She opened the kitchen cabinets, checked out the refrigerator. They were not well stocked-a few cans of soup and tuna, a dusty box of Mueller elbow pasta. Did Bobby Hilliard know his lease on life was a short one? She shook her head, smiling at her folly. If kitchen cupboards were reliable barometers of one’s expectations, a casual visitor to her home would deduce she had been living on borrowed time for about ten years now. As a waiter, Bobby Hilliard had probably feasted on choice leftovers several nights a week. The absence of groceries did not prove Bobby Hilliard had gone to the graveyard planning to stay.
Still, something was missing. Tess walked through the rooms again, puzzled, as the janitor grew more visibly impatient, sighing and shifting his weight from one leg to the other.
“No books,” she said, so suddenly and loudly that the janitor jumped.
“What?”
“There are no books in this apartment.”
The librarian owned no books. No, not none-there was a small shelf next to the cherrywood four-poster, filled with antiques guides and reference books on furniture. Bobby Hilliard also had a family Bible and a few history books about Maryland. But the latter were trade paperbacks, well-worn, clearly not the volumes he was suspected of stealing from the Pratt. If he had stolen books, where were they? Had he sold them? But Daniel Clary had suggested Bobby stole things to keep, not fence. He liked pretty things.
“Are you sure no one took anything out of here?”
The janitor looked insulted. “You see how I am with you. Ain’t nobody walk out of here with anything, unless it was his parents. Them I left alone, but that was different.”
“What about the cops? I don’t mean stealing, but they might have taken things as evidence.”
“Woulda, coulda, but they didn’t. They looked all over here like there was something they wanted, but they walked out empty-handed.”
“What was that noise?” Tess asked. The janitor turned, and she pocketed Bobby Hilliard’s miniature alarm clock in one deft movement, just as a test. Oh, yeah, he was really tough to trick.
Tess pulled up the curtains. Bobby’s apartment faced east, looking over the green-shingled roofs of Guilford, and all the way toward the partially demolished Memorial Stadium. Dust motes circled lazily in the shafts of light, the only things that had moved here in some time. The apartment felt like a movie set. But what part had Bobby Hilliard been playing?
“Is that the Francis Scott Key Bridge in the distance?” she asked the janitor. When he went to look, she slipped the clock out of her pocket and left it in its place. Again, he never noticed.
Chapter 20
Tess made Breezewood, the self-billed town of motels, by 10 a.m. Saturday. Halfway between Baltimore and Pittsburgh, this little intersection of gas stations and junk-food restaurants was an inevitable stopping point on any trip through western Pennsylvania. Inevitable because, legend had it, a congressman had used his clout to ensure no cloverleaf would ever be built here. To get from Interstate 70 to the Pennsylvania Turnpike and back again, one had to maneuver three congested blocks, crammed with places that would make your arteries as sluggish as Breezewood’s traffic. So Tess stopped, although her Toyota could easily make it to Bobby Hilliard’s hometown without gassing up. It was only another hour down the road.
Tess knew this stretch of Pennsylvania from her college days, when she and Whitney and the other Washington College rowers had competed in the Head of the Ohio. She had been curious, even then, about the small towns glimpsed along the way. A line from Auden came back to her, something about the raw places where executives would never tamper. She had always wondered if the topography influenced the culture here. The rolling hills of southwestern Pennsylvania suggested a protected, closed place, isolated from the rest of the world. Her radio faded quickly, so a punch of the “seek” button kept taking her back to the same country station. From this vantage point, it was possible to see Baltimore as part of something called “the East,” although Baltimore never felt particularly eastern when Tess was there.
The Hilliards’ farm was not easy to find, even with Vonnie Hilliard’s careful directions, which included precise mile markers and such landmarks as an old metal Koontz Dairy sign, which leaned against the barn that signaled the beginning of their property. Mrs. Hilliard had clearly been puzzled by Tess’s request to see them, but it did not occur to her to refuse. She was used to doing what people in authority asked. She did not realize Tess had no authority.
But the Hilliards knew enough not to confuse the visit with a social call. They sat at their kitchen table, hands folded in front of them, making no offer of drinks or food. They had the glum, hopeless look of people in hospital waiting rooms.
“The police have asked us all these questions,” Mr. Hilliard said tonelessly, at one point. “Why would anyone want to kill Bobby? Who were his friends? Did he seem to have more money than he used to have? But we don’t know. We didn’t know anything about his life down there.”
His grim expression suggested he would have preferred to keep it that way.
“I don’t think he’d hurt anybody,” his mother said. “I can’t believe what they said on the television.”
“You saw that cable show?” Tess tried to imagine the Hilliards watching Jim Yeager. How alien it must be to them, the notion of a man who made his living by yapping.
“We have a satellite dish,” Mr. Hilliard said, stung. “We get all the movie channels and then some.”
“But, no, we didn’t see it,” Mrs. Hilliard put in. “Detective Rainer called after, just in case, and said we shouldn’t worry, he didn’t think it happened the way the television man said. But he did ask us if Bobby had known some people. I don’t remember their names…”
Tess did. “ Arnold Pitts, Jerold Ensor, Shawn Hayes.”
“That sounds right.”
“And did he?”
The Hilliards sighed, almost in unison, two people so in sync after years together that they might as well be one.
“We don’t know,” Mrs. Hilliard said sadly. “We just don’t know.”
Tess decided to test their professed ignorance. “Do you know why he decided to give up his profession, the one he had trained for, to become a waiter?”
“More money,” his father said. “He paid for college himself, so I guess it was his business if he wanted to wait tables instead of working in a library.”
“No other reason?” she prodded.
They looked at her as if there could be no better reason, and Tess, glancing around the plain kitchen, felt ashamed. Of course his parents would have accepted this explanation.
“When was the last time you spoke to him?”
“Christmas Day,” Mrs. Hilliard said, happy for a question she could answer. “He was going to come home, but he had to work the night before and the day after, and it was just too much. He sent us some nice things, though. He was considerate that way.”
“Nice things. What?”
“Well, cologne for his father. And perfume for me. And a vase, that one there.” She indicated a blue-white vase on the kitchen counter. It held three silk roses. Tess wondered if it would hold fresh ones, once spring came. If Bobby Hilliard had lived, he might have instructed his mother, ever so gently, to fill it with nasturtiums or zinnias from her own garden.
“Could I see his room?”
“Why?” This was Mr. Hilliard, suspicious.
“I don’t know,” Tess confessed. “But I’ve come all this way, and I’d like to see where he grew up.”
The room where a young Bobby Hilliard had bided his time, plotting his escape from this small town, was an early version of his apartment, filled with yard-sale finds and furniture he had refinished. Only here there were books too, a high shelf filled with boys’ adventure stories: Treasure Island , Danny Dunn and the Homework Machine. No Poe, not that Tess could see, but there was a stack of Classic Comics, with The Gold Bug on top. This might have been a coincidence, as the others in the pile were illustrated versions of Hawthorne, Melville, Crane, and Dickens.