CHAPTER 22
My trailer was a smoky haze of short skirts, runny black eyeliner, and emotional women. Queenie was in the recliner, sucking on a cigarette, a butt-filled ashtray on the side table next to her.
I coughed. “Damn it, Queenie. You’re stinking up the place.”
She stubbed out the cig and looked at the television. The news was recapping the case. A picture of Bone Gap flashed on the screen and then a mug shot of Hughie.
Meg sat on the floor, cross-legged, with a throw pillow in her lap, her lean fingers worrying the fringe trim. Wilco was curled by her, his snout resting on her leg. Mo slumped hunch shouldered in the corner of my sofa, a black lump of polyester ruffles and spent tissues. She stared straight ahead, wide eyed and lips quivering. Next to her, Nina leaned forward, hands hovering over my coffee table, her sticky fingers touching everything: a stack of mail, the television remote, one of Gran’s paperback novels, a small bird Gramps had carved for Gran. . . .
“Why are all of you here?” I asked.
“We’re keeping Mo company,” Queenie said. “She’s lonely without her man.”
“And I want to talk to you about Hughie.” Mo’s thin voice cracked.
“I’m sorry, Mo. There’s not much I can tell you about the case.”
Queenie pulled another cigarette from the pack in her front breast pocket. “Just hear her out, Brynn.”
I glared at the cig dangling between her lips. “Light that cig, and I’ll shove it up your nose.”
“Calm down, will ya? I ain’t gonna light it. Just holding it. It’s what I do when I’m stressed, okay?”
I looked back at Mo. “What do you want to know about Hughie?”
“When can he come home? The girls miss him.”
“I don’t know, Mo.”
“Will he go to prison?”
Meg pushed Wilco off her leg and went to Mo. “That’s not going to happen.” She patted her hand and shot me a look. “Is it, Brynn?”
“I don’t know. He might.”
Mo burst into tears, and Nina, little Miss Fidgety, picked up the carved bird and nervously rolled it between her fingers.
“Look, Mo. Maybe if you come clean about that night—”
“I’ve told you everything.”
“I need to know about the marks on your neck. What exactly happened?”
Her face turned red; eyes darted immediately to Queenie.
Queenie leaned forward, flicking her lighter over and over. The unlit cig bobbed between her lips as she spoke. “The guy got violent.”
“Mo can answer for herself.”
Mo swiped at the snot dripping under her nose, and Meg scrambled to snatch more tissue from a nearby box. Mo sniffed. “It’s like Queenie said. Chance got aggressive. I didn’t like it.”
“So, you fought back?”
“No. I . . . That’s not how it happened.”
“Was Hughie there?”
“I didn’t see him.”
“Well, someone else did, and”—I glanced at Nina—“they reported it.”
Nina squirmed.
Mo trembled.
The sharp flick of the lighter drew my attention back to Queenie. She blew a stream of white smoke through her nose and walked to the sofa, then took a long drag before handing the cigarette over to Mo. “Here, hon. Take a few puffs. It’ll help calm down those shakes.”
White haze pervaded the room. Wilco’s eyes followed a smoke trail.
Mo inhaled and let out a long, smoky sigh. “Chance got mad cuz I changed my mind. I wanted to leave. He didn’t like that, and things got a little rough.”
“You changed your mind?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he force you?”
“No. But he would have. I know he would. He wasn’t anything like I thought. I was so stupid.”
“What stopped him?”
“There was someone walking around the truck.”
“Hughie?”
“No. A woman.”
“A woman? Why is this the first I’m hearing about this? What’d she look like?”
“I dunno. It was dark outside by then. Blond hair. I think.”
“Short, tall, skinny . . . ?”
“That’s all I know. I didn’t wait around long enough to get a good look at her. As soon as he saw the woman, he let go of me, and I bolted. What does it matter?”
“She might have been the last person to see Chance alive. Think, Mo. Do you remember anything else about her?”
“No. I’m sorry . . .” She wrung her hands. “They got the wrong man. Hughie would never—”
“We think the tongue belonged to a guy who works at the Oil & Lube in town.” I knew they hadn’t released that to the news yet, but it was sure to hit tomorrow, anyway.
“So?”
“His name’s Reed Bannock.” I watched for a reaction. Didn’t see one. “Did you know him, Mo?”
She shook her head, but no other reaction, not the slightest twitch. No way had she been involved with Bannock, or I’d have seen something.
“What’s that guy got to do with my Hughie?”
“He serviced Hughie’s vehicle prior to disappearing. That connects Hughie to both victims.”
Mo went stock-still, her cigarette burning down, ash dangling precariously.
Queenie snatched up the ashtray and held it out. “Here, sweetie. Let me take that from you.” I expected Queenie to stick the stub in her own lips, but it met its demise in the ashtray as her other arm went around Mo, her friend. They sat like Siamese twins, joined in sorrow and pain. Queenie was a loyal friend through hard times. Despite a childhood of abuse and pain, she maintained her compassion.
Some people were like that. Some not. Like Katie Doogan. For her, only the suffering of others assuaged the distress of her own losses and failures.