False Mermaid

Valerie Marchant looked surprised. “All the time. She did voice work at a studio upstairs, Nick Mosher’s place. Nicky always had actor friends coming through. I knew Tríona a little from her acting days, before she got married—I used to be a theater director once, before this place took over.”

Nora was trying to understand. “If you and this Nick Mosher knew my sister, why didn’t you come forward at the time of the murder?”

“I was abroad, in Helsinki on a fellowship, didn’t get back until the following January. And Nicky—” Valerie Marchant shook her head sadly. “Nick Mosher is dead. He fell down the elevator shaft here in the building. The police said it was an accident.”

Nora felt as if she’d missed something. “I’m sorry, when was this?”

“It happened five years ago yesterday. We always have a sort of memorial here on the anniversary. Nick’s old buddies come over, I close up shop, and we all sit around and get roaring drunk on red wine. I apologize if I’m a little bleary—we’re still clearing away the empties.”

“What sort of work did Nick do?”

“Sound engineer. Radio ads mostly, some audiobooks, and a bit of music. He still did theater work—that’s where he got started. But the real money was in advertising.”

“And you said he had actors going up to his studio all the time?”

“Nick kept his friends in steady work. The money was good, too. He was a lifesaver.”

“How did the accident happen?”

Valerie shook her head. “Nobody knows. Nick was always so safety-conscious. I’ve always had my suspicions about whether it was really an accident.”

“But you’ve never talked to the police about any of this?”

“I wasn’t here at the time—didn’t think I could offer any useful information.”

“How did my sister seem when she came in here? Did you ever happen to see anyone speaking to her, following her?”

“Not that I can recall. She’d come in, get hot tea with lemon for herself, and a double cappuccino with an extra shot for Nick, then head upstairs.” She tapped her temple. “It’s amazing—some of that useless crap never goes away.”

“Hey, Val, where do you want these?” The barista held up a slightly warped pair of dark glasses. Valerie pivoted and craned her neck to see.

“Oh, just set them on my desk, will you?” Turning back, she spotted Nora’s curious gaze.

“One of the melancholy mementoes we drag out every year—Nick’s glasses. I guess I forgot to mention that he was blind.”

“You never saw my sister’s husband around here?”

Valerie shook her head. “I’m sure somebody would have told me if he’d come prowling around. Not exactly the kind of guy who escapes notice easily, is he? Or who liked sharing the spotlight, from what I’ve heard. Your sister was so gifted—we were all disappointed when she gave up acting. When I started seeing her down here, I was hopeful; it seemed like she might be getting back into it. But she always seemed a little edgy. I’m pretty sure Nick was paying her in cash, but I don’t think it was the tax man she was trying to avoid. I’m not sure your sister’s husband knew about her work down here. From the few things Nick said, I got the distinct impression that something bad would happen if he ever found out.”

Nora remembered Tríona’s words: I’ve lied and deceived everyone. Was it the work she’d been doing behind Peter’s back, or was it something much worse? She asked: “Does the name Natalie Russo mean anything to you?”

“I can’t say it does. I’m sorry. But listen, I really wish you luck. We were all hoping the police would nail that sonofabitch.”

Outside the coffee-shop window, Truman Stark stopped and pretended to look for something on the ground, stealing a glance at the brunette who stood at the corner of the pastry case inside, talking to the owner. The same one he’d just seen at the garage, he was sure of it. She was putting something back in her bag—a picture of the redhead. They were connected somehow. He knew he’d seen her before, nosing around in the lower level at the parking ramp, right after the body turned up. But she hadn’t been back lately, not for a couple of years at least.

Truman pretended to look at the menu board, keeping an eye on his subject. Some people had hobbies, like woodworking or raising pigeons or growing tomatoes. What he did in his spare time was much more important than any of that stuff. More like a calling.