Hush Hush Read online

  "I'm go­ing to do a lit­tle shop­ping and grab din­ner," I sa­id, sli­ding han­gers down the rack in my clo­set. I pul­led out a long-sle­eved tis­sue tee, je­ans, and a pink-and-whi­te-stri­ped be­anie I re­ser­ved for bad-ha­ir days and we­ekends.

  "And wo­uld grab­bing din­ner inc­lu­de stop­ping by a cer­ta­in di­ner lo­ca­ted a few blocks from King­horn Prep? A di­ner whe­re Kj­irs­ten what's-her-na­me used to work?"

  "That's not a bad idea," I sa­id. "May­be I will."

  "And are you go­ing to ac­tu­al­ly eat, or just in­ter­ro­ga­te the wor­kers?"

  "I might ask a few qu­es­ti­ons. Do I get the Ne­on or not?"

  "Of co­ur­se you do," she sa­id. "What are best fri­ends for? I'll even co­me with you on this do­omed lit­tle tromp. But first you ha­ve to pro­mi­se you'll go cam­ping."

  "Ne­ver mind. I'll ta­ke the bus."

  "We'll talk abo­ut spring bre­ak la­ter!" Vee cal­led in­to the pho­ne be­fo­re I was ab­le to dis­con­nect.

  I'd be­en to Port­land on se­ve­ral oc­ca­si­ons, but I didn't know the city well. I step­ped off the bus ar­med with my cell, a map, and my own in­ner com­pass. The bu­il­dings we­re redb­rick, tall and slen­der, bloc­king the set­ting sun, which bla­zed out from be­low a thick stretch of storm clo­uds, set­tling the stre­ets un­der a ca­nopy of sha­dow. The sto­ref­ronts all had ve­ran­das and qu­a­int signs ex­ten­ding over the do­ors. The stre­ets we­re lit by black witch-hat lamps. Af­ter se­ve­ral blocks, the con­ges­ted stre­ets ope­ned up to a wo­oded area, and I saw a sign for King­horn Prep. A cat­hed­ral, ste­ep­le, and clock to­wer pe­ered abo­ve the tre­etops.

  I sta­yed on the si­de­walk and ro­un­ded the cor­ner on­to 32nd Stre­et. The har­bor was only a few blocks away, and I ca­ught glimp­ses of bo­ats pas­sing be­hind the shops as they ca­me in to dock. Half­way down 32nd Stre­et, I saw a sign for Blind Joe's di­ner. I pul­led my in­ter­vi­ew qu­es­ti­ons out and re­ad them over one last ti­me. The plan wasn't to lo­ok li­ke I was hol­ding an of­fi­ci­al in­ter­vi­ew. I ho­ped that if I ca­su­al­ly bro­ac­hed the su­bj­ect of Kj­irs­ten with the emp­lo­ye­es, I co­uld te­ase out so­met­hing the hand­ful of re­por­ters be­fo­re me had so­me­how mis­sed. Ho­ping the qu­es­ti­ons we­re sto­red to me­mory, I un­der­han­ded the list in­to the ne­arest trash can.

  The do­or chi­med when I en­te­red.

  The flo­or was yel­low and whi­te ti­le, and the bo­oths we­re up­hols­te­red in na­uti­cal blue. Pic­tu­res of the har­bor hung on the walls. I sat in a bo­oth clo­se to the do­or and shrug­ged out of my co­at.

  A wa­it­ress in a sta­ined whi­te ap­ron ap­pe­ared be­si­de me. "Na­me's Whit­ney," she told me in a so­ur vo­ice. "Wel­co­me to Blind Joe's. Spe­ci­al to­day is the tu­na fish sand­wich. So­up of the day's lobs­ter chow­der." Her pen was po­ised to ta­ke my or­der.

  "Blind Joe's?" I frow­ned and tap­ped my chin. "Why do­es that na­me so­und so fa­mi­li­ar?"

  "Don't you re­ad the pa­per? We we­re in the news for a we­ek stra­ight last month. Fif­te­en mi­nu­tes and all that."

  "Oh!" I sa­id with sud­den cla­rity. "Now I re­mem­ber. The­re was a mur­der, right? Didn't the girl work he­re?"

  "That wo­uld be Kj­irs­ten Hal­ver­son." She clic­ked her pen im­pa­ti­ently. "Want me to bring out a bowl of that chow­der to start?"

  I didn't want lobs­ter chow­der. In fact, I wasn't re­mo­tely hungry. "That must ha­ve be­en hard. We­re the two of you fri­ends?"

