Spies and Prejudice (17 page)

I should shred the letter before Jason gets his hands on it again. I can’t explain why I fold it up and tuck it into the pocket of my jeans.

I can’t explain why I read it again as soon as Jason goes into Dad’s room to change for our trip to Heather Marrone’s house.

I can’t explain why I wish for Tanner to be right about me.

H
eather Marrone is easy to find. A simple Internet search is all it takes to find her online beauty products store and a number to call for a free makeover with purchase. The woman in the pictures bears only a passing resemblance to the woman I met at Sconehenge. With her hair blown straight and a thick layer of makeup, she looks like someone who should be wearing tight sequined dresses and hanging on the arm of a game show host.

Jason comes out of the bedroom wearing a form-fitting jacket over his tee shirt.

“Is that my jacket?”

He spins in a circle. “What do you think?”

“I think you have to stop taking shots at my wardrobe choices.”

“So I can wear it?”

“That depends. You up for a makeover?”

“Does Polonius have a solo in act three?”

“They’re letting you sing?”

“I am SL-ain!” he bellows.

“You sing about being murdered?”

“While being murdered. It’s a singing death scene. Cool, right? So are we going to Elizabeth Arden, or do you want to do one of those glamour things where they make your hair all giant and give you cat eyes?”

“Neither.” I flip around the laptop so he can see the picture of Heather and her retouched white teeth.

“Yikes!”

“Will you come? It’s in Lemon Grove.”

“Only if you promise me that you will let me take your picture after.”

“Promise.”

Heather Marrone lives in a weathered house behind a Walmart. The grass has enough weeds that it probably can’t be called a lawn anymore. An overweight tabby lifts its head as we walk up the steps to the front door, but doesn’t make a move from its perch in the windowsill.

The door swings open before we can ring the bell. Heather takes one look at me and her face drops. “Do I know you?”

“We met for a few minutes at Sconehenge?”

“That’s right. You’re the daughter?”

I don’t flinch. “So I am.”

She looks from me to Jason. “Does this mean you’re not going to get the makeovers? ’Cause I already broke the seals on the starter kits.”

Jason steps forward. “We’re definitely getting the makeovers.”

Heather looks skeptical, but she opens the door the rest of the way and ushers us past a tired living room decorated in Salvation Army
castoffs, except for a shiny black flat-screen television braced against the wall. We stop at a plastic table covered in a plastic tablecloth, with cosmetics laid out in perfect rows.

Heather’s face is caked in layers of makeup that only partially mask her sallow skin and the dark shadows under her eyes. She was probably pretty once, but now she looks more like the living room furniture, faded and threadbare.

Jason sits down and immediately starts cataloging the skin care products. “Does this redness minimizer really work?”

Heather finally smiles, showing off tobacco-stained teeth. “Like magic.”

I settle in next to Jason and let Heather go through her spiel about the importance of skin care and beauty at any age. Jason nods along with such enthusiasm that I half expect him to holler out an “amen” every now and then.

I let Heather slather my face in moisturizer and apply copious amounts of mascara while Jason oohs and ahhs over a particularly noxious smelling cleanser. I wait until she’s almost done helping Jason with an exfoliating mask before I say anything. “Can you tell me about the man who paid you to say my mother drove off the bridge?”

Heather shrugs. “I already told your friend everything I remember. The guy picked me up at a bar near Miramar. I needed the money and I knew better than to ask any questions or to pay too much attention to details.”

“What did he look like?”

“Cute enough. He wore a baseball cap, but I remember his eyes. They were baby blue. Like the sky.”

Jason grins at me through his green mask. “Sounds like Dreamy.”

“Tanner was ten. How old was the man you met?”

“Older than I ought to give the time of day, but like I said, he was nice to look at.”

Okay, so Heather must’ve majored in vagueness in beauty school. Her knack for dancing around details probably made her the perfect fake witness. I keep trying. “How were you paid?”

“Cash. Up front. All I had to do was call the police the next day and tell them I saw the car go over. Easy peasy. And they found that car right where he said. No one asked any questions until your boyfriend started poking around.”

