Save Me (23 page)

Chapter Fifty-three

Back at the cabin, Rose sat over her laptop at the farm table, watching videotapes of the school fire. She’d done it before in her darkest moments, but now she had a new purpose. She was looking for something that could give her a clue about what had happened last Friday at school. She took a sip of fresh coffee, but didn’t need the caffeine to keep going, though it was after midnight. Melly and John were sleeping over at the Vaughns’, which was their babysitting routine when she and Leo were out past ten o’clock.

She hit PLAY on the most recent link, which was the thirty-fourth new viewer video. She was amazed at how many more there were, from cell phones, flip cams, iPods, and videocameras, made in a world where everybody filmed everything that happened around them, even as it happened, becoming observers in their own lives.

She was having a similar sensation as she watched the video, visualizing herself out of her own body, hunched over the laptop. The only light fixture was the lamp over her head, casting a cone of brightness onto her crown, like Dumbledore’s peaked hat. She couldn’t help projecting outward into the dim cabin and through its walls to the dark night, its blackness obliterating the outlines of the cabin roofs and the jagged tops of the tall evergreens, cutting into a blanket of dense clouds like so many hunters’ knives. The full moon lurked behind, leaving the night opaque and inscrutable.

She hit another video, which showed the same terrified children running from the school, only from a different vantage point. She scanned the video titles backwards in time, reversing the chronology until she was a hero mom. Next to that video was a TV report that she hadn’t seen:
More on Moms: Tanya Robertson Speaks with Eileen Gigot.
She clicked the link, and after a web commercial, the anchorwoman came onto the screen:

“I’m Tanya Robertson, and tonight I begin my ‘More on Moms’ report, which goes behind the scenes in the life of the single mom whose daughter was trapped in the fire at Reesburgh Elementary. Tonight I’d like to answer the question we all have about single moms—how do they do it?”

Rose watched, intrigued.

“By way of background, Eileen Gigot’s life changed seven years ago, on August 11, in the world-famous Homestead factory, which started in 1948 with a 6200-foot plant that made only potato chips. Today, Homestead employs almost four thousand people and has grown to a plant totaling fifty-six thousand square feet. It makes potato chips, popcorn, and tons of other snack foods, shipping all over the world from right here in Reesburgh, Pennsylvania.”

Rose thought Tanya was angling for a new commercial sponsor until the screen turned to a stop-time photo of the Homestead factory, then morphed into the present-day plant, with her voiceover: “Eileen’s husband, William Gigot, loved his job at Homestead, but he was killed in a forklift accident at the plant.”

Rose eyed the photo they showed next, of William Gigot and three other men wearing yellow Homestead shirts, with nameplates that read WIJEWSKI, MODJESKA, and FIGGS. Bill Gigot was a tall, handsome man with bright blue eyes that would find their way onto Amanda’s pretty face. The screen switched to Tanya, sitting with a teary Eileen, near her breakfront.

Tanya asked, “How did you think you would get along, raising three children on your own?” The camera turned to Eileen, her eyes glistening in a face that looked prematurely lined, and she answered, “I believe that the Lord gives all of us the burdens we can carry, and no more. Of course, I wish it turned out differently. I miss Bill, every day.”

Rose felt a pang, but her thoughts kept coming back to the fire, the polyurethane, and Kurt. She navigated back to the home page, found the story about his crash, and clicked the video. Onto the screen popped the aerial footage, and she watched the coverage again, wondering about what he’d told her.

It’s the GC’s fault, the general contractor, Campanile.

She stopped the video, logged onto Google, plugged in Campanile, and found its website. It had a slick home page with a picture of a huge hotel, and the copy read:

The Campanile Group is a cutting-edge construction corporation, a new way of doing things in an age-old business. The Campanile family gave us our beginnings over a century ago, and though we value our Pennsylvania origins, we have expanded and grown nationally.…

Rose got the gist. Her gaze fell on the About Us link, and she clicked it. There was a photo of another building, but no listing or bios of corporate officers, only a PR person. She remembered that Kurt had said a “buddy” told him Campanile was at fault, and she wondered if the buddy was somebody working with him at the school. Kurt had worked for Bethany Run Construction, so she plugged their name into Google.

