Rosato And Associates: Accused Part 27

"Che?"

Mary let it go. "What about the boot?" she asked, handing the nurse the signed forms.

"He's going to be wearing the boot for three weeks, but he'll take it off at night or in the shower. It has to be put on and taken off properly, and I can show you how it works. It can be complicated, and the straps are Velcro. He'll also need cold compresses for the first few days." The nurse eyed the group, bewildered. "Who's going to be helping him with that? He told us he lives alone."

Tony-From-Down-The-Block stepped forward like a soldier reporting for duty. "I'll do it," he said, practically clicking his heels together.

Mary looked over, surprised.

Her father looked back at her, flaring his eyes in another Meaningful Look, which meant did-you-see-this-coming?

Pigeon Tony looked at the television, still young and restless, at heart.

Feet looked up at Tony-From-Down-The-Block, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "You? You'll probably kill me."

Tony-From-Down-The-Block squared his soft shoulders. "Feet, I'm sorry I hurt your feelings."

Feet leaned back in his wheelchair, dubious. "Did Mary make you apologize?"

"No." Tony-From-Down-The-Block shook his head, with its patch of Elmo-red hair. "She gave me the idea, but what made me do it was when I saw you drivin' away in the ambulance. Life's too short to fight with your friends."

"I thank you," Feet said, nodding in his wheelchair, as magnanimous as a king in a throne.

Mary swallowed the lump in her throat, and the nurse looked choked up, too, because nurses were soft-hearted, by nature.

"YOU TWO KISSED AND MADE UP? THEN LET'S GET OUTTA THIS JOINT! WE'RE TOO YOUNG TO BE INNA HOSPITAL!"

Chapter Thirty-three.

Fifteen minutes later, Mary was driving the Buick back to Philadelphia, while her father, Feet, Tony-From-Down-The-Block, and Pigeon Tony fell soundly asleep. She kept the windows closed so they wouldn't wake up, though the afternoon sun heated the car's interior, which was filled with the sound of snoring, a deviated septum, and an incipient allergy to pollen, if not fresh air. They had caused their share of trouble today, but she couldn't have gotten any of the information she had without their shenanigans. It made her want to kiss each of them on the forehead.

She noticed the scenery becoming more suburban, with less open s.p.a.ce and more homes, then thought about returning Allegra's call, because her father wasn't awake to nag her about using the cell phone. Still she waited until she stopped at a red light to dial the number, because she was that good a daughter. It took a while to get to Allegra through Churchill's operator, but she finally did. "Allegra?"

"Hi, Mary!" Allegra sounded eager to speak with her. "You called at the perfect time. I just met my team, and they have me scheduled for an individual session in fifteen minutes."

"Good, you sound better than last night," Mary told her, meaning it.

"I slept okay, but I still want to get out of here. Can you get me out of here?"

"Not yet, but I did want to update. We got the bees installed in their hives, and I spoke with Alasdair."

"Oh that's great! You didn't get stung or anything, did you? Did he get stung?"

"No, everybody's fine, and we had some help from some friends of mine."

"Great, I was so worried. Were the bees okay? Was the queen alive? Sometimes they die in the mail."

"She's fine, sitting on her tiny bee throne as we speak."

"Thanks so much for all you and your friends did. Alasdair will take care of the work at the hive from now on, he knows what to do."

Mary hadn't realized there was more work to do, but she was officially out of the bee business.

"That's why I called you so many times, I was hoping n.o.body ended up in the hospital."

Mary almost told her that they had, but they didn't have much time on the phone, and she felt relieved that Allegra had a good explanation for calling so often. "The headline about this morning is that you were right about Tim Gage. He was at the party the night Fiona was killed, and he left upset, though there were no signs of blood or anything like that on him. Our investigator found a parking valet who gave him the information."

"That's amazing," Allegra said, her tone turning hushed. "So he was there. I knew it, all this time, I knew it."

"Also, Alasdair told me that Tim was really upset that Fiona broke up with him, so we are beginning to get some evidence of motive."

"Oh, wow. I didn't know that. So is Tim your main suspect?"

"Only a working theory, but I have to keep plowing ahead. We're not going to get answers overnight, so I don't want to get you too excited, or to expect that." Mary had misgivings about updating Allegra in any detail, especially in real time, given her mental state. Even though she didn't believe Allegra required residential treatment, she kept hearing Judy's voice in her head, telling her she couldn't be sure. "And before we go any further, I just want you to know that even though I'm updating you, I don't want you to focus too much on this. You hired me to do it, and I will. While you're at Churchill, I want you to focus on yourself and on getting better."

