Hugo: Convenient.
Penn: You're letting Mallory look into your dad?
Hugo: Yep.
Penn: Why?
Hugo: For one, it's a free country and she could look into my dad with or without my blessing. For two, she has a good reason for wanting to.
Penn: Which is?
Hugo: I'm going to let her fill you in on that.
Chapter 15
Hugo
"Areyou fully recovered from your fainting spell yesterday?" I ask Mallory as I pour myself a cup of coffee. Her name flashed on my phone a moment ago, and I swear I've never answered a call so quickly.
"Yes, thanks to a certain someone's heroics." Mallory's voice wafts into my kitchen through my phone, lying on the counter on speaker. "And sandwich recommendations. I ordered the Bellamy, Hugo style."
"I know what I'm doing when it comes to sandwiches," I reply, stirring half and half into the dark liquid.
"And popsicles," she adds. Do I detect a hint of a smile in her voice?
"Those, too." Holding my coffee in one hand, I grab the phone and push out the screen door into the morning sun. "It would be fine if you were calling me only to compliment my sandwich and popsicle prowess, but is there something else on your mind?"
"Liane Rooney," Mallory says, matter of fact.
I situate myself in a chair, setting my coffee on a side table shaped like a drum. Like my father, this is one of my favorite spots in my house. It's around the corner from the morning sun, but allows me full view of the orchard, the way the sun's rays reach out, slipping through the olive grove like a caress.
"What about her?" I ask.
"Put a splash of liquor in that woman's coffee and she sings like a canary."
"You liquored up the mayoress?" I joke, reaching for my cup. Mallory isn't physically present, so I don't have to wipe off the stupid grin I'm wearing. There's something about the woman that fascinates me. Her sense of humor, her boldness, the way she knows when to be the speaker and when to be the listener. She's discerning.
"I saw her splash a little something in her coffee yesterday afternoon, but don't go telling anybody that."
"Your secret is safe with me." My right ankle comes up to cross over my left knee, settling in. "Tell me what the esteemed lady said."
"She talked about what happened to your dad. She mentioned a name..." Mallory trails off, sounding unsure.
"David Boylan," I fill in, because there is no other name that would carry weight. I've thought of him numerous times over the years, wondered if I should find out where he went, pay him a visit. For what, though? The police turned his life inside out and upside down in their quest for justice for a beloved member of the town,but found nothing. "His tire tracks were found on the road."
"And his blood," Mallory adds.
I'd been about to take a sip of my coffee, but now it's poised at my mouth. "How did you know that?" It's a detail that was never made public.
"The singing canary."
Liane Rooney knows about the blood? It doesn't make sense, but then again, when a small town buries something, it often festers and finds a way out. I can see the pathway the information traveled pretty clearly, the detectives to the sheriff, the sheriff to the mayor, the mayor to his wife.
"And now that I know, I was thinking of paying David Boylan a visit."
I look out over the grove, how the sun has risen higher and banished the shade on the trees. Is this what my dad would want? Exhume not only my old wounds, but somebody else's, too?
For years, I have thought of what I would do if I had the chance to see the one and only person of interest in my dad's murder case. I was a child when I saw him last, and could not articulate how I felt. He was cleared of any wrongdoing, but it's not easy to accept that. The heart wants justice, vengeance. It's not pretty, but it's true. I've lost count of the number of times I've been in a crowd, searching the faces of people passing me, thinkingWas it you?
