Down the Rabbit Hole (18 page)

Unobtrusive and big at the same time? Dad and Mom didn't quite have their story together, but
maybe it didn't matter, because Grampy didn't seem to hear. He repeated, “Partners with the Ferrands?”

Dad banged his fist on the table, faced Grampy, took Grampy's shoulder. “Pop,” he said, “listen to me. We need this.”

Grampy tried to shake Dad's hand off, but Dad was a lot stronger. “You need condos on my land?”

“What you don't know,” Dad said, and glanced around. He saw Ingrid. “Get in the kitchen.”

Ingrid went into the kitchen. The dishwasher chugged away and Ty was gone. She lingered just beyond the archway, out of sight.

“What you don't know, Pop,” said Dad, lowering his voice, but not below the threshold of Ingrid's hearing, “is that things aren't too good at work right now.”

“Not good for who?”

“Me. Tim thinks I encouraged him to back this biotech start-up.”

“Biotech start-up?” From Grampy's tone, Ingrid knew he had no clue what Dad was talking about.

“Some Princeton guys,” Dad said. “I found them, yes, but the truth is I told Tim to go slow, even if he doesn't remember it that way.”

“What are you telling me?” said Grampy. His
voice sounded a little thin and scratchy.

“The drug, chemical, hormone, whatever it was,” said Dad, “ended up making cancer worse. Tim lost a million bucks.” There was a long silence. “Do you understand the situation, Pop?”

Maybe Grampy nodded, one way or the other, because there wasn't another word. What was the situation? Ingrid wasn't sure. How did you lose a million bucks? Was Dad's job in danger? Didn't the Ferrands have other millions, or at least the stuff to make it, twenty-four seven? She put the salad bowl in the sink.

Mom came in, those two lines deep in her forehead.

“Mom? Is it true Mr. Ferrand owns houses in the Flats?”

“Yes.”

“Including the one where the woman got murdered?”

“I'm listing it tomorrow.”

“So the woman rented it from him?”

“Sort of,” said Mom. “She was pretty spotty about actually making the payments. Tim tried to get rid of her for years.”

 

Upstairs, in her pajamas, the ones with the big red strawberries, Ingrid passed Ty on her way to the bathroom.

“Good job,” she said. “You almost won.”

“I could have,” Ty said.

“I thought so too there for a while,” Ingrid said.

“No,” said Ty. “I mean I could have. Dad told me not to.”

Ingrid was stunned. “But why?” she said. It went against the whole sporting code they'd been brought up with.

“For Grampy's pride.”

“Dad said that?”

“Uh-huh.”

Ingrid brushed her teeth and went to bed, more mixed up than she'd ever been. Her mind was full of questions. One rose to the top. Did Mr. Ferrand own a pair of paint-spattered Adidas sneakers?
The bigger the crime, the more obvious the motive.

I
NGRID WOKE UP IN THE
night. Nigel was crowding the bed, had her jammed into the wall, her face mashed against what was left of Mister Happy.

“Move.”

He wouldn't move. She pushed at him, hands, feet, both together. He didn't budge.

“You're sleeping in the basement from now on.”

Still snoring, Nigel shifted over a few inches. What did that mean? Was he smarter, more obedient, better in every way, when he was unconscious?

Ingrid closed her eyes. Her own unconscious was bubbling around inside, turning things over at high speed. Shoes—red Pumas and paint-spattered
Adidas; the hanged audiotape man; the good-bye letter that Philip Prescott wrote to
The Echo
; the missing
Dial M for Murder
playbill with the frightened Kate and the silhouetted actor. All that stuff spun around like one of those effects in a bad movie and kept sleep far away.

Hey.

She opened her eyes.

Who was he anyway, that silhouetted actor? So many questions. Maybe the only way to solve the case was to answer every one. Those names in
The Echo
's
Dial M for Murder
review, for example—R. William Grant, David Vardack, Marvin Sadinsky: Didn't the silhouetted actor have to be one of them? Philip Prescott had hired professional actors. Maybe they'd been reviewed in other places. What would Mia say at a time like this?

Google them.

Ingrid climbed over Nigel—he made a grumbling sound—and went to her computer. The house was quiet, except for the rain outside, falling softly on the roof. She Googled in alphabetical order.

J. William Grant: many, many hits for many J. William Grants, but no mention of acting, the Prescott Players, or Echo Falls.

Marvin Sadinsky: eight hits for three Marvin Sadinskys—a professor at Tulane, the head of a running club in Duluth, a scrap metal dealer in Long Beach.

