“I understand,” he said. “But I don’t bite.”
“Do you have a car?” I asked.
“Yes.” He pointed to the street. “It’s that blue Ford over there.”
“Do you know the McDonald’s on Grant Street?” I asked. “The one by campus? It’s always crowded.”
“I know where it is,” he said. “I don’t live in Dover, but I’ve passed it.”
“I’ll meet you there in ten minutes,” I said.
As I drove the short distance to McDonald’s, I called Dan. “I need you to do me a favor,” I told him when he answered.
“Sure.”
“I also need you to not ask me a bunch of questions about it.”
“Okay,” he said, his voice cautious.
“I’m going to call you in an hour,” I said. “If you don’t hear from me in an hour, call me back. Or just come to the McDonald’s on Grant. One hour.”
“What the hell is going on, Elizabeth?” he asked.
“Okay,” I said. I couldn’t just keep him in the dark. “I’m going there to talk to someone who says he knew my mother. I don’t know this person, and he might be a lunatic, but he might also know things I need to know. That’s why we’re talking in a crowded restaurant, and that’s why I need you to check in with me later. If you don’t hear from me, assume he’s an ax murderer.”
“Great,” Dan said. “What a relaxing hour this will be.”
“I need you to do this for me,” I said. “I know I can trust you.”
“You know I’ll be your loyal pup,” he said.
“Something like that.”
The restaurant came into sight. The parking lot was full, and through the large windows I saw a number of diners sitting at the tables. I wouldn’t be alone, not by a long shot.
“Are you sure you don’t need to call the police?” Dan asked.
I guided the car into an empty space. I looked around and didn’t see Gordon Baxter anywhere. For all I knew, he wouldn’t make the trip. He could have been a crazy coming out of the woodwork just to antagonize a crime victim’s family.
“It’s okay,” I said. “But make sure you check in with me in an hour.” I paused. “I appreciate it. Really. I know I can be a pain, but I need you to do this for me. Please?”
“Of course,” he said. “One hour. Got it.”
I hung up and climbed out of the car.
Chapter Thirty-four
Gordon Baxter sat at a table near the door of the McDonald’s. A Styrofoam cup of coffee rested in front of him, the steam rising toward his face. I bypassed the counter and went to the table, but I didn’t sit. I didn’t know what I was going to hear from this man. I didn’t know whether I wanted to hear it at all.
He looked up at me, his face benevolent. He pointed at the empty chair across the table. “Have a seat,” he said. “Or are you getting something to eat?”
I sat down. I kept the phone in my hand. I wanted it to remind me of my deadline with Dan. One hour.
It was lunchtime, and the tables on either side of us were occupied. The chattering buzz of conversation went on all around us, punctuated by the occasional scream of a child or a shout from an employee in the kitchen. Gordon Baxter sipped from his cup.
“What would you like to know?” he asked.
“You’re the one who showed up on my doorstep,” I said. “You must have something you want to say to me.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “But in order to tell you why I came by your apartment, I’m going to have to give you some background. Maybe we’ll both get the information we want.”
I didn’t say anything. I waited for him to go on.
“Like I said, your mom and I were high school sweethearts.”
I interrupted him before he got going. “And just so you know, I told my friend where I am right now. He’s going to come looking for me in an hour if I don’t call him.”
Gordon Baxter considered me. Some of the benevolence drained out of his face, and he tilted his head to the left. “Your mother wasn’t very trusting either,” he said. “She had that streak in her, that quality that told her a person had to prove their trustworthiness to her.”
“That’s fine,” I said, standing up. “I don’t want to hear this stuff.”
“So you don’t want to hear about your mother’s past?” he asked. “You don’t want to know her?”
His questions stopped me. I hated that it had worked. I settled back into my chair.
“Your mom told me that about you,” he said. “She thought you were tough to get through to.”
“You talked to my mother about me?”
“Sometimes.”
“You were in touch with her recently?”
“I’ll get there,” he said. “But you’re going to have to let me get there the way I need to.”
“Fifty-five minutes now,” I said, looking at my phone.
“Okay,” he said. “Like I said, we were high school sweethearts. And we got married around graduation. We were young and dumb, but young and dumb people used to get married back then. Our generation did that a lot. We were living over in Haxton, where we both grew up. That’s how I know Paul as well. We all grew up over there and went to school together. It sounds really quaint and all-American, and I guess it was.”
“Why didn’t Mom ever tell me about you?”
“I have my guesses.”
“There’s no shame in being divorced,” I said. “You got married young and you split up, right?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Why did she hide that from me?” I asked, pushing him for the truth.
“You would have to ask her, but I guess you can’t do that now.”
“How do I even know you are who you say you are?” I asked. “I see no proof.”
“I know about you being in graduate school,” he said. “I know about your brother, about Ronnie. I know your mother had high blood pressure. I know about Paul and how he’s retired and has a bit of a heart condition.”
I was already shaking my head. “Most of that stuff you could learn in the newspaper. This is a small college town. Everybody knows something about somebody. So what?”
“You’re right,” he said.
He stopped with that simple statement, and I didn’t know what he meant.
“Right about what?” I asked.
“What I’m saying,” he said. “It doesn’t prove anything.” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. He brought out a small white rectangle, and only when he held it up did I realize it was a photograph. A fragile, yellowing snapshot. He held it in the air between us, the plain white back facing toward me. “You could wait and ask your uncle,” he said. “Or you could look at this.”
I lifted my hand, but he pulled the photo back from me.
“Not so fast,” he said. “I want you to look at this, and if you accept it as proof, then I want to know you’re really going to listen to everything I have to say.”
“Just show it to me,” I said. “And you’re down to fifty minutes.”
He held the photo out, and I took it.
My hand shook a little as I turned it around. I didn’t know what I would see. The photo showed a man and a woman. She wore a plain wedding dress, short sleeved. It flared at her waist. The man wore a dark coat and tie. They stood close to each other near a three-tiered wedding cake, each holding a glass of champagne. I recognized both of them despite the passage of time. The man was a younger and thinner version of Gordon Baxter. His hair was fuller and darker, the face less round. But it was him.
And the woman was Mom. Unmistakably. She looked young, even stylish. Her skin smooth, her eyes bright.
She looked like me.
She wore a half smile, one that spoke of something between insecurity and fear. Gordon had his arm around her, pulling her close to him with his free hand. She wasn’t hugging him back. She couldn’t—her upper arms were squeezed close to her body, her free hand clutching the champagne.