Truly, Madly

  Rachel had a police record—shoplifting (twice), writing bad checks, assault after a bar fight. There was a picture paper-clipped to the file.

  “It’s the best I could find. Her senior year at Weymouth High.”

  Sean had blown up the color yearbook photo of the young woman into a five-by-seven. It was grainy, the pixels stretched, but still easy to see Rachel had been beautiful—even beneath the heavy eyeliner and spiked black hair.

  “What happened to her parents?” I asked.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Her eyes . . .”

  “I know.”

  It was hard to tell what color they were. Maybe a dark blue. Or brown. But it wasn’t the color that captured my attention. It was the sadness in their depths. A deep, dark sadness.

  “I contacted the school and spoke to her old guidance counselor. She described Rachel as intelligent and well-spoken but sensitive, with poor self-esteem and no friends except Elena Hart. To say the counselor didn’t have fond memories of Elena is an understatement. Elena cut class, used foul language, never did any work. She brought Rachel down to her level, and there was nothing the counselor could do about it. Rachel was so desperate to have a friend, she didn’t care that the friend was getting her into trouble. Nothing could be done.”

  “What about Rachel’s grandmother?”

  Across the street, a light came on in the living room. The window was bare—no blinds or curtains. J-Rod was carrying a ladder.

  Sean snapped a few pictures. “When I asked the counselor, she wouldn’t say, but I got the impression that something’s going on there.”

  “We need to talk to Rachel’s grandmother, coworkers, any friends she may have had,” I said.

  Sean smiled. “We?”

  “I mean, well, yeah.”

  He laughed. “Okay.”

  “There’s no telling exactly when Rachel went missing,” Sean said. “The police traced her last known movements to her working a shift at a Quincy IHOP at the end of October, a few months before she was officially reported missing. Her grandmother was finally the one who filed a missing persons report.”

  “Did Rachel have a landlord?”

  “Yeah, but rent was automatically withdrawn from her bank account. It wasn’t until she was reported missing that they found the apartment vacant.”

  “Vacant? What about Elena?” Where was her best friend? Why hadn’t she filed a missing persons report?

  “She’s now Elena Delancey.” Sean motioned to the file on my lap. I opened it.

  Elena Hart had grown up in Weymouth, barely graduated. Her arrest record was an arm’s length long. Fraud, trespassing, theft, assault, destruction of property. The list went on. She’d also worked at the same IHOP as Rachel and had been fired on the same day.

  “She left Massachusetts about the time Rachel went missing,” Sean said.

  I arched an eyebrow. “Running?”

  “Maybe so,” he said. “Here’s the good part. She moved to Rhode Island, went to college. Got a job as a social worker with a nonprofit kids’ group, got married, and now has kids of her own.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Completely turned her life around. Not so much as a speeding ticket.”

  “What caused such a drastic change?” I asked. Thoreau stirred. I petted him and he yawned, stretched, licked my hand, and went back to sleep.

  “My best guess? Guilty conscience.”

  “Penance? For what? Killing Rachel?”

  “Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  It did. But could we prove it in order to clear Michael’s name? That was the question. Well, that and why Rachel was wearing Michael’s ring. I still couldn’t figure out that one.

  I absently flipped through Jennifer Thompson’s report. There wasn’t much in it I didn’t already know, other than that she’d once had a restraining order against Elena Hart. Jennifer had essentially fallen off the map after graduation from Boston University. Gone. Poof. And her parents and sister weren’t talking.

  This didn’t bode well for Michael’s future with her.

  Sean twisted again and pulled another file from his backseat. His eyes locked on mine. In the moonlight, they seemed grayer than normal. Bright and alluring. “How’s your toe?” he asked, dropping the file on my lap.

  Actually, my feet stung and ached, but I didn’t want to complain. I opened the file and my breath caught as I looked at the composite sketch of myself that had been broadcast all over the Bay State.

  My head dropped.

  Sean reached over and nudged my chin so I’d look at him.

