A Mother Would Know (49)

“I believe he was at Midtown Saloon on Saturday night with a friend, and she happened to be there.”

“Do you know if they spoke? Shared a drink? Do you know if he went back to her place afterward?” His tone is matter-of-fact, regardless of the fact that he’s asking a mother about her son’s sex life.

I think of the neighbor. The one who said she saw a young man with a beard at Molly’s. Has Daniels talked with her? Even if he has, it doesn’t prove anything. A young man with a beard could be anyone.

“No, he didn’t,” I say.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes, I am.” Mason slips a little from my grasp and I hoist him upward. At that moment, it finally happens. His face screws up, his skin red as he opens his mouth and starts to cry. I throw the detective an apologetic look. “If that’s all, I really need to go.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card. Then he juts out his hand. “When your son gets home, can you have him call me, please?”

“Sure.” I take the card.



* * *



Hudson stares at the card in his hand. I’d caught him on his way out the door to go out with friends, since I’d been changing my clothes when he returned home from work. Mason had drooled all over the shirt I’d had on earlier. “Why does he need to talk with me?”

“He was just interviewing everyone in the neighborhood, I think.”

“He talked to you?”

I nod.

“Then why does he still want to question me?”

Sighing, I know I have to come clean. “He knows you saw Molly Saturday night.”

His eyes darken. “How does he know that?”

“I’m sorry, Hudson.” I grimace. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“You told him? Why would you do that?” His tone is hard, his voice rising.

“I got the feeling he already knew. Lying would only make you look guilty.”

“How would he already know?”

I shake my head. “Not sure, but Leslie was talking to him before he came over here. I saw her pointing. And he knew about us—you—meeting Molly on Friday night.”

His teeth grind together, the vein in his forehead throbbing the way it does when he’s upset. “I should’ve known this had to do with Leslie. She’s never gonna leave me alone, is she?”

Bowie enters the room, and my fingertips graze his fur. “I wouldn’t worry about it. You have nothing to hide, so just call Detective Daniels and tell him what you know.”

“Yeah, okay.” Distractedly, he shoves the card in his pants pocket. “I’ll do it tomorrow.” He reaches for the door handle. “I won’t be home too late tonight.”

His words replay over and over in my mind as I watch him leave through the beveled glass of the front door, his body multiplying and morphing, a trick of light.

“She’s never going to leave me alone, is she?”

Ten years is a long time. I’ve often hoped that, as the years went by, she’d end up dropping her vendetta against Hudson. Against our family. But instead, it seems to get worse.

After Hudson’s car pulls away from the curb and drives down the street, I put on a pair of shoes and a warm jacket. Then I head outside and stalk across the street.

It’s time Leslie and I had a little chat.

The neighborhood is quiet, dimly lit by the streetlamps when I traipse over her front yard to knock on her door. The air is cool, and smells sweet and dewy.

“What are you doing here?” Leslie asks when she answers, her expression guarded as it flicks over my shoulder. Her arms instinctively wrap around her body, shielding herself from me, I guess. As if a thin woman in her fifties is some grave threat. I almost laugh.

But on the walk over, I’d vowed to play nice. So I stifle the laugh and force a cordial smile.

“I thought we could talk.”

Her eyes narrow. “It’s late.”

“I know. That’s how important this is to me.” I can tell by her expression that she isn’t swayed in the least. “Please, Leslie, I just need a few minutes, and then I promise I’ll leave you alone.”

A teakettle peals from the kitchen. She hesitates, her feet shifting toward the sound and then back to me. Finally, she sighs. “Fine.” Without welcoming me in, she pivots and hurries toward the kitchen, leaving the front door wide open.

After glancing around, I step inside, closing the door behind me.

Not much has changed since the last time I was here. Her style has always been outdated. As if she has never moved past the eighties. In her living room, she still has the same white wicker furniture, the beachy paintings on the walls, teals and salmon pink in watercolor. A fern spills out of a seashell planter, while a giant potted palm leers tropically from the far corner. I’ve always abhorred this coastal crap. We don’t even live near the beach.

When I enter the kitchen, the puke-yellow walls greeting me, Leslie stands over the counter, pouring herself a cup of tea. She doesn’t offer me one.

“Okay.” She cocks one brow. “You’ve got three minutes.” It reminds me of something she’d say to Heather when the kids were younger.

“Leslie, you’re wrong about Hudson. You always have been.” My elbow brushes the leaves of a pothos that’s hanging from the ceiling. God, it looks like a plant nursery in here. Leslie has always loved plants, but it seems she’s gone a bit overboard lately.