Flipped For Murder (9 page)

I brought up issues of the paper from twenty-eight years ago. I was twenty-seven, so I'd start there and go backward in time. I scrolled through page after page, but had no idea what I was looking for. No, I knew what I wanted to find—any tidbit involving Don and my mom, or even her and a dark, curly-haired mystery man. A picture, maybe, or something newsworthy. But that was too nebulous, and the software didn't let me enter a search term. Heck, if I had a search term, I could have just used the Internet.

The
Sentinel
was a weekly paper. After an hour I'd browsed about three years of papers with no results. I stood and stretched, trying to unglaze my eyes. I strolled over to one of the many tall, graceful windows, and passed a wall clock with the hour hand just reaching four. I needed to prep for tomorrow, but I thought I'd give the search one more hour. As I looked at the street below, an unmistakable Corrine Beedle strode along the sidewalk, with an equally unmistakable Roy Rogers at her side. He seemed to be haranguing her, throwing his hand in the air and facing her as he walked. He tailed her when she marched up the steps to the front doors of Town Hall, but he remained outside after she pulled the door open and disappeared through it. He stood there for a moment. Then he rubbed his face with one hand and stomped down the stairs.

I didn't know what that was about, but my priority was right here. I returned to the carrel. This time I brought up the
Brown County Democrat,
the local daily paper for a century. I supposed local Republicans might not like the name much—and they were a major force in this part of the country—but the
Democrat
it remained. Once again I started with an issue from twenty-eight years ago, although the going was a lot slower, both with it being a daily paper and one serving the entire county.

I was up to March 10 when I caught my breath and stopped scrolling. On the screen in front of me was a grainy photograph of Don O'Neill, my mom, and another man. The arms of the three were draped on each other's shoulders as they grinned into the camera, with Mom in the middle. The caption read:
Locals welcome Rotary scholar from Italy, Roberto Fracasso.
I squinted and leaned in to examine it. Roberto's dark hair curled over his collar. He was Mediterranean. I'd never seen him before, but his smile looked familiar, like I'd seen it in the mirror.

Chapter 15

I sat at my kitchen table and stared at the printout:
Locals welcome Rotary scholar from Italy, Roberto Fracasso.
I'd been so stunned at the library, gazing at a picture of a man who looked just like me, all I managed to do was send that page to print and walk home with it. I'd forced myself to work in the restaurant prepping for tomorrow until I was done, but my mind was racing the whole time.

I sipped from a Cutters beer and read the article for the umpteenth time. It said Roberto, twenty-four, was a graduate student sponsored by the Rotary Club of Brown County, and the O'Neill family in South Lick were making room for him in their home while he studied the geology of the area. And then the story frustratingly veered off into what sounded like an advertisement for the Rotary and their international scholarship program, a story probably taken from a press release they'd sent out. Birdy munched a bite of food, jumped up onto the chair next to mine, and proceeded to wash.

Running my finger over first Mom's light windblown hair and then Roberto's dark curls, I tried to imagine that time. Mom must have been a couple of years younger than I was now, the same age as handsome Roberto. Who wouldn't fall for an attractive visiting Italian? But so many questions remained. Did she even tell him she was pregnant? If so, why didn't he want to be part of our lives? If she didn't tell him, why not? Maybe she moved to California and then discovered she was carrying a child. But wouldn't she contact him? It was the early days of the Internet when most people didn't use e-mail, but she could have written him a letter. Or phoned. And Don? He looked awfully friendly with Mom, too. Did she dump him for Roberto? Or maybe I was all wrong about Roberto being my father. She could have met someone in California who reminded her of Roberto and conceived me with him.

I sliced sharp cheddar and a ripe tomato and threw together a sandwich on thick slices of sourdough for my dinner, bringing it to the table so I could obsess over the picture some more. But I put the sandwich down after two bites. Where was my brain? Adele should know the answers to all these questions. I found my phone and pressed her speed dial number. When she didn't pick up, I left a message asking her to call. I didn't specify why. This was way too complicated to talk about in voice mail.

