That pause came again, then she nodded.
I reached into my pocket and showed her my ID. “My name is Charlie Parker, Mrs. Becker. I'm a private investigator. I've been hired to investigate the circumstances surrounding the death of a woman named Grace Peltier. I believe Marcy was a friend of Grace's, is that correct?”
Pause. Nod.
“Mrs. Becker, when was the last time you saw Grace?”
“I don't recall,” she said. Her voice was dry and cracked, so she coughed and repeated her answer with only marginally more assurance. “I don't recall.” She took a sip of coffee from her mug.
“Was it when she came to collect Marcy, Mrs. Becker? That would have been a couple of weeks ago.”
“She never came to collect Marcy,” said Mrs. Becker quickly. “Marcy hasn't seen her in . . . I don't know how long.”
“Your daughter didn't attend Grace's funeral. Don't you think that's strange?”
“I don't know,” she said. I watched her fingers slide beneath the counter and saw her arm tense as she pressed the panic button.
“Are you worried about Marcy, Mrs. Becker?”
This time, the pause went on for what seemed like a very long time. When she spoke, her mouth answered no but her eyes whispered yes.
Behind me, I heard the door of the office open. When I turned, a short, bald man in a golf sweater and blue polyester pants stood before me. He had a golf club in his hand.
“Did I interrupt your round?” I asked.
He shifted the club in his hand. It looked like a nine iron. “Can I help you, mister?”
“I hope so, or maybe I can help you,” I said.
“He was asking about Marcy, Hal,” said Mrs. Becker.
“I can handle this, Francine,” her husband assured her, although even he didn't look convinced.
“I don't think so, Mr. Becker, not if all you've got is a cheap golf club.”
A rivulet of panic sweat trickled down from his brow and into his eyes. He blinked it away, then raised the club to shoulder height in a two-armed grip. “Get out,” he said.
My ID was still open in my right hand. With my left, I took one of my business cards from my pocket and laid it on the counter. “Okay, Mr. Becker, have it your way. But before I go, let me tell you something. I think someone may have killed Grace Peltier. Maybe you're telling me the truth, but if you're not, then I think your daughter has some idea who that person might be. If I could figure that out, then so can whoever killed her friend. And if that person comes asking questions, then he probably won't be as nice about it as I am. You bear that in mind after I'm gone.”
The club moved forward an inch or two. “I'm telling you for the last time,” he said, “get out of this office.”
I flipped my wallet closed, slipped it into my jacket pocket, then walked to the door, Hal Becker circling me with his golf club to keep some swinging distance between us. “I have a feeling you'll be calling me,” I said as I opened the door and stepped into the lot.
“Don't you bet on it,” replied Becker. As I started my car and drove away, he remained standing at the door, the golf club still raised, like a frustrated amateur with a huge handicap stuck in the biggest, deepest bunker in the world.
On the drive back to Scarborough I ran through what I had learned, which wasn't much. I knew that Carter Paragon was being kept under wraps by Ms. Torrance and that Lutz seemed to have more than a professional interest in keeping him that way. I knew that something about Voisine's discovery of Grace's body made me uneasy, and Lutz's involvement in that discovery made me uneasier still. And I knew that Hal and Francine Becker were scared. There were a lot of reasons why people might not want a private detective questioning their child. Maybe Marcy Becker was a porn star, or sold drugs to high school kids. Or maybe their daughter had told them to keep quiet about her whereabouts until whatever she was worried about had blown over. I still had Ali Wynn, Grace's Boston friend, to talk to, but already Marcy Becker was looking like a woman worth pursuing.
It seemed that Curtis Peltier and Jack Mercier were right to suspect the official version of Grace's death, but I also felt that everybody I had met over the past couple of days was either lying to me or holding something back. It was time to rectify that situation, and I had an idea where I wanted to start. Despite my tiredness, I took the Congress Street exit, then headed onto Danforth and pulled up in front of Curtis Peltier's house.
The old man answered the door wearing a nightgown and bedroom slippers. Inside, I could hear the sound of the television in the kitchen, so I knew I hadn't woken him.
“You find out something?” he asked as he motioned me into the hallway and closed the door behind me.
“No,” I replied, “but I hope to pretty soon.”
I followed him into the kitchen and took the same seat I had occupied the day before, while Peltier hit the mute button on the remote. He was watching Night of the Hunter, Robert Mitchum oozing evil as the psychotic preacher with the tattooed knuckles.
“Mr. Peltier,” I began, “why did you and Jack Mercier cease to be business partners?”
He didn't look away, but his eyes blinked closed for slightly longer than usual. When they opened again, he seemed tired. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, was it for business or personal reasons?”