  "Hell, no. You go­ing to or­der or what? I'll let you in on a lit­tle sec­ret. I don't work, I don't get pa­id. I don't get pa­id, I don't ma­ke rent."

  Sud­denly I wis­hed the wa­iter ac­ross the ro­om we­re ta­king my or­der. He was short, bald back to his ears, and his body type mi­mic­ked the to­oth­picks in the dis­pen­ser at the end of the tab­le. His eyes ne­ver re­ac­hed hig­her than three fe­et off the gro­und. As pat­he­tic as I wo­uld ha­ve felt af­ter the fact, one fri­endly smi­le from me might ha­ve be­en eno­ugh to ha­ve him spil­ling Kj­irs­ten's en­ti­re li­fe story. "Sorry," I told Whit­ney. "I just can't stop thin­king abo­ut the mur­der. Of co­ur­se, it's pro­bably old news to you. You must ha­ve had re­por­ters in he­re all the ti­me as­king qu­es­ti­ons."

  She ga­ve me a po­in­ted lo­ok. "Ne­ed a few mo­re mi­nu­tes to lo­ok over the me­nu?"

  "Per­so­nal­ly, I find re­por­ters ir­ri­ta­ting."

  She le­aned in, bra­cing a hand on the tab­le­top. "I find cus­to­mers who ta­ke the­ir own swe­et ti­me ir­ri­ta­ting."

  I blew out a si­lent sigh and flip­ped open the me­nu. "What do you re­com­mend?"

  "It's all go­od. Ask my boyf­ri­end." She ga­ve a tight smi­le. "He's the co­ok."

  "Spe­aking of boyf­ri­ends… did Kj­irs­ten ha­ve one?" Ni­ce se­gae, I told myself.

  "Spill," Whit­ney de­man­ded. "You a cop? A law­yer? A re­por­ter?"

  "Just a con­cer­ned ci­ti­zen." It so­un­ded li­ke a qu­es­ti­on.

  "Ye­ah, right. Tell you what. Or­der a milks­ha­ke, fri­es, the An­gus bur­ger, a bowl of chow­der, and gi­ve me a twenty-fi­ve-per­cent tip, and I'll tell you what I told every­body el­se."

  I we­ig­hed my op­ti­ons: my al­lo­wan­ce or ans­wers. "Do­ne."

  "Kj­irs­ten ho­oked up with that kid, El­li­ot Sa­un­ders. The one in the pa­pers. He was in he­re all the ti­me. Wal­ked her back to her apart­ment at the end of her shift."

  "Did you ever talk to El­li­ot?"

  "Not me."

  "Do you think Kj­irs­ten com­mit­ted su­ici­de?"

  "How sho­uld I know?"

  "I re­ad in the news­pa­per that a su­ici­de no­te was fo­und in Kj­irs­ten's apart­ment, but that the­re was al­so evi­den­ce of a bre­ak-in."

  "And?"

  "You don't find that a lit­tle… odd?"

  "If you're as­king if I think El­li­ot co­uld ha­ve put the no­te in her apart­ment, su­re I do. Rich kid li­ke that co­uld get away with anyt­hing. Pro­bably hi­red so­me­body to plant the no­te. That's how it works when you got mo­ney."

  "I don't think El­li­ot has a lot of mo­ney." My imp­res­si­on had al­ways be­en that Jules was the we­althy one. Vee ne­ver stop­ped ra­ving abo­ut his ho­use. "I think he went to King­horn Prep on scho­lars­hip."

  "Scho­lars­hip?" she re­pe­ated on a snort. "What's in the wa­ter you be­en drin­king? If El­li­ot don't got big-ti­me mo­ney, how'd he buy Kj­irs­ten her apart­ment? Tell me that."

  I strug­gled to hold my surp­ri­se in check. "He bo­ught her an apart­ment?"

  "Kj­irs­ten ne­ver shut up abo­ut it. Abo­ut dro­ve me in­sa­ne."

  "Why wo­uld he buy her an apart­ment?"

  Whit­ney sta­red down at me, hands on hips. "Tell me you ain't re­al­ly that dumb."

  Oh. Pri­vacy. In­ti­macy. Got it.

  I sa­id, "Do you know why El­li­ot trans­fer­red out of King­horn?"

  "Didn't know he did."

  I jug­gled her ans­wers with the qu­es­ti­ons I still wan­ted to ask, trying to sum­mon them up from me­mory. "Did he ever me­et fri­ends he­re? An­yo­ne ot­her than Kj­irs­ten?"

