Page 45 of Alibi for Murder
Shady Acres Mobile Home Park
Barrington Road, Wauconda, Illinois, 5:00 p.m.
Allie leaned forwardas Steve drove slowly through the mobile home park. They had found a liquor store on the way and bought the gift they hoped would get the man talking. Mitchell Griggs, former funeral home attendant, lived in a rental about twenty-five miles from Woodstock.
Only he didn’t use the name Griggs. He went by Mitch Butler, his mother’s maiden name, according to Rivero. He’d left Wembley Funeral Services only a few weeks after Tommy Madison died. No one had heard from him for a while, then he’d shown up at another funeral home, this one in Chicago, but he’d used the Butler name. He’d been using it since.
There were many reasons why a person would want to disappear and to change his identity. Allie got it. Sometimes she thought about doing exactly that. But she only needed the answer to one question from Mitchell Griggs, aka Mitch Butler.
What really happened with the little boy?
Maybe two questions.
Why all the secrecy?
Steve parked. “You want me to do this one alone?” He glanced around. “This place looks a little sketchy.”
“No way.” She reached for the door and grabbed the bottle of Jack with her other hand. “I’m going with you.”
They exited the SUV and climbed the steps to the small deck. The numerous shade trees made the hour seem later than it was. The place was low rent for sure, but it was all the dark corners and narrow alleys between the rows of homes with their overflowing trash cans that gave it that truly sketchy feel.
Allie had just raised her fist to knock on the door when it opened outward. She stepped back, bumping into Steve in the process.
The man, short, thin, sixtyish, eyed her up and down then glanced at Steve. He had the tiniest eyes. Beady eyes and thin hair that had once been black but was mostly gray now. “Whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying. If you’re from the police or any other law enforcement organization, come back with a warrant.”
“None of the above.” Allie extended the bottle like a peace offering. “I’m Allie Foster, and this is my friend, Steve Durham. We’re here to ask you about a little boy who died twenty-eight years ago. Tommy Madison.”
The man grabbed the bottle from her at the same instant his openly suspect expression closed like a slammed door. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never heard of any kid by that name.”
“You worked at the Wembley Funeral Home,” Steve countered, “where his body was prepared.”
The other man shook his head. “You got the wrong guy.” He started to close the door.
Allie stepped into its path, blocking it with her shoulder. “We know you did, Mr. Griggs. We’re not here to cause trouble. We just want to ask you a couple of questions.”
His eyes narrowed to an even beadier size. “Now why in the world would I answer any of your questions?”
“My father was Jerry Foster. He worked for Ledwell back then. I think they killed him and my mother in a car accident. I just haven’t been able to prove it.”
He barked a laugh. “I really can’t help you now. I want no part of that kind of crap.”
This time, Steve reached above Allie’s head and caught the door when Griggs would have tried to pull it past Allie. “Where was the child buried?”
Griggs blinked. “Who said he was buried?”
“The dead are usually buried,” Steve argued.
Griggs heaved a put-upon breath. “I know I’ll regret this.” He looked at the bottle he held. “The kid was cremated.”
“Now that wasn’t so difficult, was it? Look, you don’t have to invite us in.” Steve hitched his head toward Allie. “But you do need to answer her questions.”
Allie bit her lips together to prevent smiling. She really liked this guy.
“You’re certain you didn’t hear anything about where he would be buried? If—” Allie amended “—he was going to be buried?”
Griggs leaned against the doorframe. “I was curious, so I hung around that evening. I heard the father say something about taking him home to bury him.”
“But you’re certain they cremated him,” Allie pressed. “It’s important, Mr. Griggs.”