"You sound like you think I need to be here." Allegra emitted a disappointed groan, which Mary recognized as the characteristic whine of the American teenage girl.

"I don't think you need to be there, but that's not the point. It would be upsetting for anybody to be going over the details of her sister's murder, day in and day out. Right now, that's my job. We on the same page?"

"Yes."

"Now, I also went to the cottage, spoke with your Uncle Richard, and asked him if he knew anything about Tim and Fiona's relationship, but let's just say he wasn't inclined to speak with me."

"Did he throw you out of his office?"

"Basically, but I've been thrown out of offices before, so don't take it too much to heart." Mary steered the car onto a two-lane road that she vaguely remembered led to the highway. "I also met your Uncle Edward, but only briefly."

"That must have been fun. He's the baby of the family, my dad says. He doesn't come over to the house much anymore, or the cottage, since he quit the business. My dad's the one who runs the show, but he usually works in town, he's like the big boss. He only works at the cottage when he's feeling lazy or if he has a cold. Or, like, I remember he used to work at the cottage in the morning, if Fiona had a field hockey game in the afternoon. He went to all of her hockey games, we all did."

Mary remembered that Edward had been kind to Feet after he'd fallen, but her attention wandered as she approached a fork in the road, at a John Deere dealership. She tried to remember which way to go, because if she were late, she'd miss the meeting with Hannah. Of course, the Buick didn't have GPS. She was lucky it had an engine. In the meantime, Allegra didn't need to be prompted to continue talking, her loneliness evident.

"Richard works mainly at the cottage, but he goes in town sometimes. I think a lot of his clients are near us, and I know he's expanding the business in Delaware and Maryland. They always talk about that. Work is all he talks about, ever. They think I'm obsessed, but they are. It may be a family business thing, but whatever. Uncle Edward used to work in the business, but he doesn't anymore, not really. He's a sweetie."

Mary took the left fork, hoping for the best. She didn't see any landmarks, only a few white clapboard Cape Cods that looked remarkably similar, except for a variety of different lawn ornaments. She pa.s.sed a fake plastic deer, a beaver carved from a tree stump, and finally a statue of the Virgin Mary, which made her feel right at home.

"Edward is an antiques dealer," Allegra was saying. "He's really smart, he went to Yale, and he knows a lot about art and antique furniture and rugs, too. He collects needlepoint samplers, and he sells them for thousands and thousands of dollars. Edward works his farm, it's organic, and he grows corn and soybeans with his wife. Her name is Polly. Polly's pregnant now, three months, but it already shows. It took them a long time and they had a lot of trouble, but I don't know too much about that. Richard has a son, Ryan, he's kinda hot but I hardly know him. He's about Fiona's age and he lives with his mom in San Francisco. Richard's divorced because he's a worse workaholic than my dad, even."

Mary hit the gas, rea.s.sured when she saw a Turkey Hill convenience store and a FREE FIREWOOD sign, which looked familiar. "Okay, on a different subject, I'm going to see Hannah Wicker this afternoon and see if she can tell me anything more."

"That's really great. You've made so much progress in such a short time, and I really appreciate it. Thanks a lot, and please thank Judy for me."

Mary hesitated. She hoped Allegra wasn't disappointed when she heard that Judy wasn't working the case anymore, but there wasn't time for that conversation now. "Judy's back at the office, but I'll make sure to tell her, and you're welcome."

"Do you think you'll be able to come visit me later on? Even tonight?"

"I wish I could, honey, but I can't." Mary thought of what Jane had said to her, at the door of the cottage. "Allegra, I want you to know I had a very nice talk with your mother today. She seems like such a nice person."

"Oh. She is, really."

"She told me to tell you, if I saw you, that she loves you and misses you very much."

Allegra fell silent.

"Why don't you give her a call? Or think about adding her to your visitors' list. If not your father, then at least your mother."

"Why?"

"Because they love you. They've made some bad mistakes, I know that, but they're your family."

"Tell them that! They tricked me into getting in the car. They lied to me. They put me in a mental hospital. They think I'm crazy. Did anybody ever do anything that bad to you?"

"No, but you have to remember they thought they were doing the right thing. They didn't do it out of malice, they did it out of love."

