False Mermaid

“A woman named Valerie Marchant, who runs a coffee shop in the building. She knew Nick Mosher, and Tríona, too, from theater work. But Valerie Marchant was out of the country at the time of the murder and Nick Mosher’s accident, and figured she didn’t have any useful information when she got back six months later.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed. “How did you even know to talk to this woman?”

She couldn’t tell him about seeing her sister’s ghost in the plate-glass window, or the book turned backward at the library. Harry Shaughnessy, too, was off limits until she could be more certain of what she’d witnessed. “I went to the parking garage showing her picture around. Just got lucky. Right after you dropped me yesterday, I went down to Hidden Falls—I think I saw the fisherman there, the guy who found Natalie Russo.”

“Asian guy, late thirties?”

“Yes—what do you know about him?”

“Keeps to himself. Lives with a cousin’s family in Frogtown, works at their restaurant—a Cambodian place called Phnom Penh up on University. Told us he’s been fishing that spot at Hidden Falls since he came to Saint Paul almost eight years ago. His English isn’t great—and he wasn’t all that excited to report the body.”

“But he did, Frank, when he could have just run away. Do you think we could talk to him?”

“We might need to line up an interpreter. Like I said, his English isn’t so hot. Don’t forget, until we crack this, he’s still a suspect.” He met her questioning gaze. “What can I say? Hazard of the business.”

Nora reached into the duffel and pulled out Tríona’s tape. “I found this at my parents’ house last night. I didn’t listen to the second side until this morning. I want you to listen to it all the way through before you say anything.” She played the tape for Frank, watching for a reaction. He pulled at his lip, frowning.

“I did what she said. I went to the hiding place. Here’s what I found.” Nora reached into the blue bag again and pulled out the datebook with its cryptic markings, the anonymous note addressed to Peter, the sheaf of clippings about Natalie Russo’s disappearance, and, finally, the bloodstained clothes. He took a pen and lifted the corner of the shirt.

“They’re Tríona’s clothes, Frank. I gave her that shirt.”

“I guess the next step is figuring out whose blood this is—”

“I have a feeling it might be Natalie’s. I think Tríona was terrified of what she might have done. She kept saying she had to know the truth. I’ve been trying to work it out.” Nora reached for the calendar. “Look at all these marked days, including the third of June, the day Natalie went missing. Put that together with what Tríona says on the tape, about the days she doesn’t remember, all that liquid ecstasy you found in her purse, around the house. You know what I think, what I’ve thought all along—that it wasn’t Tríona’s stash, that Peter was feeding her the stuff. It’s all beginning to fit.”

“What exactly is beginning to fit?”

“For whatever reason, Peter doesn’t want to be married anymore. He starts doping Tríona so she can’t remember things, so he can do what he likes. Then he murders Natalie—I’ll admit, I still haven’t worked out how or why—and he tries to make Tríona believe that she’s the killer. She wakes up on the third of June covered in blood, with no memory of what happened. It takes a while, but she finally figures out that she can go to the library, and scour the newspapers for an attack, a murder on that day. That’s when she finds out about Natalie’s disappearance—”

“But how does she know about Hidden Falls? That part doesn’t connect—”

“Unless Hidden Falls was where she woke up that morning.”

“You know, it’s a great theory. I’m not saying it couldn’t have happened that way, but all these things on their own—they don’t add up to anything we could use in court.”

“If Tríona was afraid that she’d done something terrible, why hang on to incriminating evidence? Why not just destroy it? And why dig up all those old newspaper articles about Natalie? At least we finally know what she was doing at the library that day. If she was getting ready to leave Peter, maybe she was also getting ready to tell someone what she knew, how she knew it.”

“And what about this anonymous note?” He checked the envelope. “It’s postmarked Maine. Any idea what Hallett did, why he’s being accused?”

“No—I told you, I haven’t got it all worked out.”

Frank took up and flipped through the sheaf of newspaper articles. “Look at this.” He showed her a page not from the Pioneer Press, but from the Press Herald in Portland, Maine.