Page 3 of 44.1644° North
“Ah.”
In fairness to the Tommy Aldrich camp, boyfriends and husbands usuallydiddo it. Just as, on the flip side, girlfriends and wives were usually suspect #1 when their significant other went missing or turned up dead. The problem in this case was that Aldrich had an airtight alibi. Confirmed by cell-phone records and security-door hardware. Substantiated by the people who’d been with him on the evening in question. In this case the boyfriend hadnotdone it. But that didn’t stop a small, hardcore contingent of amateur sleuths from believing with all their hearts that he had.
Something about this particular case really brought out the kooks and conspiracy theorists. Maybe because of Deirdre herself. The enigma of the girl next door. Smart, pretty, fun, athletic, and responsible. The quintessential good girl. Struggling a little as she tried to navigate the contradictions and complexities of adult life, but nothing she couldn’t have weathered, nothing plenty of other girls before her hadn’t pushed through. A short run of bad luck that had suddenly, without warning, turned catastrophic.
“Don’t patronize me,” Blue T-shirt said. He was staring over my head, scanning the room. He nodded to someone I couldn’t see and jabbed his index finger at me.
What. A. Dick.As Bette Davis would have said. Or maybe she wouldn’t have said that. She’d have thought it, though. That I guarantee. Everybody was thinking it.
Anyway, the blue man was once more honoring me with his full attention. “You pod people are all the same. You think it’s about you. It’s not aboutyou.”
I said mildly, “I agree. I don’t think it’s about me.”
“You’re one of the worst. Just because you’re an associate professor wannabe criminologist at some nothing junior college, you think you get to talk down to everyone. The truth is, you’re full of shit.”
In addition to (hopefully?) beer droplets, the blue T-shirt across the table featured a bloody-knife graphic and the words TRUECRIME IRL.
“You could be right.”
“In other words, you just say whatever shit you think will get you listeners.”
If I’d just wanted to argue with people who hated me on general principles, I could have stayed home. I mean, not that there was anyone at home who hated me. There was no one at home at all. Which was probably another reason why I came to this soiree.
I said, “In other words, you can think whatever you like. Same as me.”
“That’swhat I thought,” Blue T-shirt said with bitter triumph and melted away into the crowd.
“What an ass,” said Hailey, the host ofCoffee, Tea, or Murder?
“Tell me the whole weekend isn’t going to be like this.”
Hailey didn’t exactly laugh, but her lip curled. She was a tiny, fragile-looking thirtysomething with Raggedy Ann-style hair, multiple facial piercings, and black-rose tatts winding up her throat. She’d had the good sense to drop out of the “debate” early on.
She said, “I mean, seriously,Tommy? He might as well suspect Pat.”
Pat—Patrick O’Donnell—was Deirdre’s father. He too had his… Well,fanswas hardly the word. But even more people suspected Pat of doing away with his daughter than they suspected Tommy, and with even less reason. Like Tommy, Pat had an unbreakable alibi and, unlike Tommy, zero motive. Not that either of those facts ever discouraged the hardcore conspiracists.
“It’s going to be a long weekend.” I was mostly thinking aloud. It was a long flight from LA to Lebanon, and a short but trying drive from Lebanon to Hastings. Nor had I been sleeping well. Not since that anonymous email had dropped into my private inbox a month ago.
Hailey laughed. “Nah. Your fans don’t know you’re here yet. You’re going to have a blast. You’ll see. You’re going to be a regular from here on out.”
“Yeah, not so sure about that.”
“You want another drink?”
“If I do, I’ll be sleeping on the table.” Itwasgoing to be a long weekend, no matter what Hailey said, and I needed to pace myself.
“Probably more comfortable than your bed tonight. I stayed in one of the guest cottages the first year I came for the vigil and, I’m not kidding, it took my chiropractor three months to put my spine back in alignment.”
“I believe you.” My brief glance inside the little ice box designated for my use supported that. I added glumly, “It was all I could get by the time I made up my mind to come.”
“Yeah, I want to hear what changed your mind about showing up this year. Save my seat.” Hailey slipped off the tall wooden stool and began to push through the crowd.Coffee, Tea, or Murder?is a very popular podcast. Her progress was slow.
I sighed, toyed with the idea of stepping outside for a breath of fresh air—between the roaring fire at the far end of the taproom and the press of bodies bundled for the ski slopes, it wasverywarm. The air didn’t get much fresher than a February night in the forests of New Hampshire. But if I got up, I’d—literally—lose my place at the table. It had been standing-room only for the last hour or so.
A male voice to my left said, “That wasn’t a bad argument you made.”
I glanced around and gazed into a pair of light and lively eyes. The eyes were the best feature of an otherwise pleasant but nondescript face. High forehead, rectangular jaw, pointed chin: symmetrical to the point of monotony. No, wrong. The smile that accompanied the words was terrific.