A website popped up, much lower-budget than Campanile. The Bethany Run home page showed three men in brown Carhartt overalls in front of a cinderblock foundation. The caption read,
Vince Palumbo, Frank Reed, and Hank Powell, our famous founders.
The only pages on the sidebar were Current Jobs, Past Jobs, and Contact Us.

Rose clicked on Current Jobs, which turned out to be blank except for a banner that read,
Sorry, Our Current Construction Page Is Under Construction!
Reesburgh Elementary wasn’t mentioned, and she clicked to Past Jobs, which showed three small new houses. There was no About Us. She felt stumped, then thought back to the coverage of Kurt’s crash. He’d been killed with a friend, and she had forgotten his name. She clicked back and read the online article until she found the name—Hank Powell. It sounded familiar. She clicked back to the Bethany Run website and double-checked; Hank Powell was one of the “famous founders.”

She felt a twinge of sadness, and wondered if Powell was the buddy. A line under the articles had a link for obituaries, and she clicked the one for Kurt. It was brief and ended with
View and Sign the Guest Book.
She clicked, and the screen opened to a webpage designed to look like an open book, with entries for Kurt and Hank Powell:

Uncle Hank, We love you and miss you. We wish we could go to the beach with you again. Your niece and nephew, Mike and Sandy

Dear Kurt, A light has gone out of our lives. We pray for you, and say hi to Pop when you see him, for us. Love, Carline and Joani

Rose read each one, feeling her heart getting heavy.

Kurt, You were a great friend and a great carpenter. Signed, Vince

Rose remembered the name, Vince. She clicked back to the Bethany Run site, and Vince Palumbo was another of the founders; maybe he was the buddy. She mulled it over. Vince hadn’t been out drinking with Kurt that night, and Hank Powell had been the one with Kurt, so Hank seemed more likely to be the buddy. It meant that the two men who knew something about how Campanile was at fault were both dead.

She got up, stretched, and walked around the room, ending at the window, looking out into the blackness. She kept thinking about Kurt, Campanile and the car crash, and she started to wonder if they were related. Another series of what-ifs popped into her mind. What if the crash hadn’t been an accident? What if Kurt and Hank had been killed because they knew something about Campanile? What if Kurt was killed because he had been asking about the fire?

Rose didn’t know if she was seeing connections that weren’t there, or making connections that needed to be made. Kurt had been drinking, but maybe his drinking hadn’t been what had caused the accident. He’d said something about new buddies, and she didn’t know what he meant. Maybe someone had driven him off the road, or into a tree, or whatever had happened. She looked into the blackness, and all she could see was her own silhouette reflected in the window, an indistinct outline.

She eyed her dark reflection. If Kurt had been killed because he was asking about the fire, she was responsible for his murder. She owed it to him to find out the truth.

She wouldn’t settle for anything less.

She couldn’t, anymore.

Chapter Fifty-four

“Are you sure you don’t mind, sitting again, Gabriella?” Rose asked, holding John. He reached up for her nose with splayed fingers, wet from being in his mouth, and she gave his cheek a kiss. “It’s one thing to sit for a day, and another to sit for two more, maybe three.”

“Not at all.” Gabriella dismissed her with a wave. The sun hadn’t risen over the trees yet, but the Vaughns’ lovely kitchen was already flooded with light. “You know we adore the kids, and Mo loves spending time with Melly.”

“Thanks. I hate to go without saying good-bye to her.”

“Let her sleep in. We were up late, watching a Harry Potter movie. Call Melly later. She’ll be fine.”

“And the dog, you can deal?”

“The dog is great, too. I want a Cavalier, I already told Mo. She sleeps on Melly’s pillow. It’s charming.”

“But what if I’m gone until the weekend?”

“Please, take your time.”

“I will, thanks.” Rose gave John a final kiss and handed him to Gabriella with a wrench in her chest, then walked to the door. “You have my cell number, right?”

“Yes, thanks. And you have mine.” Gabriella opened the screen door onto an already warm day, alive with the sound of birds chirping. The Vaughns’ front lawn spread out like a dew-laden carpet, and a tall butterfly bush near the door hosted yellow swallowtails and orange monarchs. “What a morning! Why do you have to go back again, anyway?”

“I have a few more appointments, lawyers and such.” Rose stepped outside. She hated to lie to them, but they’d worry if they knew the truth. Living without lying was going to be harder than she’d thought, like counting carbs.

