Getting Away Is Deadly (8 page)

It looked like her. The woman was on the plump side and the clothes were right. I’d seen the no-wrinkle travel blazer and pants paired with several different tops already, but this woman had on a floppy canvas hat and huge sunglasses.

I hesitated, waiting for her to get a little closer, but she was almost even with me and I still wasn’t sure if it was her or not. I followed her down into the Metro and waited, positioned slightly behind her. If it
was
Irene and we both got off at the same Metro stop and walked to the hotel, I was going to feel really silly.

But that’s what happened. By then, I couldn’t walk up to her. It was obvious she didn’t want to be seen. She’d huddled in the back corner of the train, slouched down against the plastic seat, and stared determinedly at the blackness out the window. Well, I couldn’t go up to her and pretend to see her now, so I sulked along behind her as we exited the Metro and walked through the underground complex of shops and restaurants to the hotel. Once inside the glass doors of the hotel, she slipped around a corner and took one of the less busy elevators. I punched the button for my floor. What was all that about?

 

An Everything In Its Place Tip for an Organized Trip

 

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Thursday

T
he next morning, I was waiting in line to go through the metal detectors at the National Archives. I set my Louis Vuitton Luco Tote with its classic brown monogram pattern on the conveyer belt. I stepped through the metal rectangle and realized that was
my
phone ringing as it went through the scanner. Well, at least it was just the basic ring, annoying, but anonymous. I know way too much about people’s taste in music from their cell phone ring tones.

I pulled out my phone before I slung the long straps of my purse over my shoulder. I dropped back from the rest of the group a few steps. Wellesley, dressed in all white again today, seemed to glow in the dim room as she gave us the background on the interior of the building and described the two murals on either side of the building’s rotunda. I was relieved to see Summer’s name on my caller ID. I was dreading the callback from Debbie. I’d left her a rather vague message on her answering machine last night about MacInally being delayed. I’d said I’d call her later, but I was sure she’d call me today.

By the time I got the phone open it had already gone to voice mail, so I lined up with everyone else to see the documents that established our rights and our nation. Summer’s message was brief. “Ellie,
please
call me back. I’m scared.”

I inched forward in the line and dialed her number. She answered right away. “Summer, I got your message. What’s wrong?”

“They really think I did it. They were back again this morning and asked more questions and it was…horrible. I can’t believe it.” Panic edged her voice higher. “And there’s no way to prove I wasn’t there.”

“Summer. Stop. Take a breath. Now tell me exactly what happened.”

She inhaled, exhaled, and said more slowly, “The police detectives came back this morning. Detective Brown and that creepy woman who never says a word. Anyway, they spent about an hour here. Brown asked the same questions over and over again. Then they went next door to talk to the Archers before they left for work. Oh, Ellie. This is awful. I have a test this morning. How am I supposed to concentrate? And I don’t even know if I have a job to go to this afternoon.”

“Summer—”

“Wait, I’m getting another call,” Summer said and switched to it.

The line had moved pretty quickly and I leaned over the Declaration of Independence, amazed at the intricacy of the lettering and the names. Those names. I could hardly believe I was looking at the actual document.

Summer’s voice sounded in my ear. “It’s me again. Well, I still have a job.” She sounded slightly calmer.

“That was Ms. Archer?”

“Yes. She said she totally supports me and knows I wouldn’t hurt Jorge.” The pace of her words picked up again. “Of course, that means you still have an organizing job and we have to get started on it.”

“Okay, your test is this morning?”

“Yes.”

“You go take your test. Pick me up at the hotel after lunch, say one o’clock, and we’ll go back over to the Archers’ house. I made a detailed list of my ideas this morning. Any chance I’ll be able to talk to Ms. Archer about what she’d like for the room? Or am I just supposed to make it look great and they’ll rip it all out if they don’t like it?” We’d moved on to the Constitution, but I stepped back from the group. It was too confusing to talk to Summer and take in history at the same time. Besides, the lady in line behind me was giving me dirty looks.

“Oh, they’re not going to rip it out. They’re not the weekend home improvement types. And anything would be better than it is now. They’ll be home later today so you can talk with them then.”

“Great. I’ll bring my ideas and a list of materials you’ll need to get. Now, about the other thing. Nadia did have some pictures from the Metro. I’ll bring them.”

