Authors: Magda Alexander
CHAPTER 6
Madrigal
A management committee meeting keeps Gramps at the office, so I head home by myself. I want to figure out what to wear the next day to prison. The absurdity of such a thing is not lost on me. But, of course, it’s not just concern about what to wear to prison but what to wear around him. Trenton Steele.
As I’m digging through my closet, someone knocks on my door.
“Come in,” I yell.
Olivia strolls in, looking worried about something, but then she always is. Between managing the house, keeping up with Maddy and me, and dealing with Gramps’s occasional flare-ups, both emotional and physical, she’s got her hands full. “Your grandfather didn’t come home with you?”
“No.” I explain what kept him in the office.
“Should we delay dinner?”
“No. God only knows when the meeting will end. If it goes long enough, they’ll have food brought in.” Not the first time that’s happened.
I grab a navy-blue pantsuit and hold it in front of me while glancing into the vintage full-length mirror I inherited from my mother.
“Figuring out what to wear tomorrow?” she asks, wringing her hands.
“Yes. I’m flying to North Carolina. With Trenton Steele.”
“Why?”
“He has to interview a death row inmate, and Gramps wants me to go along.”
“It’s just the two of you?”
“Yes.” I stop looking in the mirror to glance at her. Her brows are scrunched together. Clearly, she doesn’t approve.
She’s such a worrywart. When I was a teenager, she worried about my interaction with boys. I chalked it up to her mama-hen side coming out. Now that I’m twenty-four, though, her attitude rankles. Still, I know she’s coming from a good place. “Don’t worry, Olivia. It’s only a one-day thing. We’ll go down in the morning and fly back in the afternoon.”
“I don’t understand why your grandfather wants you along on this trip.”
“He thinks a visit to an inmate in prison will somehow sway me to the criminal defense side.”
“But it’s so dangerous.”
I toss the outfit I’m previewing on the bed and hug her. “Don’t worry so much. The prisoners are behind bars. And there are lots of guards.”
“Sometimes those prisoners manage to break out. And it’s not just them I’m worried about.”
“You’re worried about Trenton Steele?”
“I’ve . . . heard stories about him.”
“Such as.”
“He loves women.”
I grin. “As most men do.”
“He has quite a reputation.”
“And how do you know this? He’s never attended any of Gramps’s picnics.”
“People . . . talk at those picnics and the holiday dinners.”
“Who talks?”
She looks down at her hands. “I’d rather not say. It would be tattling.”
“And it’s not tattling to talk about Mr. Steele behind his back?” I don’t know why I’m defending him when he was such a troll at the office.
“That’s different. I’m trying to look out for you.”
I toss my arm around her shoulders and hug her to me. “You have nothing to worry about, my dear Olivia. The man can’t stand me.”
“Why?”
Well, that ruffled her feathers. “Because Gramps demanded he take me to North Carolina. I dare to say right now I’m his least favorite person.”
“That’s good.”
I laugh. “Come on. Help me choose what to wear. Should I wear a dress”—I grab a red dress and swish it in front of me—“or the pantsuit?” The navy-blue outfit gets the same treatment.
“The suit. Makes you look more professional. If you wear a dress, those prisoners and Mr. Steele might get ideas.” She steps behind me, grabs a mass of my hair, and coils it at my neck. “And downplay your hair and makeup.”
I retrieve a skirt suit from my closet, but she shakes her head. “No. Not that one. The navy-blue pantsuit is the better choice. More comfortable on the plane. Low heels. Nondescript purse. And no jewelry.”
“Not even my gold studs?” I ask, pinching my ears.
“Don’t want to give anyone ideas.”
“Okay, the navy-blue pantsuit it is.”
“Here.” She takes it from me and grabs a pair of navy-blue low-heeled pumps from the cedar shoe drawer. “I’ll have Katie press it and shine the shoes.”
I smile, which prompts a questioning look from her.
“It’s odd to worry about how to dress for jail.”