"So what? They don't understand me. Honestly, they hardly even know me. I haven't lived home in years."

"But now you do, and you have to think ahead. The only way they can begin to know you is if you talk to them." Mary hit the gas, speeding toward the highway. "All I'm saying is, think about it, okay?"

"Okay. You sure you can't come tonight?"

"No, sorry." Mary couldn't ignore the hurt in her voice. "I have to go to a birthday party for my future mother-in-law."

"You're getting married?" Allegra squealed. "That's so cool! Do you have a ring?"

"Yes, didn't I tell you?"

"No! I had no idea!" Allegra paused. "Uh-oh, wait, I better hang up. It's almost time for my stupid session."

"Try to keep an open mind."

"All right, see you," Allegra said, begrudgingly.

"Talk to you later. Take care."

"Bye, love you."

"Love you, too," Mary told her, after a moment.

Chapter Thirty-four.

An hour later, Mary emerged from a taxicab in industrial Northern Liberties, the gritty city neighborhood where Hannah Wicker worked. The Tonys had been dropped off at her parents', and Mary had kissed her mother good-bye and parked the Buick in front of their house, the way they did in South Philly, where everybody saved his parking s.p.a.ce with a plastic beach chair or galvanized trash can. It was an unwritten law that n.o.body was allowed to park in your s.p.a.ce unless they were mobbed-up, but even that rarely happened, as the Philadelphia mob had seen better days and even they respected the right of a man to park in front of his own house.

Mary found herself on Banner Street, a littered alley behind a row of vacant storefronts, an old-school dry cleaner, and a new vegan restaurant, evidence of a neighborhood that had been on the way to gentrifying until the recession. The street was too narrow for the sun, blocked by the buildings, and Mary could almost feel the filth in the air clogging her pores. She loved her hometown, but not all of it was good for your skin.

She hurried down the dirty pavement past windowless brick buildings with steel front doors, double-locked. Some had nameplates identifying the businesses inside, and she read them as she hurried to the end of the block; Olde City Studios, Craig Restaurant Supply, and finally, Northern Liberties, where Hannah worked. It was a grimy gray door blanketed with graffiti, and Mary pulled on the k.n.o.b because Hannah had told her it would be unlocked, which it was. She went inside and stopped short, feeling a wave of intense heat and scanning the place in wonder. She had never been in a gla.s.sblowing studio before, but she didn't expect it to look and feel like h.e.l.l itself.

The room was huge and dark, its focal point a ma.s.sive arched furnace that contained a roaring orange-red conflagration, its flames sputtering, crackling, and throwing off so much heat that Mary guessed it had to be a hundred degrees. Three gla.s.sblowers worked in front of the furnace, dressed in loose T-shirts, shorts, workboots, and tattoos. Their faces and heads were covered by helmets shaped like a beekeeper's veil, which made Mary realize there were plenty of jobs and hobbies more dangerous than being a lawyer. She wiped sweat off of her forehead, slid off her blazer, and pulled her shirt away from her body, to which it was already plastered. If her pores were clogged by the soot outside, she was getting an automatic facial inside.

She had no trouble telling which gla.s.sblower was Hannah, because only one of the three had b.r.e.a.s.t.s, though none of the gla.s.sblowers looked up or even appeared to notice Mary standing there. One of the male gla.s.sblowers had a long iron stick and he was rolling it expertly in the palms of his large hands, swirling a river of molten yellow gla.s.s around its end, then pulling it away, attenuating the gla.s.s until it narrowed to a skein of pure liquid gold, then swirling it around the end again. His technique reminded Mary of spaghetti being twirled on a fork, except that gla.s.sblowing required creativity, boldness, and biceps, whereas all spaghetti required was an empty stomach.

Hannah and the other gla.s.sblower seemed to be a.s.sisting him, carrying over a large aluminum container that Mary couldn't identify. In fact, none of the equipment in the studio was like anything she had seen before, from the ma.s.sive steel drums to a row of iron sticks in a rack, and there wasn't any conventional furniture around at all; no reception desk, chair, television, or even a computer. Mary wouldn't have believed there was electricity but for the caged light bulbs mounted on a grid on its high ceiling, which was crisscrossed with pipe and wiring. The floor was of unforgiving concrete, and it was almost too hot to breathe the air, which smelled like fire and cancer.

