The Mystery of Hollow Places(45)

“Um . . . Alcoholics Anonymous?”

“Yes. But for the unfirm. That’s how they explained it to us at town hall, anyway.”

I don’t really know what any of this means, but Tilly plows right on through.

“Margie—she’s the one of them that works at Stop and Shop ever since she mostly retired—she says Todd used to pick up her prescriptions for her, sometimes. For Sidonie, I mean.” She lets out a hoarse clap of laughter. “That’s really something, isn’t it? Do you know, those two went to their high school prom together?”

So Todd is the tall boy standing behind Mom in his big-shouldered suit. I guess he really was thrilled to be with her. “Do they still live by that bowling alley?”

“Oh, no.” Tilly leans back, working at another candy wrapper. I just want to smack it out of her grip, and maybe Chad senses this, because he squeezes my hand in his. With a little squawk of victory, she fishes out the licorice and pops it in her mouth. “He moved away about two years ago. Hilda Malachai—that’s his great-aunt—says he works at a college in Connecticut now. What’s the big one?”

“UConn?” Chad offers.

“Yes, that’s it, I want to say. Not a teacher, though.” She sniffs. “Something in the office.”

“Did my mom’s cousin . . . Did she go with him when he left town?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t guess so. Might be Hilda could tell you, though I don’t think she’ll be much help. She’s not altogether firm herself. Touch of the dementia, poor thing. Mostly we see each other over at the church. She’s there an awful lot. Her home aide brings her over. I go every Sunday, myself. Who sins enough to go every day?”

“Do you know how we can get in touch with her?” I ask. A lead is a lead.

“I don’t think I should give her number out. You never know what people can do with that information, everything you hear on the news about identity theft.”

Chad and I exchange side eyes; do I seem likely to steal the identity of a senile, serial church-goer? “Oh, that’s too bad. I’d really love to talk to your friend.”

“I suppose I can call her up.” Tilly’s smile sharpens, thrilled to play a part in the little drama unfolding before her.

When Hilda answers, Tilly catches her up (at top volume and with much repetition) about me and my mission to find my “aunt.” Then she hands me the receiver of her clunky corded phone, keeping a finger curled in the wire. I speak to Hilda on a short leash.

“Hi, Mrs. Malachai. I really appreciate your taking the time to—”

“Hello?”

“Um, hi?”

Across from me, Chad winces. We’re off to a rocky start.

“Tilly said you have questions for me,” Hilda’s sandpaper voice rasps across the receiver, “about one of Todd’s old girlfriends?”

“Sidonie Faye. Yes, your friend says she used to live with Todd? Above the bowling alley?”

“Oh, I don’t know. That’s asking a lot of me.”

Her head cocked toward the receiver to hear, Tilly nods, looking a little victorious to be proven right.

“He’s very handsome, like his grandfather Jacob,” Hilda continues. “My brother had so many sweethearts when he was young. So did Todd. He always had another little girlfriend to bring around the holidays.”

“This one would’ve been just two or three years ago. Um, she had brown hair and hazel eyes. She was small. And . . . I guess she might’ve been a little sick at the time. Or just . . . troubled?”

It’s not much, as vital statistics go, but Hilda surprises me by answering, “There was one girl he went around with. She was trouble. Made his father so upset, it broke his heart. She was a pretty little white girl, but she was crazier than a sack of raccoons, would borrow money from Todd because she didn’t work. Crashed this truck he had at the time. All kinds of problems. But I thought that was a while back. My nephew passed when that second Bush was still president. Or was that my cousin’s son? Oh, there’s too many of them to keep track.”

So Hilda’s not the most reliable source. But I don’t want her sketchy memory for details to distract me from the big picture. “Do you think it’s possible Todd kept in touch with her?”

“Well, I don’t know why he would. His mother says he’s married now, to a lovely woman in New York. But who knows? He doesn’t come home much. Doesn’t report in to me. I don’t even have his number.”

“You mean Connecticut?”

“What’s that?”

“He’s in Connecticut, not New York. Right? I thought he worked at UConn.”

“Sure, maybe he does.”

“All right, that’s . . . helpful. Thanks.”

Having heard the whole conversation, Tilly sips her seltzer primly and says when I’ve hung up, “You know, ever since Siobhan went off the rails, I knew her little girl was headed for a hard time.”

We can’t get out of there fast enough.

We head back to Sugarbrook as the sky really opens up and icy raindrops the size of pebbles pelt the car roof. We drive in silence, deafened. But I’m not sulking. We’re closing in on Sidonie Faye. When Dad and I find her, it won’t matter that she quit a few jobs and crashed her ex-boyfriend’s truck and went a little off the rails. She’ll have her family to help her out. Besides, I knew she was troubled waters from the start. This was never going to be easy.