“Okay, good luck.” Gabriella stepped on the front step. “Stay well.”

“I will, thanks again.” Rose kissed John’s warm head one last time, but as she went down the steps, he started to cry, a choked little sob. She turned around at the heartbreaking sound, guilt-stricken when she saw his adorable face pink and contorted. “Aww, see you soon, Johnnie.”

“Go on, he’ll be fine, I promise.” Gabriella waved her on, sympathetic, and Rose turned away with a sigh, vowing to make this trip count.

She hurried to the car, pulling out her phone on the fly, hit the speed-dial for Leo, and listened to the phone ring, then it went to voicemail and she left a message. She put her phone back, got in the car, and started the engine. She took one last look back, and Gabriella was comforting John on the top step.

Rose stifled another sigh, then hit the gas. She felt torn about leaving them again, but she had to figure out what was going on, for herself. She couldn’t be right for them if she wasn’t right for herself, and she hadn’t been right for herself for a long time.

And that time was over, for good.

Chapter Fifty-five

Rose parked on a street south of the school, so the press wouldn’t see her car, then got out and chirped it locked. She had on a white man-tailored shirt, jeans, and sneakers, and with sunglasses and her hair under a Phillies cap, no one would recognize her. She walked to the school and made a beeline for the cafeteria, noticing that the plywood wall was being painted by the students. The mural showed a smiling sun overlooking a grassy lawn covered with oversized sunflowers, undersized trees, and polka-dotted butterflies, a kiddie version of paradise that hid an adult version of hell.

Rose walked to the break in the plywood fence, where there was a makeshift entrance that had a clear plastic sheet as a door, then she stopped. It was quiet, for a construction site. No workmen were going in and out, like there had been before. She checked the street, and only one dusty pickup sat parked at the curb, where there had previously been a lineup.

She slid off her sunglasses, turned back to the entrance, and stepped around the plastic sheet. It was dark inside, and the cafeteria was a man-made cave with an eerie azure cast, from the tarp on the roof. It still smelled, though much of the debris had been cleared. Rose felt grit under her sneakers, and realized that she was at the end of the cafeteria, close to the handicapped bathroom. She didn’t see anyone around, so she walked ahead, passing a construction lamp with high-intensity bulbs on a metal stalk. Toward the far side of the room, she spotted the broad back of a construction worker, dressed in a white hard hat, dirty white T-shirt, and painter’s paints.

“Excuse me,” she called out, and the workman turned. He was pushing a wheelbarrow, and his soft belly hung between its handles. Safety goggles dug into his fleshy cheeks, and he was plugged into an iPod.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you,” he said, with a slight twang. “Do I know you?” He popped out an earbud and squinted through his goggles, then set down the wheelbarrow and walked toward her. “Wait. Yes, I do. You’re that chick Kurt liked, aren’t you? That mom on TV.”

“Uh, yes,” Rose said, rethinking her disguise. “I wanted to talk to someone about Kurt.”

“Fine.” The workman slipped off a worn cotton glove and reached out his hand. “I’m Warren Minuti. I’m with Bethany Run, too. Nice to meet you.”

“Rose McKenna.” She extended a hand, which was swallowed up by Warren’s huge, rough palm.

“My wife and her friends are all talking about you. She’s glued to that TV.” Warren unstuck his goggles and slipped them onto his hardhat. “I tell her, you must be a good person because Kurt liked you.”

“Thanks. I felt terrible to hear the news that he had been killed. I’m so sorry. He was a sweet guy.”

“He was.” Warren sighed heavily, his large shoulders sloping down. “We’re a small crew at Bethany, only nine of us. We do a job at a time, maybe two, so to lose Kurt and Hank, it’s the worst. And Hank, he has a wife and a new baby.
Had
a wife and a new baby.” Warren shook his head. “Well, anyway. What is it you want to talk about?”

“Kurt called me Monday night, before the accident, and he mentioned something about a ‘buddy of mine,’ who told him that some guys from Campanile had left some polyurethane in the teachers’ lounge. He said that that helped cause the fire. I was wondering who that buddy might be. Do you know?”

“Well, Kurt’s best buddy was Hank.”

“Hank Powell, who was killed with him?”

“Yeah. Both wakes are tonight, and the burials are tomorrow.”

“Is that where everybody is?”