“Wonderful.” Summer sounded relieved as she confirmed that she’d meet me at the hotel and we hung up. I merged back into our tour group in time to see the Bill of Rights. I took a moment to really look at it, taking in the fragility of the script and the yellowing paper.

Abby said, “Hey, are you coming? We’re off to the next place, Union Station.”

“Feel like a walk, ladies?” Wellesley asked as we emerged into the sunshine on the Mall after Abby and I made a quick detour to the restrooms. “We’re only a couple of blocks away from Union Station.”

Gina nodded and set off at a quick pace with Wellesley. Nadia was busy photographing other tourists and the buildings we passed. Irene trailed along at the end of the line, her tote bag stuffed with her purchases from the gift shop at the Archives.

I told Abby what Summer had said about her being a suspect and Abby asked, “Do you think it’s true or is she being melodramatic? Maybe they’re just following up on all the loose ends, that sort of thing.”

“I don’t know, but she did sound worried. Hardly anything worries her.” I glanced back and saw that Irene had fallen a few more paces behind, so we slowed down. “Do you think Irene is feeling okay?”

Abby said, “I don’t know. She hasn’t been doing her usual mother hen thing, has she?” And because Abby usually says exactly what she’s thinking, she called out, “Hey, Irene, are you feeling okay?”

Irene lifted her head and hurried to catch up with us. “Yes. Of course. Just a little tired, you know? All this walking. I’m not used to it.”

“But think of all the calories we’re burning,” Abby said. “We can have a huge lunch.”

Irene smiled and I realized it was the first time I’d seen her smile in days.

I was surprised to find out Union Station was still an actual train station. It buzzed with tourists shopping and travelers rushing for their trains. We found a restaurant on the second floor and ordered hamburgers and pizza. I handed my menu to the waiter and glanced around as everyone else ordered. From where I was sitting, I could see the television in the back corner. A reporter stood in front of the skinny rectangular sign with the “M” on top that marked the Metro. I leaned in to concentrate on the reporter’s words.

“…unnamed source within the police department…made progress…person of interest…believed the dead man was stalking a woman…possibly killed her stalker…”

Oh no. This was not good. I had to call Summer and let her know I’d seen this. It would be better if she found out from me than from someone at school or at Vicki Archer’s office. At least they hadn’t used her name in the report. I hopped up, said I had to make a call, and kept walking until I got reception on my phone, which was actually outside Union Station.

I punched in Summer’s number. I was going to have to rethink my promise not to tell Mitch anything about the investigation. The phone rang several times. I hung up. She was probably in class by now. I’d have to wait to talk to her until after lunch.

A flash of white topped with dark curls moved quickly through the crowd toward me. Wellesley had left the table with her phone a few minutes before I left. She must have had to go outside to get reception on her phone, too. I waited for her to catch up with me so we could go back inside together.

But she stopped at the base of a large fountain and looked around. A man stopped trimming the hedges in front of the building and walked over to her. He’d pulled off his gloves, and as their exchange continued, he pointed them at her. She swatted them away before any clumps of dirt or grass landed on her white dress. She shook her head defiantly and marched back into the building.

The man hit the side of the fountain with his gloves, and bits of grass and dirt showered to the ground. He turned back to the hedge and I realized his shirt had the same logo that Jorge’s had on it, a tree with an outline of the Capitol over the words
Capitol Landscape
.

I opened my purse and pulled out the photos that Nadia had printed for me in the hotel’s business center.

Maybe the man trimming the hedges knew something about Jorge that the police could pursue besides Summer. I took a step, then hesitated. Should I really do this? Was this crazy? But Summer was a “person of interest.” He and the other man began to pack up. That got me moving. I hurried over to him before I could lose my courage and said, “Excuse me, do you know this man?” as I held out the photo of Jorge.

He barely glanced at it, shook his head. “
No inglés
,” he muttered, then turned away to rake the last of the leaves into a garbage bag another man held. He continued to ignore me as he walked around the truck, gathering up their equipment. The man with the garbage bag was younger. He twisted the bag closed and hefted it into the bed of the truck. “Don’t mind him. He’s pissed.”

