I shook my head, recognizing how far I’d come. I could barely even remember what Rick looked like. And mostly, I could think of my father without tears. To a greater extent than I realized, it seemed, I’d moved on, yet that accomplishment was tinged with regret. Every step that brought me closer to ending mourning seemed to take me further away from my father.
“Oh, Dad,” I whispered aloud, holding tightly to the steering wheel. “Goddamn it. Talk to me. Tell me what to do.”
And after a moment or two, I concluded that my tears weren’t shed for either Mr. Grant or my father. I was crying for myself because I felt scared and powerless, like a wood chip floating down a river, pummeled by rocks and a current that couldn’t be controlled.
I was sitting at the Blue Dolphin bar trying to decide if I wanted to nibble or eat. Jimmy, the bartender, a chubby-cheeked, freckle-faced redhead, had offered another bowl of mixed nuts, but I was thinking that I wanted something more substantial. I took a bitter-sharp sip of my martini. I liked the way it felt to hold and drink out of a martini glass.
“I’ll take the shrimp cocktail,” I said. “Thanks, Jimmy.”
An old George Benson tune was playing softly. Three groups of people were concentrated near the bow windows that overlooked the Piscataqua River and Portsmouth Harbor. Their conversations were indistinct. The candles positioned along the bar turned my glass into a prism. I half watched as colors shifted when I moved the glass, but mostly I thought about the murder.
“Are you Josie Prescott?” someone asked, breaking into my reverie.
I turned on my barstool. A short, pudgy young man, who looked barely old enough to vote, stood beside me.
“Yes,” I answered. “I’m Josie.”
“Wes Smith,” he said, offering his hand.
I shook it, feeling puzzled.
“From the Seacoast Star,” he said. He fished a card out of his pocket and handed it to me.
“Really?” I asked, looking at it. According to the card, he was a reporter.
“Why are you surprised?” he asked.
“I’ve never actually spoken to a reporter before.”
“May I join you?”
I shrugged. “Sure,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said, smiling, and sat on the stool next to mine.
“How ya doing, Wes?” Jimmy asked as he approached. “What can I get ya?”
“Bring me a cup of coffee, okay?”
“You got it.”
“Quite a situation-the Grant murder, I mean,” Wes remarked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“So I have a couple of questions for you.”
“For me?”
“Yeah. Since you’re involved.”
“What? I’m not involved.” The fear that had been dulled by martinis returned.
“That’s not what I hear,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Weren’t you interrogated for hours at the Rocky Point police station?”
“I wouldn’t call it interrogated. I’d call it interviewed. But that’s neither here nor there. How do you know anything about it? How do you know me?”
“Confidential sources,” he said as if he enjoyed saying the phrase. “And I looked you up on your company’s Web site. The photo of you is a good likeness. You were easy to spot.”
“How did you know to find me here?”
“I spoke to someone at your office and she told me you’d be here.”
That would be Gretchen. I wondered how I felt about her telling an unknown man that he could find me in a bar in the middle of the afternoon, and I decided I didn’t care. I smiled a little. I could hear my mother warning me how a girl gets a reputation. Maybe true, I said to myself, but I guessed it was a rep I didn’t mind getting. A long-ago memory came to me from a college spring break vacation to Mardi Gras. My at-the-time boyfriend bought me a T-shirt that read Good Girls Go to Heaven. Bad Girls Go to New Orleans. I’d worn it so often I’d nearly worn it out.
“Why did you want to find me?” I asked, bringing myself back to the here and now as Jimmy delivered the shrimp. I squeezed a lemon wedge elegantly covered with cheesecloth and dipped a shrimp into the spicy cocktail sauce. It was good.
He looked around. No one sat on either side of us. Still, he lowered his voice.
“What did Chief Alverez ask you about?” he asked.
“I don’t think I should answer that.”
“How come?”
I smirked at him, a give-me-a-break look.
“Seriously,” he prodded.
As I took another shrimp, I said, “I don’t know much about police work, but I know enough to know that Chief Alverez wouldn’t want me to discuss specifics about an ongoing investigation with a reporter.”
“Our paper is going to print a story including the fact that you were interrogated for hours today, and may be a suspect in the murder. Don’t you want the article to include your point of view?”
“You’re going to write that I’m a suspect?”
“That you may be a suspect.”
“That’s irresponsible and outrageous! I’m not a suspect.”
“How do you know?”
I stared at him, speechless. I reached for my glass and finished the last of my second martini. Martinis tasted better, I’d discovered over the years, the more you drink them. I didn’t answer. Instead, I ate a shrimp slowly, thinking about what I should do or say.
“Why do you think I’m a suspect?” I asked, relieved that I sounded calm and in control.
“Answer a question with a question, huh?” Wes said with a smile. “Okay. I’ll play. Apparently you were the first person questioned. You were interviewed,” he said, stressing the word “interviewed” as if to mock my earlier usage, “in an interrogation room, and you were there for more than two hours.” He shrugged. “If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck…”
As I listened, I realized he was right and that I was in deeper trouble than I’d realized.
I didn’t say another word to Wes, not even that I wouldn’t comment. Instead I stood up and signaled Jimmy that I wanted my check. While I waited, I ate another shrimp. Wes said something, but I wasn’t listening. When the check arrived, I paid it, and without a backwards glance, I left.
In my car, I turned on my cell phone to call Max. Rooting through my purse to find my address book, I came across Chief Alverez’s card. I perched it on my thigh, found the address book, and called Max’s office. A cheerful voice told me that he wasn’t there. I tried his home number, but got a machine and hung up before the beep. His cell phone went to voice mail and I left a message. I looked at Alverez’s card. It listed his cell phone number, and on impulse, I dialed it.
He answered on the second ring with a curt, “Alverez.”
“It’s Josie Prescott.”
“Well, hello,” he said.
His tone had changed. I thought I heard warmth instead of curtness, and I felt some relief. Maybe my instincts weren’t out of whack. Maybe it would be safe to talk openly to him.
“I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Wes Smith from the Star tried to interview me.”
“He did, did he? What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. But he said that the newspaper is going to print a story tomorrow referring to me as maybe a suspect. That’s my question. Am I?”
I could hear him breathing. “Where are you?” he asked.
I remembered Wes remarking that I was answering a question with a question. I’d done it to avoid answering the one he’d asked. I shivered, fear chilling me.
“Why?” I asked.
“This sounds like a situation we should talk about.”
“I have a call in to Max,” I responded.
“Makes sense,” he answered, and I felt a wave of terror wash over me. Now I knew: I was, in fact, a suspect. I heard the click of call waiting, told Alverez I had to go, and switched over to the other call. It was Max. I told him about Wes and Alverez.
“Where are you?” Max asked.
“In my car. In Portsmouth.”
“Stay there. I’ll call you right back.”