As I finished my dinner, washing down the last bite with a swallow of beer, I realized the Internet might have answers for me, now that I knew what I believed was my father's name. I headed to the desk in a corner of the living room and typed his name into the search bar on my laptop. I then groaned when a half-dozen links popped up, all in Italian. I tried looking for images of that name, but if he was still alive, he'd look different than he did almost three decades ago. I saw one picture I thought might be him, a distinguished-looking man with wavy silver hair, but I couldn't tell for sure.

And what I really wanted to know was what happened back then. I added
South Lick Indiana
to his name in the search bar. Now we were getting somewhere. The three top links were to news articles from June of that year, with an article from the
Bloomington Herald-Telephone
of June 15 as the top link. I clicked it.

The headline read
QUARRY ACCIDENT INJURES ROTARY SCHOLAR, AREA MAN
. A picture showed the well-known Empire Quarry, southwest of here, near the town of Bedford, and the story described how Don had driven Roberto there to show him where the limestone for the Empire State Building was mined.

Don was quoted:
“He'd heard about swimming in the quarries and wanted to give it a try. I told him he shouldn't, but he jumped in, anyway. When he came to the surface and cried out, I dove in after him.”
The story went on to describe the rescue effort, that a woman called for an ambulance, and that the Italian was hospitalized in Bloomington for multiple injuries, including possible damage to his spinal cord.

At that, my hand flew to my mouth. Had he been paralyzed? Or sustained damage to his brain? The woman who called it in must have been Mom. The article made it sound like Don came out the hero. He was noted as having injured his arm, but not seriously. I read the rest of the report, but didn't really learn anything more except that Roberto was taken to the hospital in Bloomington. The other links were simple rehashes of the story in smaller papers, including the
Brown County Democrat.

I refreshed the search, adding “accident” and “Empire” and removing South Lick. But no subsequent stories appeared, only the original three links. Odd. Maybe a quarry accident with a visiting Italian wasn't really newsworthy in a month of local weddings and graduations. People without enough sense to read the posted warning signs were injured or killed in illicit quarry swimming all the time. Maybe those signs hadn't been posted back then. Or maybe Roberto hadn't understood the English. If so, Don should have done more to keep him from jumping or diving or whatever he did.

Clicking back to the images for Roberto Fracasso, I studied the older gentleman again and tried to make sense of the words in Italian. I thought you were supposed to be able to translate anything instantly, but I couldn't find the button. And since I was a fail at foreign languages, I wasn't going to be able to understand the text when my last language class had been second-year high-school Spanish. If he was my father, at least he was alive. And good-looking, too.
Damn
. Here I'd been trying to ferret out information about Don and if he was involved in Stella's murder. Instead, it looked like I'd found my long-lost father, the one I didn't even know I'd missed. I tried to search for an e-mail address or phone number for him, but I came up empty.

My cell rang from the kitchen, where I'd left it. I strode in and checked.
Adele.
I connected and skipped the niceties.

“Adele, was my father an Italian named Roberto Fracasso?”

“Good evening to you, too, Robbie.” She exhaled. “Yes, he was.”

“Why didn't you ever tell me?” I heard my voice crack.

“You never asked. And Jeanine didn't want me telling you if you didn't want to know. She did name you after him, after all.”

That stopped me. Of course she did. “You must have met him when he was here. I have so many questions about what happened—” I paced to the door and back, stopping to scratch Birdy's head when he looked up at me like he could use a dose of affection.

“Honey, I was gone that year. I did a stint volunteering with Heifer Project International in Arkansas, when I wanted to learn about raising up animals. That was before I got my sheep. I never did meet Roberto.” She cleared her throat. “We should talk in person about this, but Vera and I are heading out to catch a show in Bloomington.”

“Okay,” I said around a lump in my throat that had sprung up from nowhere.

“You going to Stella's funeral tomorrow?” Adele asked.

“Tomorrow? I haven't heard anything about it.”
How come I didn't know about this?
I gulped down a swig of beer and sat.

“Visiting hours are tonight. Funeral mass tomorrow at Our Lady of Springs. Eleven o'clock, with a reception following.”

