"So you don't believe the story they told me, about what happened in that room?"
"Hell, no. Hell, no."
Nat hesitated. "This may be a rude question, but if there were some kind of drug dealing in the prison, do you think Simon would have been involved in it?"
"No."
Hmmm. "Why not?"
"If he were gonna do that, he could've done that on the corner." Mrs. Rhoden gestured toward the front door. "But he didn't. It wasn't his way. He was here all the time, on eBay, putting up the pictures and taking the bids. We lived on what we had. He kept to himself, like a little mouse."
Gnat. "Did he ever take OxyContin for any reason that you know?"
Mrs. Rhoden squinted. "Oxyclean?"
"OxyContin. It's a painkiller. A pill."
"No. Simon never took pills like that."
Nat wasn't convinced. "Does Simon have a bedroom here?"
"Surely."
"Would you mind if I looked in it?"
"For why?" Mrs. Rhoden lifted a graying eyebrow, and Nat had to tell the truth.
"I have no idea."
Chapter 31
Nat hustled to the Kia in the cold, wrapping the down jacket around her. She hadn't learned anything from her search of Upchurch's bedroom, which had been remarkably clean and neat, containing only a double bed, dressers full of folded clothes, and a fake-leather box of assorted jewelry. She'd looked through his desk and papers for a drug stash that didn't exist, and his check register showed no amount greater than three figures. She'd even gone through his computer files, but they held only eBay URLs, a variety of blogs, and a modest collection of online porn. She'd thanked Mrs. Rhoden, but left with more questions than answers. And the doughnuts.
She jumped into the cold little car, started the engine, and hit the road. She picked up the cell phone, still plugged in. She couldn't wait to tell Angus that his theory wasn't so crazy after all, and she wanted to talk about those videotapes, too. She pressed the number for the hospital and, when the operator came on, asked for Angus's room.
Mr. Holt was discharged," the operator said.
Thank you." Nat hung up and tried Angus's office, but there was no answer and the voicemail machine was full. She called information, asking for Angus Holt in the Philadelphia area, but he was unlisted. Damn. Nat went for the Wawa bag while she tried to figure out her next move. The soft glazed doughnut pinched perfectly between her fingers, tasted delicious, and left pasty sugar on her hand. The car warmed up, and the sugar rushed her brain. She'd have to wait on the videotapes, but maybe there was another way to find out what had happened in that prison room. By the time she finished the doughnut, she had another idea. But first she needed to run an errand. She hit the gas.
A half an hour later, she was slipping into a gas station bathroom with a plastic CVS bag and your basic key-on-a-gross-wooden-block, favored by the finest restrooms. She set the plastic bag in the filthy sink, covering its brown tear of rust. She wasn't in love with this part of the plan, but she had no choice. The CVS clerk had looked at her funny, and if Mrs. Rhoden had recognized her, others would, too. She slid off the NASCAR cap and shook out her hair, which fell to her shoulders. She took a red Goody comb from the CVS bag, brushed her hair, and then bade it goodbye. She'd had the same haircut since French II, so maybe it was time for a change.
She got her new scissors from the bag and unwrapped them, then grabbed a hank of dark hair and cut it off about three inches from her head. The scissors groaned as they cut, or she did, and she went quickly around her head, chopping her hair into short, chunky pieces. Dark strands fell into the sink, and when she had cut off enough, she ruffled up her head, shedding tiny brown filaments that fell like cinders from the sky after Fourth of July fireworks.
She appraised the new face in the mirror. Large brown eyes, small nose, bad hair, and no lip gloss; she looked like herself at age three. Not a good look for a single girl, but she didn't need a date. She shook her head and smiled. She actually liked it. Her head felt light and free, if colder. She went into the CVS bag and got her new pink glasses, the weakest prescription they had, and put them on. Funky. Cool. Artsy. Blurry. She went back into the bag one last time and extracted the big box. HIGH DIMENSION BLEACH BLONDE. High Speed Bleach Blonding! Yours in only ten to thirty minutes!
"Prove it," Nat said aloud, and got busy.
Forty minutes later, she was back in the Kia a completely different woman, in a punky white-blond haircut, funky glasses, and more makeup than most legal historians. She checked the rearview at a stoplight, satisfied that she'd changed her appearance enough to go forward. She'd been aiming for boho art major, but was settling for nearsighted coke whore.
She got the address from Information and drove to a street off Ship Road in suburban Exton, home of the Phoenix Construction Company. She remembered the name from the trailer at the prison and she knew how construction companies worked. There had to be laborers who had demolished the room where Upchurch had been killed. Maybe she could talk to one. Or perhaps someone else from the company would know where the debris from the room had been taken, the bloody rug and even the drywall. The construction company was using a Dumpster at the site, and she remembered Machik saying that it had been taken away. Maybe she could find out where.
She ate the second doughnut for courage, then drove up to the building. She parked in a small parking lot out front, which contained only a single car, and scanned the squat, two-story brick building. It had a white-painted sign that swung on a hinged holder off the side, and the entrance was painted loden green, next to a metal garage door. She got out of the Kia and walked to the entrance in the sunny cold. A stiff wind swept past, and her hand went reflexively to hold back her hair, but it wasn't there anymore.
She zipped up her down jacket and tried to develop a plausible cover story. She wasn't dressed for Homeowner Seeking a Contractor and wondered if she could sell Hooker Seeking Crown Molding. She'd go with the flow. She was feeling bolder, now that she wasn't herself anymore.
She opened the door, which set chimes ringing, and went inside.
Chapter 32
Nat stood still, confused at the sight. Dominating the waiting room of the small construction office was an old-fashioned portrait of a man who looked remarkably familiar. He had dark hair and a mustache, and wore an old-fashioned suit. She crossed to the picture and read the metal plaque underneath: Our Founder, Joseph Graf, Sr.
Joseph Graf, Sr.? Was the man related to Joe Graf, the CO. from the prison? The man had to be his father, didn't he?
"May I help you, dear?" asked a woman who bustled in from an open doorway in the back of the room. She was about fiftyish, with big blue eyes, a pleasant smile, and graying brown hair that went all the way to her waist. She wore a tan sweatshirt with the letters FFA, with jeans and sneakers.
Nat tried to collect her thoughts. "This is the company founder, huh?"
"He was. Mr. Graf died many years ago. His son Jim runs the business now."
"Its funny. He looks exactly like a guy who was in the newspaper the other day. I forget what the story was about."
"Oh, the fussing at the prison. That was Jim's brother, Joe. He works there."
"Right, that was it." Nat figured her makeover was working. "I saw a Phoenix trailer at the prison just the other day, when I drove past."
"Sure, that's our job. How can I help you, honey?" The woman bent over and straightened the magazines on the coffee table. "We're not open today, but I have to come in. The filing never ends."
Nat thought fast. "Funny, that's what I came about. I need a job, and filing sounds great to me."
"Really?" The woman burst into a smile, then reached out her hand and shook Nat's warmly. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Agnes Grady Chesko. What's your name? I didn't even ask."