Chapter 26 Something Nice About a Disaster #2
She does. When Nico saw Tank across the street, he took care of it. “But what did he mean? What did he do that he regretted?”
“How do I know? You gotta ask him. If I had to guess, it would be that he regrets being a law-breaking sap who drove his woman away. That’s what almost destroyed June years ago. That’s what made her hate him. I know he regrets all that.”
“You don’t think he meant that he killed her, or arranged to kill her?”
Nico’s brows lift in surprise. “I haven’t ruled out that he did it, or was involved, despite what alibis are saying—because we know how that goes. But if he did, you think he’s going to call you and admit it? Nah. He probably just regrets what he did that turned their relationship.”
“He also said he was keeping quiet. Something like that. That he was doing his part.”
“Good. Can’t have him trying to make a buck on her death. I’d say I’m proud that he’s acting honorably there, but let’s be honest—we’ve got enough on him that we could destroy him if he so much as tries to sell an old hairbrush of hers, much less a love letter.”
Everything makes sense but for a nagging worry that Nico could have been involved with June romantically, and the knowledge that he’s used that tunnel, which is the next order of business.
She’s about to bring it up when she catches him squinting at something behind her.
A fig tree, its branches still dormant. “Nico, at a time like this?”
“You know if it fruits? Because my money’s on that being a volunteer. And before it leafs out is the best time to get a cutting.”
“I’ll ask. But I haven’t seen the guy tonight.”
“Great. Thanks. So, we’ve got lighting equipment headed to Long Beach. That’s where the quake was centered, I guess. It’s a mess. But RCO’s sending lights for the tents where the doctors are set up.”
“That’s good. I wanted to ask you something, though.”
One eyebrow raises. “More? Shoot.”
With a deep breath, she says, “You loved June.”
He nods and waits for her to continue.
“No, I mean, you loved her.” Quickly, before she can stop herself, and to catch him off guard, she asks, “Was it your baby?”
“Frankie.” Now he takes her arm, leading her farther from the crowd. “I loved her like I love you, like a daughter. And no, it was not mine. I don’t know how you’ve missed this, but I love my wife. I’ve never, not once, cheated. Nor do I want to.”
She observes him for any tricks of the trade, any sign he’s lying. As far as she can tell, he’s being truthful.
He shakes his head. “June, God love her. She was like a ray of sun when she was feeling good, but when she tilted to the other side? Watch out. There was nothing happy about her, and she was hell-bent on self-destruction. I know she really wanted to be a mother. That’s what I know.
And then there was the one-night stand that ended up, well, you know.
Was that on purpose? To have the kid she’s always wanted? I’ve wondered. But no. It wasn’t mine.”
Below their feet, a tremble. Frankie has her arms out as if to steady herself, and though everyone looks to each other—as if to gauge whether their reactions are correct—they take it in stride.
When it stops, she makes herself bring up the one other thing that’s weighing heavily on her.
“I found the tunnel. The one off to the side of the bungalows, at the end of the side yard.”
He’s looking at the nearby bonfire, and his face is cast in orange. “The other bootlegging tunnel. That’s what I use when I go there.”
“You do?”
Now he turns to her, surprised she didn’t know. “I’m not going to scratch up my car. I told you; parallel parking on Glenhollow next to rosebushes and trees is like setting a tiger loose on your paint job.”
“The night June was killed, after the shot, Darlene saw someone who went toward bungalow two but then for all intents and purposes disappeared. But that tunnel. You’d turn toward two and—”
“Go to the tunnel instead. I’ll tell Mickey, have it searched. Did you go inside?”
“I did, but I wasn’t searching for anything. I just wanted to see where it went. There were bottles and spiderwebs. A lot of spiderwebs.”
He laughs. “That’s where we send the booze through, because you can unload it easy on Washburn. But with those webs, we keep the guests out of there. Now you know why. Just got the one neighbor to keep quiet.”
Carefully, she says, “I met him. He said you park there and use the tunnel.”
“Yeah, him and his wife like fancy chocolate, that’s . . .” But then he stops talking. His eyes narrow as if he’s not sure he’s seeing something right. “You were wondering if I was there that night. You thought I did it.”
The look on his face: It’s sad, stunned, but worse, it’s hurt.
To have suspected the one person who’s been a solid and good force in her life, to have kept going with her accusation even after he so readily admitted that he used the tunnel—what was she thinking?
“The tunnel, the phone ringing at your house—”
“Not at my house. At someone’s house, but not mine.”
“Right, but knowing you used the tunnel and that’s the direction the killer most likely went in.” She can’t keep talking. She’s making it worse. “I’m sorry.”
But strangely, he smiles. “Frankie, good for you. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not glad you thought I could do it—or that you thought I could cheat on Angela, even—but I am glad you’re thinking.
You’re a critical thinker. And you’re not sentimental enough to let anything cloud your judgment, and that’s good.
Never let someone you love get in the way of doing what’s right. ”
She wants to cry with relief. “Nothing makes sense right now.”
“Truer words have never been spoken.” He surveys the people in the street. “But listen, I’m gonna add to that. It’s another reason I came out here.”
At first, she doesn’t know what he means, and then she remembers—he was going to talk to his friend who found her birth certificate. The man must have had bad news. In her mind, she sees smeared print. “He couldn’t read it?”
“He read it.”
“And?”
“Frankie, you can’t unknow something. The truth—sometimes it just sets loose a lot of unanswerable questions.”
“Nico. Tell me.”
“No father was mentioned. But a mother was.”
Frankie waits.
“Fiona Donnelly.”
She stares at him, confused. “That must be my adoption certificate. Fiona was my adoptive mother.”
“No, you don’t have an adoption certificate. You have a birth certificate, which lists your biological mother. Frankie, it’s right there on the paper. Your biological mother was Fiona.”