“How can I go? That'll be during the lunch hours.”

“See if Phil can help out. He wouldn't be going. And Danna's all broken in, right?”

I supposed she was, even though it'd only been two days. I blew air out. “Phil probably has to work, but I'll ask him. It'd be too much to ask Danna to do it all. Or would Vera be willing to work again?”

“I'm sure she would, but she's leaving in the morning. Has to get home to Frankfort, up north of Indy. She's got little grandkids coming to visit.”

“I'll give Phil a call. You'll be at the service, I assume?”

After she said she would, we said our good-byes. After I disconnected, I laid my head on the table. My world was exploding around me and I wasn't sure I was capable of gathering up the pieces and gluing it back together.

Chapter 16

Mixing up pancake batter early the next morning, I was glad I'd made it dozens of times before, because my mind was not on the task at hand. I'd slept as restlessly as a hummingbird, my thoughts racing from murder to worries about the store to the discovery of a newfound father. Unlike when the tiny birds sucked sustenance from every flower they flitted to, I wasn't getting nourishment from any of my thoughts. At least Phil had agreed to cover the lunch crowd, saying he could take a personal day. He was bringing in desserts, too.

I sliced bananas and gently folded them into the big bowl of whole wheat batter, covered it, and set it aside. Good. That was done. I put caf and decaf on to brew, and set to cubing potatoes for home fries. I'd done the peppers, onions, and mushrooms yesterday. I already bought grated cheese. Maybe I should look into buying prechopped vegetables. Too bad one couldn't also order up solutions to murder.

After Buck questioned me at the station on Tuesday, I'd consented to a swab of my gums. Apparently, saliva was a good place to find DNA. But I hadn't heard back on the results, and it was making me nervous. As I mixed up the miso gravy, I thought of vegetarian Jim. We hadn't really talked about my involvement in that aspect of the case when he'd stopped in yesterday.

When Danna ambled through the door at six-thirty, yawn in progress, I was in the middle of cracking a couple dozen eggs into the omelet bowl. I greeted her. She mumbled something back, donned an apron, and washed her hands.

“You can set the tables, okay?” I said.

She moved like a zombie to the shelves where we stacked the dishes.

“Tough night?”

She rolled her eyes. I hoped she'd wake up once customers arrived.

“Listen, I need to go to Stella Rogers's funeral later this morning.”

At that, her eyes finally popped all the way open. “My mom told me I should go, too. I was like,
seriously?
I didn't even know the lady. I mean, I know she was Mom's assistant, but Mom couldn't stand her. I'm surprised she didn't shoot her herself.”

Clearly, Corrine hadn't hidden her feeling about Stella from her daughter. “Does your mom own a gun?”

“Oh, yeah, a couple of them. She's literally always down at the Beanblossom Firing Range practicing, too. She goes with Ed sometimes. I don't know how she can stand his company. But don't worry, she keeps the guns and ammo all locked up at home.”

It was bad news for me if Danna planned to be at the funeral, however. “Are you going to go to the service? I got my friend Phil MacDonald to agree to come in to replace me. But if you're not here, either, it'll be too much work for him.”

“No way I'm showing up at some depressing church ritual,” Danna scoffed, giving her head a quick shake in a young person's dismissive gesture. “I'll be right here. And I know Phil. I'm kind of embarrassed he used to babysit me. He's awesome cute.”

“That's him. It's a big relief to me you'll be around. Thanks.” I paused in my egg cracking. I'd never gotten around to checking out Danna's references beyond talking to Ed, but I didn't care. “I know it's only been a couple of days, Danna, but I'd like to offer you this job as a regular thing. You're doing great and you're a huge help to me. As far as I'm concerned, you're no longer here on a trial basis. That work for you?”

Danna smiled at the fork she was carefully placing on a blue napkin. “For sure.” She glanced up. “Thanks for giving me a chance, Robbie.”

We returned to our respective jobs. At least one thing was going right.

An hour later I had delivered a plate of pancakes and bacon to a customer when my cell phone rang in my apron pocket. I turned away and connected, walking to the front window.

