Sinead knocked back the rest of her whiskey while I gaped at her.
“I wanted to surprise him and bring him breakfast before he left,” she said, tapping the brown bag. “I brought his favorite: sausage-and-egg sandwich. But I guess I missed him.” She wiped her eyes. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be such a whinger. Hey . . .” She pointed at my chest.
“What?” I said, finally jolted out of my amazement.
“Look at you. You’re wearing a color.”
I had thought of Stokes as a hater, capable of killing Hugh and Helene. Now there was also Al with an ax to grind against the Walkers. No, the idea was ludicrous. Shy, nervous Al Rudinsky, a guy who worried about tracking mud on the floor? He couldn’t kill anyone, let alone do it over the loss of an account. Or could he? The only thing I felt certain of as the four of us emerged from the dark Thunder Bar into the bright, brisk morning was that Mad as Hell had to be him. He’d used the phrase repeatedly, and he drove like a madman. But why couldn’t he come to me directly and say he was offended? Why did he have to express his anger under a nom de plume?
When I thought about it for a second, the answer was obvious. Shame. Humiliation. What Eric Warschuk said was probably true: “It’s the thing men fear most.”
“Women don’t exactly love it, either,” I mumbled.
“What did you say?” Grace asked.
Grace, Kelly and Sinead stood by the entrance door in the sun, squinting like moles.
“Nothing.”
Kelly shivered in her shorts as she held on to Grace. The skin on her gorgeous calves was covered in goose bumps. Grace bundled her into the Mini and gave her directions and a house key while I tacked the CLASS CANCELED sign to the door. I’d written it on the blank back of a coaster that said, “Due to cutbacks, the light at the end of the tunnel has been turned off.”
Grace returned, shaking her head. “What a thing to go through when you’re pregnant. I’m surprised she didn’t miscarry. I didn’t think Stokes was Helene’s type.”
“You don’t know the half of it, Grace. I have a million things to tell you.”
Grace dropped her chin to her chest and began picking invisible lint off her parka. “I have stuff to tell you, too. Detective Roche came by last night.”
I nodded as my belly turned over. “He was asking about me, right? They searched my house. They commandeered my phone and computer.”
Grace jerked her head up. “Shit!”
“Gubbins is working on getting them back. What did Roche ask you?”
“He asked if I thought you were emotionally stable. I said you were a rock. That you’d gone through hell in the past because of Hugh and you’d kept it together. But lately you’d been depressed.”
“And you felt you had to share that,” I said, recoiling.
Grace was quick to defend herself. “I didn’t want him to hear it from someone else and think I was hiding it.”
“How did he react?”
“He wanted details. ‘How is she behaving differently?’ ‘Is she spending more time alone? Becoming more secretive?’ I told him you were a little colorless, that’s all. I also set him straight. ‘I’ve known her for twenty-three years,’ I said. ‘She’s a good person and godmother to my kids. Don’t waste your time investigating Nora Glasser. There’s a dangerous killer running around out there. Go find him.’”
Loyal as Lassie, like I said.
“Nor, there’s another thing. About my program today—”
“Wait. Stokes might show up here soon. Let’s talk at the station.”
Grace broadcast Talk of the Townies live at 10:30 a.m., and her station manager usually stocked the fridge. I couldn’t remember when I’d last eaten.
As I drove along the commercial stretch between Pequod and Massamat, my mind jumped from worry to worry like a grasshopper dodging a lawn mower. I worried about getting arrested, about Stokes roaming free, about my sleepwalking and what it meant. I even worried about Al working all night scrubbing toilet bowls. The more I thought about it, I knew Al wasn’t a killer. I knew it in my bones. My money was on Stokes. Stokes was the one. No matter how mad Al was about my column, his threats were idle. He was a frustrated victim of the changing economy. My heart went out to him.
It was a good thing I didn’t have a phone, because I had the urge to call Ben and tell him Tidy Pool Al wrote the letters. I probably shouldn’t talk to Ben until he had time to absorb the note I’d left. I hoped he’d understand. My reticence wasn’t about him. It was all me.
Grace disappeared through the station’s door as I pulled into a visitor parking spot at WPQD. My measly hour of sleep was beginning to take its toll. I climbed out of the car and stomped my feet to shake off the drowsiness before hustling into the warehouse-size brick building—a former party goods store. With their economic challenges, the Piqued hadn’t been throwing as many parties. Celebration had gone belly-up.
WPQD was suffering, too—federal grants decimated, ad revenues down. Half the time, some dejected host was chanting the phone number during a fund-raiser and offering hemp tote bags or Bruce Springsteen CDs in return for donations. As I entered, “Uptown Funk” was playing on the air. On the far side of the lobby, Grace’s boss, Monty Beers, sang along in his glass studio. He pulled a serious face when he spotted me, gave a big thumbs-up and mouthed, “You go, girl!” before fading the music out and starting the news.
“Good morning. This is Monty Beers with WPQD Weekly News in Review. The town of Pequod is still on edge as the police hunt for Hugh and Helene Walker’s killer. Apple-picking season is in its final week. And an economic report released yesterday is forecasting the 2018 economy will be ‘okayish.’ This and more. Stay tuned.” He flipped on a public service announcement and gave me two thumbs-up this time.
What was Monty’s big rah-rah for me about? He’d seen me on the news, I supposed. It looked like he believed my statement and was trying to show emotional support—praising me for managing to hold it together given the traumatic events of the week. I was grateful for a little encouragement. I proceeded to the kitchen to snatch two mugs and a peach Yoplait from the minifridge.