“Mom! Hurry up! I’m going to miss Hayley’s birthday party!” Sophia cried. Fortunately, Sophia’s friend’s ninth birthday was a movie-and-pizza affair, not an ice-skating or rock-climbing event. Adele had already had enough guilt from her ex-husband, Peter, last night about Sophia’s sprained ankle. She didn’t need her daughter adding more.
“Are you sure you’re up to it?” asked Adele, glancing down at the soft cast on her daughter’s foot.
“I’m fine.”
The party was being held at a small movie theater in downtown Wickford in a beautiful old landmark building that had yet to succumb to the megaplex syndrome of all the other movie houses in the area. It had the look and feel of an old concert hall of the 1800s, with large white columns in front and a chandelier in the lobby. Hayley’s parents had taken over the theater for the latest Disney release and the pizza party afterward. Adele didn’t even want to guess what such a party had cost the family or what they would do for an encore when Hayley got into the double digits.
Adele dropped Sophia off at the party. Then she sat in her car and tried to quiet her nerves for what she was about to do. She picked up her cell phone and dialed. A woman’s voice—breathy and confident—answered on the second ring. It turned brittle as soon as Adele said her name.
“Unless this has to do with food pantry business, my attorney says I can’t talk.”
“I understand your situation, Margaret,” Adele replied. “And I’m not asking you to alter any statement you’ve made to the police. I’m just asking if—given our previous relationship—you might at least walk me through what you saw Friday night.”
Adele had known Margaret Behring about five years—ever since Margaret and her husband moved north from Manhattan. She’d been a bond trader at Goldman Sachs before she had her two children, and she brought her brains and organizational skills to the food pantry and a host of other charities in the area. Adele respected her. That was one of the reasons this was so difficult.
“You’re not a disinterested party, Adele.”
“I know I’m not. But I’m about to walk on a stage this evening and set the tone for how every major immigrant group in this state regards this shooting. Detective Vega won’t say a word to me. If you won’t talk to me, what do I have to go on?”
“You’re not going to like anything I have to say.”
“I’m prepared.”
Silence. Adele’s car was cold and yet she felt sweat gathering on her skin.
“There’s a shipment of canned corn and carrots coming into the pantry around four this afternoon,” said Margaret. “No one else is going to be there to receive it but me.”
“So if I show up, you’ll talk to me?”
“We never had this conversation. Is that understood?” Margaret hung up.
Adele had a long list of errands to run while Sophia was at the party. Her younger sister Grace’s birthday was coming up. There was a drugstore next to the French restaurant, Chez Martine, that sold birthday cards. Adele began walking over. She heard someone call out her name. She turned to see a teenager in restaurant whites sweeping the sidewalk.
“Omar!” Adele couldn’t remember his last name. He was a Guatemalan, about seventeen, short in stature with a round, impish face. She hugged him. “I didn’t know you worked at Chez Martine.”
“I got the job maybe two months ago, se?ora.”
Adele culled her memory for what she could remember about him. His mother used to attend that Friday night support group at La Casa, Las Madres Perdidas. She worked for years as a live-in maid in Wickford. Omar had come over recently. There were probably other siblings still left in Guatemala. Adele didn’t think he attended school. Most likely, he hadn’t been to school in years—which made it next to impossible for him to go back. Besides, the trip over had probably burdened him and his family with enormous debt. He needed to earn money to pay it back. He probably didn’t even have time to take English classes.
“Are you happy here at Chez Martine? Are they treating you well?”
“Yes, thank you. I just got a promotion to a better shift.” His face turned solemn. “Only I am sad because of the reason. It’s because our head dishwasher, Hector, died. Did you know?”
“Yes. I heard. I’m sorry.” Omar was so young and so new to this country that he probably had no idea how Adele was connected to the shooting. “Did you know him well?” she asked.
“Oh yes. He was a very good man. I don’t care what the police say.” Omar waved his hands in front of Adele. They were encased in heavy padded black gloves. “These? Hector gave them to me. I didn’t have a pair. I didn’t know how cold it gets here. He gave me a wool hat, too.”
None of this sounded to Adele like a man who would rob a house.
“Omar, did the police talk to you about Hector at all?”