She tosses her head, and her brown bob sways over her shoulders. “Not odd at all. You want to wear your best for every occasion.”
“Including visiting a death row inmate.”
“Yes.” She darts a glance toward the door and looks back at me.
“Is something wrong?”
“I’m worried about Madison.”
My senses go on alert. “Did something happen to her?”
“Today was her first day at that newspaper internship.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, as soon as she came home, she holed herself in her room. I knocked on her door to see if she wanted a snack before dinner—you know how she is about food.”
“Yes.” Madison can eat anything and not gain an ounce. I, on the other hand, so much as look at a pastry and blimp up ten pounds. There’s no justice in this world.
“Well, she said she wasn’t hungry.”
I shrug my shoulder. “Maybe she got something to eat on the way in.”
“No, she didn’t. She looked like she’d been crying.”
Okay, not wanting to get a snack is one thing, but combined with red eyes means something else. “I’ll go talk to her.”
“Thank you. Dinner will be ready in an hour. That should give you enough time to find out what’s wrong.”
“Here’s hoping.” Mad doesn’t always share her trials and tribulations with me. Sometimes she keeps things to herself. That’s what comes from being so many years apart in age. An eight-year difference means I was in law school when she suffered through her early teens. I never developed the role of a confidante. I try to make up for my absence during the times we are together, but it’s not nearly enough.
Her room is right next to mine, so I don’t have to go far. I rap my knuckles against the wood. For good measure, I jiggle the doorknob only to find out it’s locked. “Maddy. It’s Madrigal. Let me in.”
“Go away.”
“Come on, Madison. Olivia’s worried about you. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
Feet pound across the room, something clicks, and she throws open the door. She does not cry pretty. Her eyes are red, and so is her nose. “Satisfied?”
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Things didn’t go as expected at your internship?”
“They went fine. They love me.” She throws herself on her bed and cuddles the teddy bear she’s had since she was two against her chest. Uh-oh. She’s definitely upset. She only grabs Mr. Blue when there’s something seriously wrong.
I lock the door behind me before I take a seat on her bed. “So why are you crying?”
“Because.” She sniffles and pulls a tissue to wipe her face.
“I’m going to need more than that.”
“I was assigned to Ted Hollingsworth. The investigative reporter who won the Pulitzer Prize.”
“Yes, I know.” Ted Hollingsworth had reported on a scheme that had been going on for years where highly ranked officials took kickbacks from construction companies in exchange for contracts for street construction projects in DC.
“He’s working on something confidential. He wouldn’t tell me what it was, but he sent me down to the newspaper morgue to get some files on something that happened several years ago.”
The morgue is the newspaper office where files and materials from former newspaper investigations are kept. “And?”
“I called ahead, but when I got there, they couldn’t find the file he wanted, so I volunteered to help them look. The file he wanted was from 2002. And . . . while looking, I came across . . . a file on our parents’ deaths.”
Oh, my God. “Tell me you didn’t look at it.”
“Of course I did. It was right there. I pulled it along with what he wanted. Gave him his file but kept the other one. I looked at it over lunch.”
“Madison, that’s . . . You shouldn’t have. You could get into a lot of trouble if they find out.”
“That’s the least of our problems, Madrigal. There were pictures there of the m-murder scene.” She dissolves into sobs.
I hug her. “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.” I’ve never seen those pictures. Gramps would never allow it.
“The pictures. They’re so . . . gruesome. How could anybody do that to our mother? How could anybody beat her to death, slit her throat? She was so beautiful. She wasn’t beautiful in those pictures. And now . . .” She digs under her pillow. To my horror, she pulls out a manila folder. “Here. Take them. I don’t want them near me anymore.”
“Madison, did you take these from the newspaper or copy them?”
“I couldn’t make copies, not without anybody noticing.”
A knock on the door interrupts what she’s about to say. “Madison, it’s Olivia. I brought you cookies and milk.”
