I selected a Dan Fogelberg CD. “That’s great,” I said. “Hortie will be so relieved.”

  Neale gazed at the floor and fussed with a wisp of hair.

  “Don’t tell me Chuck still thinks Alex killed Glad?”

  Neale’s silence said it all.

  “How likely is it that sleepy little Aldoburg spawns two murderers in the course of a week?”

  “Don’t shoot the messenger.” Neale glanced at me and then at her watch.

  Why had she come? Was she worried about my safety, or did she simply need to see me? I wanted to say something about our night together, but it didn’t seem appropriate, given the situation. “So who does Chuck think killed Stuart?” I asked.

  Neale crossed and recrossed her legs at the ankle, refusing to meet my eyes. She cleared her throat. “I’m afraid,” she said, “that he suspects your aunt and a couple of her friends.”

  “What?”

  Neale jumped back in before I could work myself into a frenzy. “Winker claims that your aunt and her friends left Mitzi’s shortly after you did. That would give them plenty of time to kill Stuart. None of them has an alibi. They all say they went home and went to sleep by themselves.”

  “Where else would they go?”

  Neale ignored my outburst. “Your aunt and her friends were angry at Stuart because of the forum.”

  “Of course they were,” I said, “but so was half the town. That doesn’t mean they killed him. Stuart’s death isn’t going to change the council’s vote on Wal-Mart. Lester Simms will simply take his place, and he’s just as big a Wal-Mart fan.”

  Dan Fogelberg declared himself a living legacy to the leader of the band. His plaintive voice jangled my nerves.

  “Chuck doesn’t actually suspect LaVonne Mumford.” Neale fingered another unwieldy curl. “He thinks that Hortie may have killed Stuart, hoping that it would get her grandson off the hook for Glad’s murder.”

  I started to protest, but Neale raised her hand. “She’d been following Stuart around.”

  My stomach tightened. I should have insisted that Hortie stop trailing the mayor. It was my fault that she was a murder suspect.

  “And Chuck thinks you convinced Zee that Stuart killed Glad.” Neale spoke slowly. “He thinks Zee wanted revenge.”

  Dan Fogelberg continued wailing in the background. I had tried to find Glad’s killer so Zee would be safe, and I’d wound up getting her accused of murder. Her and her best friend.

  “I’m afraid,” Neale said, “that Chuck also suspects you because of all the questions you’ve been asking Stuart.” Neale looked past me toward the live log. “The mayor knew you’d visited his office. And he told Chuck that you’d harassed his son even after he asked you not to.”

  So Stu Two did run to Daddy after our encounter in the practice field. I turned down the volume on Fogelberg and glanced underneath the soundboard at my backpack. It still contained Stuart’s credit card statement. “Lucky me,” I said, “I have an alibi.”

  Neale smiled uneasily. “Listen, about last night, I was wondering if you could keep our time together quiet unless you really need to bring it up.”

  I couldn’t believe it. She’d come to see me for purely selfish reasons. She didn’t care about my safety or my feelings. She cared only about her precious career. “How will I know when I need to bring it up?” I asked. “When I’m being handcuffed or when I’m thrown in a cell?”

  “Chuck won’t have any hard evidence against you.” Neale’s voice was annoyingly calm. “He’ll check your car, and it’ll be clean.”

  That wasn’t the point, and she knew it.

  “I won’t let you go to jail,” she said.

  “But you’ll let Chuck treat me like a murder suspect—which, by the way, will really upset my aunt, who is already grieving. And you’ll let him waste his time—and mine—while someone literally gets away with murder?”

  “We could keep working together to find the killer,” she said.

  “You have got to be kidding.” Our night together had obviously meant nothing to her.

  “Please,” she said, “don’t be like this.”

  “Like what? Angry that someone I just made love with is willing to cast me as a murder suspect rather than admit she shared a bed with me?” I swiveled my chair and pretended to inspect an old tape deck. “I have work to do.” I kept my back to her until she left.

