13. Mallory
Chapter 13
Mallory
My eyes flutter open.
Bright sun, relentlessly filtering through the thick green canvas above my head. Voices nearby. Beneath me, something hard and unforgiving.
What happened?
Scanning through my mind, I try to pull up my most recent memory.
I was talking to Vivi. I was so hungry and thirsty, and hot. Her voice began to feel far away, and my vision tunneled.
I passed out.
My hands fly to my bump, feeling the small roundness, wishing I could see inside. Peanut's ok, right?
"Hey, there," a relieved voice says, curling around me like a hug. Hugo appears in the air above my head. His thumb brushes my cheek, and he murmurs, "You got your color back."
Embarrassment creeps over me. I've never passed out before, but here I am, doing it in front of someone I'm supposed to be in an (admittedly unconventional) working relationship with. I'm gearing up to apologize when a playful light filters into Hugo's eyes, and he says, "What brings you to the medic tent?"
My breath of laughter is a relief, sweeping away my embarrassment. "You can do better than that."
Hugo takes a knee beside what I've decided is a cot. I shift, pressing my palms into the hard material and slowly pushing myself to a seated position.
"How about," Hugo says, looking up at me earnestly, gaze laden with remorse, "I do better by apologizing for not making your food and drink needs a priority?"
My hair falls across my face as I shake my head. "I should have remembered to bring one of my snacks." They are all there at the hotel, sitting on the side table where they aren't doing me any good.
"If you don't mind, I'm going to go ahead and take the blame for this one. I led you around the whole damn place without remembering you're eating and drinking for two."
My stomach rumbles. "Speaking of, is there something to get my blood sugar back up?"
Hugo hops up, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. "You weren't out for long," he says, producing a large bright red cylinder wrapped in plastic. "Just a minute until I got you here and propped your feet up. But Vivi snagged a popsicle from a cart. It's"—he pushes on the bottom of the frozen treat, forcing the top open—"cherry. I hope that's ok. "
"It's perfect," I say gratefully, accepting the popsicle. It's one of those enormous popsicles, the kind that looks pornographic.
But sugar is what I'm after, and this is available, so I don't have a choice. I try not to make it too sensual, too much like the real thing, but a phallic shape entering the mouth can't look any other way.
I avert my eyes, but my peripheral vision works just fine, and I don't miss the tense pull of Hugo's jaw, the way his throat undulates with a gulp.
He crosses his arms and angles his upper half away from me, like he's glancing out of the tent. "I should probably tell Jerry you're looking better."
"Jerry?" The cold sugar is hitting my system now, bringing me back to life.
"The medic." Hugo's still looking away. "He went to see if old man Murray is still here."
"And old man Murray is?"
"A doctor."
I frown. "I don't think I need a doctor." I feel better every second that passes.
"Jerry insisted when I told him you're pregnant."
Ahh. That makes sense. My hand grazes my belly. "I'm sure me and the baby are fine."
Hugo finally turns his gaze on me. "I need to make certain of it."
He says it with authority, but I detect a chord of worry.
"Well, then," I say, sticking the popsicle in my mouth, "I promise to be a good patient. "
A man strides into the medic tent and introduces himself as Murray. I can't help but gape. "When Hugo called you old man Murray, he meant?—"
"I have a baby face," Murray says with an easy smile.
The guy looks like he should be sitting on phone books to see over the steering wheel in his vehicle. "Whatever you say, Doogie."
Murray doesn't react to the nickname. At all.
"You've heard that before, haven't you?" I ask as he directs me to lie back on the uncomfortable cot. Hugo takes the popsicle from me.
"Only every time I see a new patient," Murray says. He pulls a stethoscope from a genuine Gladstone bag.
"Look at that bag. Now I definitely believe you're a doctor."
Hugo coughs, but I know he's covering up a laugh.
Murray presses his stethoscope to my belly, and a hush falls over the three of us. The seconds stretch, each one growing, and then he sits taller, taking the piece from his ears.
"A strong heartbeat," he announces.
A tenuous string inside me snaps. I didn't realize how worried I was until this moment. My subconscious was hiding my fear, even from me. A lone tear trickles from my right eye, and when I reach up to wipe it away, I find Hugo watching me.