  Breaking through my panic was the wonderful feel of his hand on my skin as his palm cupped my cheek. I leaned into it. There were no images when he touched my face, just delicious sensations I didn’t want to end.

  From beneath lowered lashes, I looked at him. It was powerful, the connection we had. An inexplicable pull dragged us together.

  I leaned in. He met me halfway. Just as our lips were about to touch, the porch light of the house we were watching snapped on.

  My heart pounded with disappointment. Sean fumbled for his camera.

  J-Rod came out the front door, a roll of carpet slung across his shoulder. Sean snapped away as the man lifted the carpet and tossed it into the Dumpster. He wiped his hands on his jeans and headed back into the house.

  “John Roddrick Dominico has been renovating houses for over eight months,” Sean said.

  “While still collecting workers’ comp?”

  “Yeah.” He held up his camera. “I think I have enough proof to take to my client. You ready to go home?”

  “Not really.” Because I didn’t know if the state police would be there waiting for me.

  “No?” he asked, his eyes questioning.

  I bit my lip as I looked at the sketch in my lap. If I wanted Sean’s help, he needed to know the truth. It was time to take the leap.

  I just hoped he wouldn’t let me fall.

  SEVENTEEN

  One good thing about IHOP was that it stayed open late.

  Another was that they served Belgian waffles.

  Nothing made me feel better like Belgian waffles.

  It wasn’t a coincidence that we were here. This was the restaurant where Rachel and Elena had worked.

  There were two men at a table in the back, but other than them and us, the place was deserted at nearly midnight. Thoreau was happily snoozing on a blanket in the car.

  We’d just sat down when Sean’s phone rang. He frowned at the ID screen and silenced the call.

  “Cara?” I guessed.

  “Yeah.” He didn’t sound too happy about it.

  I didn’t want to overtly pry, so I carefully unfolded my napkin, laid it on my lap, and bit my tongue.

  A waitress shuffled up to the table and greeted us with menus, chatting about the crazy weather and the little boy who’d been found.

  As if I needed a reminder.

  Her name tag read: “Tess,” and she shoved menus at us before swinging ample hips toward the other occupied table.

  “Chatty,” Sean said.

  “Might work to our advantage.”

  “You sure you never worked as a PI?”

  I smiled. “It’s one of the few things I haven’t done.”

  “True.”

  I scanned the menu, though I knew what I wanted. Then what he said hit me. “What do you mean, true? Did you do a background check on me?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “That’s not fair. Now you know everything about me and—”

  “Hardly,” he scoffed.

  “And I know hardly nothing about you,” I said, ignoring his comment.

  “Seems fair to me.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Tess came back, and Sean and I both ordered waffles. After she brought our orders to the kitchen, she was back with two glasses of ice water. I looked up at her. “How long have you worked here, Tess?”

  “Too damn long, darl
in’.”

  Sean slid a business card across the table. “We’re investigating the death of Rachel Yurio. Did you know her?”

  Tess made the sign of the cross.

  I took that as a yes.

  By the amount of wrinkles, I guessed Tess’s age around seventy-five. It was hard to grasp that she was as old as Dovie. They were different as night and day, looks-wise. The difference between those who have and those who have not.

  Tess’s uniform clung to her many curves; loose dyed red curls fell over her full face. She stood at an angle, as though her back hurt. Thick orthopedic shoes made no noise as she shifted foot to foot, the eyeglasses hooked to a chain around her neck swaying.

  “Honey-pie,” she said, openly admiring him, “some people you just don’t forget.”

  I smiled as he blushed. It was adorable. “I was so sad to hear about her on the news. What do you want to know?” Tess asked.

  “Anything,” I said. “How long did she work here? Did she have any friends? Did she ever talk about anyone? Did anyone not like her?”

  “She was quiet, that one. Worked here about two years. Her and Elena started about the same time. She’s the one you need to be talking to.”

  “Elena Hart?” Sean asked, pulling a small notebook from his coat pocket.