“He’s not my boyfriend. Wait. You were paid to talk to the police the day
before
the accident?” The implication of this grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me so hard my brain rattles. If someone knew about the accident in advance, Mom’s death couldn’t have been suicide. It couldn’t have been an accident. If someone knew it was going to happen the night before, it means only one thing. My mother was murdered. “You have to go to the police. Tell them what really happened.”

Heather sits up straight, every muscle in her body visibly tight. “That will be sixty bucks. Twenty more if you want the redness minimizer.”

I don’t get up. “The police think my mother killed herself because of what you told them. Don’t you realize what this means? Someone knew my mother was going to die before it happened. Someone did this to her and let the police think she killed herself.” Let Dad and me think she killed herself. “Please.”

“I already said too much.”

I’ve lost what little trust I gained by letting her make me up like Little Miss Carnival Sideshow, but I press forward anyway. “Help me find who did this to her.”

Heather stands up. “I don’t need some cub trying to be a bear turning my life inside out. You got no idea what you’re in for, but one thing’s certain. This is nothing to do with me.”

Jason peels the rest of the green mask from his face. “Maybe Ms. Marrone could agree to think about it for a little while?” His attempt to give us both an out is admirable but futile. I won’t take no for an answer. Not on this.

“It doesn’t matter.” I lay three twenties on the table. “If you won’t tell them, I will.”

Heather might look weak, but she grabs my arm hard enough to make me gasp. “You can’t! No one will believe you.” I’m pretty sure Heather’s face pales, but it’s hard to tell under the thick coat of makeup. “You should go.”

Jason pulls another twenty from his pocket. “Not without the minimizer.”

Heather scoops bottles and tubes from the table and puts them in Jason’s arms. “Take them all. Just get out of my house.” She looks like a trapped animal, ready to bite first and ask questions later. We’re not going to get anything else from her today. One more push and we’ll be lucky to get out of this house in one piece.

“We’re going,” I say, grabbing Jason’s sleeve and pushing him toward the door.

“Please,” Heather says, her voice barely a whisper. “I know you miss your mama. But you’re just a girl. You best not get involved.”

I stop at the front door. “Why not?”

Heather stares at the floor. “If this guy really made your mama disappear, what makes you think any of y’all will be safe?”

“I don’t.” Aside from the fact that someone broke into my house last night, I’m pretty sure I stopped feeling safe the moment I found the note in my mother’s storage locker. Who am I kidding? I stopped feeling safe the moment the policeman came to our front door to tell my dad that she drove off the Coronado Bridge. It’s a relief to have an enemy besides her ghost. Even if he is just a nameless man with sky-blue eyes.

“What are you fixin’ to do?” Heather’s eyes flit back to the flat-screen television.

I follow her gaze to the giant screen, so out of place in the fading little room. Fields’ rule number sixteen: never trust a paid witness. And this one’s already proven she’ll lie for cash.

“Ten thousand dollars to lie about witnessing the accident?” Someone’s paid her much more recently. “How much to lie to me?”

At first Heather looks offended, but she quickly regroups. “Does it matter? You can’t go running to the police telling tales, now can you?”

“I don’t know. It seems like it was pretty easy for you.”

“I’ll deny it all.” She folds her arms across her chest, more sure of herself now that she thinks I doubt her story about lying to the police. That’s the part I believe. It doesn’t explain why she’s talking to me now.

A tube of concealer falls out from beneath the waistband of Jason’s jacket as he reaches for the doorknob. “We should go.”

I don’t move. “Just one more thing. Who paid you this time?”

Heather flips her hair back over her shoulder and levels her eyes at me. “Ask your boyfriend.”

I
don’t slow down even though Jason is clutching the handle over the passenger door so hard that he’s in danger of cutting off the circulation to his fingers. I can’t believe I let myself get taken in by Drew’s line about wanting to help me. I can’t believe I let myself get taken.

Twice. First Tanner, now Drew.

I turn to Jason. “Tell me you haven’t been hanging out with me since seventh grade as part of some devious scheme to get inside information on Mary Chris’s dad.”

