TWENTY-ONE 

I called my thanks to Harold and Tim, then we jumped into the car, which I’d left running. I drove to the edge of the parking lot, then waited until I could see the taillights of the other vehicle. Pulling out onto the street, I waited another few beats, then followed.

Was it the same car from the other night? I couldn’t tell.

“Who are we following?” Brenda asked. “Not that it matters. As it happens, I don’t have anything better to do.”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Just being nosy, I guess.” Though it was more than that. The Law Offices of MacNamara and MacNamara were mixed up in some ugliness, ugliness that resulted in a man’s death, as well as affected my family. So it was personal to me. Sure, I could have left it all to the professionals. But so far they had arrested Russ Riley, on whom they had some moderately good evidence. So they wouldn’t be much inclined to look any further for the murderer of Jim MacNamara.

And what did I know? Russ might very well have done it. But I hoped, for his mother’s sake, that he hadn’t.

The car made a right turn by the public park that flanked the river and drove along it for a couple of blocks, before taking another right. Toward the River Rock. But instead of pulling in, the car kept going.

“I’m going to pull a little closer. There’s a small notebook and pad of paper in the glove compartment. See if you can get the license plate.”

What I’d do with the license plate, even if I had it, I didn’t know. I was pretty sure you needed a subpoena, or to be in law enforcement, to access DMV records. But it gave Brenda something to do.

“Got it,” she said.

I dropped back again, continuing to follow the taillights. The car took another right turn, which put it back out onto the main drag of Bonaparte Bay. I pulled over until I saw her clear the lone traffic light at the end of Theresa Street, then pulled out again. She took a left, then drove under the “Welcome to Bonaparte Bay” arch and out onto Route 12.

If this was Jennifer Murdoch, she wasn’t going home. She was going out of town.

“Should we go any farther?” I asked Brenda.

“We don’t know who we’re following. Okay. But do we know why?”

“Er, no. Well, maybe. That woman has met with Ben MacNamara twice that I know of since his father died. After hours.” I guess I had decided to follow her a little longer, because we were still going in her direction.

“So are we just being nosy? Which I don’t have a problem with. You’d be amazed the kinds of personal stuff people throw away. Believe me, I know. She’s driving an older Ford Escort, silver or white.” She rattled off the plate number.

“Have you ever seen that car while you’re making your rounds?” We were passing the Can-Am Bridge, which was beautifully lit up now that night had fallen. I wasn’t going to go too much longer, not without a clear objective. But the drive had been worth it just to see the bridge lights against the starless sky.

Brenda paused. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Though that’s not a car that sticks out in your mind, like a jacked-up truck or a Corvette.”

The car put its blinker on, signaling right. It was turning into a small community of riverfront condominiums that rented for a pretty penny during the summer. But this time of year, the rents might have gone down, letting her live in a nicer place than she could afford during the winter. But that was just speculation based on the age and style of car she drove.

“Should I pull in?” I caught my lower lip between my teeth. Suddenly, this didn’t seem like such a great idea.

“We’ve come this far. Might as well see it through,” Brenda said, ever practical.

I put on my own blinker and pulled in. The car was maybe a hundred yards ahead now. “Watch where it pulls in,” I said. “I’m going to hang back a little.”

I counted slowly to ten, then started driving again.

“It’s coming up on the right,” Brenda said. “No garage. I can see the car parked in the driveway. She’s putting her key in the lock of the house.”

Because her back was turned toward me, I risked a look at the woman. I could see the long braid, but not much else due to the long puffer coat and thick hat she wore. She was about the same height as Jennifer Murdoch, but Jennifer Murdoch would never drive a car that old. Unless she was trying to hide something.

So who was Ben MacNamara’s mystery woman? I had no idea. I kept driving, past the rest of the condos, then back out onto Route 12 and back toward Bonaparte Bay.

Brenda made a note of the house number on the mailbox.

This little jaunt had raised more questions than it answered. I realized a couple of other things too. I wasn’t quite ready to go back home. And I hadn’t had dinner.