  Fogelberg sang about meeting his high school sweetheart in the parking lot of a grocery store. When he finished, I opened my mic and told my listeners that it was still raining. Then I clicked on Fleetwood Mac’s “You Make Loving Fun.” I couldn’t bear to listen to the lyrics or to think about Neale, so I switched to problem-solving mode.

  Maybe Chuck was partially right. Maybe there were two murderers, but neither one of them was Alex. The first murderer—maybe Stuart himself—was a Wal-Mart fan. The second murderer’s motive was anybody’s guess. Who knows? Maybe Lester Simms had a lifelong ambition to be a council member. Or maybe business was slower than he’d like at the funeral home, and he’d decided to help things along. I was never at a loss for wild theories. My mother used to tell me that I had quite an imagination. She didn’t mean it as a compliment.

  Zee burst into the studio. “Mara,” she gasped. “Have you heard about Stuart?” Her clothes were flecked with rain. She took off her glasses and began furiously cleaning them on her T-shirt. “Chuck thinks one of us did it.” She stopped wiping her glasses. “I told him that you were asleep when I got home from Mitzi’s, but your bedroom door was open, so I know you weren’t there.”

  Zee had lied on my behalf. She slipped her glasses back on, waiting for me to say something. I felt no need to protect Neale, but I was embarrassed about having a one-night stand the day after Glad’s funeral. I hoped Zee wouldn’t notice I was still in the same tank top and shorts that I’d worn to the forum. “I took a long way home,” I said. “I felt restless.”

  As Fleetwood Mac faded out, I announced the time and clicked on an ad for Lasik surgery. “And don’t worry about your alibi—or Hortie’s,” I said. “Chuck can’t do anything without hard evidence.” I didn’t like echoing Neale’s words, but I needed to comfort Zee. “Besides, Chuck is full of shit.”

  I was rewarded with a small smile. Zee sat down and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Why don’t you go home?” I said. “You’ve had a rough morning, and you were up late last night. I’ll take your shift.”

  “Mara,” she said, “I really appreciate all the work you’ve done at the station. I couldn’t have kept it open without you.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and studying me. “But Jack’s mother has taken a turn for the better, and he’ll be back on Monday. I can manage the station by myself until then. I want you to go back to Iowa City before you get yourself in more trouble.” She straightened her back and flipped her braid over her shoulder. “Before you get me in more trouble.”

  That stung. I clicked on an ad for Honig’s Hardware. “Don’t you want to know who killed Glad?” I asked.

  “It’s not going to bring her back.” Zee locked eyes with me. “She wouldn’t want you to wind up in jail. Or worse. And she wouldn’t like you upsetting her friends with your questions.”

  “She cared about the truth.” I clicked on the ABC News, and the announcer began his litany: bombs, hurricanes, mounting death tolls. “What about you?” I said. “Glad wouldn’t have wanted me to leave you all alone with a murderer running loose.”

  “I’m not alone.” Zee stood. “I have plenty of friends.”

  Most of these friends had strong motives for murdering Glad, but I refrained from saying so. “I can’t leave when things are so unresolved.” I pushed aside the fact that I would have to leave on Tuesday if I wanted to remain gainfully employed. “Please,” I said. “Can’t you understand?”

  Zee left the studio, muttering something about stubbornness.

  A chipper meteorologist predicted more rain, and the phone started blinking. Needless to say, I wasn’t in the mood to answer it. I’d had enough bad news and conflict for one day. But the bell, so to speak, was tolling for me, so I picked up the receiver.

  “Miss Gilgannon?” asked a quavering voice.

  “Who is this?” I hate being called Miss Gilgannon. It makes me feel old.

  “Collin Conover.” His voice was thick with tears. Obviously, he knew about Stuart’s death. “I’m sorry to interrupt you at work, but I need to talk to you.”

  “OK,” I said.

  “In person,” he said. “Somewhere private?”

  I briefly wondered if he was trying to lure me to a remote place in order to kill me, but I told myself to get a grip. Nonetheless, I suggested somewhere public. “How about the Chat ’n Chew,” I said. “If we meet there after my shift, the lunch crowd will be gone.”

  As I waited for his answer, I clicked on an ad for STUFF. It reminded me of the sandals I wanted to buy for Vince.

