All Good People Here(65)

“Can you tell me what you were doing on the night of Tuesday, May third?” she asked. Though present-day Margot didn’t remember the significance of the date, she assumed it was the night before Polly’s body had been found.

“I can. Typically, I wouldn’t remember my whereabouts so readily, but, as the police just asked me the same thing, it’s top of mind.” There was the slightest chill in his voice as he said this, a subtle but clear signal of his indignation at being asked. “I worked till about six that evening, then I went home and fixed myself some dinner. Just a simple pasta recipe, nothing special. Afterward, I went to Barnes & Noble, where I bought a copy of The Heart of Darkness—I’m working through the classics. And then I came home, where I was for the rest of the evening.”

“So, you don’t have an alibi for that night?”

“Well, one of the booksellers can vouch that I was at the store. I’m sure she remembers me because I couldn’t find The Heart of Darkness, and as she walked me over to the section, we struck up a friendly argument about the virtues of reading the classics. She was, I remember, more of a fan of fantasy novels.” There was a slight pause, and Margot envisioned him giving her a smile. “As this bookseller no doubt told the police, I was at the store for quite a while reading. Till eight-thirty, perhaps. Maybe later. I can’t remember. Then I came home, read a bit more, and went to bed. So other than the bookseller, I do not have an alibi.” His voice turned just slightly bitter as he added, “Which is a shame. I would very much like not to be embroiled in a homicide investigation.”

Leaning back against the futon now, eyes closed, Margot shook her head. Even his alibi seemed calculated to her. It was flimsy enough to make it seem offhand, solid enough to ensure he was telling the truth, and still left the rest of his night wide open.

“What about January Jacobs? Did you know her?”

Margot’s eyes flung open. She hadn’t remembered asking him that. She remembered she’d told Adrienne about her theory connecting the two cases, but she hadn’t recalled actually broaching the question to Wallace. Sitting there now, she felt almost giddy with gratefulness to her younger self.

“January Jacobs?” Wallace repeated, sounding genuinely surprised.

“That’s right.”

“Well, I mean, I know of her of course. Doesn’t everybody?”

“Did you ever meet her?”

Wallace scoffed. “Uh…no.” But despite the indignation in his tone, he also sounded flustered. “I’m sorry, but what are you getting at here?”

“Have you ever been to Wakarusa?” Margot asked.

“Waka…” His voice faded. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure if you’ve been to Wakarusa, Indiana?”

“I’m forty-eight years old. I’ve traveled a lot in my life, so it’s possible that I have. But to be perfectly honest, no, I’m not sure. Now, unfortunately, I have to get going. I have an appointment I have to get to in half an hour.” He took a breath, and when he spoke next, he sounded calmer, more collected. “Thanks for taking the time to report on this crime, Margot, and best of luck with your article. I hope this bastard gets caught. And soon. Anyone who could kill an innocent little girl like that, in my opinion, should be hung from the neck.”

There was some rustling, then a muffled murmur of voices as the microphone was moved. Then the recording clicked off.

Margot sat, her back against the futon, a chill running up her spine. Wallace’s answers about Polly had been polished to the point they sounded rehearsed. He’d admitted to visiting the stables where she practiced and he’d had a flimsy alibi for the night of her death. And when Margot had questioned him about January, he’d suddenly gotten rattled and ended the interview, but not before admitting that he’d traveled a lot in his life. He may not have remembered everywhere he’d been, but she had at least a few ideas: Wakarusa, Dayton, and Nappanee, the hometowns of January Jacobs, Polly Limon, and Natalie Clark.

She hadn’t known it then, but now Margot felt it with a certainty that went all the way into her teeth: three years ago, she’d shaken hands with, sat across from, and listened to the lies of a killer.

Her mind raced. She didn’t want to screw up this story with hasty research or reporting on it too soon, which meant she had a lot to do. Because right now, all she had was circumstantial evidence linking Elliott Wallace to two out of three cases. She could place him in Dayton, Ohio, at the time of Polly Limon’s death, and he’d admitted on tape to visiting the stables where she used to ride. Other than that, Margot had the word of Jace Jacobs, who’d refused to go on record, connecting Wallace to January as—of all things—an imaginary friend. While that was enough for her to be sure she was on to something, it obviously wasn’t enough to skewer him. And Margot wanted to do just that: slice him up and serve him to the police on a silver platter.

But before she could do anything, she heard an enormous crash just beyond her door. And then, the shouting began.





TWENTY-THREE


    Margot, 2019


Margot threw open her bedroom door and raced out into the hallway.

“Motherfucker!” Luke’s voice bellowed throughout the house.