“Hide the folder.”
I stuff the file inside my jacket, which is roomy enough to conceal it.
“Don’t tell her, Madrigal. I don’t want her to know. She’ll tell Gramps.” She scrunches up her face. “She’s such a tattletale.”
Much as I did at her age, she’s starting to resent Olivia’s intrusion into her life. But where I walked the straight and narrow rather than incur Gramps’s wrath, Madison has a wild streak that has gotten her into hot water more than once. Olivia watches her like a hawk, which, after all, is her job. But if Olivia does in fact tell Gramps about the photo theft, Madison might bolt rather than face the music.
“Okay.” I walk to the door and let in Olivia, who’s holding a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk.
“What’s wrong with her?” she whispers.
“Cramps. Her period’s coming.” I hope to God that’s true. I don’t want Olivia questioning Madison’s actions more than usual. She might discover the truth, and then, God help us, there’d be hell to pay.
Olivia sweeps into the room and sets the cookies and milk on the night table next to Madison’s bed. “Oh, my poor lamb,” she says as she embraces her. “Should I get you some aspirin and a heating pad?”
“Yes, please.”
Over Olivia’s shoulder Madison mouths to me, “Don’t tell.”
All I can do is nod.
CHAPTER 7
Trenton
The flight to Raleigh is uneventful. Well, as uneventful as it can be seeing how a living, breathing temptation is seated next to me dressed in a business suit, minimal makeup, her luscious hair caught in a knot and pinned within an inch of its life to her nape. None of which makes her any less attractive.
At the prison, we present our credentials. I’d called ahead to give them a heads-up about Madrigal. Even so, we’re patted down and scrutinized as if we’re bringing in contraband. We have to leave everything in a locker and are given a number to reclaim our belongings when we’re ready to exit the jail.
Once we pass through a myriad of security gates, we’re shown to an area where we will interview the inmate. We’ll be separated by Plexiglas and will talk to each other through a telephone.
Willie shuffles in, dragging one foot. At 120 pounds, give or take, he’s been made a target by some of the other offenders. A couple of months back, he got into a fight with one of them. Although he received medical attention, his leg hasn’t been right ever since. Going by his dirty, shoulder-length hair, he appears not to have taken a shower for several days. Well, at least he doesn’t seem to have any fresh bruises on him.
“Hey, Mr. Steele.”
“Hi, Willie. This is my assistant, Ms. Berkeley.”
“She sure is pretty.”
Madrigal smiles at him. I should have warned her not to do that. Might put ideas in Willie’s head, like corresponding with her. At least she can’t talk to him. I have the telephone.
“Willie, I’m going to go over the details of your arrest.”
His gaze darts back to me from the object of his adoration. “Again? Told you everything I know already.”
“Yes, but Ms. Berkeley hasn’t heard them. She may have a question or two.”
“Okay.” He flashes her a smile that lacks a couple of teeth. The bicuspids were missing before he came to jail, so at least the tooth loss didn’t happen while incarcerated.
“Now tell me what happened that night.”
He scratches the back of his greasy head. “Well, like I said. Trixie.”
“The murder victim?”
He gulps. Hard. “Yes, sir. Earlier that night, I asked her if she wanted to see a movie. I’d saved enough money to take her, you see. But she laughed and said she wouldn’t go out with a loser like me. She could be cruel. But I loved her anyway.”
I would never give my heart to a woman. My cock? Yes. My heart? Never. “So what did you do after you left her house?”
“Went to the ABC store on Creedmore. Bought a bottle of Jack with the picture show money. And then I crawled into my van and got good and drunk. Didn’t even make it out of the parking lot. Next thing I know the cops are pounding on the back door and hauling me into their squad car.”
“And then what happened?”
“After I arrived at lockup where they took me, they told me they knew I’d done it. But I didn’t. I swear to you, Mr. Steele, I done none of it.”
“What did you say to them?”
“That I hadn’t done it. It wasn’t me.”