  “What time?” Collin asked.

  I’d expected him to disagree. Where was the quietly confident young man who had assured his friend they didn’t need to talk with me? Why was he so eager for a tete-a-tete? “1:30,” I said. “Does this have something to do with Stuart’s death?”

  He hung up, leaving me with yet another unanswered question.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  When I arrived at the Chat ’n Chew, Collin was in a corner booth, stirring his Coke with a straw and watching for me. His menu lay unopened. The one other diner, an elderly man at the counter, posed little threat to our privacy. Wild horses couldn’t drag him away from his mashed potatoes.

  I peered at Collin over the top of my menu. Even in the midst of pain and gangly adolescence, he was a lovely young man, blessed with honey blond hair and deep brown eyes. But they were completely swollen and red.

  “I’m sorry about Stuart,” I said. “You must have known him pretty well.”

  He nodded. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

  “I’ll treat you to lunch.” It was the only comfort I could offer.

  “No thanks.” He gazed despondently into his Coke.

  I felt like an ogre, wanting to eat in the midst of Collin’s sorrow, but my stomach wouldn’t let me concentrate if I didn’t. I settled on a bacon cheeseburger platter and cleared my throat obnoxiously, hoping that whoever was in the kitchen would hear.

  Talia emerged, waitress cap perched atop her ponytail and flawless makeup. She seemed surprised to see me with Collin, but said nothing other than hi as she gave me a water and took my order.

  Collin and I sat in silence until she brought my Coke. I took a sip and waited for him to begin. He looked everywhere but at me.

  “What did you want to talk about?” I asked gently.

  He took a drink, either stalling for time or working up his courage. “This will be confidential, right? You won’t tell anybody?”

  “Unless it has something to do with Glad’s death.”

  That wasn’t the answer he wanted. His Adam’s apple bobbed some more.

  “Please tell me,” I said. “I’m not a gossip.”

  “You’ve got to stop asking Stu about Glad’s death,” Collin said. “He had nothing to do with it. He’s really broken up over his dad, and he doesn’t need any more trouble.” His lip trembled.

  I wanted to reach out. Pat his hand. Offer him a Kleenex. Anything. But he had information I needed—I was sure of it. “I’d like to believe you,” I said, “but I have no reason to. You and Stu—and your fathers—have lied about the night Glad died.”

  Collin folded his arms over his chest and glowered at me.

  “You know the station well because your grandmother has worked there your whole life,” I said. “People saw you and Stu having an intense conversation with Glad before she died. And you beat up a young man simply because he was gay. It all adds up.”

  Collin lowered his eyes. “Things aren’t what they seem.”

  “Why don’t you tell me how they are.” I waited for him to meet my gaze and gave him an encouraging smile.

  He turned to the framed photos on the wall, rows and rows of grinning girls and boys with champion cattle. The man at the counter stacked a pile of change next to his empty plate and left. Collin looked over his shoulder. Talia was nowhere in sight. “Glad was helping us with something personal.”

  As I waited for him to continue, dishes clattered, and the grill hissed.

  “This is what happened.” He bit his lip and blushed deeply. “Me and Stu are more than friends.” He glanced at me to make sure I got it.

  It caught me off guard. I usually prided myself on my gaydar. It obviously hadn’t been working.

  “Last spring I talked Stu into going to a gay dance in Des Moines. O’Rourke was there.”

  The boy they’d beaten up.

  “Stu went ballistic. He thought O’Rourke would tell everybody—our parents would find out.”

  I could see where this was going, but I didn’t interrupt.

  “He said if we beat up O’Rourke, nobody would believe him if he told about the dance.” Collin swallowed and took a deep breath. “I didn’t want to do it, but Stu begged me. He said we wouldn’t hurt him very bad.” Collin took a deep breath and clenched his fist.

  I waited for him to regain his composure. Talia laughed with someone in the kitchen.

  “O’Rourke told Glad about the whole thing. She was fuming.”

  I wondered what prompted him to seek Glad’s help.

  “But in a way,” Collin said, “it was a relief—having an adult who knew about us. Stu really needed somebody to confide in. He was terrified of people finding out. He was afraid it would wreck his chances of getting a football scholarship. And he was so worried about his dad.”

