Chapter 18 Mountains Made of Clouds #3
But Nico just claps his hands together. “Let’s get a move on. I stay here a second longer, there’s gonna be a line to talk to me, and then why do I pay Betty the big bucks? Tell me what you learned at the station, but let’s mosey.”
The two of them walk in the shadows of the massive stages. “Mickey says the ME’s working on his report and June’s reputation will be fine.”
“It’s about time people behave.”
“Well, not everyone’s behaving. Dottie was there this morning.”
“Where? At the station?” Off Frankie’s nod, he continues. “She’s there a lot? Because he’s got reporters who practically work there.”
“Mickey didn’t know who she was.”
Nico shakes his head. “Like sharks in the water.”
Again, Frankie sees the set they just left, a visual betrayal. She shivers in the shade of a stage, rubbing her shoulders. “And Jack knows he was playing cards with Fred, his new best friend?”
“He knows. He’s actually here. Jack.” Maybe he registers her surprise, because he continues. “Fred’s meeting him at the commissary. Soon.”
A lunch for appearances. So people can honestly say they saw them together.
“You hungry?” Nico asks. “Because Jack said he wanted to talk to you—I don’t know what about, but maybe go and make sure he gets settled in and see what he needs.
I’ve got a one-thirty meeting with Iffy to discuss Wednesday.
” Wednesday, he calls it. Not the funeral.
He takes a deep breath. “Everything we’re doing, June would ask us to do if she were here. Her reputation was important to her.”
When Frankie sees Jack, he’s seated at a table, surrounded by a crowd that’s keeping an eye on him like they would a stray penny.
Anyone else would feel the scrutiny and examination and wither under its weight, but this is Jack’s kingdom.
People gravitate toward him like he’s the sun.
Leaned back, he nods, smiles, and makes eye contact.
Frankie lets herself watch him a moment longer, always blown away by how relaxed he is under the gaze of hundreds of eyes.
But since it’s clear they have an audience, he lifts one brow, surprised, when she takes a seat opposite him at the table. “Is this allowed?”
She’s come prepared. From her bag she takes out a call sheet, and points to it as if she’s going over information, times or locations. “Nico said you wanted to talk to me.”
He nods, resigned. Perhaps disappointed. “I thought you’d find me later, but sure.”
His voice is low enough that she has to lean in. As she does, she concentrates on the call sheet, doodling on it with a pen. For a second, she senses him smiling. When she doesn’t return it, he asks if she’s okay.
“There’s no point in talking about it.”
“Sounds like I did something wrong.”
Her voice comes out stronger than she feels. “Tell me what you need.”
For the first time she sees a crack in his composure. “No one’s trying to solve this.”
“We shouldn’t talk about this here.”
He laughs. “Then where, on the phone with the operator listening? At my house with caravans of fans outside, watching you pull in?”
“The police are trying to solve it.”
“Are they?” His voice is so low, she must lean in even closer, and then try not to breathe in his soap-and-tobacco scent, that olfactory anchor to nights in his arms. She scoots back, and he continues.
“What I see is that they’re interested in what the studio’s interested in—which is preserving her memory.
The truth of what happened is not their goal.
The truth of what happened is no one’s goal.
And I get that Nico’s trying to save me here, but everything that’s being done, isn’t it mucking up the investigation? ”
That’s what worries Frankie, that what they’ve done to protect the living could come at the expense of the dead.
“The crime scene was a mess,” he continues. “Everyone in and out and touching things they shouldn’t. Nico’s guys did their work before the cops even got there. What chance do the police have when everything’s been tampered with like that?”
A pause as someone passes too close to their table and smiles in Jack’s direction.
Jack gives a nod and a wave. “One more thing. June and Ida were fighting.”
“You think Ida did it?”
He looks straight at her, his blue gaze steady. A Ulysses, she hears the boy long ago declare over the electric-blue butterfly.
“No,” he says. “I think she was going to meet her, to apologize or something. Maybe June was waiting for her. There were two glasses, remember?”
“Ida doesn’t know how to apologize. And the porch light wasn’t on. It’s dark there; she’d have left it on if she were expecting somebody.”
“Maybe someone didn’t show. Maybe she turned off the light before—” He stops talking, spotting Fred weaving through tables. “Wait,” he quickly adds, “you’re not going to tell me what’s wrong?”
“I guess I didn’t really learn the lessons I thought I did.”
Then she’s up and heading to the side exit. Pushing through the door, she gives one last glance over her shoulder. Fred and Jack are hugging, best friends who’ve only just now met.