counter from my mother. It read in matter-of-fact language that she was making funeral arrangements. It was like she was describing a trip to the grocery store-as if by keeping a sense of normalcy, she wouldn’t have to acknowledge the truth.
I was glad she was keeping busy, but knew that one day it would hit her like a ton of bricks. One thing I learned the hard way is that it’s impossible to run away forever. I vowed to be here for her when the storm hit.
Leaving was not what I did, it was what I used to do.
Chapter 37
Monday was Labor Day. It was also the day of Noah’s wake at the Laconia Funeral Home on Main Street. I didn’t attend.
The whole point of the wake and funeral is to lay someone to rest, and in my opinion, Noah couldn’t properly rest until justice was served.
I bummed a ride from Herbie to the local police barracks, and it wasn’t to invite them to a Labor Day barbecue. I wanted an update on their investigation into Noah’s death, even though I knew none was planned. Rich Tolland didn’t seem thrilled by my appearance, but he tried to play nice with me. It was the best strategy to make me disappear.
“I’ll do what I can, JP,” he told me.
I knew the answer was a load of crap, but I wasn’t ready to pick a fight with the police department … yet. I thanked him and left. I needed more ammunition to fight city hall. I did get a copy of the police report, but it was the same fiction they tried to sell me that night-a distraught Noah jumped to his death from Samerauk Bridge as the courageous Officer Jones tried to save him, blah, blah, blah. I would perform my own investigation.
I was supposed to spend Labor Day at Ethan and Pam’s picnic, catching up with Noah, but instead I spent it at the local library researching his death. I couldn’t handle being in the house, standing on the same floors where Noah crawled around as a baby, or deal with the endless stream of well-wishers who kept stopping by. But most of all, I couldn’t face my mother right now.
On Tuesday, my first call was to Christina. She put up a mild fight, since it was the first day of classes, but like myself, she was always drawn to the action. I wouldn’t go into details as to why she was summoned, but instructed her to bring Hoseman.
I had covered the death of an American woman in Rome a few years back. She was a newlywed who’d accidentally fallen to her death, while making some wild marital bliss with her new hubby on their hotel balcony. But the more I studied the “grieving” husband, I grew convinced that her death was no accident. So to prove my theory, I worked with a local fire department in Rome to create a fire hose to simulate the woman and re-enact her tragic fall. The husband is now serving a life sentence in an Italian prison, and I got to keep Hoseman as a souvenir.
Christina greeted me with heartfelt condolences, but then our conversation returned to normalcy. “A hose that looks like a woman, JP-not getting any up here in Sticksville?”
I struggled into the vehicle without a response. I then instructed her to drive us up Zycko Hill to Samerauk Bridge.
“So are you going to ever tell me why I had to return to Colonial Williamsburg, and miss the first day of classes?”
“We’re going to solve a murder,” I said without further detail, as she parked the Humvee just before the bridge. It was the exact place where Noah had left the Cherokee.
I hopped out with anticipation. But intense pain shot through my body, a reminder of my current condition. I gritted my teeth and went to the back of the vehicle, leaning heavily on my cane. Christina opened the hatchback.
She took her time, which annoyed me, “C’mon, I don’t have all day.”
“I had a late night. So how about a little more gratitude and a little less attitude,” she snapped back.
I glared at her, causing her to back off. I think she realized today wasn’t the best day to push her luck. We dragged the heavy hose out of the back of the Humvee.
I headed straight for the four-foot high guardrail on the side of the bridge, where Noah allegedly spent his last moments. Christina followed, draped in hose like she were being attacked by a giant Boa. “Are you going to help me with this?”
Ignoring her, I dropped my cane on the road and climbed up on top of the guardrail.
Christina peeked out from under the heavy hose, her face filled with shock. “Are you trying to have your mother bury two children in one week!?”
She had a point, but logic never stopped me before, and I didn’t plan to let it start getting in my way now. “Based on the police report, Noah would’ve had to be up here for at least the three to five minutes that Jones estimated he spent trying to talk him out of jumping. It’s very hard to maintain your balance for that long. And remember, it had begun to rain. It’s possible he could have, but not probable.”
It was also possible that Noah was recreating the scene from a year ago and lost his balance. But I doubted that, and why would Jones lie about it and say he jumped?
Christina struggled to hand me the end of the hose that was knotted like a balloon animal to simulate the woman in Rome. I wrapped it in one of Noah’s denim jackets, and placed his favorite Red Sox cap over the wig. Since the Warners were born and bred New York Yankees fans, I never understood my little brother’s devotion to the hated Red Sox. My best guess is that it had to do with the “rebel without a cause” image he embraced, which I was sympathetic of, but never fully comprehended.
I secured the hose and held it next to me, as if it were Noah, while I balanced myself. It was like a twisted version of
“See that rock there? That’s where they said Noah landed.”
Christina followed my point to a jagged rock formation at the bottom at the river’s edge.
“I’m going to prove that it was impossible to fall in that direction without a good amount of force.”
“They said he jumped, wouldn’t that have the same result as a shove?”
“It’s impossible to get the proper footing up here to jump with that much force, and even more so when wet. A jump would end a similar distance from the rail as an accidental fall. If you don’t believe me, maybe you can come up here and test it out.”
“Very funny. I wouldn’t want my hard head to damage the rocks.”
“I guess I’ll have to settle for you securing your end of the hose as tightly as possible, while I toss it