  "How'm I sup­po­sed to re­mem­ber that?" She ga­ve a hard eye roll. "I lo­ok li­ke I got one of them pho­tog­rap­hic me­mo­ri­es?"

  "How abo­ut a re­al­ly tall guy? Re­al­ly tall. Long blond ha­ir, go­od-lo­oking, ta­ilo­red clot­hes."

  She rip­ped a rag­ged fin­ger­na­il off with her front te­eth and drop­ped it in­si­de the poc­ket of her ap­ron. "Ye­ah, I re­mem­ber that guy. Hard not to. All mo­ody and qu­i­et. He ca­me in on­ce or twi­ce. Wasn't that long ago. May­be aro­und the ti­me Kj­irs­ten di­ed. I re­mem­ber 'ca­use we we­re ser­ving cor­ned be­ef sand­wic­
hes for St. Pat­rick's Day and I co­uldn't get him to or­der one. Just gla­red at me li­ke he wo­uld ha­ve re­ac­hed ac­ross the tab­le and slit my thro­at if I'd stuck aro­und re­ading the da­ily spe­ci­als any lon­ger. But I think I re­mem­ber so­met­hing. It's not li­ke I'm nosy, but I do got ears. So­me­ti­mes I can't help he­aring things. Last ti­me the tall guy and El­li­ot ca­me in, they we­re hunc­hed over a tab­le, tal­king abo­ut a test."

  "A test at scho­ol?"

  "How sho­uld I know? From the so­und of it, the tall guy fa­iled a test, and El­li­ot was no­ne too happy abo­ut it. He sho­ved his cha­ir back and stor­med out. Didn't even eat all his sand­wich."

  "Did they men­ti­on Kj­irs­ten?"

  "The tall guy ca­me in first, as­ked if Kj­irs­ten was wor­king. I told him no, she wasn't, and he got on his cell pho­ne. Ten mi­nu­tes la­ter, El­li­ot strolls in. Kj­irs­ten al­ways hand­led El­li­ot's tab­le, but li­ke I sa­id, she wasn't wor­king, so I got it. If they tal­ked abo­ut Kj­irs­ten, I didn't he­ar. But it lo­oked to me li­ke the tall guy didn't want Kj­irs­ten aro­und."

  "Do you re­mem­ber anyt­hing el­se?"

  "De­pends. You go­ing to or­der des­sert?"

  "I gu­ess I'll ha­ve a sli­ce of pie."

  "Pie? I gi­ve you fi­ve mi­nu­tes of my va­lu­ab­le ti­me, and all you or­der is pie? I lo­ok li­ke I got not­hing bet­ter to do than chitc­hat with you?"

  I glan­ced aro­und the di­ner. It was de­ad. Ot­her than a man hunc­hed over a pa­per at the co­un­ter, I was the only cus­to­mer.

  "Okay…" I scan­ned the me­nu.

  "You're go­ing to want a rasp­ber­ry le­mo­na­de to wash that pie down." She scrib­bled it on her pad. "And af­ter-din­ner cof­fee." Mo­re scrib­bling. "I'll be lo­oking for­ward to an ad­di­ti­onal twenty-per­cent tip with that." She pin­ned me with a smug smi­le, then tuc­ked her pad in­to her ap­ron and sas­ha­yed back to the kitc­hen.

  CHAPTER 21

  OUT­SI­DE, THE WE­AT­HER HAD SHIF­TED TO COLD AND driz­zling. The lamp­posts bur­ned an eerie, sal­low co­lor that did lit­tle aga­inst the thick fog bre­wing along the stre­ets. I hur­ri­ed out of Blind Joe's, gra­te­ful I'd lo­oked at the we­at­her fo­re­cast ear­li­er and bro­ught my umb­rel­la. As I pas­sed sto­ref­ront win­dows, I saw crowds gat­he­ring in the bars.

  I was a few blocks from the bus stop when the now fa­mi­li­ar icy fe­eling kis­sed the back of my neck. I'd felt it the night I was su­re so­me­one lo­oked in my bed­ro­om win­dow, at Delp­hic, and aga­in right be­fo­re Vee wal­ked out of Vic­to­ria's Sec­ret we­aring my jac­ket. I bent down, pre­ten­ded to tie my sho­ela­ce, and cast a sur­rep­ti­ti­o­us glan­ce aro­und. The si­de­walks on both si­des of the stre­et we­re empty.

