“Keep saying it in your mind. Now, I’m going to ask you a question and I want your honest answer. Let any alter answer this question, okay?
“Did you write that note and give it to Darla?”
Eve went completely still, seemed to be holding her breath. Looking at her, Mitch couldn’t help but wonder which alter, into which memory bank, she may have gone. Eventually, her eyes came open. To his relief, she gave no outward indications of physical destabilization or emotional trauma.
“And?”
Mitch took in a breath and held it. For a moment, Eve said nothing. He studied her face, burning with curiosity. Her hard look softened.
“No,” she said with assuredness. “I didn’t write that note.”
The tone of finality in Eve’s voice told Mitch that she didn’t harbor any doubt. It was true. She did not write the note to Darla. The implications tore through him.
Someone else wrote it. Someone wanted her dead.
CHAPTER 36
ON THAT BLEAK AFTERNOON, Lucky Dog looked anything but. The dark interior had the ambience of a power outage, with the brightest lights coming from a jukebox tucked away in a corner of the room and the guitar-shaped neon fixture mounted to the wall above it. What the place needed was natural light, but the small, square windows fronting the wood exterior simply weren’t cutting it.
Four of the nine stools at the dark varnished wood bar were occupied by beefy men, who put the dive in dive bar. The small round tables scattered about were unoccupied, but Lucky Dog had been open only thirty minutes, so that would probably change. Behind the bar stood stacks of bottles that looked sticky even from a distance. The air reeked of booze and cleaners, overlaid by a whiff of desperation.
The woman working the bar, whom Grace put in her late thirties, radiated attitude. She was quite pretty, with tousled auburn hair held together in a loose bun. She wore a cut-off belly shirt, which prominently displayed a muscular physique that no doubt was a tip-generator. All sorts of piercings adorned her—nose and ears, both done many times over—and a host of tattoos that snaked up her well-defined arms. She was dressed all in black, and if the rock and roll coming out of the jukebox could somehow have become a person, it might very well have taken her form.
When the trio entered, the heads of the men seated at the bar swiveled as one in their direction. Truth be told, the three Francones did look decidedly out of place: Annie might as well have crawled out of a Western film in her denim outfit, cowboy boots, and sparkling belt buckle, this one featuring a bucking bronco. Jack, in his signature flannel, looked like he was hoping—for his band’s sake—that Lucky Dog featured live music. As for Grace, her arrival here, based on dress and appearance alone, would be explainable only if she’d come to ask for directions to somewhere else.
Grace led the way to the side of the bar closest to the exit, thinking a quick departure might become a necessity. She waved to get the attention of the bartender, who turned and eyed Jack suspiciously.
“Is he old enough?” the bartender asked in a raspy voice that carried a whisper of annoyance.
“We’re not here to drink,” Grace answered.
The bartender screwed up her face. Maybe she was thinking this was the oddest group of robbers she’d ever encountered.
“Booze is pretty much all we have to offer,” said one of the men at the bar, an older fellow with a grizzled face and wisps of silver hair sneaking out from beneath his tweed scally cap. His Boston accent came on thick, so “offer” sounded like “offah.”
“We tried karaoke, but that was a bust,” another man said, and all chuckled.
Grace pasted on a smile. “I’m here to ask about Rachel Boyd,” she said, and the laughing died quickly. The men took on serious expressions, and the bartender kept her distance.
“And who are you?” Scally Cap asked, a warning clear in his voice.
“I’m Grace Francone. I’m … Penny Francone’s mother.”
The four men on their four stools sent Grace looks as hard as granite.
Jack, in a burst of overexuberance, blurted out, “It wasn’t in the papers, but I found out Rachel Boyd worked here. We’re hoping to talk to her friends, family, people who knew her.”
Scally Cap pushed his stool back with an audible scrape. When he stood, he gave Grace a look at an ample belly under a black T-shirt with an eagle on it, both of which were only partially obscured by a faded denim jacket. He strode over to their side of the bar.
“And why would you want to do that?” Scally Cap asked. His eyes turned to two slits beneath his bushy white eyebrows. He got close enough for Grace to see the stubble dotting his round, ruddy face, to smell the beer soaking his breath.