Jim greeted me and asked how I was.

“I've been better. I learned something pretty interesting yesterday, but I can't talk about it now. This place is bustling.”

“So you're not going to Stella's funeral?” His voice trailed downward and sounded disappointed.

“No, I am. Phil's going to come in and relieve me. I'll see you there?”

“You bet. Want me to pick you up?”

I laughed. “Jim, it's four blocks away.” I glanced out the window at another sunny, breezy day. “I'll walk over. I can use the fresh air.”

“I'll save you a seat, then.”

 

 

I emerged from my apartment into the store at ten-thirty. It was empty except for Danna and me until Phil waltzed in through the door a minute later, carrying his dessert trays and singing at the top of his lungs.

“‘I believe,'” he belted, “‘that the Garden of Eden—'”

“Yo, pipe down,” Danna called from the stove. “You'll scare away the customers.” She looked at Phil and laughed.

“No way.
Book of Mormon?
People around here love it,” Phil answered. He set the trays on the counter. “Hey, Robbie, you look nice.”

I glanced down at my black skirt, which I'd paired with a soft purple top and a short black jacket. My hair hung loose on my shoulders, and I wore low black boots with tights.

“Thanks. And major thanks for bailing me out like this. I owe you.”

He batted his hand down. “I'll catch you up on that one of these days. Now get out. Danna and I have some catching up of our own to do.” He slid an apron off the shelf and popped it over his head.

“The hamburger patties are all prepped, and—”

“Go, Robbie. We got it covered,” Danna said. “We'll be here when you get back.”

Thank goodness for competent helpers,
I thought as I walked down the street. And now I had a minute to myself, it hit me like a jackhammer that Don would certainly be at the funeral. I could ask him about Roberto, but did I want to? He hadn't told me about the visiting Italian and the accident. Even if my mom hadn't ever informed him who my father was, he had to know by looking at me and putting the dates together. I thought back to when I met him on Saturday. He'd looked at me a little strangely and commented I didn't resemble Mom. I'd been used to that back home, but there nobody knew my father. Then again, it was a long time ago. Maybe he thought Mom met somebody in California who looked like Roberto.

The wind gusted my hair into my eyes and I raised my hand to push it back. As I did, a black car raced way too fast down the street in the same direction I was headed. This was Main Street in a small town, with all kinds of people going in and out of businesses and crossing the streets, with school children, too, in the afternoons. It was no place for speeding. More importantly, though, the car resembled the one that nearly ran me off the road as I was riding the other day. Once again I tried to see the plate, but my hair was still in my eyes and I missed it.

I stood in the back of the ornate church, scanning for Jim, five minutes later. An organ droned church music and people rustled their programs and spoke in hushed tones. A uniformed Officer Wanda stood in position in the back left corner, hands behind her back, also scanning the pews. I gave her a nod, which she barely deigned to return. Don was up near the front on the right, sitting next to Ed Kowalski. Roy sat with bent head, alone, in the first row not far from the casket, which was draped in a white cloth with a gold cross on it. I didn't see Adele anywhere, but when I spied Jim, I made my way up the side aisle to where he sat on the left and slid in next to him. He wore a dark blue suit today, with a green tie the color of his eyes.

He laid his hand atop mine on the seat and gazed at me. “You look lovely,” he whispered.

“Shh,” I answered, smiling. Someone tapped my shoulder and I twisted around to see who it was.

Abe O'Neill was leaning forward from the pew behind me. “Hi,” he said in a soft voice. Mr. Lean and Tan was now in a blazer, slacks, and a purple tie, which matched my top.

I returned his greeting and faced front again as the music changed and a priest walked up to the podium, or whatever it was called in a church. I didn't frequent one, myself, and never had. Mom and I used to take breakfast to the beach on Sunday mornings: fresh strawberries, cheesy biscuits, creamy yogurt, plus cappuccino for her and hot chocolate for me. A big sky, warm sand, and the Pacific Ocean were all the religion I needed. I missed her again like a punch in the gut, with the fierce pain that sometimes grew fainter and then popped up again at unpredictable moments like this one.