“Yeah, but I can’t go, that’s why I’m here. They all just left to go get ready, but I sent my wife. I go to Drexel at night, for law.”

“That can’t be easy. My husband’s a lawyer.” Rose paused, thinking. “Kurt said something about new buddies. You know anything about that?”

“No.”

“Would Hank have known about Campanile or cans of polyurethane?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did anybody at Bethany Run used to work for Campanile?”

Warren snorted. “You wouldn’t go from Campanile to us, not if you could help it. Campanile, they’re a whole ’nother league from us. The bigs.”

“Do
you
know anything about Campanile or cans of polyurethane?”

“No.”

Rose thought a minute. “Do you think any of the other Bethany Run guys knew somebody at Campanile?”

“Possible, but I don’t know. I never met any of the Campanile crew. We only came after the fire.”

“What if I wanted to find out who from Campanile worked on the school? Would any of your guys know that?”

“No.”

“Then I guess the only way to find out which Campanile guys worked on this job is to ask Campanile.”

“Good luck.” Warren chuckled. “They’re not gonna give out that kind of information, especially if they think a lawsuit’s coming down the pike, like they said on the news.”

“You’re right.” Rose took a flyer. “Do you know what happened with Kurt’s accident? I mean, how it happened exactly?”

“All I know is Kurt was driving, it was his truck, and it went off the side of the road and hit a tree. There was no shoulder on that stretch of the expressway.”

Rose had to tell him what she was worrying about, or she wouldn’t get anywhere. “Does it seem strange to you that alcohol was a factor?”

“Yes, I was a little surprised.”

“Why?” Rose asked, intrigued.

“I figured that the newspapers played up the alcohol angle, but that wasn’t like Kurt. Kurt woulda had a beer or two, at most. He must’ve been tired, dozed off, and the combination is what did them in.”

“What about Hank? Did he drink?”

“Never, not anymore. He was three years sober. Marie woulda drop-kicked his ass.”

Rose felt her heartbeat quicken. “When Kurt called me before the crash, he sounded a little drunk, slurring his words, a little.”

Warren frowned. “That wouldn’t be like him. He was a responsible guy. He took care of his sister and niece.”

“I know. I could play you the voice message. I saved it, if you want to hear it.” Rose hesitated. “It might be upsetting, now.”

“No, play it.”

Rose slid her phone from her purse, then thumbed to voicemail and played the message on speaker. Kurt’s amplified words echoed eerily through the burned-out cafeteria, then the message clicked off. She eyed Warren for a reaction in the twilight-blue haze.

“Can’t say I can explain that,” he said, rubbing his chin.

“He sounds kinda drunk, right?”

“Kinda.”

“If he was, why would Hank let him drive? Doesn’t that seem weird to you? That a guy with a wife and a new baby would let his buzzed friend drive him home?”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m wondering if someone killed Kurt because he was asking questions about the fire. Or because he knew about the polyurethane.”

“
What?
” Warren’s small eyes flew open. “You’re talking about
murder.
”

“I know. I’m just trying to figure it out, and I can’t explain why Hank would let Kurt drive drunk. Unless Hank didn’t know.” Rose thought about it, brainstorming. “Unless Hank saw Kurt have his usual one or two beers, but maybe someone slipped something into his drink. One of these new buddies he mentioned. It’s plausible, isn’t it? It could have happened.”

“Maybe, but murder?”

“I’m just saying it smells, don’t you agree? That guy on the tape doesn’t sound like Kurt after only two beers, does he?”

“It doesn’t but I still don’t get why Hank got into the car with him.”

“Maybe Hank couldn’t tell. What if Kurt wasn’t that talkative? What if Hank saw Kurt drink only two beers and figured he was fine to drive, even if he did slur a little?” Rose put her phone away. “Something’s wrong with this picture, and two men are dead. And I think it’s connected with the fire.”

Warren frowned. “We should go to the police.”

“With what? What do we say? A buzzed guy got in a truck, drove, and had an accident? That’s not suspicious.”

“True.”

“And they think that the fire was accidental. Besides, I’m the last person who they’d believe, since I’m involved.”

“That’s true, too.” Warren sighed, a huge exhale from his barrel chest. “But if someone murdered Kurt and Hank, I want to be the first to know about it.”

“Then maybe you can help,” Rose said, with hope.