“Did they read you your rights?”
“Yeah, when I got to the county lockup.”
“Now this is very important, Willie. Did you talk to them in the police car?”
“Yeah. I asked them why they were taking me in. That I hadn’t done nothing. They said I’d killed Trixie. I blubbered like a baby. Told them I hadn’t done it. That I loved her. But they didn’t believe me. They said I’d gone and killed her. I told them I hadn’t, that she’d been alive when I left her house that night. After that, I’d been in the van the whole time.”
“And were you?”
“Yes, sir. As far as I can remember. I was. Except . . .”
“Except?”
“Something woke me up. A loud noise outside. I opened the back door of the van to investigate.”
“And what did you see?”
“Otis Wilson. My best friend. I said hey, but he didn’t say nothing back.”
“What did you do then?”
“I must have fallen asleep again. Didn’t know nothing else until the cops woke me.”
“They found Trixie’s earring in your van. It had been torn from her ear. Incriminating evidence. Did they ask you about it?”
“Yes, sir. But I told them I didn’t know how it got there.”
“This is very important too, Willie. When did they ask you that question?”
“In the police cruiser.”
Madrigal makes a noise, but I grasp her knee. “Thank you, Willie. We’ll be in touch.”
“You think I have a chance, Mr. Steele?”
“I’ll do my best, Willie. My very best.”
On the way out, Madrigal’s eyes shine bright. “They should have—”
“Don’t say anything.” I point to the cameras along the corridor. “Not until we’re in the car.”
She nods, and we go through security. She retrieves her purse and briefcase, and I get my things. By the time we leave, the wind has kicked up. The car service that took us to the penitentiary is waiting outside.
As soon as we slip into the sedan, the driver swivels to face us. “Bad news, folks.”
“What?”
“Flights have been grounded.”
Damn. This is all I need. “Why?”
He points out the window toward a group of trees whipping back and forth in the wind. “That tropical storm turned into a hurricane and is headed our way. Should be here in about six hours’ time. You folks better hunker down until it’s passed through.”
“Can’t do that. I have to get back to DC. Take us to the airport.”
“Didn’t you hear me, mister? No flights are leaving. They’ve shut down the airport.”
“They haven’t shut down the car rentals. At least not yet.”
By the time we arrive at the airport, the place is deserted. The only car rental place that’s still open is one I never heard of. “Gray Squirrel Car Rentals: Cars with Southern Hospitality,” the sign on the wall says.
Who came up with that ludicrous name? Curious, I ask the beefy dude behind the counter, “Gray Squirrel?”
He snorts. “It’s the state animal of North Carolina.”
“A gray squirrel? Really?” Who knew?
“You have a problem with that?” he barks.
His Southern hospitality leaves a lot to be desired. “Nope. I want to rent a car.”
“Okay, fine. We got one left.” He points outside the rental building to a car that clearly has seen better days. The paint’s peeling, it’s missing a windshield wiper, and the bumper’s loose.
“Are you sure that’s the only car available?”
“Yep.” The mountain behind the counter smacks his lips. “You want it or not?”
“How much?”
“Five hundred dollars.”
I laugh. “For a one-way rental to DC? The whole car’s not worth that much. How about I just buy it from you. Two hundred dollars.” I peel a couple of hundreds from my wallet.
He plants his ham hock hands on the ledge. “It’s not for sale, and the rate is high because we’ll need to haul it back from DC.”
I snort. “If it makes it that far.”
“You don’t want it? I’m sure one of these fine folks behind you would love to rent it.”
A couple of yeahs behind me force my hand. “Fine. I’ll take it.”
“I’ll need to see your credit card, license, and proof of insurance.”
I hand over the cards. “I don’t carry proof of insurance with me.”
“Then you’ll have to buy some.”
“Sure I do. How much?”
“Two hundred a day.”
“Highway robbery,” I mumble under my breath while Madrigal’s shoulders shake, probably with repressed laughter.