Daddy's Girl (19 page)

T
he woman wore a maroon fleece top with a pair of dark stretch pants, and was short and sturdy as she powered in terrycloth slippers through a darkened living room stuffed with couches, mismatched chairs, several wooden end tables, three old TVs, and four rolled-up rugs. Nat almost tripped on a footstool on her way into a small kitchen, where the woman showed her a wooden chair.

“You can sit here,” she said, looping a thick finger around the top rung of the other chair.

“Thanks.” Nat set the doughnut bag on the table, only half of which was cleared. The other half held stacks of white plates, two napkin holders, and three sets of identical glass salt-and-pepper shakers, restaurant style. Extra dishes, salad plates, and glasses of various sizes lined the kitchen counters. It was like living in a warehouse, but eccentricity wasn’t Nat’s concern. She herself had a To-Be-Read room. “I’m Nat Greco.”

“I remember.”

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t tell you it.”

Nat couldn’t get her students to participate, either. She wished for a Clinique mustache.

“You don’t look like a cop killer,” the woman said abruptly.

“You knew who I was?”

“I watch TV. I keep up. You think I don’t?”

“Okay, then you know.”

“Take off that ugly hat. Take it off.”

Nat complied, taking off the hat and setting it next to the doughnuts. “If you knew who I was, why’d you let me in?”

“You didn’t do it, did you?”

Nat blinked. “No.”

“Just ’cause the cops say you did it, doesn’t mean you did it. Cops lie all the damn time, even on lil’ white girls. They lied on Simon. He never shoulda gone to jail.” The woman shook her head slowly. After a pause, she said, “Belle Rhoden’s my name.”

“Pleased to meet you, Belle.”

“Call me Mrs. Rhoden. I honor my late husband.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He died thirty-two years ago. Would you like some water?”

“I’d love some.”

Mrs. Rhoden turned, took an upside-down glass from the counter, shut off the tap, and set the glass of water in front of Nat.

“Thanks.” Nat took a sip. “I’ll get to the point. I was wondering if you could tell me a little bit about Simon.”

“What do you mean?”

Nat didn’t want to lead with the OxyContin part. “Well, I was at the prison when the riot broke out. I went to get help and I ran into the room where Simon was killed.”

Mrs. Rhoden went to the sink, took another glass from the counter, and filled it with water.

“I would have tried to help him, but he was…gone.” Nat relived the gruesome scene. Upchurch lying on the floor, the metal blade sticking from his chest. She felt embarrassed that she couldn’t remember much more about him. She’d been focused on Saunders because he was still alive. And maybe, she had to admit, because he wasn’t an inmate.

Mrs. Rhoden sipped some water, set the glass down on the counter, picked up a paper towel, and set it on the top of the glass, inexplicably.

“One of the C.O.s who was there told me how Simon was killed,” Nat said, “but the story doesn’t make sense.”

“C.O. That a guard?”

“Yes.”

“What’d he say happened? All they told me was it happened during the riot. That’s what the papers said, too.” Mrs. Rhoden thought a minute. “I been too upset to think about how he died ’xactly, just yet. They asked me did I want to identify him, and I said, No, sir.”

“I understand.” Nat paused. “Do you mind talking about it now? It’s my understanding that he wasn’t killed in the riot.”

“Go on ahead.”

“Well, the guard said that he and another guard brought Simon into an office because he was caught with marijuana, and that Simon pulled a homemade knife and stabbed Ron Saunders, one of the guards.”

Mrs. Rhoden gasped softly, and Nat felt a guilty twinge.

“He said that Simon tried to kill him, too, but they fought for the knife, and the guard killed Simon in self-defense.”

“Who told you that?” Mrs. Rhoden asked, her tone limned with anger.

“The guard who survived. Joe Graf.”

“That’s a flat-out lie, that’s what
that
is.”

“Why?” Nat’s heartbeat quickened.

“Simon would never stab nobody. It jes’ wasn’t his nature. He got picked on all his life, beat up. Besides, he wasn’t big enough. He was only about a hundred and sixty pounds and five foot seven.”

Nat considered the source. Mrs. Rhoden loved her nephew, and she could be in denial. After all, Upchurch had been in prison for
something.

“And he never smoked reefer. Ever.”

“How do you know?”

“He had asthma very bad.”

“Some people with asthma smoke marijuana,” Nat said, testing her.

