All Good People Here(77)
Margot nodded. That much she knew too. “And you have no idea where he could be now?”
Annabelle made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “Honestly, he could be anywhere.” She shot a glance at her wristwatch. “Anyway, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I really should get going. I hope that was helpful, because he doesn’t deserve to get dragged over the coals. My brother may not be perfect and he can be an easy scapegoat for people because he’s different, but he’s not a killer. I promise you that.”
Margot could tell from the look in her eye that Annabelle believed what she was saying. Margot, on the other hand, was more convinced of Wallace’s guilt now than ever. After all, charisma and intelligence were two hallmarks of serial killers, and Wallace had both in spades. Her mind flashed momentarily to Luke, her smart, charming uncle, but pushed the thought aside. Instead, she cast around for something else to ask this woman, anything that could lead her to the man she believed was a killer.
“Just one last thing. You said Elliott was always getting money out of you. Did you ever send it to a PO box or anything?”
She shook her head. “No. If he was close or passing through, he’d stop by and I’d give him cash. But usually I’d just wire it straight to his account.”
“Hm. And what kinds of things did he say he needed the money for?” Margot was grasping at straws now, but money could leave a trace. If Wallace had borrowed it to pay for a property or something, at least she’d have somewhere to start.
“Oh.” Annabelle waved a hand. “Many things. Once, he had a medical bill he couldn’t pay off. Once, he said he wanted to buy my kids Christmas gifts—which he did, actually. I always tried to say no when he asked, but usually, I just gave in. It was easier that way. Hell, I’m still paying for his storage unit after all these years. Which is exactly why my husband says I’m too soft on him. I’d stop paying, but I don’t know what Elliott has in there and I don’t want it to just get thrown out. Like I said, he didn’t even like me touching his stuff as a kid—if I got rid of whatever he has in there, he’d probably go ballistic. And anyway, he’s family.”
“Where is his storage unit?”
“Oh, it’s in this little place you’ve never heard of. Waterford Mills. I think he likes to have some sort of a home base. You know, because he moves around so much.”
“Right.” Margot smiled evenly, but inside she was jumping, because she had heard of Waterford Mills. It was a little town no more than ten miles away from Wakarusa. And if there was a storage unit facility there, Margot would bet all the money she had left in the bank that it was the only one.
“Anyway,” Annabelle said, “I’m late for my appointment as is, so I have to get going. But let me give you my phone number. In case something comes up. Like I said, I may not be close to my brother, but he doesn’t deserve this. If you’re trying to help him, I’ll help you in any way I can.”
Margot nodded weakly. The truth was she felt bad for Annabelle. The woman was blindly defending a depraved man because the alternative—entertaining the idea that her own brother was a murderer—was too awful to bear.
There was a twinge of discomfort in Margot’s stomach as she recalled all the times in the past twelve hours that she’d assured herself her uncle was a good person. But that wasn’t the same thing. She believed Wallace was guilty because the evidence had led her to him, not because his guilt meant her uncle’s innocence. Still, as she stood and thanked Annabelle one last time, the thought that zipped through her mind with a ferocity she hadn’t expected was Better your family than mine.
* * *
—
As it turned out, Margot was right about Waterford Mills; the little town had only one storage unit, and she made a detour on her way back to Wakarusa to scope it out. Like the town in which it was located, the facility was small, with no more than a hundred units or so. Margot drove around the perimeter marked by a tall chain-link fence and pulled up to the front gate, which was closed with a thick chain and a padlock. Attached to the gate was a sign that read: WATERFORD MILLS STORAGE UNIT, with a phone number beneath. Margot put her car in park, pulled out her phone, and dialed.
“Yep,” a gruff voice answered after a few rings.
“Um, hi. Is this—”
“Waterford Mills Storage Unit? Yep.”
“Great. My name’s Margot Wallace. I’m the niece of one of your renters, Elliott Wallace. Um, I’m actually calling because my uncle passed away a few weeks ago and I’m helping my family organize all his things.”
It was a lie that could easily be disproven if the man on the phone called Annabelle to confirm or just did a quick Google search of Elliott and discovered he wasn’t in fact dead, but Margot knew that people usually believed what you told them. And even if he did call her bluff, she’d be no worse off now than she was a minute ago.
“I know he’s renting a storage unit at your place,” she said, “but I don’t know the number of the unit. Would you mind looking that up for me?”
Margot wouldn’t push her luck by asking to be let in, but with the correct name of the renter and a plausible story, she doubted the man would see the harm in sharing the unit number, especially in a small town like this. Sure enough, the gruff voice said, “Yeah, all right. What’d you say his name was?”