David Vardack: one hit. It linked to a blog run by a fan of obscure movies. “Anybody ever see
The Accused Will Rise
with Jack Palance and Barbara Stanwyck, more than thirty years old now? Best thing in it's this one scene with a young actor named David Vardack, where he gets trapped down an old well. Whatever happened to him?” No one had replied.

Ingrid gazed at the screen, pretty sure now that the silhouetted actor was David Vardack. But what did that mean? All she'd done was add even more questions to the pile. Did any of this—Philip Prescott, David Vardack—have to do with Kate's murder? She didn't see how; it was all so long ago.
The Accused Will Rise
, Jack Palance, Barbara Stanwyck, all complete unknowns. The only solid fact she had was Mr. Ferrand wanting to get Cracked-Up Katie out of 341 Packer—

Someone was moving in the hall. Ingrid turned. Her door opened and Dad walked in, wearing his robe, hair mussed up.

“Ingrid,” he said. “What are you doing up?”

“A little work,” she said.

“It's three in the morning.”

“You're up too,” she said.

“I saw your light,” said Dad. He leaned on her doorjamb, gazed at her. There were dark circles under his eyes. If he'd been sleeping, it hadn't been a good one. “You're a hard worker, Ingrid. Don't forget to have some fun on the way.”

“I won't.”

“Better get some sleep,” Dad said. “What's that in your bed?”

“Nigel.”

“Jesus,” said Dad.

Ingrid shut off the computer. “Why does Grampy hate the Ferrands?”

“Grampy hates a lot of things,” Dad said.

“Why are the Ferrands so greedy?” Ingrid said.

“They're not greedy. Tim's a good businessman, that's all.”

“Do you like working for him, Dad?”

“It's a good job,” Dad said. “No complaints.”

Ingrid realized Dad was protecting her from worry: a real dad. But she was protecting him from worry too. She climbed over Nigel, got back in bed.
“Does Mr. Ferrand play tennis?” she said.

“That's a strange question,” said Dad. “He doesn't like tennis, actually. He's played squash all his life.”

That figured—mere tennis not elite enough for the Ferrands. “What kind of shoes do you wear for that?”

“Like tennis,” Dad said. “Why?”

“No reason,” said Ingrid. “Night, Dad. Love you.”

“Night,” said Dad, moving toward the door. He stopped. “Heard about the backward poet?” he said.

“Backward poet?”

“Who always wrote in verse,” Dad said.

“Please,” said Ingrid.

 

Friday night. The visitors wore black and silver, very cool uniforms. They did a lot of yelling during warm-up, yelling that drifted over to the parking lot where Ingrid was grilling burgers for the Boosters.

Stacy and her brother, Sean, came over, their faces painted red. Sean had his shirt off too, even though it was cold, or maybe because it was cold, and on his chest in big red letters was the word
KILL
. Was that about the game or something else? The problem with Sean—lots of problems with Sean, actually—was that you never knew.

“Want me to paint your face?” said Stacy.

“No, thanks.”

“How about just the tip of your nose?” Stacy said.

That struck Sean as pretty funny. “Yeah,” he said. “Like Rudolph.” Which was kind of immature coming from a seventeen-year-old of DUI fame. He uncapped a paint stick and leaned across the grill.

“I said no,” Ingrid said.

“Lay a burger on me, then,” said Sean.

“I'll sell you a burger,” said Ingrid. “Fifty cents.”

He turned to Stacy. “Got fifty cents?”

Stacy fished two quarters from her pocket. She wasn't the same around her brother. Ingrid stuck a patty in a bun and was handing it over to Sean when she saw a police cruiser pull into the parking lot, park on the far side. Not unusual; two or three cops came to every football game, but—

But when the door opened, Chief Strade got out. Ingrid didn't remember him at any games.

“You gonna let go of that?” Sean said.

Ingrid let go of the burger. A taxi parked beside the cruiser. The driver got out. An unshaven guy chewing on a toothpick? Too far away for Ingrid to tell, but how many taxi drivers could there be in Echo Falls?

“Stacy,” she said, “I changed my mind.”

“About what?”

“Paint my face,” Ingrid said.

“Yeah?” said Stacy. “Maybe I'll have a burger too. That one in the bottom—”

“Now,” said Ingrid.

“Huh?”

Ingrid grabbed Sean's paint stick, smeared red paint all over her face.

“You're doing a terrible job,” Stacy said.

