Ruth Marriotti lived in a two-bedroom condo on the northwest side of Chicago, Georgia discovered when she visited that afternoon. It was a small eight-unit building on a one-way street off Lawrence. Inside everything was so clean and neat it reminded Georgia of the formerly spartan look of her own place.
Ruth herself was tall and gangly, with long curly brown hair tied back with a clip. Her hooded eyes gave her a suspicious cast when she smiled, which she was trying to do now. Above her forehead was a widow’s peak. Her pallor added to her drawn look, which, given that she was still recovering from a bullet wound, wasn’t surprising.
“I’m so glad you’re out of the hospital,” Georgia said.
Ruth nodded, clumsily manipulating a walker from the door toward a brown leather La-Z-Boy whose cushion was covered with a pillow.
“Can I help you get settled?” Georgia asked.
“I can handle it.” She lowered herself into the chair with a soft thud, looked around, then focused on Georgia. “Sorry I can’t offer you anything, but if you want something, be my guest.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of what Georgia saw was the kitchen.
“I’m good. Thanks for seeing me. I’ll try to be brief; you can’t be very comfortable.”
Ruth took her time arranging herself. Then: “I was hoping all the interviews and questions were over. Most of the press and social media already have what they need. I must have talked to fifty people, all told.”
“I’m not with the press. I’m an investigator.”
“You with the police? The FBI?”
Georgia sat on a sofa upholstered in an ugly pink, brown, and green floral print. A scuffed coffee table sat in front of it. “I’m working for the family.”
“Dena’s?”
“They hired me to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.” Georgia waited. Ruth didn’t say anything, just stared at her with those hooded eyes. Georgia had to remind herself she was the one asking questions. She pulled out a spiral-bound pad. “So, you were an administrator for the group. One of three besides Dena, right?”
“That’s right.”
Talkative, this one. “What does—did—an administrator do?”
Ruth arched her eyebrows. “What didn’t I do? The group was huge. We really needed more admins, but we took what we could get. First off, we had to vet all the applicants. That took time. Then we had to monitor—”
“How did you vet them? And why?”
“We didn’t have to at first. After a month or so, though, hundreds of people joined the group every day, and a lot of trolls slipped through.”
“Trolls?”
Ruth waved an impatient hand. “You know, supporters of the president who gave us a hard time. Telling us they won and to deal with it. That we were special snowflakes.” She shook her head. “Dena would cut them down to size, of course, but a few of them were pretty aggressive. So Dena and I decided we needed a way to keep them out.”
“What do you mean ‘cut them down to size’?”
“Dena didn’t let any grass grow under her feet. She would call them assholes, kick them out, then block them for good measure. That’s one of the reasons I liked working with her. She was direct. You always knew what she was thinking.”
“Got it.” Georgia smiled. Ruth seemed to loosen up. “So, how did you vet them?”
“It wasn’t scientific. We’d check out their Facebook profiles. If there was some sign they were against the president or had doubts about the election or were a member of the Resistance, that was good enough. Sometimes if we weren’t sure, we’d check their Facebook friends.”
“Smart. What if they didn’t meet the criteria?”
“We didn’t let them in.” She paused. “But that was just one of our jobs.”
“What else did you do?”
“Well, we each had a shift where we kept an eye out on posts. If anyone advocated violence, that was an automatic removal. Oh, and there were no memes allowed. Dena thought they detracted from more substantial messages. Only articles. And editorials.” Her lips tightened.
Georgia picked up on it. “You didn’t agree?”
Ruth shrugged. “It wasn’t that important.”
Georgia sensed she was holding back. “Did you know Dena before the group started? Seeing as how you’re both from Chicago.”
She shook her head. “Just coincidence. Of course, she grew up on the North Shore.”
“What about you?”
“Bolingbrook. The other side of the tracks.” She snorted. “Well, not really. But you know what I mean. Buying this condo cost me almost more than I could manage.”
Georgia tapped the pencil against her pad. She’d done a background check on Ruth before the interview; Ruth was telling the truth. She knew the answer to her next question but asked it anyway. “Where do you work? Your day job?”
“I’m a middle school math teacher.” She paused. “But I’m on sick leave for another two weeks.”
A moment of silence passed between them. Then Georgia said, “Big difference between the North Shore and Bolingbrook.”
Another pause. “That’s true, but when you believe in the same things, you can be friends with someone who’s very different than you.” Ruth shifted uneasily. Then she gazed at Georgia as if a thought had just occurred to her. “Why are you really here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, I worked with Dena over a year, and I learned there was always an ulterior motive where her family was concerned. What do they want?”