Jason’s gaze stays focused on the road. “I’ve actually been hanging out with you to find out your secret recipe for macaroni and cheese with those little hot dogs in it.”

I floor the gas to get around a blue convertible. “I’ll save you the trouble. You cut up the hot dogs and mix them in with the packet of flavoring. Satisfied?”

“Do you cook them before or after you cut them into little pieces?”

I bring the car back down to more normal speed. “I’m not giving all my secrets away.”

Jason finally lets go of the hand grab. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep hanging out with you.”

“That and you promised Tanner you’d be my bodyguard.”

“I can’t let Dreamy down. Where are we going anyway?”

“First, I’m going to throw myself on Mary Chris’s mercy. Then I’m going to tell Drew off. I wish I were a guy so I could punch him in the teeth.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“Maybe I’ve matured.” If I don’t count taking down Collin at the dance last night. I keep that part to myself.

“As your bodyguard, I’m going to step in here and say that maybe you should stop and think a bit before you go confront a suspected corporate spy and tell him off. I’m just saying.”

Jason’s kind of right, but not for the reason he thinks. If I confront Drew now, I’ll have no chance of actually catching him in the act. Which is kind of my thing. “Fine. What are the chances of Mary Chris helping me nail the guy?”

Jason shakes his head. “Give her some time, okay?”

“So what am I supposed to do now? Just go home and sit around knowing the person who killed my mom is out there somewhere?”

“You could go to the police.”

“You heard Heather. She won’t back me up.”

“Only one way to find out for sure.”

“They’ll call my dad.” Not that I can leave Dad out of this anymore. He’ll be angry when he finds out I’ve kept digging, but he’ll understand once he hears the whole story. He’ll want to catch the guy himself.

“You’re awesome, Strawberry. But if what Heather said is true … I just think that maybe we should let the police handle it.”

“You’re my bodyguard, not my dad.” I turn left at the next light anyway. I need to talk to the police. Just not for the reason Jason thinks.

Inside, the police station is a linoleum-themed horror, kind of a cross between a hospital and the DMV. We’re shuffled from desk to desk, before being left alone in a sterile waiting room made only slightly more homey by the presence of plastic chairs and lukewarm coffee.

Jason turns up his nose as he takes a sip. “I thought cops were supposed to be coffee connoisseurs.”

“And everything else on
Cops and Lawyers
is so realistic.”

We’re ushered back to a tiny conference room, while we wait for an investigator to come talk to us. The chairs are only slightly harder than the waiting room. It’s like this place was designed to drive people away.

Finally, a large-framed policeman enters the room and sits across from us, straining the buttons on his khaki shirt. His thin blond hair is combed across the top, in a pointless effort to mask his expanding forehead. His name tag says “Officer K. Hickle.”

“My shift is almost over so make this quick.” Even the cops want out of this place.

“We’re here to review the investigation files on the death of Carolyn Fields. She’s the woman who drove off the Coronado Bridge eight years ago.” I say it quickly, my attention focused on his shirt. I try not to look at his badge.

“I know the case.” He leans forward, and the middle button of his
shirt practically screams at the pressure. Grease stains dot the khaki fabric.

“Great. So just get us the files, and we’ll let you get home to your double cheeseburger and fries.” The badge. It’s like a beacon in the fog, its shiny silver face calling to me. I look. And I immediately regret it.

The day my mom died was unremarkable. It wasn’t until it started to get dark, and Mom hadn’t come home, that things felt weird. Mary Chris and I were playing Scrabble over the Internet. She was winning. The doorbell rang and then the man with the badge came inside. I remember thinking the badge was pretty, the way the light from the foyer reflected off the silver face, and that I wanted one of my own. Then my father fell to his knees, and the man with the badge kept talking. I stared at the badge, focusing on the silver light, imagining it would transport me to another world. One where I would be safe. Where my mom would be safe. It didn’t. It just kept on shining, mocking me.

The fluorescent lights dance in Officer’s Hickle’s badge until he crosses his arms across his chest, covering the silver. He probably means for his stance to be intimidating, but he’s doing me a favor.