myself! If I want to shop, I’m gonna shop.” She wheeled smartly away.
“For God’s sake,” I said to the air. I felt the same blankness I’d felt in bed the night before. Tom had checked out Humberto’s alibi for Ernest’s death and the two fires, and Humberto was in the clear, even if the guards were more blitzed than fraternity boys at Mardi Gras. Lacking an eyewitness or some forensic evidence that pointed to Humberto, this theory of Ferdinanda’s was dead in the water. Still—
“Mom?” said Arch. He had entered the kitchen so quietly, I hadn’t noticed. “I’m sorry I got angry this morning. I’m just bummed out, with Yolanda getting hurt so badly at your dinner last night.”
“We’re all bummed out, hon—”
“Look, I have to go. Tom said I could drive the Passat, and that the tires were okay. Boyd’s going to watch me back out.” He handed me a slip of paper. “This is Lolly’s cell phone number and address.”
I stared at the piece of paper in my hand. “How in the world did you get this?”
Arch rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “I entered ‘math tutor Aspen Meadow Colorado’ into Google, and she was the first name that popped up. I’m surprised she’s here, though. She was the first person to get into MIT from Elk Park Prep in a long time. She should be back there now.”
“I don’t know why she’s here. But thanks, Arch. Listen, one more thing. Could you send her a text from your phone, asking for an appointment today at”—I glanced at the clock—“ten? Say you’re having trouble with calculus and was wondering if she was free.”
“She’s going to wonder why I’m not in school.”
“In the message, tell her you have the day off from the Christian Brothers High School, but you have a calc test tomorrow.”
Arch exhaled impatiently but maneuvered his thumbs at light speed to send the text. “Lolly’s smart,” he said when he was done. “She’s going to know it’s you.” He glanced at his cell. “Oops, here she is. She says she’s full up with tutoring clients, sorry.”
“Tell her you’re desperate and that you’re coming over anyway.”
Arch shook his head. “She’s going to know it’s you.” But again his thumbs flew. A nanosecond later, Arch showed me her reply: “Tell yr ma 2 go f herslf.” Well, great. From behind me, Arch said, “You know, Mom,
“Not to worry, kiddo, you can go. And thanks for—”
But Arch was already gone. He still had that ability to appear and disappear silently.
Which was what I was going to do, I thought as I put my own dishes and flatware into the dishwasher. Or at least, that was what I had wanted to do: to show up at Lolly Vanderpool’s without making any noise. I hadn’t planned on letting her know that I wanted to see her, or come over, or, as Arch would say, whatever.
Still. Apparently, she already knew I wanted to see her. I would have to think of some way to win her over, some way that did not involve surprise. I would, in investigator parlance, need to find a way to flip her.
Fifteen minutes later, Boyd stepped onto our porch and looked in both directions, then carefully scanned the area across the street. For a few moments, he glared at the house I still thought of as Jack’s. There was no sign of Kris Nielsen, his Maserati, or his girlfriend.
“I’m walking you to your van,” said Boyd. It was not a suggestion. He wore his service weapon outside his clothes, just so anyone watching would get the hint. I couldn’t remember any time I’d ever had an armed escort.
“Thanks,” I said as I stepped into my van a few moments later. “Listen, Ferdinanda wants to go shopping today. She’s adamant.”
“Christ, you women,” said Boyd. “I’ll try to talk her out of it. But I’m staying home with Yolanda,” he said, his gaze on the street. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep the security alarm on.”
“Okay, good. And here.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the wad of bills Rorry Breckenridge had given me the night before. “This is from Rorry. It’s to cover any extra bills Yolanda might have.”
Boyd stuffed the cash in his front pocket. “Anybody snapping pictures is going to think we’re doing a drug deal.”
“Oh, don’t get paranoid on me.”
I thanked him again and scooted my van in the direction of the inexpensive Aspen Meadow apartment building indicated by the address Arch had scribbled. I had a moment of panic: What if Lolly wasn’t there? If she was Humberto’s girlfriend, wouldn’t she be living with him? Somehow, I didn’t think Lolly Vanderpool was Humberto’s girlfriend. Clearly, neither did Arch.
Like all the other vehicles out that day, my car splashed through waves of water and slush. On Main Street, tourists who’d come to see the aspens turning yellow delicately picked through the blackened walls of snow the plows had churned onto the sidewalks. Unfortunately for these visitors, a major early snowstorm stripped most leaves from our deciduous trees. Town merchants who made big bucks off aspen-leaf-shaped pendants, earrings, and charms were not going to be happy.
Nor was I happy when my van encountered a bank of snow at the far entrance to Lolly’s apartment building. Any plans I’d had to slip surreptitiously into a parking space were for naught. I drove around to the other entrance, slid into a spot, and hopped out.
I glanced up at the windows that overlooked the lot. Lolly’s apartment was on the fourth floor. Was she watching me, or was I becoming delusional?
Rock music echoed through the door to her apartment, which I had reached via an ice-glutted outdoor staircase. It was not the kind of building to have a doorman, or even keys to the hallways, but each door did have an eyehole. When Lolly did not answer, I pounded on the door. A slippery sound indicated someone approaching. And then she must have reached the peephole.
“Aw, shit, I knew it!” her muffled voice exclaimed.
“C’mon, Lolly, let me in,” I called through the door. “I really, really need to talk to you. It’s about a friend of mine who was killed.”
After a moment of throwing bolts, she opened up. Instead of the blond wig, she had a severe pageboy that she’d dyed black with blue streaks. She wore an MIT sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and faded, threadbare jeans. I blinked. And then she really surprised me.
She opened her eyes wide and said, “I didn’t know Ernest McLeod was a friend of
I swallowed. “May I come in?”
She said, “Crap.” But she pushed the door open anyway and headed into her small living room.
The place was spartan and meticulously clean. A faded orange garage-sale rug adorned the brown linoleum floor. A small, sixties Danish-style sofa, covered with a wrinkled bedspread of much-washed madras, had been pushed against one wall. In front of the couch was a glass-topped coffee table that might have come from the same garage sale. Against the other wall were two mismatched chairs, one wicker, the other a maple ladderback. A large chipped black desk, red desk chair, plus a variety of old wooden bookshelves took up the rest of the wall space. A laptop, a cell phone, and a neat pile of sheet music sat pristinely on the desk. No musical instrument was in evidence.
I craned forward to read some of the titles on her bookshelves. There were chemistry and math texts, plus a number of books on something called string theory. I had a vague notion that this fit somewhere into the realm of quantum physics, although where, I’d been told, the quantum physics people couldn’t exactly say.
In this as in all else, Lolly had her own strongly held opinions. For the clutch of string theory volumes, in the place where a Library of Congress number would be, Lolly had made her own labels. On one:
“So how do you like my place?” she asked as she disappeared. “Before you answer that question,” she called, “tell me if you want some coffee. I’m trying to be a hostess here, even if you are an uninvited guest.”
I said, “I’d love anything caffeinated, thanks.”
The kitchen was actually a kitchenette, I realized, just around the corner from the living room. Lolly had covered the entrance with another madras bedspread, hung from a wire. Water ran and microwave buttons beeped. I could not imagine the reason for Lolly’s “new crib.” Once again, I perused book titles.