His English was only slightly accented. He propped one hand on the truck and extended the other for the photo. His casual pose conveyed he had all the time in the world and he felt completely comfortable talking with me, unlike his companion, who tossed the rake into the bed of the truck with a clang and then said a few words to the younger man, before he slid into the driver’s seat. My high school Spanish couldn’t keep up with the swift words, but I did pick up the words
rápidamente
and
vamos
, which, if I remembered right, meant something along the lines of
quickly
and
let’s go
. The sharp slam of the door punctuated his words.

The noise and the gruffness of his companion didn’t seem to phase the younger man, but the picture did impact him. His uncomplicated smile was gone when he handed the photo back. “Jorge. Yes. He worked with us.”

“So he was part of your crew?”

“No, not every day. He filled in when we needed extra help or when someone didn’t show up.”

“Did anyone not like him? Were there arguments?”

“No,” he said flatly. “We work. There is no trouble.”

The engine revved in the truck and he moved toward the passenger door.

“Please, hold on a second. The woman who was here before me. How do you know her?”

“Me? I don’t know her. I’ve heard of her, though. She’s the
boda
lady.” He nodded his head toward the cab of the truck. “She promised him a
boda
, but now she says no. He will be angry all day.” He opened the door and slid into the truck.

“Wait. What’s a
boda
?” I asked, but the truck was already pulling away.

He leaned out the window and shouted, “Ask at the Verde Campo on Thursdays.”

I climbed the steps, going over the word
boda
in my mind, but I couldn’t remember what it meant. Surely, not body. I couldn’t come up with anything else that might even be a close translation. And
verde campo
. What was that? He’d said it with the word “the” in front of it, like it was a name. A business?

As I tucked the photo back into my purse, I saw something I hadn’t noticed before. I pulled it out again and looked closer. A swath of black fabric with tiny white dots trailed along the left side of the photo. It was a fabric like Wellesley had worn on the first day of the tour, the day Jorge had died.

So
Wellesley
had been at the other end of the platform, too? She had wandered away from me a few moments before the commotion broke loose, but I had no idea she’d gone to the other end of the platform.

I looked at the other photos, but that was the only one that had captured the edge of the skirt. I put the photos away slowly. I arrived back at the table at the same time the food did. I dug into the burger and chunky fries. “Where’s Wellesley?” I asked.

“She had to go,” explained Gina. “She gave us an overview of the history of Union Station and then told us about a few stores we might want to hit.”

“Oh, okay.” Then I noticed Irene’s place was also empty. “Irene left, too?”

“Yep. It’s just us hard-core shoppers who’re left,” Nadia said.

Abby studied my face, then said, “You look preoccupied. Anything wrong?”

I debated for a moment. Should I tell them? Abby, I trusted, no question, but Nadia and Gina, I didn’t know about. Of course, they were looking at me expectantly now.

“It’s not the baby, is it? If you’re not feeling good, we can all go back to the hotel right after lunch,” Nadia said, and I was touched that she’d give up one minute of her sightseeing to escort me back to the hotel.

“No, nothing like that. I’m fine.” I decided I might as well tell them. Maybe one of them could make sense of the things that were happening. I knew none of us had been at the end of the platform and I had a gut feeling I could trust Nadia. She was so open and energetic. Gina held herself more in reserve, but I thought I could trust her, too. I pulled the photo out and handed it to Nadia. “Look at this side of the photo here.”

Nadia looked at it, frowned, and said, “What is that? I could enlarge it…”

Gina said, “It’s the skirt Wellesley wore on Monday.”

Yep, she was quick. I was relieved that she’d spotted it and made the same connection I had.

“So that means Wellesley
and
Irene were near Jorge before he was pushed?” Abby asked as she pulled the photo across the table to study it.

“Yes. Along with a redheaded woman who resembles Summer from the back,” I said and explained what I’d just seen. “That’s the second time I’ve seen Wellesley talking to a landscaper, and both times the men were mad at her.”

Gina leaned back in her chair, her flat face turned up to the ceiling. “But they don’t work for her.”

“Right,” I said. “She told me the name of her company is Household Helper and that wasn’t the name of the logo on their shirts.”

“Well, I know that
boda
means wedding,” Nadia said.

“Really?” I was surprised.

“I minored in Spanish.” She shrugged. “And the other phrase would be something like green countryside or green country.”

I wouldn’t write off Nadia anymore. She might be annoyingly perky, but besides her talent with a camera, she was smart.