Hannah manhandled the heavy aluminum drum, fully as muscular and tattooed as the male gla.s.sblowers, and Mary could understand why she'd taken the job here, after three stints in rehab for heroin addiction. She could hide here, and at the same time, she could create herself a new ident.i.ty. Mary wondered if Hannah was forging a new life for herself, formed in fire like the gla.s.s itself, or if it was simply the only job she could get. There had to be a reason someone chose working conditions that were no better than the Industrial Revolution, and you didn't have to be a therapist to know the reason was Fiona's murder, and the subsequent death of Hannah's entire circle of girlfriends.

Hannah looked over once her hands were free, and Mary gave her a little wave, to show she hadn't been barbecued as yet. Hannah pointed toward the door, which told Mary they would talk outside, and she didn't need to be told twice. She turned around, hustled back through the door, and inhaled deep lungfuls of cool air the moment she hit the street. The door opened behind her a moment later, and Hannah emerged, with smiling blue eyes under a short chopped haircut, which had been dyed as bright white as Colgate toothpaste. Silver hoops and studs pierced the lobes and cartilage of each ear, and dark green tribal tattoos covered her neck, as well as both arms to the wrist, around which she had an array of leather, beaded, and black rubber bracelets.

"You must be Mary, I'm Hannah," she said with an easy grin, then reached into the back pocket of her jeans shorts, pulled out a cigarette, and plugged it between her Cupid's bow lips.

"You smoke, after that?" Mary blurted out, then caught herself. "Sorry, I mean, it's so hot in there, I don't know how you can take it."

"You get used to it." Hannah pulled out a pink plastic Bic lighter, lit her cigarette, and blew out a cone of smoke. "You don't mind if I smoke, do you?"

"No," Mary answered, like she always did. She hated the smell of cigarette smoke, but she had her own share of bad habits, including an addiction to chocolate chip cannolis. "Thanks for meeting me on such short notice. I can see you're busy, blowing gla.s.s, or making gla.s.s things, or whatever it's called, it's cool."

"Thank you." Hannah laughed, throwing back her head, and little puffs of smoke came from her mouth. She sat down on the front steps. "I gather you haven't been in a hot gla.s.s studio before."

"No, never." Mary sat down beside her. "It looks like an interesting thing to do, like an art form, right?"

"Yes, you could call it that. It's a lot of things wrapped up into one. I'm still apprenticing, but I love it. I'm just learning to start to make my own designs, which is fun. You start to develop a style of your own." Hannah's eyes lit up when she talked about gla.s.sblowing, and Mary could see, underneath all her countercultural gear, the upbeat young girl who used to party, play field hockey, and ride horses.

"I think that's true of lots of things, don't you?" Mary was thinking aloud because Hannah was easy to talk to, with an open and relaxed manner, and also she wanted to ease her into the heartbreaking subject of Fiona. "For example, I just made partner at my law firm, and I have to find my own way to be a partner. I can't lawyer the way my partner does, or even the way my best friend does."

Hannah nodded. "Totally, I get that. It's like finding your own voice."

"Right, well said. Well, I hate to bring this up, because I know it's so difficult for you, so the first thing I have to say is, please accept my condolences on the loss of Fiona, Sue, Mary, and Honor."

"Thank you." Hannah's expression darkened, and she took a long drag on her cigarette, sucking in her cheeks. She paused to collect herself, pursing her lips together and letting the smoke flow from her nostrils. "I'm still processing it, even though it's so long after."

"Six years isn't so long, really," Mary said, gently.

"I know, but still." Hannah's gaze shifted away, then back again. "It's just weird to be the only one, you know, that's left. It's like every memory I have my whole life, except my parents, is with those girls. It's hard to deal with that. For a long time, like, I basically wished I didn't have a life before, the memories hurt too much."

"I understand that." Mary's heart went out to her, and even though she knew firsthand how awful and strange the aftermath of murder could be, it was hard to see such a young girl so torn up inside and working so hard to get herself back together.

"I'm over a year clean and sober, and I really feel good, well, not good, but like I can go on, just one more day." Hannah waved her hand with the cigarette, clearing the air, both literally and figuratively. "Anyway, you didn't come here to hear my sad junkie story. Let's talk about Fiona."

"Okay," Mary agreed, if only because she could see that Hannah wanted to move on. "Allegra hired my law firm because she doesn't believe that the man convicted, Lonnie Stall, is the real killer, and she wanted us to find out who is. Is it okay if I ask if you a few questions?"