Ingrid smeared more—forehead, nose, cheeks, upper lip, chin, neck, ears. Sean started laughing.

“Shut your stupid mouth,” Ingrid said.

“What did you say?” said Sean. Then he saw Chief Strade approaching and backed away a little.

The chief came over with the taxi driver trailing along. Yes, unshaven and chewing on a toothpick, although Ingrid, busily flipping burgers, took that in from the corner of her eye.

“Ingrid,” said the chief. “That you under the war paint?”

Ingrid looked up. “Oh, hi, Mr. Strade. Ready for some football?”

The taxi driver was looking at her closely. Chief Strade glanced at him. The taxi driver shrugged.

The chief's eyes went to her, Stacy, Sean. “Do you always—” he said, gesturing at their faces, all painted. And just at that moment, proving there was a God and he could be kind and just, a whole bunch of kids went by, every one with a painted face. Kids united!

“It's a big game,” Ingrid said.

The chief nodded. “Keeping your nose clean, Sean Rubino?” he said, not looking at him.

Sean jerked a little, like a startled baby. “Yeah,” he said.

“Squeaky clean?” said the chief. “I've been to too many funerals.”

“Squeaky clean,” said Sean, recovering his poise fast, fast enough to add the slightest edge of mimicry to his answer. He drifted over toward the condiments, squirted ketchup on what was left of his burger, kept drifting.

“Murad?” said Chief Strade. “Mind stepping forward so Ingrid can get a good look at you?”

The taxi driver stepped forward.

“Have you ever seen this gentleman before, Ingrid?” the chief said.

“Never,” said Ingrid.

“You've never ridden in his taxi?” said the chief.

“Ridden in a taxi?” Ingrid said, as though that was
just about the most outlandish thing an Echo Falls girl could do. All those years with Jill Monteiro paying off. She remembered Watson saying somewhere that the stage lost a fine actor when Holmes went into detection. He was also—oh my God—a master of disguise.

The chief's penetrating eyes met hers for a moment, but their penetrating power was weakened by all that diabolical red. “Okay,” he said. “Just checking.”

“Care for a burger?” Ingrid said.

“No, thanks,” said the chief.

“How about you, sir?” Ingrid said, then thought, uh-oh, maybe Murad had dietary laws and she'd just screwed up.

“Burger,” said Murad. “Two.”

Ingrid selected two of the juiciest. Murad reached for his wallet. “Compliments of the Boosters,” Ingrid said, stopping herself, with some difficulty, from adding “Welcome to America.”

“Just checking?” said Stacy after they'd gone. “Checking what? He's such a jerk.”

Over on the field the band was playing “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

“Game time,” said Ingrid, shutting off the gas.
Chief Strade scared her, but she didn't think he was a jerk. More like the opposite, in fact. She realized she didn't want to disappoint him, and not just because he was Joey's dad. Somehow this had to come out right.

 

The black-and-silvers tried the flea-flicker on their second play. Ty started to come forward, started to take the bait like everyone else, and then—yes!—saw what was really happening. Blessed miracle. He backpedaled, found the receiver, matched him stride for stride. Ball in the air. They both leaped, hands outstretched, a frozen moment under the lights. And—19 came down with it! Ty! He turned upfield, dodged a tackler—

“Run! Run!” Dad was jumping up and down, beside himself. They all were.

And dodged another tackler and shifted into a gear Ingrid hadn't known he had. Maybe Ty hadn't known either. He just blazed, right down the sideline, maybe not graceful like Assistant Coach Trimble but even faster. Crowd on their feet. Touchdown. He raised the ball high but didn't do any embarrassing dancing or stuff like that. The best moment of his life, Ingrid just knew it. She almost cried, which was so weird.

 

Back at home alone—Mom and Dad at a fund-raising party for the Heritage Committee, Ty out celebrating with the team—Ingrid had another look at the engagement announcement from
The Echo.
She found that line about Katie's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kovac of East Harrow.

Bzzz.
Did the Echo Falls phone book include East Harrow? Ingrid checked. It did not. She tried information.

“No Charles Kovac,” said the information woman. “The only Kovac's an Eleanor on Moodus Road. Do you want that?”

“I don't know.”

“Up to you.”

“Okay.”

The information woman transferred her over to some electronic voice that gave the number and dialed it automatically for fifty cents. It rang a bunch of times and Ingrid was just about to hang up when a woman answered.

“Hello?” she said. An old woman, kind of shaky. “Hello? Hello? Who is it?”

Ingrid hung up.