I cannot read the expression on his face. Sympathetic maybe, but no. That's not right. Relieved.
I need to make certain of it . Hugo was worried about us. Me and Peanut. A second tear leaks from the corner of my eye.
Damn hormones.
Murray listens to my heart, and declares me healthy. "Vasovagal syncope," he announces. "Fancy way of saying your blood pressure dropped and you hit the deck." He glances at Hugo. "Almost, anyway. I hear this guy caught you."
Hugo nods once in agreement. He stands back, hands in his pockets, while old man Murray gets ready to leave.
"Any other problems, please come to my office," he says to me. I thank him, and he ducks from the tent.
I sit up again, feeling remarkably better thanks to the hit of sugar from the popsicle. My stomach, though, has other ideas. Needs. A loud, insistent rumble roars audibly.
Hugo offers his free hand, as if he wants to help me up. "Time to feed you two."
You two. Me and Peanut. A duo. Just the two of us. From the moment Dylan signed away his rights to this baby, I'd known we were on our own. But it's not until now that I'm realizing quite what that means. What it all entails.
For starters, I'm going to need to step up. Peanut depends on me. I can't run around without food and water for hours on end. And I can't expect a chivalrous man like Hugo to come riding in on his white horse and save me. He does know how to wield a sword though, so if there were any man who would be capable of such, it would be the tall, dark and mind-bendingly handsome man standing in front of me.
It would be rude to ignore his offered hand, so I place my palm in his. His fingers curl around me, and I shove away the jolt of electricity at his touch. As soon as I'm standing, I break the connection. Hugo hands me the softening popsicle. "I'll grab food on my walk back to the inn."
"I'm happy to take you somewhere," Hugo says. His expression is open, honest. He's a good man who wants to do a good thing.
"Sammich is around the corner from here." I thumb over my shoulder, though I have no idea what direction I'm indicating. "I'll grab whatever it was you ordered that day." The day we met, when he didn't know who I was. When his eyes crinkled at the corners, and he flirted with me.
He nods solemnly, but he looks conflicted.
"Thank you for introducing me to people today."
"You're welcome." He motions with his head. "Order the Bellamy sandwich, Hugo style." He narrows his eyes at the popsicle in my hand. "And finish that."
Cherry red melted popsicle drips off the end, sliding down my thumb. "I will. I was waiting because?—"
"Yeah, yeah. I know." He shakes his head quickly, as if clearing it. "Go."
I listen, sidestepping him on my way out of the tent. Skirting the edge of the festival, I find my way to the sidewalk of Olive Avenue. I finish my popsicle in no time, enjoying the burn of the cold and licking the melted juice from my hands because I don't have a napkin.
Neither of the ladies I met on my first day in Olive Township are working in Sammich today. I order the way Hugo instructed, requesting they package it for takeaway. I also buy a bag of chips and a cookie at the counter, scarfing them down as I wait for my order to be ready.
It seems everybody is at the festival today, locals and tourists alike. Sammich is a ghost town. Even Olive Avenue is quiet, only a handful of people coming in and out of the shops that buffet the road. I'm sitting at a table next to the front window, brushing chip and cookie crumbs from my lap, when I spot Liane across the street. She's stepping from a shop that says Sweet Nothings in white on a large lavender sign. Glancing right, and then left, and apparently appeased by whatever she sees or does not see, Liane dips her hand in her large purse. She comes away with something small, and metal. A flask, I think. My guess is confirmed when she twists off the top and splashes whatever is inside into what appears to be a to-go cup of coffee.
She stashes the flask back in her purse, blows across the top of the hot liquid, and takes a sip. Her gaze lifts as she's drinking, landing squarely on mine as if magnetized. She flinches, then looks abashed, like she's been caught doing something wrong. I don't care that she's spicing up her coffee in the middle of the day, and I doubt anybody else would either. To communicate this, I wave and smile.
Liane charges across the street. She looks like a rushing bull, but without the crazed look of vengeful indignation.