“Not Simon. His father—that’s my brother—he died of an asthma attack. Simon was right there, only thirteen. The boy held his own father while he passed, waiting for an ambulance. Reefer would’ve killed him, and he knew it. Had a problem with cigarettes, even. If he was around cigarette smoke, he couldn’t take but a breath.”

Nat felt a chill. It rang true. But was Upchurch dealing OxyContin with the C.O.s? “Did Simon know either of the guards, Ron Saunders and Joe Graf?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Did you visit Simon at prison?”

“I got no one to take me. He called from time to time.”

“When he called, did he ever mention Graf or Saunders?”

“No, jes’ said he was fine, tryin’ to keep his nose clean, do his bit, then get out.”

Nat mulled it over. “Why was he in the RHU?”

“They said he was a troublemaker, but he wasn’t.”

Troublemaker
. His feud with Graf that Willie Potts had told her about.

“’Scuse me a minute. Wait here.” Mrs. Rhoden left the room and returned with a framed photo and some papers. She handed the photo to Nat. “That’s my Simon.”

Nat took the photo, which showed a smiling young man in a white polo shirt, his handsome face marred by a large birthmark on his left cheek, pink speckling against dark brown. She hadn’t noticed it the day he was killed and realized why. She’d seen only the right side of his face.

“He was twenty-two.”

“Young.” Nat had students that age. They lived ten miles from here, but theirs was a far different life.

“He didn’t have no family but me. His mama lef’ a long time ago, and he grew up here in this house, with me. Graduated Chester High, but he had a hard time.” Mrs. Rhoden shook her head. “The kids teased him all the time on account of his birthmark. Called him names. He jes’ los’ his way at school.”

“Did he work after he graduated?”

“Sure, he did. He wasn’t triflin.’ He spent all his extra time on the computer, I think it was easier than bein’ with people and gettin’ stared at. Came to me one day, sayin’ we could sell things on the computer, on eBay. I never heard of it before but, sure enough, he was right.” Mrs. Rhoden’s deep-set eyes lit up at the memory. “Oh, we sold glasses and spoons, everything and anything we could get our hands on, from church sales and garage sales. He showed me how to use the camera and take the pictures, and write about the forks and things. He did most of the computer. Oh, it was quite a little business. I was waitin’ for him to get out, but…” Her voice trailed off.

“I’m so sorry.”

Mrs. Rhoden waved off Nat’s attempt at sympathy.

“So how did he end up in jail?”

“He wrote his name on a check that come in. He got in trouble for fraud, forgery. It was a mistake. The public lawyer told him to agree to the plea bargain and he wouldn’t go to jail but three months. He made his plea, and that damn judge gave him two years.” Mrs. Rhoden sighed. “He had done a year and seven months when he got killed.”

Nat handed her back the photo, wondering about the papers in Mrs. Rhoden’s hand.

“A man came here, from the prison. He’s the one who told me about Simon.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Machik.”

Nat blinked. “He was here? When?”

“Came over the very night it happened. Sat right where you are now.”

“Really.” Nat was kicking herself. She should have expected Machik would contact Upchurch’s family.

“I tell you, he knew better than to say anything to me about Simon stabbin’ some guards. He gave me these to sign.” Mrs. Rhoden finally handed Nat the papers.

“It’s a release,” Nat said, scanning the document. “A standard form release, saying you won’t sue them over Simon’s death.” She thumbed quickly to the signature page. “You didn’t sign it, thank God.”

“No, I didn’t. You think I would?”

“I’m just happy you didn’t. He shouldn’t have showed you this, without you having a lawyer. That’s taking advantage.”

“I know that. You think I didn’t?”

I give up.
“How much did he offer you, to sign it?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

Whoa
. “That’s real money.”

“He wanted me to sign right on the spot. I wouldn’t hear anything about that.” Mrs. Rhoden’s upper lip curled slightly. “I tol’ him, I was insulted. Talkin’ about money at a time like that. I hadn’t even picked out that child’s
casket
.”

“So what happened?”

“I threw him out.”

“Good for you.” Nat’s thoughts raced ahead. The offer was more than nuisance value. Machik knew Graf had been up to no good. Nat went back to Angus’s theory that Upchurch had simply been executed. He must have double-crossed them on a drug deal. Or not paid off, or maybe skimmed profits. And if Machik was covering it up, was he in on it, too?

“I told him nothing would bring Simon back, and he didn’t come here to talk about Simon, he came to get me to sign that paper. Phony.”

“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.”

N
at 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.