Georgia inclined her head. “I told you. I’m working for Mrs. Baldwin.”
“Mrs. ‘my daughter can do no wrong’ Baldwin.” Ruth scoffed.
“Is that what you thought of her?”
“Dena’s family—how do I say it—are opportunists. They use people. Dena was that way herself sometimes.”
“I thought she was guided by her politics.”
“Mostly. But when she saw an opportunity, well . . .” She rubbed a finger underneath her nose.
“For example?”
Ruth released the lever on the La-Z-Boy and sat up, leaning to one side. “Well, for one thing, we needed a tech person early on. To help us manage the site. You know, set up private folders for files, articles, a calendar of events. Things like that. We asked for volunteers, and this guy offered to help. Everything was fine for about a month. Then I got a message from her saying the guy disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“That’s the way she made it sound. That he disappeared into thin air. But I kept asking questions. Eventually she admitted he claimed he was in love with her and wanted her to meet him in Vegas.”
“What? Did they know each other?”
“No. Sounds crazy, right? Knowing Dena, my guess is that she probably flirted with him online and led him on so he would work for her.” Ruth turned wistful. “And the thing was . . . I’m sure it worked. She could cast a spell over people when she wanted.” A noise that could have been a laugh if she’d let it. “Look at me. I worked for her for free for a year. On top of my day job. And all I got out of it was a bullet in my ass.”
Georgia shot her a look.
She ran a hand through her hair. “Well, okay. I was just being flip. I got the satisfaction of working against the monster in the Oval Office.”
“Has it been worth it?”
“Absolutely.” She leaned back again. “You know, after the guy ‘disappeared,’ I checked him out. Turns out he was married.”
Georgia blinked. “Did Dena know?”
“She says she didn’t. But pictures of his family were plastered all over his Facebook profile. He wasn’t hiding it.” She hesitated. “Not that it matters.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dena already had a boyfriend.”
“Is that so?”
“Like I said, she has . . . had . . . kind of a magnetic personality. She was hard to resist.”
“Who was her boyfriend?”
“One of the other admins. Curt Dixon.”
Georgia wrote it down, wondering if Ruth was jealous of Dena. From what she’d said, it was hard not to be.
“What about the tech guy who was married? What was his name?”
“Hand me my laptop. It’s over there.” She pointed to a table in the corner of the room.
Georgia retrieved it. Ruth busied herself, tapping keys, then said, “Willie Remson. He’s on Facebook. From Maryland.”
Georgia wrote it down. “Thanks. Whatever her motives, it sounds like Dena trusted you.”
“We were close. But, like I said, that doesn’t mean we always agreed. We’d have arguments about how the group should be run. I’ve worked so hard, it’s hard not to feel proprietary, you know? And I’m sure Dena felt the same way. But we made it work.”
“So who do you think killed Dena?”
Ruth looked startled. “Jarvis did, of course. An act of domestic terrorism. And when I’m recovered, you can bet your bottom dollar I’m going to get back at those right-wing assholes.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Well, I’ll probably run the group. That is, if Curt’s okay with it.”
“Curt Dixon.”
“Right. DJ and Dena were the other admins, but—well—they’re not here anymore.”
Georgia nodded. “You said ‘assholes.’ Does that mean you think someone put him up to it?”
“You know, the police asked me the same question. I’ll tell you what I told them. I didn’t have anything to do with her death. Shit. I almost died myself. And—and I miss Dena. Things—things just aren’t the same.”
That wasn’t the question Georgia had asked. She noted it down and changed the subject. “Did she have any enemies?”
“Oh yeah.” Ruth rolled her eyes. “We all did.”
“Such as?”
“Even though we were always on troll patrol, one or two slipped in. And, of course, she hated her father.”
“Why?”
“She blamed him for her parents’ divorce. Said he was cheating on her mother. Ironic, isn’t it?”
Georgia let it go. “What about her brother?”
Ruth seemed to think about it. “She didn’t talk about him much. Just things like ‘we had dinner,’ or ‘we took Mom to a movie.’ Oh. There were a few creepy phone calls, Dena said. But she didn’t seem too bothered by them.”
“Creepy phone calls?”
“Hang-ups, she said. I told the police about them.”
Georgia made a note.
“I see. So what are your plans now?”
“Not sure. The group will go on as long as Cheetoman is in the White House. And, like I said, Curt and I will have to talk about who takes over.” For the first time in their conversation, Ruth flashed Georgia what looked like a smile.
“One more question. Do the words ‘beef jerky’ bring anything to mind?”
“Huh?”
“Beef jerky.”
A faintly irritated expression flitted across Ruth’s face. “Not a damn thing. Hate the stuff.”