As I watch, she clears the curb of the sidewalk in her bougie heels . For a brief moment I think maybe I am not her destination, but it's wishful thinking. It's not that I don't want to talk with her, but also, I don't want to talk with her. I want to eat my sandwich and write down every interaction I had today in the notebook in my hotel room. I need to list all the people I met, the businesses they run. Nobody struck me as suspicious, but it's good to get a clear picture of the town.
Liane yanks on the Sammich door handle, and unless she had a sudden hankering for a sandwich, I am her goal.
She slows when she enters, approaching me. Her golden bob is perfectly styled, artfully cut so she can tuck one side behind her ear and still have the ends curve forward to fall against her neck.
"You didn't see that," she says coyly, pulling out the seat opposite me.
"See what?" I ask, winking at her.
Elbows on the table and hands clasped, she leans forward conspiratorially. "Between you and me, events like these can be exhausting. When your husband is the mayor, you're always"—she pauses to create air quotes—"on." She sits back, her hands moving to rest in her lap.
"That sounds like it could get tiring after a while," I respond diplomatically. She must have no idea that people can hear it in her voice, the way she forces herself to be this way .
The Sammich cashier appears at the table, setting down my order wrapped in a white paper bag. I thank her, and she asks if she can get anything for Liane. "I'm ok with my coffee, but thank you."
Liane peers at the bag on the table in front of me. "Eat," she instructs. "I heard what happened to you."
I'm too hungry to wait on Liane to decide she needs to move on from this impromptu visit, so I remove the sandwich and take a bite. It's heavenly, this sandwich, piled high with fresh turkey and the best crunch from the layer of potato chips.
Liane taps a pink painted nail on the table between us. "I also heard you're expecting."
It's not a big deal if people find out, but I didn't want to advertise it either. I'm in Olive Township for a very specific reason, which has nothing to do with expecting a child.
Except, it does. It has everything to do with this baby, and simultaneously nothing at all.
"Sixteen weeks," I answer. "Seventeen, actually." The smile that appears on my face when I say it is still new to me. The announcement was not joyous for other people, and so I felt it could not be joyous for me. The feeling is fading, thankfully.
Liane beams. "Do you know what you're having?"
"Not yet." I take a small bite of my sandwich, chewing and swallowing it down. "I missed the appointment this week where I would've learned."
"You know what? It doesn't matter." Liane sips her coffee. "You'll love that baby more than anything." Her eyes grow soft, far away and fond, like she's remembering. "Nursing them through an illness, wiping away their tears, you'll do anything in the world for them."
Liane's words are kind, but a sting accompanies them. Maybe my own mother felt this way once upon a time, but it stopped. One day she was my mom, and the next, it was over for us.
I'm swallowing another bite when Liane asks how I know Hugo. "I met him last week, in this shop, actually." As I'm talking, an idea forms in my mind. "How long have you been Mayoress?" The title is superficial and silly, but she seems to prefer it, and I have a feeling appealing to her ego will get me where I want to go.
"A very long time," she answers. "Probably about as long as you've been alive. Nobody else in this town seems to want the job. Every time Alan runs, he's uncontested."
Perfect.
"Then I bet you know all there is to know about this place."
A twinkle sparks in her eye. "Not a lot gets by me." She pats my arm. "Which is why I don't buy your story that you're here for a visit. If that were true, you'd be at the spa."
"Busted." I laugh lightly, giving a playful show of having been caught. I don't enjoy lying, but telling the truth about why I'm here isn't the best choice either. I've already told Miranda the hairstylist that I'm a student, and staying with one story is safest. "But to be fair, I did go to the spa. I'm getting my master's degree in criminal justice, and for my final project I'm supposed to examine an unsolved case. So I chose?—"
"Simon De la Vega."
I nod somberly. "Yes."
Her hands wrap around her paper cup. "Quite a case you've chosen."
"I'm supposed to gather as much information as I can, learn what happened and what I would have done differently, if anything."
Without me asking, Liane starts in. "We were devastated by what happened. My husband was a fairly new mayor at the time, and it was difficult to rally the town. And those kids? Poor babies. It's obvious how the loss shaped them." I nod and listen, finishing my sandwich while she speaks. "Just awful what happened to their dad. In the middle of the day, no less. How somebody gets away with a crime like that, I have no idea."