  The cros­swalk light chan­ged, and I step­ped off the curb. Mo­ving fas­ter, I tuc­ked my hand­bag un­der my arm and ho­ped the bus was on ti­me. I cut thro­ugh an al­ley be­hind a bar, slip­ped past a hud­dle of smo­kers, and ca­me out on the next stre­et over. Jog­ging up a block, I ve­ered down anot­her al­ley and circ­led back aro­und the block. Every few se­conds I chec­ked be­hind me.

  I he­ard the rumb­le of the bus, and a mo­ment la­ter it ro­un­ded the cor­ner, ma­te­ri­ali­zing out of the fog. It slo­wed aga­inst the curb and I clim­bed abo­ard, he­ading ho­me. I was the only pas­sen­ger.

  Ta­king a se­at se­ve­ral rows be­hind the dri­ver, I slo­uc­hed to ke­ep out of sight. He jer­ked the le­ver to clo­se the do­ors, and the bus ro­ared down the stre­et. I was on the ver­ge of of­fe­ring a sigh of re­li­ef when I re­ce­ived a text mes­sa­ge from Vee.

  WHE­RE U AT?

  PORT­LAND, I TEX­TED BACK. YOU?

  ME 2. AT A PARTY WITH JULES AND EL­LI­OT. LET'S ME­ET UP.

  WHY ARE YOU IN PORT­LAND?!

  I didn't wa­it for her ans­wer; I di­aled her di­rectly. Tal­king was fas­ter. And this was ur­gent.

  "Well? What say you?" Vee as­ked. "Are you in the part­ying mo­od?"

  "Do­es yo­ur mom know you're at a party in Port­land with two guys?"

  "You're star­ting to so­und ne­uro­tic, ba­be."

  "I can't be­li­eve you ca­me to Port­land with El­li­ot!" I had a sin­king tho­ught. "Do­es he know you're on the pho­ne with me?"

  "So he can co­me kill you? No, sorry. He and Jules ran to King­horn to pick up so­met­hing, and I'm chil­ling so­lo. I co­uld use a wing wo­man. Hey!" Vee sho­uted in­to the backg­ro­und. "Hands off, okay? O-F-F. No­ra? I'm not exactly in the gre­atest area. Ti­me is of the es­sen­ce."

  "Whe­re are you?"

  "Hang on… okay, the bu­il­ding ac­ross the stre­et says one-se­ven-two-se­ven. The stre­et is Highs­mith, I'm pretty su­re."

  "I'll be the­re as so­on as I can. But I'm not sta­ying. I'm go­ing ho­me, and you're co­ming with me. Stop the bus!" I cal­led to the dri­ver.

  He ap­pli­ed the bra­kes, and I was thrown aga­inst the se­at in front of me.

  "Can you tell me which way to Highs­mith?" I as­ked him on­ce I'd ma­de it to the top of the ais­le.

  He po­in­ted out the win­dows pa­ne­ling the right si­de of the bus. "West of he­re. You plan­ning to go on fo­ot?" He sur­ve­yed me up and down. "'Ca­use I sho­uld warn you, it's a ro­ugh ne­igh­bor­ho­od."

  Gre­at.

  I had to walk only a few blocks be­fo­re I knew the bus dri­ver had be­en right to warn me. The sce­nery chan­ged dras­ti­cal­ly. The qu­a­int sto­ref­ronts we­re rep­la­ced by bu­il­dings spray-pa­in­ted with gang graf­fi­ti. The win­dows we­re dark, bar­red up with iron. The si­de­walks we­re de­so­la­te paths stretc­hing in­to the fog.

  A slow, rat­tling no­ise drif­ted thro­ugh the fog, and a wo­man pus­hing a cart of gar­ba­ge bags whe­eled in­to vi­ew. Her eyes we­re ra­isins, be­ady and dark, and they twitc­hed the­ir way over me in al­most pre­da­tory eva­lu­ati­on.

  "What we got he­re?" she sa­id thro­ugh a ga­pe of mis­sing te­eth.

  I drew a disc­re­et step back and clutc­hed my hand­bag aga­inst me.

  "Lo­oks li­ke a co­at, mit­tens, and a pretty wo­ol hat," she sa­id. "Always wan­ted me a pretty wo­ol hat." She pro­no­un­ced the word prit-ee.

  "Hel­lo," I sa­id, cle­aring my thro­at and trying to so­und fri­endly. "Can you ple­ase tell me how much fart­her to Highs­mith Stre­et?"