  I recalled the snippet of conversation that Talia had overheard: I’m afraid of what my dad will do. Stu Two had been afraid for himself—not Glad.

  “Glad talked to O’Rourke on our behalf, and—somehow—she got him to keep our secret. She said she’d never tell anybody—not even Zee—as long as we never bothered anybody again. She wanted to talk to our parents. Not tell them anything. Just feel them out.” Collin paused for air. “Stu wasn’t so sure about the parent part. He doesn’t think of himself as gay. Says it’s just me. That except for me, he likes girls.”

  “That must be hard.” I tried to concentrate on Collin, but I was puzzled. Glad had been close to all sorts of young people—Collin, Stu Two, Parker, O’Rourke. She had heart-to-hearts with all of them, but not with me.

  Talia brought my food, and a woman entered with a baby in a carryall and two small boys. She sat the carryall in a window booth and yelled at the boys to join her, but they seemed more interested in running around the restaurant.

  I salted my fries and studied Collin. He gripped his Coke with both hands. “How did it go with your parents?” I asked.

  Collin shrugged and pushed his Coke aside. Then he grabbed it again and took a long drink.

  I waited for the words to come.

  “Glad said we shouldn’t come out to them until we were on our own. Stu got even more freaked after that.”

  Collin kept the focus on Stu, his own hurt and anxiety bottled tight inside. I wanted to tell him that I knew what it was like to grow up gay in a small town, to hide a new and blossoming part of yourself. But I said nothing. I also knew that sometimes you just have to ignore your pain and bluff your way through.

  “Don’t you see?” Collin gazed at me expectantly.

  Talia brought menus and waters to the window booth.

  “Me and Stu had no reason to hurt Glad,” Collin insisted. “She was trying to help us. She was our friend.”

  I took a bite of my burger. I finally understood why he and Stu Two had taken Glad’s death so hard, but I still wondered about Stu Two. If he’d had doubts about whether Glad would keep their secret, he had a motive for murder. “So why all the mystery about your jogging route?”

  Collin blushed again and studied the table. “It’s got nothing to do with Glad’s death.”

  I thought about Stu Two’s unfriendliness when Parker encountered them on his bicycle. Maybe jogging was the only time that Stu Two and Collin had alone together. “Look,” I said, “I don’t want to believe that you or Stu hurt Glad, but I have to wonder why you both pretended that you couldn’t remember your jogging route the night she died.”

  He kept his eyes on the table.

  “You’ve got to admit, it looks suspicious—especially since your regular route goes right past the station.”

  “We weren’t running,” he said abruptly.

  “Then why did you say you were?” I hoped I wasn’t pushing him too much. I took another bite of my burger. “If you really want me to stop asking Stu questions,” I said, “you need to tell me why you lied.”

  One of the little boys jumped off the seat of his booth, shrieking for his mommy to watch. She gave him a tired smile.

  Collin met my eyes. “You can’t tell anybody—especially not Zee.”

  I agreed. What could be a bigger secret than his relationship with Stu Two?

  “Promise?” Collin asked.

  I nodded. I had to know what happened that night.

  He glanced over his shoulder again. “I was at Stu’s, and he asked his mom for the car. She said his dad needed it for a meeting at my grandma’s.”

  I nibbled a fry and thought about Stuart’s and Charlene’s calendars, both with a 9:30 notation the night Glad died. “Was it a late meeting?” I asked. “After 9:00?”

  Collin, nodded slowly, puzzled. “Stu went postal. He was sure that my grandma had found out about us and was going to tell his dad. I told him no way—Grandma would never do that—but he wouldn’t listen. Finally, I agreed to bike out there with him just so he’d chill.” Collin sipped his pop. “And I was a little curious. I mean, Grandma never had anything good to say about Stu’s dad, so I couldn’t figure why they’d be getting together.”

  The baby in the carryall started whimpering.

  “There was a light on in the living room, so Stu wanted to hide our bikes and watch through the window. I thought it was a dumb idea, but we’d already biked out there, so why not?”

 

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