Page 29 of Dead Man's Hollow
“It might. Look at it again. They use ‘we,’ which means it’s at least two people. One of them might cave.”
Jordana scans the message. “It’s a long shot.”
She’s right, Maisy knows. It is. But it’s also the opening she’s been looking for. It’s the first fissure in the wall.
Amy’s pacingin her driveway when Maisy and Jordana pull up to her house. She jogs down to the car to meet them.
“You said you have new information? A tip?” She’s slightly breathless.
“Let’s sit down and talk,” Maisy counters.
Jordana lifts her equipment bag from the back seat, and Amy’s gaze shifts away from Maisy. “You’re going to record? I thought Kristy’s interview is next?”
“It is. Probably. But we have to be ready to adjust on the fly,” Jordana tells her as she closes the car door.
“Oh. Okay.”
Amy seems uncertain. Maybe worried. This won’t do. Maisy needs her to be relaxed and trusting or she’s never going to open up.
“It’s a beautiful day,” she trills. “Is there somewhere we can sit out back?”
Amy blinks at the question, then she breaks into a smile. “Sure, the patio’s covered. It’s nice out there, and the garden’s in full bloom. Come on.” She gestures for them to follow her to the fenced backyard.
Maisy and Jordana get settled at the glass-topped table while Amy bustles inside to get cold drinks. The last thing she wants is a glass of iced tea made by a Northerner. They never use enough sugar, but one of her rules is to never refuse an offered refreshment from a source. Hospitality breeds connection. And people confide when they feel connected.
“How’d you know?” Jordana stage whispers.
“Know what?”
“That she’s a gardener, and she’d feel comfortable out here.” She gestures toward the rows of brightly colored flowers that line the fence, the baskets of blooms that hang from hooks on the patio’s ceiling and the fragrant flowering bushes along the Marino home’s back wall.
Maisy works her lips and considers the question. She didn’t know. Did she? Then she remembers. “It was a lucky guess. In Amy’s interview with the police, she mentioned that the girls were supposed to help their mother weed her garden the weekend Heather disappeared. At first, she thought maybe her sister had stayed at a friend’s to get out of the work. But she went into a lot of detail about different annuals and perennials in the garden. Much more detail than you’d expect a teenager to share. So I guess I filed her away as a gardener in my mental Rolodex.”
“Smart,” Jordana tells her. “What’s a Rolodex?”
Maisy’s eyes widen.
Her producer snorts. “Just kidding. Caroline has one at the law firm. I was fascinated by it when I first started working for Sasha. Who would keep their contacts on index cards on a spindle? I set her up with a contacts database years ago, but the last time I checked, that Rolodex was still on her desk.”
Maisy is spared from having to defend the humble but mighty cataloguing system by Amy’s appearance at the back door. She bumps the door open with her hip and carefully crosses the patio bearing a melamine tray that holds a pitcher, three ice-filled glasses, and, to Maisy’s delight, a sugar bowl and three long spoons.
Amy takes a seat and pours the iced tea. Jordana pushes the sugar bowl toward Maisy with a knowing look. Maisy heaps sugar into her glass and stirs it until it dissolves. The spoon tinkles against the glass.
She takes a long, sweet drink. “Mmm. Thank you.”
“Sure.” Amy folds her hands on the table in front of her, like a kid who knows she’s in trouble. “So, what did you learn?”
Before answering, Maisy glances at Jordana. “Ask that again so Jordana can test the equipment and then we’ll start recording.”
“Okay.” She waits a beat, then clears her throat. “So, what did you learn?” She asks the question with the self-conscious intonation of someone who knows she’s being recorded.
Maisy holds up a finger; Jordana plays back the line, listening through the earphones she’s slipped on, then nods. They’re good to go.
“Amy, I read the statement you gave the authorities. You told them the last time you saw your sister in Dead Man’s Hollow, you were sitting at the fire. Heather was dancing, and she plopped down on the log next to you to take a break and have a drink. Is that correct?”
Amy draws her eyebrows together. “I haven’t looked at my copy of my witness statement in years, but that sounds right. I mean, that is what happened, so I’m sure it’s what I told the police.”
“I assume she wasn’t drinking iced tea like we are right now.”