  She cack­led.

  "A bus dri­ver po­in­ted me in this di­rec­ti­on," I sa­id with less con­fi­den­ce.

  "He told you Highs­mith is this way?" she sa­id, so­un­ding ir­ri­ta­ted. "I know the way to Highs­mith, and this ain't it."

  I wa­ited, but she didn't ela­bo­ra­te. "Do you think you co­uld gi­ve me di­rec­ti­ons?" I as­ked.

  "I got di­rec­ti­ons." She tap­ped her he­ad with a fin­ger that strongly re­semb­led a twis­ted, knot­ted twig. "Ke­ep everyt­hing up he­re, I do."

  "Which way is Highs­mith?" I en­co­ura­ged.

  "But I can't tell you for free," she sa­id in a chi­ding to­ne. "That's gon­na cost you. A girl has to ma­ke a li­ving. No­body ever tell you ain't not­hing in li­fe free?"

  "I don't ha­ve any mo­ney." Not much, any­way. Only eno­ugh for a bus fa­re ho­me.

  "You got a ni­ce warm co­at."

  I lo­oked down at my qu­il­ted co­at. A chilly wind ruf­fled my ha­ir, and the tho­ught of pe­eling my co­at off sent a flush of go­ose bumps down my arms. "I just got this co­at for Christ­mas."

  "I'm fre­ezing my der­ri­ere off out he­re," she snap­ped. "You want di­rec­ti­ons or not?"

  I co­uldn't be­li­eve I was stan­ding he­re. I co­uldn't be­li­eve I was bar­te­ring my co­at with a ho­me­less wo­man. Vee was so far in debt to me she might ne­ver get out.

  I shuc­ked off my co­at and watc­hed her zip in­to it.


  My bre­ath ca­me out li­ke smo­ke. I hug­ged myself and stam­ped my fe­et, con­ser­ving body he­at. "Can you ple­ase tell me the way to Highs­mith now?"

  "You want the long way, or the short way?"

  "Sh-short," I chat­te­red.

  "That's gon­na cost you too. Short way's got an ad­di­ti­onal fee at­tac­hed. Li­ke I sa­id, al­ways wan­ted me a pretty wo­ol hat."

  I tug­ged the pink and whi­te be­anie off my he­ad. "Highs­mith?" I as­ked, trying to hold on to the fri­endly to­ne as I pas­sed it over.

  "See that al­ley?" she sa­id, po­in­ting be­hind me. I tur­ned. The al­ley was a half block back. "You ta­ke it, you co­me out on Highs­mith on the ot­her si­de."

  "That's it?" I sa­id inc­re­du­lo­usly. "One block over?"

  "Go­od news is, you got a short walk. Bad news is, ain't no walk fe­el short in this we­at­her. 'Co­ur­se, I'm ni­ce and warm now I got me a co­at and a pretty hat. Gi­ve me tho­se mit­tens, and I'll walk you the­re myself."

  I lo­oked down at the mit­tens. At le­ast my hands we­re warm. "I'll ma­na­ge."

  She shrug­ged and whe­eled her cart to the next cor­ner, whe­re she to­ok up a post aga­inst the bricks.

  The al­ley was dark and clut­te­red with trash bins, wa­ter-sta­ined card­bo­ard bo­xes, and an un­re­cog­ni­zab­le hump that may ha­ve be­en a dis­car­ded wa­ter he­ater. Then aga­in, it just as easily co­uld ha­ve be­en a rug with a body rol­led in­si­de. A high cha­in-link fen­ce span­ned the al­ley half­way down. I co­uld hardly climb a fo­ur-fo­ot fen­ce on a go­od day, let alo­ne a ten-fo­ot one. Brick bu­il­dings flan­ked me on both si­des. All the win­dows we­re gre­ased over and bar­red.

  Step­ping over cra­tes and sacks of trash, I pic­ked my way down the al­ley. Bro­ken glass crunc­hed be­ne­ath my sho­es. A flash of whi­te dar­ted bet­we­en my legs, ste­aling my bre­ath. A cat. Just a cat, va­nis­hing in­to the dark­ness ahe­ad.

  I re­ac­hed for my poc­ket to text Vee, in­ten­ding to tell her I was clo­se and to watch for me, when I re­mem­be­red I'd left my cell pho­ne in my co­at poc­ket. Ni­ce go­ing, I tho­ught. What are the chan­ces the bag lady will gi­ve you back yo­ur pho­ne? Pre­ci­sely- slim to no­ne.