“That’s what my children say when they don’t want to talk about it.”
Andrea let her silence be his answer.
“All right,” Bible finally said, using the now-familiar tone that said it wasn’t all right. He pulled the SUV to the curb. Put the gear in park. “Here we are.”
Andrea looked up. A split-level house was perched at the top of a steep hill. The steps to the front porch zigzagged up three flights because the pitch was so severe. The garage door was open. Cardboard boxes and storage racks filled both bays. Ricky was clearly using the area as overflow for the diner. Piles of dirty aprons and bar towels were stacked around an ancient-looking washer and dryer.
Bible said, “I’ll stay down here in the car. Before you go, I’ll give you Marshal rule number five: you can’t ride two horses with one ass.”
That sounded more like one of his Foghorn Leghorn homilies, but Andrea had already figured it out on her own. He was telling her to put Emily Vaughn out of her mind.
“We need Ricky to give us some actionable information on Wexler, Nardo or the farm. That’s how we help Star Bonaire.”
“Exactly.”
Andrea opened the car door. She rubbed her sore wrist as she started the vertical ascent to the house. A bruise was starting to come up. She had no idea why she was being so precious about the injury. After a kidney punch at Glynco, she had literally pissed blood. She’d gotten a black eye and a split lip, both of which had felt like badges of honor.
She supposed the thing that made her wrist different was Dean Wexler. He had meant to hurt her. He’d wanted to put Andrea in her place, the same way he had put Star, Alice and all of the other women at the farm in their place.
Though Marshals didn’t generally investigate, several hours of Andrea’s training had been devoted to interviewing, questioning and interrogating. Ricky Fontaine wasn’t a suspect, but she was a possible witness to whatever was happening at the farm. Barring that, she might know some women who had gotten away. Andrea would need to establish a rapport to make Ricky feel comfortable, all while projecting competence so that Ricky felt that any information she provided would be thoroughly investigated and, if criminal violations were found, acted upon.
Andrea let go of her wrist as she walked past the green Honda Civic parked in the driveway. She glanced inside. The car was a mess, papers and trash scattered everywhere. She looked up at the house, which was probably the same house Eric and Erica Blakely had grown up in. Andrea couldn’t help but wonder if Clayton Morrow had ever made this same arduous climb up the three flights of concrete stairs. She could be about to place her feet in the same footsteps that her father had made forty years ago.
“Hey, hon. Sorry about the stairs. They’re murder on your calves.” Ricky had thrown open the screen door. She was in shorts and T-shirt. Her ankles were bare, but her Madonna bangles were on full display. She had added a few ribbons to break up the color of the black and silver bracelets.
Andrea took a turn on the second landing and climbed the last flight of stairs. Her first impression was that Ricky’s efficient, maternal vibe was gone. This was the exact opposite of an Esther Vaughn-like transformation. The woman looked completely drained of energy, which made sense considering the restaurant was open seven days a week, from six until midnight.
Ricky said, “They called from the diner to tell me you were looking for me. Do you want some soda?”
“That’d be great.” Andrea’s instructors had taught her that the easiest way to put someone at ease was to let them serve you. “Thanks for talking to me. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”
“Hope you don’t mind me working while we talk. I’ve got my timer set for the dryer. If I don’t keep the laundry going, I’ll never get it done. This way.”
Ricky led her through the living room. Clean towels and aprons filled three baskets on the floor. The couch and chairs looked new, but the tan carpet had to be original. The art on the pastel walls had probably been advertised as “couch-sized” on the banners inside the flea market. Andrea saw a bunch of framed photographs on a console table near the hallway. Two narrow drawers were under the wooden top. Ricky had stacked oversized books into the open space below, using the cross-bracing between the spindly legs as a platform. There was no way to get a closer look. Ricky was already walking up a single flight of open-backed stairs.
Andrea could smell a mustiness in the kitchen, probably because of the clutter. An oval table was piled with yellowing bills and paperwork that probably dated back to Andrea’s birth. A small, sad section was carved out where Ricky clearly ate her meals alone. Andrea guessed at some point the woman had taken an interest in decorating. A light blue pendant lamp hung over the sink. The countertops were black quartz. The cabinets had been painted bright blue. All of the appliances were white except for the fridge, which was black. Postcards and Save the Dates and photographs and the usual kinds of crap peppered the doors.
“Don’t get old, hon.” Ricky was twisting the cap off a prescription bottle.
Andrea recognized the red ClearRx bottle from Target. Ricky tossed back two pills while Andrea watched. There were at least a dozen more pill bottles on the counter.
Ricky called them out. “Blood pressure, cholesterol, anti-inflammatories, shit for my thyroid, my acid reflux, my back pain, my nerves. Pepsi okay?”
Andrea took a second to realize she was talking about the soda.
“Yes, thank you.”
Ricky opened the fridge. A faded Polaroid of a teenage boy in cut-off shorts caught Andrea’s eye. His hair was shaggy in a distinctive late-seventies style. He was shirtless, his skinny chest and awkward elbows putting him on the cusp of puberty.
Eric Blakely.
Andrea remembered what Nardo had said about Ricky’s brother back at the farm—
Dead as a doornail, poor old thing.
“Okay.” Ricky had filled a glass with ice. She popped the top on the can of Pepsi and poured it with an expert flick of her wrist. “I’m guessing you’re here because of the judge.”
Andrea was mindful that her deadpan needed practice. She worked to keep her expression neutral. “Why do you say that?”