  “That’s the one, honey-pie. She and Rachel were best friends, roommates, thick as thieves, those two, and had been since middle school; leastways, that’s how they told it. Well, they were until . . .”

  “Until what?” I asked.

  “They had a huge falling-out. A doozy.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “I remember clear as day. Me and Rachel were working late. Elena came storming in, fire in her eyes, looking for Rachel. They got into it so bad the manager called the police.”

  “What was the fight about?”

  “I’m not sure. All I remember was that Elena kept sayin’, ‘How could you? How could you?’ Both of them were crying up a storm, slapping at each other. The manager fired both of them on the spot.”

  That had to have been the fight Michael told me about. The one where Elena had found out Rachel betrayed her by telling Michael the truth about the night he passed out.

  “After they walked out the door that night, I never saw hide or hair of either again.” Tess looked over her shoulder and said, “Be right back; your food’s up.”

  When she came back Sean leaned in. “Tess, do you think Elena might have had something to do with Rachel’s death? Gut feeling?”

  She rocked back on her heels. “I’ve had myself a rough life. I’ve been through a lot, seen a lot more. But I ain’t ever seen anyone as evil as Elena Hart. Now Rachel, she’s a tough cookie, that one, but with a heart of gold. I never knew why they were friends.”

  As Tess walked away, I looked at my plate of food and realized I’d lost my appetite. What a waste of perfectly good waffles.

  The men in the back finished their meal, dropped money on the table, and ambled out.

  Sean poured syrup. “How about tomorrow we go see Rachel’s grandmother and see if Elena will talk to us?”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “I also want to go see Jennifer’s sister, Melissa. A face-to-face meeting might get us more information on why Jennifer has fallen off the radar.”

  I poked at my waffles as a long silence stretched. I was lost in thoughts of Elena and Rachel and Michael Lafferty and Jennifer Thompson. And, of course, Sean. He knew I had found Max and was waiting for an explanation.

  Sean pushed his food around his plate but must have been thinking along the same lines, because he said, “Are you going to tell me?”

  Was I ready to tell?

  Leaning back in my seat, I took a good, hard look at him. I didn’t have the heart to keep pushing him away. And he had a stake in this now, too. He’d trusted me, and now it was time I returned the favor. I was going to tell him everything. About me, about Michael, the ring, and little Max. I wouldn’t tell him about the auras—some secrets weren’t mine to tell. Taking a deep breath, I said, “It started when I was fourteen. . . .”

  “Who’s the hottie?” Em asked from her spot on the couch as soon as I walked into the house at 2:00 A.M. She clicked off a rerun of Frasier.

  “How do you know he’s hot?”

  “Dome light when he got out to give you a hug. Plus, he followed you home to make sure you arrived safe. That’s a hottie in my book.”

  Sean followed me home after I picked my car up at the shipyard. It had been really sweet of him. Especially since I was nervous the state police would be at my door waiting for me. Thankfully, they weren’t.

  “So . . . who is he?”

  “Sean Donahue, PI.”

  “What are you doing with a private investigator?”

  “Not as much as I want,” I said, flopping into the chair next to her.

  Em sat up, drawing a blanket to her chin. Her eyes were completely clear—there had been no drinking tonight. “That sounds interesting!”

  “I wish it were.”

  “Is he not interested? Is he blind? Stupid? Gay?”

  “Just getting out of a relationship.”

  “Messy,” she said.

  I nodded. Plus, I had to deal with Cupid’s Curse. It would be best if I could just keep my hands off Sean altogether. Nothing between us would—could—end well.

  Grendel leapt into my lap, starting sniffing. His fur rose on end, and he gazed up at me as though I’d betrayed him. “Yes,” I said to him. “I was with a dog. His name is Thoreau, and he’s very cute.” I scratched Grendel’s ears. “But not as cute as you, and you could easily take him.”

  Seemingly placated, he sat down on my lap, rolling onto his back so I could rub his stomach.

