The Last of the Moon Girls(34)
“No. No, thank you. I’ll catch up with him another time.”
She had crossed to the door when she felt a pair of eyes between her shoulder blades. She glanced back to see that Jake had reappeared, his eyes flinty as he watched her go.
Back in the car, she sat with both hands curled tight around the wheel. She’d known better than to expect red-carpet treatment, but she hadn’t prepared for open hostility. And she’d yet to ask a single question. What would happen when she really started digging?
Before she could consider the question, a utility pickup with a ladder rack on the roof swung into the lot and parked several rows over. She hadn’t seen Fred Gilman in years, but there was no missing the man’s telltale gait, shoulders bunched close to his ears, arms nearly stationary as he crossed the lot, like a man bracing himself against a storm. She reached for the door handle, then changed her mind. Following him inside would just lead to another run-in with Jake, squelching any hope for a productive conversation. She’d have a better shot if she waited for him to come out.
Ten minutes later Gilman reappeared with Jake at his side. She hadn’t counted on that. She slouched down in her seat, praying she wouldn’t be spotted as they crossed the parking lot together. They lingered for what felt like an eternity, in deep conversation. It wasn’t hard to guess what they were discussing.
When Gilman finally climbed into a battered green Subaru and started the engine, she followed him out of the lot, maintaining what she hoped was a discreet distance, slowing when he slowed, turning when he turned. She felt ridiculous, like an obsessed stalker or inept spy. If he spotted her, would he call the police? And what if he did? She wasn’t breaking any laws, and she had every right to ask her questions.
They had just passed the fairground entrance when he turned off into Meadow Park. His driveway was the third on the right. She sped past as he pulled in, circling the block several times to allow him time to get inside. Ambushing the man in his driveway wasn’t likely to earn her any points. On the third pass, she pulled in behind the Subaru.
Fred Gilman’s home was a yellow-and-white single-wide with a weathered wood porch tacked onto the front. The postage stamp–size lot was brown with neglect, barren but for a straggly hedge running down one side. No flowers in the yard. No mat on the porch. No wreath on the door. The home of a man who lived alone.
Lizzy held her breath as she mounted the porch steps and knocked on the dented aluminum door. There was a moment of fumbling with a lock before the door finally inched back. Gilman stood blinking at her through the opening, a frozen dinner half out of its box in his hands. He looked weary as he peered out, and a little annoyed—until he recognized her.
His face hardened as he backed away, clearly bent on slamming the door in her face. But she’d come too far to leave empty-handed. Reflexively, she wedged her foot between the door and the jamb. An ambrosia of mothballs, burned coffee, and dirty carpet wafted through the opening. Lizzy suspected the odors had more to do with Fred Gilman’s living conditions than with the state of his emotions, but it was enough to make her take a small step back.
“Mr. Gilman, I’d like to speak to you.”
Gilman glared at her. “Stay away from me.”
“Please. I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say. It’s about the investigation into what happened to your girls.”
His face suddenly went slack, and for a moment he stood blinking at the frozen dinner in his hands, as if wondering how it got there. Finally, his eyes snapped back to hers. “You have one minute to say what you came to say, and you can say it from right there on the porch.”
Lizzy felt her shoulders relax. “You’ve heard, I’m sure, that my grandmother died.” She waited for a response, but his face was disconcertingly blank. “I know what you think, Mr. Gilman. You believe Althea hurt your girls. But it isn’t true. I have reason—good reason—to believe the investigation was mishandled. I’ve asked the police to look at the evidence again, but in the meantime, I was hoping you and your wife might remember—”
“My wife,” Gilman spat, “lives in Massachusetts now.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Gilman. Truly sorry, for everything you’ve been through. But I’m sure you’d want to know the truth.”
“You have nothing to say that I want to hear. My girls are dead. My wife’s gone. Isn’t that enough for you?”
“Mr. Gilman, please, if you knew my grandmother at all, you’d know she could never hurt your daughters. All I need is something to go on, something that might convince Chief Summers to reopen the case.”
Gilman’s face had gone a blotchy shade of red. He locked eyes with her. “I know all I need to about the Moons. And so does the rest of this town. They don’t want you here any more than I do. Yet here you stand on my front porch, asking for my help. You’ve got some brass. But then your lot always did. Well, I say good riddance to your grandmother. Got what was coming to her, if you ask me. Maybe you will too.”
His words, a blend of menace and thinly veiled disgust, sent a chill down Lizzy’s spine. Had he just threatened her? She couldn’t say for sure, but it was clear that she’d get no help from him. She turned and headed back down the steps.
“And don’t go bothering my wife if you know what’s good for you.” The words hit Lizzy in the back as she reached the driveway. “She’s got nothing to say.”