SEVEN

  

Manyunk is hilly. Not a problem on a normal day, but Vaughn had been right. Now was the worst time to venture out in the snow. Allison fishtailed her way up the steep incline of Shawn’s street, narrowly avoiding the cars parked bumper-to-bumper along the side.

Shawn’s house was a narrow row home on a street of narrow row homes. Brick fascia, an iron porch railing, and newly-painted white trim marked his house, as did the soda can sculpture on the front porch, which used crumpled Coke, Pepsi, Mountain Dew and Sprite cans to spell out “Shawn” in giant letters. Allison climbed out of her vehicle and trudged up the snow-covered pathway to the front door. At least she knew she was in the right place.

A young woman answered the door. She had closely-cropped black hair and a silver nose ring, and her army fatigues made it half way down thick calves before they were met by a pair of black combat boots. She crinkled her nose when she saw Allison.

“Here for Shawn?”

Allison nodded. “Is he home?”

“Depends. Did you bring cash? He’s two months behind on his half of the rent.”

Allison, not sure what she was talking about, decided to play along. “Is he here?” She looked past the woman’s shoulder into a stark black and white living area. A pit bull lay on the couch, snoozing away.

The woman glanced over her shoulder. “That’s Crafty. He won’t hurt you. Wait here. I’ll get Shawn.”

Allison eyed the dog, but Crafty didn’t look inclined to wake up, much less attack. A few seconds later, a slender young man in jeans and a green Dead Milkmen t-shirt walked in the room. “Thanks Kelly,” he said over his shoulder, but his voice trailed off when he saw Allison. “Who are you?” he whispered.

“Cash!” Kelly called from somewhere in the back of the house.

Shawn at least had the courtesy to blush.

“I’d like to talk to you,” Allison said. “About Scott Fairweather.”

“My uncle?” Shawn hesitated, but after a contemplative glance in the direction of his roommate, he said, “Come to my rooms. We can talk in private.”

His rooms were two bedrooms that opened into one another through a large archway. One room had been painted a deep violet, the other a jarring blue. The space was littered with art materials: paint cans, brushes, canvasses, jars of murky water and garbage. Allison saw more soda cans, bits of plywood, a tripod, twisted metal rods, an easel, even an old toaster. Despite the clutter, the rooms were mostly clean. They smelled of latex paint, marijuana and Clorox.

“Okay, I have no idea who you are,” Shawn said. “But thanks for the quick getaway. Kelly’s a nag, especially when it comes to money.” He smiled, and Allison saw echoes of Scott. “So…I guess I should ask: why are you asking about Uncle Scott?”

Shawn looked young. He had an open, friendly face and a fresh rash of pimples that surrounded his mouth and colored his chin. He was tall like Scott, but thin to the point of emaciation.

“I’m sorry about his passing.”

“Yeah, well. Are you the police?”

“No.” Allison hesitated. “Scott and I were…old friends.”

“Friends?”

Allison glanced down at her hands.

“Friends.”

“I didn’t know my uncle to have a lot of female…friends.”

Allison looked at Shawn, holding his gaze. He stared at her steadily, but there was no real challenge in his eyes. Finally, she said, “Were you close to your uncle?”

Shawn shrugged. “I haven’t seen him much recently. He and my dad had a miserable relationship.” He smiled. “Adults tell kids to behave, and then they go and act like children.”

“Yeah, adults are funny like that.” Allison paused. “I know I sound like I’m prying, Shawn, but can you help me understand something? Your uncle…what was he like before he died?”

“I thought you said you were friends.”

“Long ago.”

“Maybe you can narrow down your question?”

Allison grappled with what to say. What did she hope to gain? Suddenly she felt silly. “I guess I just wanted to connect with someone who knew Scott. I remember him when he was at Mystic Toys. He seemed so ambitious. On the cusp of getting married—”

Shawn snorted. “That almost didn’t happen.”

“Oh.” Allison bit her lip reflexively. “Well, it seems like he and Leah patched things up. They even had a baby.”

“That would be Jessica. I haven’t seen her yet.” Shawn stood and walked toward the paint and feather canvas. He stood in front of it, back to her. “My family is messed up. But what family isn’t, right? Uncle Scott and my dad haven’t spoken in weeks. Leah, well—” he turned around again, “—she hates my dad. And, by extension, me and my mom. We may go to the funeral anyway. Even though Leah made it real clear she doesn’t want us there.”

Allison remembered the obituary. “When is the funeral?”

“Saturday. If they release the body. Closed casket. Two o’clock at Saint Andrews.”

“Do the police have any idea who killed him, Shawn?”

“Hell if I know.”

“I’ve heard that money or drugs could have been involved. That doesn’t sound like the Scott I knew.”

“Anything’s possible.” He waved his arm around the room. “Money, or the lack thereof, can make people desperate.”

True, Allison thought, thinking of her own sister, Amy. Allison looked out the window, at the small yard beyond. The snow had tapered to flurries.

“Thanks for talking,” she said. “Again, I’m sorry about your uncle. And about your family troubles. I understand how hard that can be.”

Shawn nodded. “When I was a kid, I thought Uncle Scott was the bomb. He always had something big going on. Always. And even though I was young, he was always willing to let me in on it. You know how that made me feel? Like a man.”

Allison smiled. That sounded like the Scott she remembered. “It’s too bad you lost touch.”

Another shift of the eyes. “Yeah, it’d been a while,” Shawn mumbled. Only Allison didn’t believe him.