  “You’re like the cat whisperer,” Em said.

  I laughed. “I just know what he likes to hear.”

  “What’s with the PI?”

  “Long story.” From my bedroom, the sounds of Odysseus running on his wheel carried. “And it’s late. How about I tell you in the morning?”

  “Okay,” Em said. She rose and gave me a hug. “I’m here if you want to talk.”

  I eyed her suspiciously. “You’ve been talking to Marisol.”

  “She’s just worried about you. Something about detectives . . .”

  My nerves leapt. “The tall blond one didn’t show up here tonight, did he?”

  Her eyes widened as she shook her head. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

  “Tomorrow,” I promised.

  I checked the phone before I headed into my room. Ten new messages.

  They could wait.

  I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and climbed into bed.

  By the time I cracked open my eyes at five thirty, I wasn’t entirely convinced I’d ever fallen asleep.

  Pulling the covers over my head, I wished I could stay in bed all day, forget everything going on in my life. But I couldn’t hide—as much as I wanted to.

  A minute later Em tiptoed into my room. I drew down the edge of my blanket, cracked open an eye.

  “Did I wake you?” she asked, clutching a pile of clothes.

  “No. What’re you doing?”

  “Showering. I’m working today. But I’m also going to turn in my two weeks’ notice. If I haven’t already gotten fired for my little sabbatical.”

  Suddenly Em’s motives were clear. “You were trying to get fired.”

  “Well, yeah. I hoped it would be easier for my parents to accept that way. But I should have realized that their donations pretty much guaranteed my place on staff. I need to do this the right way, even if it’s the hard way. I’m enrolled next semester at Boston College. Going to get my teaching degree.”

  She’d been busy yesterday. I smiled. “I’m proud of you.”

  “I’m proud of myself.” She waved to the bathroom. “I’ll call for a cab when I’m done in here.”

  “You don’t need a cab. Take my car.”

  “You don’t need it?”

&nbs
p; “Not today.” Sean had volunteered to do the driving. He was picking me up at nine.

  “I’ll take that offer,” she said.

  “What time do you have to work?”

  “Seven to seven.” She ducked into the bathroom. “But I still want to hear about everything going on with you. Dinner tonight?”

  “Sure.”

  The pipes knocked in the wall as Em turned on the hot water. Grendel swatted my face playfully. I scratched under his chin as someone pounded on the front door.

  My bedside clock glowed 5:48.

  Who on earth?

  I dislodged Grendel, who burrowed under the warm covers, and yelled, “Coming!” Which was followed closely by, “Ow, ow, ow,” as I walked. My feet had gotten worse overnight. I looked down at them—swollen and bruised. I was going to have to let Em look at them.

  More knocking. “Coming!”

  I switched on the front light and pulled open the front door.

  Detective Lieutenant Holliday smiled down at me, tapping a rolled newspaper on his palm. “Good morning, Lucy.”

  I groaned. “What, no crack about Sleeping Beauty?”

  “I don’t want to become predictable with the fairy tale references. Can I come in?”

  I knew he’d come eventually. I hadn’t suspected it would be so early. I held open the door and motioned to the couch. “Can you give me a minute to throw on a robe?”

  “You’re not going to run, are you?”

  “With these feet?” I said, gesturing downward.

  He whistled low. “You should have those looked at.”

  “I plan to. I’ll be right back.”

  When I came out, I found him sitting in the chair next to the couch. “Is someone here with you?” he asked.

  Em had already folded her blanket and tidied up the couch. “A friend is staying with me for a few days. She’s in the shower—has to work today,” I said lamely, rambling.

  He was wearing loose-fitting jeans, running shoes, and an athletic pullover. Not what I’d considered cop-wear.

  “Coffee?” I asked.

  “Please.”

  In the kitchen, I poured some beans into the grinder. The smell of fresh coffee filled the air. As I worked, I could feel his gaze on me. For once I wished my kitchen didn’t open into the living room. He was making me uneasy. “Cream? Sugar?”