The Perfect Mother(48)
But she can’t do that. They can’t afford Lowell missing a meeting, not after he just lost the job they were counting on.
“No, it’s fine,” she says. “I planned to take the baby out for a walk. I need to start exercising.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. You’re right. I need to take better care of myself. A good brisk walk will help.”
Lowell seems to soften. “I’m offering. Last chance to say yes.”
“You need to work. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.” Lowell kisses her forehead. “I’m going to take a shower.”
She waits until she hears the shower running to head into the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her, removing the notebook she buried in the top drawer under the lacy underpants she hasn’t worn in months. She flips it open to the list she made of the people who were at the bar that night, and turns to the new list she’s been keeping—the names of every possible suspect.
She puts a question mark in front of the first name on the list.
Bodhi Mogaro.
What if his lawyer is right? What if it really isn’t him? She reviews the other options.
Someone related to Winnie’s grandfather’s business.
Alma. Nell is adamant that Alma played no role, but Francie doesn’t know what to believe anymore. Is it really possible that someone came into Winnie’s home, took Midas from his crib, and Alma heard nothing? Yesterday Francie read that Alma’s brother in Tucson was arrested a few years ago for stealing a car. That an uncle back in Honduras had killed someone.
The thing that’s really beginning to trouble her, though, is Winnie’s stalker. Archie Andersen. She circles his name several times. There wasn’t much written about him, and she couldn’t find even one photo of him online. It was years ago, before the Internet and Facebook and twenty-four-hour news, and the only definitive information she dredged up was an article in People saying that Archie Andersen had showed up at the Bluebird studios, making it all the way to the set a few times, forcing Winnie’s mother to go to the authorities more than once, to eventually file for a restraining order. At the time he was sixteen years old, convinced he and Winnie were meant to be together. And then he appeared at Winnie’s mother’s funeral, wailing as if he’d lost his own mom, until he was forcibly removed by Winnie’s boyfriend at the time.
Archie would be in his early thirties now. Just like that guy at the Jolly Llama—the one who’d approached Winnie so suddenly, as soon as she was alone at the bar. The last person she was seen with.
Francie e-mailed Nell and Colette a few hours earlier, asking if they thought the police were making a mistake by not looking into Archie Andersen.
I would guess they are considering him, Colette wrote back. Despite what the media has suggested, the police are not that dumb.
But how could Colette be sure? If Mark Hoyt and company were, in fact, getting this Bodhi Mogaro thing wrong, what else might they be screwing up? Francie hears the shower water go quiet and then the curtain gliding open, and she shuts the notebook, sticking it hastily back into the drawer. In the living room, she lifts Will from the bouncy chair, grabbing the diaper bag and Moby Wrap, and calls good-bye to Lowell.
He steps from the bathroom in his boxer shorts, towel-drying his hair as she’s walking out the door. “Where you going?”
“May Mothers.” She clears her throat. “There’s a last-minute meetup at the Spot. Just got the e-mail.”
“I’m so glad to hear that, sweetheart.” He steps back into the bathroom. “That’s exactly what you need.”
Francie tries to block out the buzzing of an overhead light as she bounces Will back and forth in the chilly, empty waiting area, stopping to browse a table laden with stacks of pamphlets. Countering Terrorism through Information Sharing. LGBTQ Outreach. If you see something, say something.
She startles at the sound of a door slamming behind her and turns to see Mark Hoyt walking into the lobby of the police station with a man who has an unkempt beard and shifty eyes and is wearing a black T-shirt and baggy jeans. The man looks at Francie, making eye contact for a split second before he nervously looks away. Hoyt turns to her after the man has left the station. “Mrs. Givens. Sorry to keep you waiting. Why don’t you come on back?”
Francie follows him past an officer who sits at a desk behind a pane of glass, studying the sudoku board on the back page of the Post, and down a well-lit hall. “Was that guy here to talk about the investigation?” she asks Hoyt.
“No.”
“Is he a suspect?”
“No.”
The hall is lined with a few small offices, and when they reach Hoyt’s, he stands aside, inviting Francie to lead the way in. It belongs on the set of a bad cop show: a battered desk covered in crooked stacks of manila folders, papers spilling out messily. Three paper cups, half full of coffee, are lined next to an archaic desktop computer. A puckered layer of brown-and-green mold lines the top of one of the cups.
“You want some coffee?” he asks.
“No thank you. I’ve given up caffeine.” She nods down at Will on her chest. “For the baby.” She feels a twinge of guilt lying to the police, but she’s certainly under no obligation to tell them she’s mostly given up nursing. And besides, she’ll start crying if she says it out loud.