"Do you know if the detectives who worked on the case are still on the force?"
"There were two," Liane answers. "One retired and moved to Alaska. The other is still working."
"Name?"
"Ricardo Towles." Liane points at my purse. "Write his name down in your phone."
"Good idea," I say, taking her suggestion. She doesn't know I'm great with names, and remembering what people say. Back in the day, before my family unit imploded, I dominated in the game of Memory, to the point where my family refused to play me anymore. " What about David Boylan? I saw his name in newspaper articles from the time."
Liane sighs. "David Boylan. I haven't heard that name in a long time."
"He was the?—"
"Postal worker who was the only suspect in the case. Let me tell you about that man."
Liane points at my dark phone screen. "You can take notes."
I nod like I'm eager to take notes, but really what I'm doing is tempering my excitement at having stumbled upon the loosest lips in this town.
"David Boylan was a bit of an odd duck. I've never seen a man so excited about rare coins."
I type rare coins .
Liane keeps going. "He was quiet and kept to himself. In this town, that makes you odd. I don't know if you've noticed, Mallory, but everybody here is very friendly."
"I've noticed," I assure, as she expects me to. There's no need to argue, to tell her about Braxton the night manager. He most definitely does not fit her profile of an Olive Township denizen.
"Of course, sometimes people are just different, and that's ok," she rushes to make the caveat. "But on the day Simon died, David had been delivering mail. He was on Six Digit Road when he got a flat tire." My eyes widen as I furiously tap my phone's keyboard. I'd known there was a person of interest, but none of these details.
Liane continues. "Now, I happen to know a detail that was not released to the public at the time. Not only were David Boylan's tire tracks found at the scene of the crime, but so was his blood."
Liane pauses, letting that sink in. She's a masterful storyteller.
"But the police didn't have enough to arrest him?"
Her head shakes back-and-forth. "It was the Olive Festival that day. Too many witnesses were able to place him at the event at the same time the coroner said Simon was attacked."
Excitement bubbles up inside me. Not the good kind that leads to something happy, but the kind that accompanies a shot of adrenaline. "So he had an accomplice?"
"That was the theory, but they could never find evidence of it. Between a lack of evidence, no motive, and a handful of people on the record saying they saw him, Boylan was released. The whole thing ruined his life though. He moved away immediately, and nobody has heard from him since."
"Hmm," I say, like I'm mulling over the facts, feeling only the curiosity of your average, everyday true crime podcaster. I know better than to take what I hear or see at face value. Isn't there always more to the story? But damn if there isn't a twinge of a little something in the center of my chest. Hope.
"Well," Liane says, tipping her coffee cup left to right over the table. "My coffee is finished, and I should be getting back to the festival. My husband always delivers a speech to close out the day's events, and he prefers when I stand beside him. "
Together we throw away our trash, and I send a goodbye wave in the direction of the cashier. She's leaning against the counter, on her phone, and doesn't see me.
"Congrats on your bun in the oven," Liane says when we step into the sunshine. It's not as bright now as it was earlier, the rays less direct. "If you need anything, please don't hesitate to ask. As long as you're in town, I'm happy to be helpful."
She hustles back across the street and down the sidewalk, bougie heels snapping the pavement.
The woman has me baffled, a position in which I don't often find myself. She wants to be the queenly mayoress, but inside there's a woman who wants to gossip and spice up her coffee. I feel bad for her, even if it appears she's constructed the gilded cage and put herself in it.
Belly full, I make it back to Olive Inn. Braxton is at the front desk, folded over his phone. I've seen him a handful of times since that first day, and he doesn't get less creepy.
I walk quickly across the small lobby, and although he didn't look up when I walked in, I feel his eyes on me as I go. Maybe I should check one of the other hotels in town, see if they have room for me. Maybe people will leave now that the Olive Festival is over.
I spend the evening writing down everything I can remember from today in my notebook, and then begin using my trusty search bar to learn more about those individuals. The day at the hair salon was more fruitful than I could've imagined. I had a feeling Liane was full of information, and I was right.