“You hungry?” I asked.

“Jo-Jo’s Family Diner is the only place open, and we’re headed that way.” Which was answer enough for me.

There were only a few cars in the Jo-Jo’s parking lot, which was to be expected this time of night. Patty, the waitress who always seemed to be on duty no matter when I came in, looked a little disappointed when she saw me with Brenda. I couldn’t blame her. I usually came here with Jack, and she flirted up a storm with him. It was all in good fun and Jack never crossed any lines. Somebody was occupying our usual booth, which was just as well. I was missing him powerfully, and sitting there would just make me sad. So we took a booth in the back and ordered. A couple of colas, a bowl of chicken tortilla soup for me, and a beef stew for Brenda. She liked her red meat.

While we waited for the food to arrive, Brenda pulled out her phone. It was one of those very large ones, somewhere in size between a normal phone and a small tablet. She put on a pair of reading glasses that looked very cute on her—the frames were a dark cherry red that made her blue eyes pop—then pulled out a slip of paper.

She pressed some numbers into the search bar. “No hits on the license plate. I didn’t expect any, but it was worth a try.”

Patty brought over our drinks and set them down. Her long pointy nails, polished to a high metallic purple shine, clicked on the Formica tabletop as she set down our paper-wrapped straws. She stared at the bruises on my face but didn’t ask and I felt a stab of self-consciousness. But apparently Patty wasn’t in the mood for chitchat, because she went back to her post behind the counter. Yeah, I missed Jack too.

Brenda looked down at the paper through her glasses, then pressed the phone again. “This is more like it,” she said. “Here it is—1416 Sunset Boulevard. A two-bedroom, two-bathroom home built five years ago. It’s assessed at a quarter million. And it’s owned by someone, no, something, called Tripler Enterprises.”

“Tripler?” I’d seen that name before, but where? Then I remembered. On a file on Lydia Ames’s desk. “Google that name, will you?” I leaned forward.

Brenda did as I asked. She frowned, then swiped her thumb toward the top of the screen. And repeated the maneuver. She looked up at me over the tops of her glasses. “A bunch of things come up, but they look like companies in other states, and there’s a bunch of things that look like get-rich-quick schemes. I don’t see anything that looks like it’s based in the North Country. They must not have a website.”

Hmmm. Maybe the woman with the long braid was the principal of Tripler, whatever that was. That would explain why she was meeting with Junior. But why after hours? Maybe—

Maybe, just maybe, I was reading too much into it.

But when it came to anything MacNamara, I was pretty sure I wasn’t.

Our dinners arrived. I sprinkled some crispy tortilla strips, some shredded cheddar, and some chopped scallions on top and tucked in. Delicious. Just a tiny bit of pleasant heat on the back of the tongue, but nothing to make me run screaming for a glass of milk. Brenda took a big spoonful containing a hearty hunk of beef covered in dark brown gravy and lifted it to her lips.

We ate in companionable silence, until Brenda picked up her baking powder biscuit and slathered some butter on it. “You gonna get Tim Arquette to check out your house tonight?”

The tender piece of chicken I’d just swallowed stuck in my throat. Asking Harold to put up the plywood on the Casa, playing Mata Hari by following the mystery woman, eating a late dinner here at Jo-Jo’s, all these things were avoidance techniques. Truth was, I did not want to go home. No matter how good the alarm system—and it was a good one—or how thoroughly a BBPD deputy checked out the house, I’d been assaulted today.

“No. I think I’ll stay at the Camelot again tonight. They’re going to put my name on a suite someday soon.” Plus I was going to need a long, hot soak in a Jacuzzi tub to combat the aches and pains that had already settled in. And the Bonaparte House plumbing just wasn’t up to the job.

Brenda nodded. “That’s smart. Then I won’t worry about you.” She didn’t look up from her bowl as she said those kind words. I felt a warm fuzzy.

“Thanks,” was all I said. Anything more would embarrass her. Or me.