“You saw where Aaron grew up,” Enid said when he finished.
“On that farm.”
“It’s not really a farm. It’s a tourist spot, but yeah. Nice, right?”
“Seems so.”
“Seems so,” she repeated with a nod. “When Aaron was little, he lived in the actual inn. Back then, they only rented out six rooms. The family lived in the rest. Then they grew. Started renting out all ten rooms. Five, six years ago, we built those additions, so now it’s up to twenty-four rooms. We got a pretty good restaurant too. Wiley always calls it a ‘bistro.’ Thinks it sounds fancier. And the gift shop does a nice business. Sells souvenirs and candles, junk like that. I’m getting off topic, aren’t I?”
“Not at all.”
“You want to know about Aaron.”
Simon didn’t reply.
“Well, Aaron, even as a kid, he was always a little dark, if you know what I mean.”
One of the tattoo guys met her eye by a back door. Enid nodded and the guy slipped out.
“I don’t see how any of this could possibly help you,” she said.
“They.”
“What?”
“You said, ‘They only rented out six rooms.’ They.”
“So?”
“I’d think you’d say ‘we’ instead of ‘they.’”
“No ‘we’ yet,” she said. “Wiley and I weren’t married back then.”
“Back when?”
“When Wiley lived in the original inn.”
“But you said Aaron lived there.”
“Yeah. With Wiley. I’m his stepmom. I wasn’t on the scene until he was nine. Truth be told, I’m not the maternal type. Surprised, right? Aaron and me, we were never close.”
“And his real mom? Where is she?”
Enid glanced at the back door. The tattoo man came back in, making sure that Enid spotted him. Her glass was empty. Gladys with the Hay Hair filled it without being told.
“Mrs. Corval?” Simon said.
“Call me Enid.”
“Enid, what happened to Aaron’s real mother?”
“It has nothing to do with any of this.”
“It might.”
“How?” Enid turned now, placing one arm on the bar, and faced him full-on. “I mean, I told Aaron from Day One in here: You don’t try it. Not ever. Not a taste. He saw every day what that crap does to you. Still he ended up murdered in a junkie-infested shithole. So tell me, Mr. Greene. How could his birth mom have anything to do with Aaron ending up like that? And while you’re at it: How could his birth mom have anything to do with your daughter vanishing into the wind?”
“I don’t know,” Simon said.
“I’d probably be more the one to blame, don’t you think?”
Simon said nothing.
“His dad and I get married. When he’s a teen he wants to start hanging out here. That’s the problem with growing up in a quiet place. People think it’s magical or some shit. Beauty bores. It traps. Someone like Aaron, he’s got that edge in him. Just the way he is. Like me, even though we aren’t blood.”
He wanted to ask what this place was, but that would be the wrong way to go. He shifted gears and asked, “Was Aaron’s birth mother at the service today?”
Enid kept her head down.
“Can’t you at least tell me—”
“No,” Enid said. “She wasn’t there.”
“Is she still alive? Did she have any kind of relationship with her son?”
“I don’t know you, Mr. Greene.”
“Yeah, you do. I mean, you know enough. I don’t care what you do here or what’s going on with the inn or any of that. I don’t mean you the least bit of trouble. But at the risk of sounding one-note, my daughter is missing.”
“And I don’t see how that has anything to do with—”
“It probably doesn’t,” he interrupted. “Except that’s not how it feels, does it? The police think maybe Paige killed Aaron to save herself. Or maybe I did it. Or my wife. To protect our child. Or maybe it was a drug deal gone wrong. Those are all good theories, but I’m asking for your help.”
She started swirling her glass, her eyes on the liquor.
“Is Aaron’s mother alive or not?”
“The truth?” Enid looked up and studied his face for a very long time. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if she’s alive or dead?”
“That’s right.” Enid turned to Gladys. “Get my friend here another beer and bring it to the corner booth. He and I need to talk for a bit.”
Chapter Sixteen
The entrance to Tattoos While U Wait was blocked off with old-school A-frame traffic barricades, the kind with slanted reflective orange-and-white stripes running across the horizontal beam.
Elena Ramirez spotted two fully emblazoned police cars plus two other vehicles that looked to be unmarked. She pulled her rental Ford Fusion with the overbearing cherry scent into the tattoo parlor’s entry between the highway and the barricades.
A cop frowned and started toward her.
“You’ll need to leave.”
“What’s going on here?”
“Please remove your car from the premises.”
Elena could wave her credentials, but they probably wouldn’t get her anyplace. She also had no idea what the situation was or why the police were here, and it was never a good idea to go in blind.
Time to do a little recon.
Elena thanked the officer, put the car in reverse, and got back onto the highway. She pulled off a hundred yards down the road at a Sonic Drive-In. She took out her phone and made some calls. It took maybe half an hour to get the details on the double murder from the day before.
The two victims were Damien Gorse, age twenty-nine, co-owner of the parlor, and eighteen-year-old Ryan Bailey, a high school senior who worked there part time. The initial report indicated that the two victims had been shot in a robbery gone wrong.
Wrong, Elena thought to herself, being the operative word.
She made a few more calls, waited, got the confirmation. Then she headed back down the highway and pulled up to those barricades. The same police officer moved one of them aside, so that she could pass. He pointed for her to park on the left. She nodded a thanks and did as requested.
Elena looked in her rearview mirror and tried on a sympathetic, we’re-all-in-this-together smile. Meh. This part would be a pain in the ass. Cops and egos. Tough recipe. Add in a dollop of territorial bullshit and customary dick swinging plus the rarity of landing a single murder case let alone a double murder, and Elena expected a shitshow of epic proportions.
A man Elena figured was midthirties, maybe forty, came out of the tattoo parlor’s front entrance, pulled off his crime scene gloves, and headed toward her. His stride was confident but not cocky. The guy was good-looking as hell. More lumberjack than pretty boy, what they used to call “rugged.” If she still had a type — and Elena had felt dead in that area since Joel’s death — this guy would be it.
The cop gave her a nod and a tight smile, an appropriate greeting under the circumstances.
“You must be Special Agent Ramirez,” the man said.
“Retired.”
She shook his hand. His hand was big. Like Joel’s. She felt another pang.
“I’m Detective Dumas. Everyone calls me Nap.”
“Nap,” she repeated, “like...?”
“A short sleep, yes.”
“I’m Elena. I work private now.”
“Yeah, my boss filled me in.”
“Would that be County Prosecutor Loren Muse?”