Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(72)

“Smart,” I said, typing in the first address into the GPS program. “First stop: Abbie Gilbert.”

“What are we talking to her about? Is there a requirement for good cop, bad cop? I think I could perform an effective bad cop,” June said.

“We’re asking her why the Kendalls believed that she was their daughter.”

She pursed her lips under the glasses. “Do you believe they knew Abbie was not their daughter?”

“It’s crossed my mind.”

“Then why would they give her an apartment? Why would they publicly claim her as their daughter?” she asked.

“That’s what we’re going to find out.” I pointed to the bag at her feet. “There’s a turkey sandwich in there for you.”

“Turkey Tuesday.”





*



Abbie had been booted from her upscale Philadelphia apartment financed by the Kendalls. She now lived in a squat, gray brick building on the outskirts of Baltimore. The neighborhood was made up entirely of rundown row homes and graffitied convenience stores. Fast food bags and the cardboard from six-packs littered the sidewalks and gutters.

It didn’t feel dangerous. Just well past its prime. Like its residents had given up on keeping up appearances.

I put the car in park and cranked up the air conditioning. “Do you want to wait here with the kids?” I asked June.

She looked torn, peering into the back seat where her beloved Katherine was enjoying a snack of lettuce and pellets.

“I should accompany you,” she decided reluctantly.

We locked the car and crossed the road to the apartment building. A. Gilbert was listed above Apartment B3. I pressed the buzzer and waited.

There were no security cameras here, and some of the mailboxes inside the foyer had their doors broken off. It did not give off a homey vibe.

I buzzed again. Waited.

“Perhaps she is at work?” June suggested.

I shook my head. “Cassidy says there’s no job on record for her.”

“My sister gave you this address?” June asked, surprised. Cassidy Tucker was straight as an arrow. A good guy to the bone. She took the law and its rules very seriously.

“Of course not,” I scoffed. “I had Leah Mae use her super social media sleuthing powers to track her down.”

“I just asked Cassidy if she knew if Abbie was employed.”

“She must have been suspicious,” June insisted. On cue, her phone rang, and Cassidy’s name scrolled across the screen.

“Maybe don’t answer that until we’re on our way home,” I suggested.

“I believe that is the correct course of action.”

I stabbed the buzzer for B2 belonging to an M. McManus.

We waited another minute, the hot sun baking us on the sidewalk. “Maybe we should go back to the car. We have another stop to make. We could try Abbie again afterward.”

June gave the front door a hard tug, and we both watched bemused as the door opened.

“Some security system,” I muttered.

We took the stairs to the second floor. The paint on the walls and railing was peeling, and the carpet had bare spots, but overall it was clean. B2 was the second door on the left. I held my ear to the door and listened.

“What are you doing?” June asked at normal volume.

I eased back and shushed her. “I’m trying to see if she’s in there. She might not be answering the buzzer because she doesn’t want to talk.”

“This is taking too long. I would like to get back to my pig.” She reached around me and rapped her knuckles on the door. “Abbie Gilbert. I would like to speak with you.”

A dark head poked out of the door across the hall. “You’re going to have to yell a hell of a lot louder than that.”

June took a breath. “ABBIE GILBERT—”

I cut her off with a hand on her arm. “That’s not what you meant, is it?” I asked the woman.

Her jet-black hair was styled in a pristine bowl cut. She was wearing a purple and yellow housecoat and slippers that looked older than me.

“The poor girl,” the woman tut-tutted. “Couldn’t catch a break. Said her boyfriend broke up with her and she lost her job in Baltimore.”

June opened her mouth to argue, but I squeezed her arm.

“Do you know where we could find Abbie?” I asked.

The woman frowned. “That’s what the police called her, too.”

“The police?” June asked.

“We knew her as Ashley. Not Abbie. But whoever she was, she was hit by a car and killed last Thursday. Hit and run on her way home from the liquor store,” the neighbor said, shaking her head sadly. “Like I said. The girl couldn’t catch a break.”





40





Shelby





“I did not anticipate that,” June said when we returned to the car.

Katherine danced on dainty hooves in the back seat, thrilled at June’s return. Billy Ray was too busy napping under a napkin to notice that I was back.

“Can you look the accident up on your phone?” I asked grimly as I input the second address into the GPS. “There should be an accident report or a news story.”